The Armsmaster

"If we've taught you to read, it's for a very simple reason, this one!"

The austere draenei, dressed in a long golden robe, pointed to the loaded shelves of the library as the young assembly sat on the floor.

"From now on, we'll work together to bring you into the Light. It's an arduous path. For a very simple reason." Twice already, I noted. To Master Kalten, everything seemed simple.

"Light is a power, like fire, frost and the arcane, from which a specific school of magic is derived. But it is much more than that. Like Shadow, Light is not a morally neutral power. It's on another level, the spiritual level, that of the struggle between good and evil."

Some of the children were wide-eyed, fascinated by the idea of taking part in this great universal struggle. This first course, reserved for young teenagers, was like a rite of passage to adulthood. The age when you stop playing the hero and become a real one.

"If I want to appropriate another magical power, I have to connect to the plane from which it originates, and draw from it as much as my own strength allows. But to manipulate Light and Shadow, you need an additional attunement. And how do you do that? Very simply!"

He was already distressing me with his simplicity.

"First you have to infuse yourself with these principles," he said, brandishing a huge book with a luxurious jewel-studded cover. "Once you've made all this moral teaching your own, you'll know no more doubt or torment. The temptation to sin? Gone. A decision to make? You'll make the right one, and no one will turn you away. You'll be able to distinguish between the cowards and the braves in your entourage. You'll have the stuff of which heroes are made."

A stunned silence fell over the audience. Some of the children could already see their names in the legends.

"This teaching will also guide your introspection. You'll need to review all your past actions, examine them and draw the most wholesome lessons from them. Why, you may ask? For a very simple reason: peace. To fully receive Grace, you must make peace and tranquillity in your soul and conscience."

He smiled paternally at the children.

"Isn't that wonderful? I offer you purity. The purer you are, the better you'll communicate with the Light plane."

There were no objections, of course.

"For this first step, there will be no test, we'll rely entirely on you. Why so much confidence? Very simply, because if you fail, you'll fail the practical training too. You won't get the Grace of being able to make Light work in this plane through your will. This is an inevitable consequence. If you read these books of wisdom casually, don't learn them, don't assimilate and apply these principles, don't confess your faults, lie to others and to yourselves, then you will be neither priests nor paladins, and will have to turn to other Masters than me and become mages, shamans, or even, he added with a sneer, for those impervious to all forms of magic, warriors."

A year later, here I was, on my feet for half an hour, gazing into the inscrutable faces of the Shields of Velen, the Prophet's close guard. Kalten had asked me to wait.

Finally, a sentry received a message from another and came to fetch me.

I was ushered into a corridor lined with guards, then into a vast, bright room whose circular wall was covered with shelves crammed with huge books.

In the center, a table. Three seats. Kalten on the right, Velen on the left - staring at me impassively - and, back to me, the seat intended for me.

I swallowed and stepped forward. Slowly, slowly. Eyes to the floor. And sat down at last. My eyes on the table - staring at the golden quill, the sheet of parchment and the khorium inkwell laid out there. I could feel Velen's aura beside me - the aura of benevolence made flesh. Velen, are you a god...

The deepest voice in the Universe, echoing like in a cave.

"My child..."

Prophet, you the Good, you the Father, you whom I revere and love, I know, I have disappointed you... Tears rolled down my cheeks.

"Kalten tells me you're impervious to the Light... Explain to me, Stropovitch..."

I raised my teary face to him. He was sincerely and deeply saddened... I wanted to die at that moment.

With trembling hands I grabbed the pen and began to write very quickly and very badly, unable to see anything through my eyes drowned in despair.

Finally, I leaned back against my seat and stopped breathing. It was written.

Kalten pulled a pair of gold-rimmed glasses from a shirt pocket and put them on with an elegant gesture. Then he took hold of the tear-wet sheet, pinching a corner with two fingers. With the air of deciphering a cryptic message, he read aloud to the Prophet, whose compassionate gaze regarded the cowering, sobbing child, a sad little ball of woe.

"O great Prophet, I have read all the books of wisdom in the library, I have understood everything, learned everything and wanted to make my own all those demands of virtue, of seeking justice in one's heart and in the world, of strength, of will, of sacrifice, of love. I loved this very teaching and found it beautiful."

Yes, beautiful. So beautiful. Like you, Prophet. If this teaching had a face, it would be yours.

"But my soul doesn't want to find peace. I can't empty myself to welcome the Light. I know I haven't sinned in any way in my past, but this thing in my heart won't let me find the rest of my conscience. Ever since I woke up that day, fear has never left me."

Anguish thuds inside me every second, I hear it, like another heart in my heart, always a beat ahead.

"It's like a fault I've committed while remaining innocent. I became impure before I even knew the meaning of the word. I cannot receive the teachings of the Light. I am unworthy of your attention, Prophet."

Kalten, embarrassed, considered this text, unexpected from a child, for a few moments.

And then something extraordinary happened.

Velen's thousand-year-old eyes became misty. I was stunned, not knowing what to think, wanting to disappear. His hand gently grasped my arm and he drew me to him. He took me in his arms.

His aura washed over me. My skin quivered, then rippled with a soft warmth. My heart soothed, my fears, my despair, my remorse, all dissipated like an unravelling mist. The only time I felt serenity. A moment I treasure.

"My child..." he murmured in his cavernous voice, in which I heard the echo of a sadness that was also thousands of years old, the sadness that the loss of friends, parents and thousands of his brothers through the ages had left in his memory as deep as eternity.

"For some mysterious reason, we were unable to purify you or give you the means to purify yourself. Your only chance of survival now is to strengthen yourself. To control your body, your thoughts, your feelings. To forge a will of steel that will not yield to any force. We'll see to that."

I drowned in his tenderness, snuggled into it and, without realizing it, slipped into a sleep the likes of which I hadn't known since my immolation.

Kalten came to see me the day after the meeting with Velen, very early in the morning. Ondraiev thought I was still asleep, so they talked in hushed tones. But I wasn't. I'd spent the night weeping with rage and helplessness, cursing my fate and the warlock who'd sealed it.

"The Prophet thinks that outside the Light, schools of magic are dangerous for him," said Kalten. On top of this demonic fire, he mustn't be subjected to the temptations of the arcane.

- I agree that he shouldn't become a mage, but shamanism seems a good choice. The Long-Sighted is all about balance and harmony.

- Nobundo? The Prophet certainly trusts this Broken, but he believes that manipulating sometimes uncooperative powers can also endanger the child's mental solidity. Elemental entities are not our friends.

- Are you really going to entrust him to Arkhan? We hardly let him do gymnastics with the kids anymore..."

An awkward silence.

"The Prophet knows Arkhan better than anyone. We all have mixed feelings about Arkhan, all of us - except Velen. As always, let's put our trust in his judgment."

A second silence, then footsteps, and my door opened. Ondraiev's silhouette.

"Stropovitch, get ready, quickly. The Prophet has chosen a new Master for you. Kalten will take you to him."

I complied as quickly as I could and approached the venerable draenei, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

"The man I'm leading you to is going to call you a crybaby," said Kalten with a forced chuckle that barely concealed his embarrassment. "Dry your tears on the way."

I did my best as we made our way to the Hall of Resources - the one that would become the Hall of Trade once the ship was crushed. No money yet, everyone came here for food and equipment within the limits set by rationing.

The light diffused generously by the crystals dazzled me. I concentrated on Kalten's footsteps to move forward.

So it was with blinking eyes and a face marked by dark circles and traces of friction that I stopped, Kalten's hand resting on my shoulder.

"Stropovitch, this is Arkhan, this ship's Armsmaster."

I bowed, relying on the orientation of Kalten's body, still too dazzled to clearly distinguish my surroundings. I felt a harsh gaze upon me. Kalten continued.

"Your comrades won't see him until next year, to strengthen their bodies and learn how to handle weapons. Whatever their path, they'll all go through Arkhan. You may be too young, but your build should enable you to train with your elders. And since no form of magic suits you, he'll be your full-time Master. You'll be his only true disciple."

Silence. I could still feel that gaze on me. My eyesight was finally coming out of the haze, but I didn't dare raise my head. I sensed that Kalten was embarrassed by the situation. So it was he who spoke again, in an uncomfortable tone.

"Allow me to take my leave, Master Arkhan. My class awaits."

Silence. Kalten hesitated, then left, perplexed.

I was still staring at the floor, my stomach in knots. It was that look that petrified me.

"ARE YOU GOING TO LIFT THAT HEAD, YOU BASTARD?"

The scream echoed throughout the Hall, alerting the vendors who were setting up their stalls.

My legs buckled beneath me. Piteously seated on the floor, I finally considered my future Master.

He was the tallest, most massive draenei imaginable. His skin was a silvery blue, his forehead broad and bumpy, his hair long and wild. But the strangest thing was that, unlike all the other draenei blessed by the Light of Naarus, his eyes didn't shine! In fact, they were jet-black! Arms folded, he had planted those fascinating eyes in mine.

He spoke again, but not in a really soothed voice. He was obviously used to speaking very loudly.

"My name may be Arkhan, but magic and I are two different things. When that lunatic Kalten told me last night that there was a youngster like me, for whom the Light is like poetry for an ogre, I was so damned happy. I even asked him to bring you in first thing this morning. And what do I see? A fucking weakling!"

He sighed. I lowered my head, holding myself back from crying with rage - so great was my shame.

"But don't dream, kid. Unlike the others, you're going to be with me all day every day."

He gave me a big sadistic smile.

"And you can trust me to optimize the schedule."

I was scared.

My training began immediately.

"Rollalaaaa, what a nostalgic look! You seem to be writing something that moves you, Mister Mountain of muscle."

For once, Stropovitch wasn't upset by the gnome's flutey voice. He closed his notebook and sat back in the hammock. They were the only two passengers on this boat to the Exodar - more precisely, to the island of Azuremyst on which the Draenei ship had crashed two years earlier. The little creature had adorable, large, hazel-colored almond eyes, and chestnut-red hair styled in two coiled braids on either side of her head. She looked curious and joyful.

Stropovitch surprised himself by smiling at her, something he didn't often do - it made the corners of his mouth twitch. He scribbled on a sheet of paper, tore it up and handed it to the gnome.

"Oooooooh are you mute? Gosh, you must have learned everyone's handwriting after you landed, you are patient."

Another sheet.

She laughed. The sweetest little gnome laugh in the world.

"Oh well me you'll laugh, if I'm on this boat for the Exodar it's out of puuuuuuure curiosity."

The amused draenei raised an eyebrow.

She pulled herself into the adjacent hammock and sat cross-legged in the middle.

"Since I'm tired of being the best and it's boring in the long run, I'm taking a vacation and thought: hey, I've never been to the Exodar, I heard the guys from your place really go out of their way to build a spaceship, it's so big and all."

Another sheet.

"What I was doing?" She laughed again - much to the draenei's delight. " I'm part of the best gladiator team in the world, ya mister."

Stropovitch gasped. He was looking at an arena fighter, one of those people who fight behind closed doors in explosions of magic and whirlwinds of blades to place themselves among the best in a permanent world championship.

The terror of the arena chewed his index finger thoughtfully.

" I'd love to have you as my guide, but a mute guide..." she chuckled, "Well, let's give it a try, shall we, dear wardrobe-with-hooves ?"

Stropovitch nodded.

Another sheet.

"Funny name. I'm Thiwwina", she said with a childish accent and a big, bright smile.

The draenei was charmed. He almost forgot the anxiety that was gradually building up inside him as the ship made its way towards the island.