Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“There once was a Warrior,

Stronger than the sun.

Willpower and strength came in waves.

But, as all things must, they came crashing down.”

Kuala let the darkness wash over her; the calm of the night was rare in her travels. Often, the dark brought with it danger. Monsters and men both took cover in the shadows. But the caravan that Arkim had chosen was more than a single wagon trekking across Bayquest.

She was walking fast, faster than the rolling wheels, but let her eyes roam the group she was in. The wagon, which currently held a sleeping Arkim, was more toward the center of the caravan, with several more carriages up front and behind, as well as groups of people walking next to them.

To Kuala, the pace was slow, boring, unnecessarily tempered. But she knew, to Arkim, he preferred the safety such a thing provided.

Slow and steady gets the worm, or whatever Arkim would say, Kuala thought, her mouth turned down.

Scanning the horizon, Kuala slowed her steps just enough to let the wagon begin to pass her by.

In truth, Kuala knew that there was no rush—no need to sprint to their destination. No need to hurry through the process of vanquishing the Doom. The people of Contraria were frozen, trapped, unaging. They were sectioned off into a separate zone of time and space, unable to move on from the moment they were pushed into seclusion. It was the curse of the Four Heroes, after all.

For all the power Krohnic gave them, he promised that a price would be paid. Kuala knew it was the yearning in her heart, the deep need to see those whom she had lost, that kept her driven. It was the seed of discontent, the fire that threatened to burn her from the inside out, that stopped her from wrecking the world with her strength.

If Kuala rended the world, mountain by mountain, what would her people come back to? A ruined world was useless to them. So, she would control the need to destroy that feeling which filled her veins. The rage that threatened to boil over. The bloodlust Krohnic had gifted the Warrior, hoping it would keep Contraria safe.

Kuala took a deep breath, wrapping her hand around Wrezgul. The sword jumped in her palm, and she let a huff of air out on the exhale. Wrezgul was always ready for a fight—always ready to take a life.

It made Kuala wonder, once, what that said about herself. Who could wield such a murderous blade if not a bloodlust-muddled mind?

Is that not what Mirage had said?

You yearn for the fight. For the marriage of life and death. You are mad with desire for blood.

The androgynous voice had circled Kuala, almost electric with its excitement. The white world, filled to the brim with light, was nothing compared to the voice. It broke under Mirage’s wild emotions, revealing the eldritch shape the Goddess took.

Kuala shivered at the memory of bonding with her new Well.

Mirage asked of me, and I gave what I treasured. But did I really gain enough? Kuala’s eyes roamed the stars decorating the sky, and her grip on Wrezgul tightened. Was the Well worth it?

Kuala never wanted to be a War Mage, not of Contraria and certainly not of Bayquest. She only ever wanted to be a Sword Master. Technically, Kuala had craved to be a Weapons Master—and she was. She was a master of any blade she’d ever had the chance to wield. But Mirage took that from her. The God sealed her ability to bear any sword besides Wrezgul.

That was her price.

She was demoted. To a single weapon. To being confined.

A snarl escaped Kuala at the thought.

Was it worth it? Kuala wasn’t so sure. Magic had never been Kuala’s focus, simply another tool in her arsenal.

It did make the sword trill in happiness, though, the disloyal thing. Kuala let her gaze fall to the sword in question. Wrezgul had a habit of consuming other weapons, the jealous thing. It was irritating in many ways—not the least of which was that it hurt Kuala’s wallet.

She was, however, reminded of when she was young, barely a teenager. When Wrezgul was little more than a rapier. It ate an ornamental dagger from several dozen feet away. Kuala had been admiring the dagger from afar for barely a second, and Wrezgul took it upon itself to sink corrosive magic into the ground and snake its way to the wall to consume the other blade.

That had caused a problem, as the blade had belonged to Mara. Bequeathed to her by the King, it was a relic of the first lord of Contraria—King Alkaz of the Sea. After that, Wrezgul was banned from entering the castle. That was one of many reasons Kuala despised life at court.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

As she walked, she could see on the horizon the way the mountains of Bayquest gave way to the rolling hills of the edge of Tayaran. Slowly, they would change from the hills to flat plains, then once more, they would shift from the plains to a massive desert that takes over the center of the country.

Kuala thought back on the last few months with Arkim, how their travels had been lively and fun and filled with camaraderie. It was different from traveling with her father, Kilkua. The towering man provided guidance with such ferocity that Kuala was often overtaken with the same obsession that had consumed her father.

Not war, but battle. From ripping out a Godling’s throat as a child to slaying her first leviathan as a teenager. Kilkua was a man of brutal efficiency, and yet, every move of his had crackled with flare. Even as he severed the limbs of pirates who impeded their way to the continent. Kuala smiled as she thought of the way her father’s calves had bulged when he jumped from ship to ship, his greatsword swinging to kill.

Every time the two Warriors left Contraria, another beast of myth fell to their blades. It was invigorating. And it satisfied the bloodlust of the younger Warrior. Kuala had only ever cried once during a battle, though one could not say that it was tears of regret or pain. No, they were tears of relief. Because as Kuala dug her blade into the heart of her enemy, the singing in her blood abated, and she could breathe.

It was something Kuala was currently lacking—that sense of freedom. Her Inheritance was already calling for more blood after the bandits earlier in the journey. And so, she knew she would need to separate from the caravan. Just for a brief jaunt up the mountains.

That can wait until Arkim is up in the morning, she decided.

Tugging Wrezgul from her waist, Kuala tossed the blade up into the sky. As gravity took hold and the sword began to fall, she raised her palm and channeled a working. Within her veins, she felt her new Well flow into her. Taking control, Kuala snapped the magic into place.

Wrezgul was like the wind it severed, light, a thing of the world. Thus, it should meld with it. No, it should marry it. Wrezgul was the current of the gust; Wrezgul was the very air Kuala breathed. Yet, Wrezgul could also be said to be of Kuala’s very soul. Her body and mind were linked to the blade, just as her Inheritance was linked to her.

Thus, Wrezgul stilled mid-air, just feet from the ground. The tip of its blade hovered just above the ground, and its hilt was by Kuala’s hip—a sliver of separation between her skin and the blade.

Kuala grinned and took a step forward. Wrezgul followed at her side.

Balancing multiple Wells must be a nightmare. I am liable to mix up a working of Krohnic and Mirage. Kuala huffed at the thought, but her smile slowly fell. What must Olea have sacrificed?

The Witcher was unique among the Four Heroes of Exile, Kuala knew, in that they were often gifted with a boundless faith. They tended to be fanatics—about what? That would change from Witcher to Witcher. What had Arkim’s mother, Sierre, sacrificed? She was known to have half a dozen Wells. Sierre had once allowed Babga to claim a strand of her future, had sacrificed blood, had gained scars that would have devastated any other.

Instead, Sierre thrived. Her and the other three tore the Doom apart, piece by piece, no hesitation or limitations.

Meanwhile, Babel was known to possess only a single Well. He never took on another power when Contraria was sealed. He used his Inheritance, his mind, and his sheer force of will to overcome the obstacles in his path.

Did he know? Kuala mused. Olea had bonded to another Well long before fleeing Contraria. Before the worst had come to pass. She was more powerful than her father by thirteen, yet still, she allowed him to strike her. To tear her mind apart.

Looking down at her hand, Kuala examined her pinky finger—broken with a rough snap when she was freshly a teenager. Olea had a matching quirk in her hand. It was a trade. A secret for a secret. Pain for pain.

“There is another Well,” Olea had whispered. Her mauve eyes glued to the stars above them, the pale light of the moon causing her skin to have an eerie glow—as if she was a shade of a time long past. “I won’t tell you where it is. I barely survived finding it.”

Kuala had offered up a secret of her own. Something she held so close, so tight to her chest, she had never said the words aloud.

“Have you ever been in love?” Kuala’s voice had been equally low, her own seafoam eyes glued to the constellations above as she steeled her heart for what she was going to offer Olea. A secret for a secret.

“I don’t think I have that in me,” was all Olea said. “Have you?”

“I have. I am.” Kuala remembered how her gaze grew cloudy with tears as she confessed to Olea. “I am in love with Mara.”

The other girl had hummed, her eyes closing. “I’m sorry.”

As Kuala’s tears flooded her face, she nodded. “Me too.”

Blinking away the memory, Kuala fought back the grief that still hit her when she thought too much of Olea. The final member of their team. Kuala wished the other woman had never left. But, Kuala had always wished that. Not every wish was meant to come true.

As the sun broke over the horizon, Kuala felt her blood singing for violence. She could wait no longer. She needed to break free of the caravan—to find a hunt worthy of her power. She needed to wield Wrezgul with every bit of strength she possessed.

Climbing into the wagon, Kuala kicked the cot Arkim was sound asleep in.

“Get up, you lout,” Kuala hissed as Arkim’s eyes snapped open and he gripped his chest.

“What? What’s happening?” he said, frantic, his brilliant pink eyes darting around the wagon until they settled on the frowning Kuala.

Kuala wondered, briefly, what Arkim would do if she got blood on his silken pajamas. His blood. What if I severed his head from his body? He wouldn’t have any time to be angry at all now would he?

Shaking her head, Kuala came back to herself—just in time to see Arkim flinch away from her.

“God's blood, you need to go?” Arkim said, his blanket gripped tightly in his palm.

The white of his knuckles made Kuala wish she felt regret for scaring Arkim. She didn’t, though. Her Inheritance was not her fault, just as Arkim’s was not his.

Kuala forced a grin. “You know me so well. I’ll be back before the caravan gets out to the plains.”

Arkim narrowed his eyes, but ultimately he nodded. “Of course. Should I wait if you aren’t back in time?”

“Oh,” Kuala’s grin shifted to something a bit more feral, “I’ll be back in time. Don’t worry about that.”