The soft chime of a bell yanked John out of a dream. It had been a good one too. He'd been back at the Empire, before everything had become so complicated. More and more he was having pre-Celia dreams, and it annoyed the hell out of him.
His eyes opened to an unfamiliar vaulted ceiling and memories of the other night flooded back in. Celia had showed him his apartment, one of the perks of being a novice Slayer. It had a large living room, an equally large bedroom, his own private bath, and, to top it all off, a sizable terrace that opened up to a scenic view of the mountains that surrounded Tekal protectively.
The bed he laid on encased him with the softest embrace he'd ever experienced in his life. It was almost too soft. He hadn't thought he'd be able to sleep since he'd slept the night before, but the frantic sprint across Kalian had worn him out more than he'd originally thought. Apparently rice cakes could only go so far.
[My own apartment,] he mused. Ever since he could remember, he always shared a room with at least two other people. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he'd be sleeping in his own room let alone his own apartment.
He closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the small comfort that came with the mission.
But immediately snapped them back open.
[Footsteps?]
Rising, he searched for what he knew shouldn't have been possible. The first thing he'd checked when he'd closed his massive door the other night was that he indeed couldn't hear anything outside of his room.
[One heartbeat.]
Reaching out, he grabbed his slider off the nightstand and stealthily slid out of bed. Crouching low, he walked heel to toe and ghosted towards the living room on silent feet. Rounding the corner, slider at the ready, he nearly ran into a woman in a white robe.
Screaming out in surprise, the woman fell on her rump, and her hood fell back.
Inwardly John groaned.
Celia had told him the night before that it was tradition for the Slayer who found a new novice to pick out the slave for them. He hadn't thought she'd pick one so soon. He'd also assumed she'd pick the least attractive person in the city… he should have known better. Celia was more evil than that.
The Caprian woman--if you could call a god's gift to mankind a mere woman--had stunning green eyes and red hair that started out straight but ended curling around her breasts. Freckles lightly accented her nose and the elegantly scripted S on her left cheek only seemed to enhance her beauty.
[Bloody hell, I'm naked!] he suddenly realized.
He pushed that thought away as quickly as it appeared and forced his eyes away from the exotic beauty.
"Master, please forgive me!" she stammered, before plastering herself to the floor.
He had to give her credit, though, not once did her eyes meet his.
"No need to apologize," he said gruffly. "You just surprised me is all. When did you get in?"
"An hour ago, sir," she said quickly to the floor, her voice muffled. "Slayer Celia Tecard purchased me this morning for you. The paper work is in your wardrobe."
Her big show of servitude made him uncomfortable.
"Rise."
She obeyed, but only rose to her knees. Her eyes stayed on his feet.
[Right. This isn't going to be annoying at all.]
Thinking quickly, he motioned with his hands.
"Look… what's your name?"
"Maya, Master."
"Maya, last week I was a private in the Kalian Red Guard, and now I have a Caprian slave."
Technically, low ranked soldiers weren't allowed to own slaves. There was also still an…expectation… that people stuck with their own people, even slaves. It was why Trackers were assigned to their home nation and why marriages between nations didn't exist. While war was on hold, it still didn't stop the prejudices, even after a thousand years.
John hoped that it was all enough to earn him some latitude around protocol.
Maya didn't move a muscle at this news.
"I don't know how other people use slaves," he continued. "And frankly I don't give a damn. What I have are some ground rules though… For gods' sakes, get on your feet. You're making my knees ache just looking at you."
This time she looked up at his knees hesitantly, surprised by the request, but she obediently rose.
He sat down at the edge of his bed and ignored the fact that he was in his birthday clothes--not that she was looking anywhere but his feet.
"I'll keep it simple for you, Maya. There are only three things you need to worry about. Keep my apartment clean, have food on the table when I'm hungry, and keep anything you see or hear about me to yourself. I'm a very private person and I don't like anyone knowing my business. I don't expect a single thing from you outside of those three asks. If you can do them, we'll be just fine. If you can't, or if I find out later you failed to do them, I'll sell you off to someone else faster than you can blink."
Her back went poleaxed and he saw real fear in her eyes.
"Sir?"
When he didn't say anything, she hesitated for a split second longer before bowing her head impossibly deep.
[Beautiful and flexible.]
[Gods I'm going to hell.]
"I am more than capable of doing those tasks, Master. On my honor and name."
He nodded curtly, not that she could see him. "Good. Now do you know how to start that bloody contraption these people call a bath? I couldn't figure it out last night."
Raising her head back up, John caught the barest of smiles cross her face. "Perhaps four things, Master?"
"A wiseass, eh?" he said, suppressing his own smile.
Maya's face faltered, but immediately relaxed when he laughed.
"Yes, I think we'll get along just fine," he chuckled. "You can add turning on the bath to the list. I've got to be somewhere called the Main Hall by the second bell so be quick about it."
"Yes sir," she replied quickly and darted off to his private bath.
The sound of water flooded in just as John threw open the doors to his wardrobe. Pristine black pants and silver shirts gleamed back at him. All of them appeared to be his size. Resting innocently on a built in shelf was a folded piece of paper. It gave him pause, seeing the thin parchment that legally made her his.
Silently, he promised himself that he'd free her the moment he knew he was going back home. Grabbing a shirt, pant, belt, and matching black boots, he laid them out on his bed.
He tossed his sheathed slider and vambrace into the mix and took a step back.
[Well, it could be worse. This mission could have called for hiding out in a cave surrounded by a blistering hot desert and heat-crazed cannibals.]
"Master, it's ready," she called after him.
Sighing, he walked into his bathing chambers in time to see her shed her robe. His vision blurred as he looked away, and just in the nick of time. He debated on ordering her out but Celia's violent teachings were too fresh on his mind. Ignoring the curiosity that burned into his very soul, he kept his eyeballs away from the naked flesh and focused on the bath. Large stone steps led down into the pool of water by a good four feet and stone seating surrounded the three other sides of the pool. It was large enough to comfortably fit five people. Above them were two spouts suspended on either side of an open skylight, one for hot water and the other for cold water. From the look of the steam that wafted upwards, Maya had forgone using the cold water.
Off to the side, against the wall, he knew there were a system of knobs that brought in the water as well as drained the pool. John had lied to her earlier. He'd actually figured out how to work the bath the night before but he'd needed something to break the ice.
[It has nothing to do with the fact that you knew she'd strip naked for you…]
[Shut up subconscious.]
[...Pervert.]
Ignoring himself, he stepped down into the pool and gingerly sank his body into the scalding hot water.
The groan that escaped his lips couldn't have been stopped even if he'd tried. It was just as good as the hot springs. If there was one thing he was going to miss when he eventually got back to the Empire, it would be the hot baths. In the desert, water was scarce, so they used hot huts which employed choking hot steam to clean the skin.
Maya followed in after him with soap in hand. Seeing that he was on a tight time table, she scrubbed him head to toe in what must have been record time. By the time she'd finished, soap bubbles littered the surface of the pool like a thick blanket and he, unexpectedly, felt dehumanized by the experienced. The way she'd methodically cleaned him had him feeling more like the horse he'd seen the night before than a man.
He was washing the last of the soap suds off himself when she rose out of the water to fetch him a towel. Against his better judgement, his eyes followed her swaying perfectly-proportioned-bare-ass and he had to swallow the lump in his throat. Forcing his eyes away, he dunked himself and started recalling all the times that Celia had threatened to
Breaking the surface, he found her with a towel opened for him.
Acting as if it were all completely normal, he rose out of the pool and stood there as she dried him off. Thankfully she'd had enough sense in modesty to put her white robe back on.
"Do you think I have time to eat?" he asked, trying to ignore the fact that an insanely attractive woman was patting down areas that should have been his job.
"I'd already called for food earlier, and it should be here any moment, sir," she said in an all business tone. "We're halfway to the next bell, and you're only a few minutes away from the Main Hall so you should have plenty of time."
As if on cue, there was a knock at the door.
"Get the door, I'll finish up," John said quickly, taking the excuse to grab the towel from her before Little John became not so little.
Bowing her head, she disappeared out the door and he let out a sigh of relief.
[Gods, it should be illegal to be that attractive.]
Leave it to Celia to torment him even when she wasn't there.
Finishing up with his toweling, he quickly donned his new uniform and walked out into the living room. He spied Maya finishing the placement of his meal on a table out on the terrace. Only one plate was out.
"Did you eat already?" he asked, walking up behind her.
Then he cringed.
[Of course slaves don't eat with their masters.]
"No, Master. I was going to wait until after you did."
[Ah, screw it. Cat's out of the bag now.]
"Grab your plate, I'm not use to eating alone," he said, ignoring her widening eyes.
Hesitating for a few seconds--something John was sure she'd be doing a lot of--she scampered off to get her plate.
Patiently he waited on her and eyed the food before him.
Nothing looked familiar, but most of them matched the descriptions Celia had given him during one of their sessions. Only one of the foods he was sure was Kalian, a kind of cake.
Maya returned and took a seat beside him, uncertainty still colored her body language. Her plate looked pitifully bland compared to his giant mound of colorful exotic foods.
[Such strange people.]
Nodding at her reassuringly, he picked up the piece of cake from Kalian.
He had to school his features tightly after the first bite.
It was an explosion of sweetness and deliciousness in his mouth.
One by one, he tasted it all, and he quickly learned what he did and didn't like. Everything was foreign to him, even the orange drink, but he took pleasure in trying everything. The Empire's food was bland compared to the feast before him and he was genuinely sad when the breakfast feast finally defeated his hunger. Sitting back in his chair, he patted his belly and grinned like a fool.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Maya eyeing him craftily--the only way she really could look at him since protocol demanded that she couldn't look at him directly. He also noticed she was eyeing one of his foods he hadn't cared for, a food that hadn't been on her own plate. He picked the curved sweet fruit up and handed it to her.
"No idea what this is but it would be a shame to let this go to waste, don't you think?"
She flashed him a private smile, before bowing her head and accepting it.
"Thank you, sir. It's a Caprian mango and it's considered a delicacy."
He pointed to one of the remaining red fruits that he hadn't been able to demolish with a questioning look.
"Strawberry, also from Capri."
John picked up on the envy in her voice, and tossed her the red fruit.
"I"m done here so take your pick. And next time, just order what you want. Put it on my plate if it makes things easy for you. I won't tell," he said, amused by her widening eyes that were threatening to take over her whole face.
She bowed her head quickly and nearly slammed into the table bending herself in half.
"You are too generous, Master!"
"It doesn't cost me anything," he said with a dismissive wave. "Now if you can direct me to the Main Hall, I'll be on my way."
"I can take you there," she offered, rising.
He shook his head.
"Just point the way. I'm sure there are others heading there now that I can follow. Besides, you've got some work to do," he said, motioning to the plates.
She eyed his plate and then sighed. "It would be a shame for it all to go to waste, sir."
"A crying shame," he agreed, mirroring her solemn tone.
Mirth twinkled her eye before she pointed back toward the direction of the ring. "We're in the East corridor, Master. The Main Hall is to the right, in the North corridor, at the very end. You can't miss it."
"Thank you," he said turning to leave, but not before registering the surprise on her face.
[Right, manners shouldn't be in a Master's vocabulary. Gods these people are weird.]
Privately he prayed to the gods that Celia wouldn't ever find out about his total failure in the Master department. But he was confident she'd hold her tongue about his unusual behavior. He'd caught genuine fear when he'd threatened to sell her off if she spoke to anyone about him.
Exiting his apartment, he stepped out in time to see a Kalian man directly across from him closing his door. The sandy blonde haired man wore an identical uniform as his. But, just as their eyes connected, alarm bells started going off in his head. He had picked up on the stance and posture of a soldier almost immediately.
"You must be the new nugget. Heading to the Main Hall?"
Hearing the slang military word for a fresh recruit confirmed John's suspicions. Celia had cautioned him that there were a few Slayers from the Kalian's military. Thankfully their structure and rules were nearly identical to the Empire and she had assured him that their military was just as vast as the Empire's. That the odds of someone being in the same century, let alone brigade, as his cover story was slim to none.
"Aye. The name is John."
"Waylon Gre'gar, former Lieutenant of the Red Guard, 2nd Brigade, 1st Battalion," he said, offering his hand out to John. "A little bird told me you were in the Red Guard too."
John made sure to adjust his eyes to his throat before nodding and taking his hand. "I was a first class private in the 10th Brigade, 3rd Battalion, sir."
"Oh?" the doubt in his eyes was clear.
John silently cursed Celia. He'd told her right off the bat why his story was hard to believe, he was far too old to be a first class private. But, to her point, the higher up he was the harder it was to forge.
"My Tent Leader was under the false impression that I'd slept with his Headmistress," John said with a sigh, as if he'd told the story a thousand times already. "Unbeknownst to him, half the tent was sleeping with her, just not me."
Waylon chuckled. "You wouldn't happen to know of a centurion by the name of Giles Shoen?"
Fear shot through John, but he pushed it aside. He knew every single name in his direct reporting chain, as well as all of their personalities and traits. He had to hold onto his confidence--something Celia had drilled into him since day one.
"Being a spy is all about selling a lie," Celia had told him. "To do that, you need to believe in the lie, not just say it from memory. The more truth you can surround the lie in, the easier it is to believe yourself. That's why the best lies are laced with truth. It all boils down to confidence. If you don't have confidence, people will pick up on that and question the lie. If that happens, it's game over. You die."
"I don't recall the name, sir."
"Please, call me Waylon," he said with a friendly smile. "We're all novice Slayers now. Giles is an old dog who has the mouth of a sailor and more stories than the Book of Virtues. You'd remember him if you'd met him."
"When did you get here?" John asked, trying to change the topic.
"About three months ago. I was the first novice to get in," Waylon said, turning towards the ring. "I'm just glad you're a Kalian. I was the minority until you showed up."
"I met two Ghourdians last night, Nina and Cedrick," John offered, walking with him.
"Ah, those two," he said, his eyes lighting up. "Some friendly advice for you? Keep your distance from Nina. She might be beautiful enough to cross sides for but, after watching Dylan's epic failure, she's not interested."
John knew "crossing sides" was an expression people used when talking about befriending, courting or marrying someone from another nation. Which meant Dylan had to be a Caprian if Waylon was the minority.
"And trust me," Waylon continued, his twinkling eyes dulling to wariness. "Her giant guard dog won't let you get far. While they both might have been sheepherders back in Ghourd, Cedrick has enough energy in him to level a building."
A new piece of the Cedrick puzzle fell into place.
[I'd eat my own boots if he were a sheepherder.]
Aloud he said, "Whose Dylan?"
"Dylan and Prince Wes Cota are the Caprian novices. Dylan's father owns Carnegie Shipping. And Wes is the next in line to the throne of Central Capri--although if you ask me, he thinks he's king already."
From his lectures with Celia, John knew Capri's entire culture revolved around money. The wealthier a Caprian was, the higher in status they were. Carnegie Shipping was one of the largest and most successful companies in Capri. If you wanted to get a shipment across Capri without it falling into the jaws of the Hellhounds, Carnegie was your only option. Which made Dylan arguably higher in status than Wes, as strange as that sounded. Capri was divided into three regions: North, South, and Central. Each region was governed by a "royal" family. John used the term royal loosely since they were elected by the people.
Because of the emphasis on wealth in Capri, the only way someone stayed elected was if they kept the economy running strong. And if John remembered correctly, which these days he always did, the House of Cota had reigned over Central Capri for nearly three centuries.
"That must be entertaining," John mused.
"You have no idea," Waylon replied dryly.
John did the math and frowned. "I heard there were seven novices. Who's the last one?"
They rounded the corner and entered the ring, joining a few full fledged Slayers who were also heading towards the North corridor.
"Sid. He is a Ghourdian," Waylon said in a measured tone. When he didn't offer anything else on the Ghourdian, John suspected there was a story there.
However, he'd already pushed the envelope twice since arriving at Tekal and he decided it wasn't worth tempting fate a third time. He kept his word with Celia and let the subject drop.
The silence stretched on uncomfortably between the two of them, but it was thankfully drowned out as more and more people filled the ring the closer they got to the North corridor.
John felt like cattle as they were all herded into the North corridor, and people started pressing around him the longer they walked.
The Main Hall was, as the name implied, a large elongated room at the very end of the corridor. Countless pews were arranged in rows, and at the very back was a large intricate stained glass window. It had the look and feel of a temple but, unlike a temple, the window at the back depicted the unmistakable image of a Hellhound. The Hound would have been imposing if it hadn't been for the man who stood over it, a sword sheathed in the beast's skull, pinning it's head to the ground in submission.
Just in front of the impressive display of craftsmanship was a slightly elevated platform. Standing atop of the platform was a golden haired Kalian woman who surveyed the growing crowd. Behind the Kalian were five people, sitting in high back chairs, arranged in an arch around her. They too faced the growing assembly of people.
[The Headmistress and the Council of Tekal,] John thought, spying Priscilla sitting in one of the uncomfortable looking chairs.
Wordlessly John followed Waylon to the wall off to the side. As a novice, they would be the last one's allowed to sit. Seeing the number of people spilling in, chances were they wouldn't get the opportunity.
Scanning the crowd, John picked out a group of brown robes that broke the sea of black. They lined a set of back rows like an imposing force. He spotted Sikes, but the man was too busy in conversation to notice him.
All around him, John picked out people's conversations. Many were benign, but more than a few were about the unusual meeting that had been called. From what he'd been able to piece together in the few minutes he stood there, a meeting of this size hadn't been called for in over a century. Slayers were apparently a busy lot and few had the want or time for meetings.
He tried to glean as much information as possible from the people around him but the conversation dramatically died down when a bell rang, marking the second hour of the morning. Two large burly men who manned the doors motioned to a few stragglers to hurry up before they pushed their assigned massive door, closing them with a heavy thud.
All in all, if John were to judge, there was roughly a thousand Slayers in the room. Which, if Celia had been accurate about the size of the North, was a very small group to cover a territory five times the size of the Empire.
The Headmistress wordlessly took in the assembly of people, nodding occasionally to a person in the crowd. It wasn't until the room was void of all whispers before she spoke.
"Brothers and sisters," she began in a clear authoritative voice, motioning with all encompassing hands. "Thank you for coming. It's been far too long since we've come together."
Her tone was solemn.
"We've had a steady decline in incidents ever since we went on the offense and started hunting the beasts. It's been over eighty years since a village has been taken, so we know the latest safety protocols are working. And nearly fourteen years since a Hellhound has tasted human flesh!"
When she paused, a number of people applauded.
She let them enjoy the moment before she raised a hand.
The noise level dropped back to zero.
"However," she said in a grave tone. "Now is not the time to be lax. Over the past several months, we've seen a steady increase in Hellhound activity. Before, we were seeing two to three packs a night. Now we're seeing four to six. Just this week we ran into eight packs in a single night, something that hasn't been seen in over two hundred years."
There were more than a few mutterings in the crowd at this.
"And it's not just us," the Headmistress continued, her voice cutting through the hum of conversation. "Villagers are also reporting unusual numbers of run ins with the Hounds... some as often as four times a week. By our estimates, there are at least 60 active packs out there. And worse, one of our own lost his life just last night."
All around John, he heard angry and fearful whispers.
"Kill 1 and five more replace it!"
"Poor Jared!"
"They're getting smarter!"
"I heard two packs ambushed an Alpha Squad last night!"
The Headmistress let them simmer on this news before motioning for silence. When she had everyone's attention again, she proclaimed, "Which is why I'm reinstating Kill Squads."
The effect was instantaneous and nearly everyone in the room began talking all at once.
John couldn't make out the individual conversations, but he got the gist of it. People weren't happy and some were even fearful. It didn't get past him, though, that the mages were all quiet. It was somewhat of a confirmation to Celia's observation. The mages had a large say in what the Slayers did. This wasn't news to them.
The Headmistress called for order, but this time people didn't listen.
Breaking propriety, the Council joined the Headmistress in trying to gain the crowd's attention back. At least enough so that they could hear the Headmistress.
"I've weighed the risks," she said in a loud voice, and it cut the number of voices in half. "It was not an easy decision but we have to step up and rein in this growing trend. I will not stand to see another soul be taken by the Hounds. Ours or the people we are sworn to protect."
"What of the mages? What are they doing about this?" Someone cried out from the crowd.
A few people muttered in agreement.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the mages going very still.
"They haven't given up. They are working on a solution as well, but we cannot rely on them!" the Headmistress said, squaring her shoulders on the man who'd spoken up.
"Our oath is to kill every last Hellhound," she said, turning her icy gaze on her audience. "What say you?!"
"Aye!" Everyone replied in unison.
She gave an approving nod.
"What about tracking them back to their hiding spot?" someone else called out.
There were a lot more mutterings in agreement for this one.
"Every attempt has failed," she said, shaking her head. "We still try occasionally, but the beasts figure out what we're up to every time."
"Any sightings of their young?" another person asked.
The Headmistress waved her hands in a calming motion as more people starting asking questions.
[Celia and Sikes are right. These people really don't know anything about the Hellhounds.]
"No. I know you all have questions, it's the same questions that I myself have asked over and over. We haven't found anything new. When we do, I promise that you will all be informed of it. For now, I need everyone to report to your Captains. You'll be getting your new assignments from them and instructions on how to handle your territory..."
A Caprian man walked up onto the platform, interrupting her speech. He leaned over and whispered into her ear.
Nodding, she straightened and addressed the assembly, "And one more thing. We've grown our ranks by one last night, making a total of seven novices."
That earned a round of surprised "oh's" and even a few hollers.
Smiling, the Headmistress said loudly, over the noise, "Mentors and Master Slayers, please guide our novices and protect them. We are a nation of warriors with far too few of us left."
Her eyes took on a hard look and she swept the audience with them, silencing the crowd with just the look.
Nodding, she said, "I am proud of you all. Now, good hunting!"
"Aye!" everyone responded.
As people began to rise from their seats John caught one person in particular who stood faster than all the rest. The black uniform had thrown him off initially but her angelic features were hard to forget.
Celia.
She made a beeline for the Headmistress, clearly upset about something. John watched them exchange words, and from Celia's body language it looked like she was having a losing argument. There were too many voices around him so he couldn't isolate the conversation but it didn't stop him from trying.
Waylon must have seen who John was watching for he said, "You didn't hear?"
"Hear what?" John asked, giving up on the eavesdropping and turning to his new friend who seemed to have an ear to everything.
"She's your new mentor."
John's eyebrows shot up.
"I thought only Alpha's were allowed," he said neutrally.
"Me too," Waylon said with a shrug, completely oblivious to the maelstrom that appeared in John's head. "In fact, she's one of the weaker Slayers but, with Kill Squads being reinstated, perhaps it's not an issue. What's surprising, though, is that she's a Ghourdian..."
[Celia's one of the weaker ones?] he thought in surprised. If she was one of the weaker ones, then he had a long way to go before he became a full fledged Slayer. He'd just barely bested her in their last duel and, if he was being honest with himself, he'd only succeeded because her emotions had gotten the better of her. If she had been clear headed, he wasn't so sure the outcome would have been the same.
"What are Kill Squads?" he asked, watching the mass exodus of people.
"Are you familiar with the Tracker and Alpha system?" Waylon asked.
Celia had explained to him that Trackers hunted for packs of Hellhounds in their territory. When they found a pack, they'd activate their Beacon which was a device that pulsed out their energy across the land in a circle until it hit the surrounding portals. Based on the amount of time it took to hit each of the portals, the mages that stood next to Guardian could get a rough triangulation of where the Tracker was on a map. Then they'd send an Alpha Squad to that location.
When John nodded, Waylon said, "Well the challenge with that system is the delay between the time the Tracker finds the Hounds and the time the Alpha's get there. The Trackers can't stick around too long as they are sorely outmatched. It's common for an Alpha Squad to lose a pack or spend so much time trying to track it down that they miss another pack in another territory. Actual Hellhound kills aren't very frequent these days. Kill Squads collapses the Trackers and Alpha's into squads. One Alpha per squad of Trackers. While it's less ground that gets covered, a Kill Squad can engage immediately. The downside is that there's only one Alpha so there's a higher risk of things going bad for the squad. Trackers aren't use to fighting and some of them can barely even handle one Hellhound."
John nodded at this logic.
If they were to make it work, then the Kill Squads had to work together as a single unit. Which, from Celia's teachings, most of the Trackers and Alpha's didn't get along very well.
John caught his new mentor's eye as she turned to leave the platform, and the dark looks she sent his way was enough to confirm the very first thought that had popped into his head when Waylon informed him of his new mentor. If looks could kill, he'd have been dead right there.
[She probably thinks this is all my fault.]
Thankfully, she turned on her heels and went out a side door, leaving his deadly lecture for another time.
[Well, it's not like she can kill me inside Tekal. It would be too suspicious.]
Waylon elbowed him in the ribs.
"That's Wes," he muttered from the corner of his mouth. John followed his eyes to a Caprian who looked… pretty.
"Is he wearing makeup?" John whispered back.
Waylon grunted.
The people around them started walking towards the exit and both John and Waylon followed the crowd.
"Over there is Sid."
Once again, John's expectation of Ghourdian men wasn't disappointed. A tall imposing man with pitch black hair stood alone in a corner. Everyone seemed to do their best to ignore him. John's curiosity itched at him painfully.
"And that's Dylan," Waylon said, motioning with his chin at a Caprian dressed in a novice's uniform. His red hair was curly, and the look in his eyes was mischievous. He was slowly making his way towards the exit, chatting up another Caprian. It wasn't until right then that he realized the room was divided by nation. They stood with the other Kalians.
[Even in a room they keep to their own nations.]
"He's probably off to get into some more trouble," Waylon sighed. "I better go make sure he doesn't do anything too stupid. Believe it or not, he and I have sort of become friends."
"Crossing sides are we?" John asked, feeling amused more than he probably should have.
Waylon shook his head at the absurdity of it and even looked a little embarrassed.
"You'll find no judgement from me," John assured him.
"Chances are the Slayer's are going to be busy the rest of the day figuring out logistics," Waylon said, recovering. "But you should head back to your room right now. It won't be long before someone comes and picks you up. Master Slayer Quinn Tekal tests every novice's sword skills on their first day here. He is Tekal's blademaster and is one of the three Master Slayer's. Do your best and, if you impress him enough, you might test out of his mandatory class."
"Did you?" John asked curiously.
Waylon snorted. "I was a bloody Lieutenant in the Red Guard. What do you think?"
"Stupid question," he agreed.
The Red Guard were the foot soldiers of the Legion. Their weapon of choice was the sword and shield. And dueling was the only way they passed the time. They also had a strict policy around promoting with their ranks. One of the requirements in moving up, beyond Tent Leader, was to best a man the rank above them in a duel.
As they exited the Main Hall, Waylon excused himself and made his way to the other side of the hallway where Dylan suspiciously ducked through another door in the North corridor. Part of him felt annoyed that Waylon hadn't invited him over, but he quickly squashed the feeling. He wasn't there to make friends. He was there to solve the Hellhound riddle. Looking around, he sought out Sikes but when he found the mage, the man was still surrounded by similarly colored robes.
Briefly, though, their eyes locked across the crowded hallway and the mage covertly shook his head in warning.
[Right, we have to maintain the status quo around here.]
Sighing, he kept walking, feeling oddly alone in a crowd full of people.
That, and a little afraid of meeting his mentor again.