Hohenfels – Chapter 40

The distant bells of Halden’s cathedral rang through the air as Arne made his way to Professor Nowak’s office. Sunday mornings were the optimal time for heathen lessons, as the entirety of the catholic student body left for the city, and a good chunk of the protestants was sequestered away in the dorms’ chapels.

Thankfully, he would not be missed at Hohenfels Hall’s service. It was severely under-attended anyway, and the few pious nobles who visited it regularly would know better than to spread rumors of his lack of devotion.

The main building was deserted. Even the servants were attending church or enjoying a rare moment of relaxation, which meant a convenient lack of witnesses as he drew his saber just in case before entering the office.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. It was the most disorienting odor he had ever experienced – the stench of acrid smoke mixed with indistinct herbs and various types of alcohol.

Professor Nowak, disheveled as ever, sat comfortably on a chair behind his overloaded desk, drawing on a huge pipe and smiling broadly at his student. The banesilver amulet was prominently displayed around his neck and his aura exuded nothing but excitement, so Arne sheathed his sword again and began to plow his way through stacks of tomes, scrolls, and seemingly random items of various shapes and sizes.

“Good morning, Prince Arnold,” Nowak greeted jovially. “Please, take a seat.” He pointed towards the only non-cluttered chair in the room, facing him across the desk.

“Good morning, Professor,” Arne replied, slightly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of visual and olfactory stimuli. He sat down on the chair and blinked a few times in rapid succession to rid his eyes of irritating smoke.

The scruffy man leaned back in his seat. “You wanted to learn about my… particular talent, if I recall correctly?”

“Indeed. And I would very much like to know why a shaman would consider it a good idea to take up a teaching position at the Imperial Academy, of all places.”

“Well, the last part is rather simple to explain. My people’s traditions are dying out. The only people who can reliably carry them into the future are those with sufficient time and resources to study and practice them. Aristocrats.” Enthusiasm. Ambition.

His pathetically weak aura showed no signs of deception, not even a flicker of dishonesty.

“So you decided it would be a good idea to jump into the proverbial lion’s maw, instead of discreetly approaching specific Houses.”

“That’s what I tried at first,” the Professor admitted. “Then I found out just how paranoid old lords can be. No offense intended, of course.” Amusement. Sarcasm.

‘Ah. He was met with distrust and suspicion from the older generations, so he decided to try his luck with the more impressionable youths. Reasonable, but not in particularly good taste.’

Arne hummed noncommittally. “I understand. You seem to place a lot of faith in your talent, though, to operate directly under the noses of the clergy and the Emperor.”

“So far, it has served me well,” Nowak shrugged. “The longest time I’ve spent in a cell was ten hours. The closest I’ve come to death was at your hands.” Pride. Confidence.

“When did you start teaching here?”

“You are part of my third generation of students, so… Ten years ago, give or take.” Smugness.

That was genuinely impressive. The shaman easily survived two four-year cycles amidst hundreds of Imperial nobles who could arrest or kill him on sight once they learned of his true identity, to say nothing of the instructors and guard knights.

“...How?”

“I assume you’re asking about the particularities of my talent,” Nowak mused. At Arne’s nod, he continued. “It is rather difficult to explain without preamble, so I suggest we begin with the basics.”

“Go ahead,” Arne allowed.

The professor cleared his throat and puffed some smoke, the scent of burnt herbs lingering in the air. “As you are probably aware given your military forays into ‘heathen’ lands, there are more ways to ignite one’s magic than Baptism and Confirmation. They are as varied as the people who came up with them. Some nomadic tribes perform ritualistic hunts as coming-of-age ceremonies, others awaken by communing with the spirits of the land.”

That was hardly news for Arne, given his own unconventional awakening. Still, one part caught his attention. “Spirits of the land?”

The Professor chuckled. “Indeed. Spirits, elves, the Gods of Eld. They have countless names and even more faces, but there is one thing they all have in common: They were here long before us, aeons before the Usurper’s minions began their bloody crusade.”

He contemplated his next words in melancholy, then drew on his pipe once more. “Some of them are still around, waiting, watching. Say, have you already tried your hand at the rituals from my book?”

“I have,” Arne confirmed, eliciting an approving nod from the older man. “We tried an uncomplicated weather ritual.”

“Ah, the Vandalic Weather Divination,” Nowak hummed. “Did you succeed yet?”

“I believe so. The results have held true.”

That caught the Professor off guard. “How many attempts did you need?”

“...One?”

The Professor’s eyes went wide. “Are you sure? Did something like this happen?” His voice took on a strange timbre, and his eyes seemed to glaze over. “Donar.”

The standing smoke in the room whirled as an eerie breeze went through the room, scattering some documents on the floor. Arne sucked in a sharp breath, but regretted it immediately as his lungs began to ache from whatever Nowak had stuffed into his pipe.

“That was…”

“A weak echo of an Old God,” Nowak said slowly, seemingly deep in thought. “You don’t seem too surprised. Did you really succeed on your first try?” Disbelief. Suspicion.

“The nightshade may have clouded my memory, but I remember the wind and the sunlight feeling… different, for a short moment.”

“Are you serious?!” Nowak sprang to his feet excitedly. “Sunna as well?” Eagerness. Elation.

“I… think so?”

“Can you do it again?”

Arne felt rather conflicted. “...Would a god not take offense if…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. The Usurper might show his ire if you use his vaunted name in vain, but the Forgotten Ones take delight in every call.”

“...All right then. What do I do?” Arne could not deny his curiosity, despite a part of his mind screaming for caution.

“Here,” the Professor said with gleaming eyes, handing Arne his pipe. “Three or four pulls should be enough.”

Arne scanned his aura for any signs of ill will, but found none. Still, he limited himself to a single pull, which already made him double over in a coughing fit. Nonetheless, it took mere seconds for him to feel a slight change in his perception. The smoke, previously a mere nuisance, suddenly seemed like a living thing, patterns moving within the thin clouds like ripples in a pond.

He sent a jolt of magic through his entire body, instantly ending the effects of whatever druidic herb he had just consumed. “What was that?!”

“Mandrake shavings and thornapple leaves, harvested under a full moon by the druids of Arvorig.”

Arne blinked twice, not having expected such a concise answer. “I see.”

He steadied himself and pulled on the pipe, once, twice, thrice. He suppressed his urge to cough, and focused on the oscillating ripples in the smoke, as his field of view narrowed ever so slightly with every heartbeat.

“Now call upon the Lord of Storm and Thunder,” said the uncharacteristically quiet, almost reverent voice of Professor Nowak from behind the whirls and patterns.

“Donar,” he whispered, and the smoke danced. It rose to the ceiling like a flock of birds and sunk back down like leaves in autumn, scattering into hazy clouds that flitted through the room like shadows of the past, driven by an impossible gust.

Then everything was ripped apart by the terrible bells of the cathedral.

The smoke settled, the breeze disappeared. Arne felt a spike of fury from the Professor, but it turned into resignation within moments. Two intense jolts of magic purged the poisons from his body.

“Well, this is as good a stopping point as any,” Nowak sighed. “Let us reconvene next week at the same time.”

Arne happily agreed, and made his way out of the cramped office – but when he left the building, he stopped short.

The bells had rung for evening mass. Just how long had they been staring at the smoke?

= = = = =

“You fight like a man.”

“Pardon?” Katharina scowled. Somehow, Klara’s comment did not seem like a compliment. And indeed, her tormentor’s derisive grin only widened as she struggled to get back on her feet.

The Princess stopped right next to her and administered a rather unkind poke into Katharina’s lower back. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

It did. Not as much as the countless bruises decorating her skin, but the more she focused on it, the more pronounced the pain became.

“That’s because you move like a man.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?” Katharina hissed, suppressed vitriol fighting its way through her crumbling composure.

“Stance,” Klara commanded. “Now lunge.”

A sharp pain shot through Katharina’s lower back as she grudgingly complied.

“See? Again.”

This time, Klara deftly moved Katharina’s foot with her own, adjusting her ‘student’s’ position. “Your stance is too wide. And don’t angle your feet too much,” she ordered. “Your center of gravity is lower than a man’s, and your legs work differently.”

She demonstratively exaggerated her own stance, shifting fluidly between poses. “This is how men do it. And this is what you should do.”

She lunged forward, a graceful movement far removed from Katharina’s own clumsy attempts. It was frustrating to watch.

“The difference really isn’t that big, but when it comes to magic, every hair’s breadth counts. If you keep abusing your bones and muscles, you will damage them irreparably.”

Katharina nodded in understanding. Her spotty knowledge of the medical arts had rarely involved the study of female body structure, but Klara’s words seemed self-evident enough – and were only further proven by the growing discomfort in her back and knees.

She did her best to imprint the position of her legs into her memory, and lunged forward once more, stabbing at empty air. The pain did not exactly abate, but it did not get worse either. So, she decided to count that as a marked improvement.

“Better,” the Princess drawled. “But nowhere near ‘good’. You waste so much energy flopping about… Sharp, concise movements are the mark of a decent fighter.”

“Flopping… Pardon?!”

“Aww, getting angry? How adorable. Come on, stab me then. Do it!”

Katharina took a deep breath and centered herself. The Princess was intentionally goading her, trying to break her self-control. ‘Composure is strength.’

“Pah, boring. You’re more fun when you look at me like you want to gouge my throat out.”

“I… what?”

“You really don’t like me, do you, Kathi?”

“...”

“Don’t worry, the feeling is mutual. That’s what makes this interesting,” Klara grinned. “But hey, at least you’re better than the rest of your silky ilk. Perhaps there is some hope for you yet, despite your almost comical lack of talent.”

“I’m starting to understand why you don’t have friends,” Katharina snapped before she could think better of it.

But instead of the angry outburst she had prepared herself for, the Princess howled with triumphant laughter. “Hahahaha, finally!”

The blonde maniac stepped forward and pressed the tip of her practice blade against Katharina’s sternum, forcing the young lady to take increasingly fast steps backwards until her back finally hit the wall of the dorm’s armory with a painful sting.

“I don’t play silkling games,” Klara grinned widely. “I could not give less of a fuck about your scheming, your fake smiles, the sorry excuse for ‘friendship’ you’ve offered.”

Katharina found herself acutely aware of the damage a practice sword had caused in Klara’s hands before. Images of Friedrich bleeding out on the arena floor flashed through her mind. She desperately wanted to flee, but the unyielding stone behind her back and the blade at her throat kept her firmly in place.

“Give me the snark. Give me the insults. Give me the rage,” the mad Princess continued. “If you can’t do that–”

The sword was retracted faster than Katharina could see. Instead, Klara’s fist grabbed her uniform’s collar, and an instant later she found herself flying through the air, landing on the dry ground with a dull ‘thud’. While she was still desperately trying to shake off the shock and pain, Klara’s sneering face appeared in her narrowing field of view once more.

“–just fuck off, and don’t let me see your face ever again.”