The Ghost of Vermil-Chapter 36: Marco XX

Eritch Corlissen was a bull of a lad flaunting a barrel chest flanked by a pair of strong arms which he probably trained without missing a day. The Corlissens were known for their height and bulk and their pride as the wardens of the Ochre Pass — a passage between the earldoms of Torinto and Elkengarde, cutting through the Darkseed Mountains.

He also guffawed in a hollow gritty staccato of laughs, which Marco interrupted.

"Lord Corlissen, a great eve to you and your friends."

Eritch regarded him cautiously. "Heir of Gallagher, my evening could not have been more delightful. I assume you seek me for a duel?" His voice sounded even rougher, as if to intimidate him.

But Marco was not one so easily folded. "Not quite. I would like to ask for a favour, Eritch."

"A favour? What sort?"

"I found in a book inside the Bibliotheca that a special artifact named Quill of Melancholy and Longing is in your House's possession. I would like to make it the subject of my presentation on Artifact Studies."

"And?" He crossed his arms over his large chest.

"I would like to borrow it and bring it to class, through a fair amount of silver, of course."

He cocked his head and furrowed his brows in scrutiny. Eritch was not a fool. He was the second in rank in all of Demach and he couldn't have gotten there merely by brawn. "I do not see the need to lend it to you. My sweet mother keeps it with her to watch over my brothers and sisters who embark on expeditions in the depths of the Darkseed Mountains."

"Then can I at least take a look at it? The details in the book were scant. I would like to take a closer look and perhaps, see for myself how it is used. I am willing to pay a visit to the Ochre Pass."

The last time Marco went there was to attend the baptism of the son to the heir of the Earl of Elkengarde. Lined with yellow stones that ran the gamut from faded ochre to deep orange, the Pass was a haven both for travellers crossing to and from the northern territories and outlaws alike. Every ten miles or so were guard posts manned by subjects of the House Corlissen, but the outlaws blended in with the caravans and the trees. Sightings of cursed beings and demonic monsters were rare but not unheard of.

He grinned. "My gut tells me you don't need it for Artifact Studies. Why suffer more than a week of trave to Elkengarde, all for the sake of seeing an artifact for yourself." His friends nodded their heads in agreement.

"I am a devout scholar."

"Are you now?"

I have no choice. "Then, I ask you formally to a duel. If I win, I can take a look at the artifact. I'll pay the silver in order to bring it to Gallenport. If I lose... I'll give you my sword."

Eritch's eyes turned grim. He stood up, reaching half a foot taller than Marco. He glared down at him. "You insult me. You come asking for a favour then you insult me. I have no need of your sword, Genius."

"Is that a yes or a no?" Declining a duel from a sophomore would taint Eritch's honour as the second strongest and as a Corlissen.

"The day after tomorrow. Enjoy your pretty face for I am about to add another indelible scar on the other cheek."

* * * * *

"Your upcoming duel with Eritch is all the talk this morning," Quain said, as they suited up for Fighting Techniques. "The Corlissens are adept at hunting and weaponry. I saw him duel with his classmate once. It was brutal! In the next half of it, he was merely toying with him. Are you that eager to take his spot? Next year, you'll be at the top of Demach anyway since the two would be conscripted."

Marco slung his sword Demonkiller on the slot at his waist, not ready to part with it yet. He named it so, hoping to kill a demon with it someday. Until such a time came, he would not lose it to anyone. And not to Eritch tomorrow, for sure. "I wanted to borrow an artifact from his House. He had been reluctant so I'm helping him decide."

Fighting Techniques taught them melee battles, swordsmanship, and martial arts. Professor Hanson wanted to test their use of HEAVENLY GUARD — a basic protective charm for soldiers in the form of a white shroud that covered the entire body. The spell required a continuous resupply of holy energy. Albeit the amount was but trickling, the constant attention to maintain it chipped away at one's focus. Either the shield would weaken as a result or the user would falter in the fight. And one second of hesitation could alter the outcome of a battle significantly.

"You ready? Face your sparring partner," Professor Hanson's voice carried over the Training Grounds.

Each sophomore Aleph turned to their partners, taking their stance.

Quain pointed his sword at Marco. "Go easy on me."

"Cut the act, you're the better swordsman between the two of us." They were closely matched when it came to swordplay but Quain had spent longer honing it, and in an unorthodox way. And as the lords commanding a third of Araya's armada, they were trained in sea warfare. If they were on the deck of a rocking galleon, Quain would have no trouble brandishing his weapon at him while Marco would have tripped on his own foot already.

"Consider it a training for your duel tomorrow."

"Corlissen isn't good with swords."

"Raise your Guards!" The professor instructed.

HEAVENLY GUARD! The training grounds filled with rays of light that began to flow around the scholars' bodies and completely covered them.

The shroud interfered with breathing, thus they had to leave their faces unveiled. Compared to metal armour, the shroud did not drag at their movements for it bore no weight.

Marco raised his sword, ready to defend. At the professor's signal, Quain charged, swinging his blade aiming for Marco's leg. He parried his strikes with difficulty but whenever he thought Foilsebay would tire, he would suddenly find an opening.

"You're too focused on doing me in in one single blow, I can tell," said Quain, panting. CLANG! His blade contacted Marco's Heavenly Guard that shielded his waist. Marco stepped aside at the impact while Quain reeled back. He felt the blow but it did not hurt.

Marco brandished Demonkiller for Quain's neck as the latter was preparing to swing at him again. His opponent shifted his weight on his other leg and ducked, supporting himself by his sword. Marco grazed his dark hair. Planting his other foot back on the ground, Quain rose up and elbowed Marco's chest, pulling his own blade up.

Marco endured the blow with the help of the Guard. He swung his sword back, meeting the flat of Quain's blade with its tip. CLING! He thought he successfully deterred his opponent's attack but the blade continued its descent in an arc instead, slashing at Marco's shin. If he lost focus for a second and the Guard was dispelled, he would have lost a leg.

Marco shifted his hold and thrust down on Quain's foot. CLUNG, it met Foilsebay's HEAVENLY GUARD. Quain chuckled. Marco found himself relishing in the spar too.

The Training Grounds filled with the clinks of blades and scholar's grunting. Swords met swords and heavenly guards. With the help of their weightless shield, there was less hesitation in their swings, striking with all their might even as blades threatened to skewer them. But after a while, students stumbled and their shields began to flicker, unstable.

Even Quain's. Marco was about to drive Demonkiller into Quain's shoulder when he stopped, noticing the Guard shiver. Sweat beading and breaths laboured, his opponent showed signs of fatigue and loss of focus. It was the deciding moment of the spar. Instead of charging with his sword, he flicked Quain's blade to the side and violently tackled him, pinning him down on the grass.

"My victory," Marco declared, pointing Demonkiller at his neck. "If you did not drag the fight on, I would have been the one beneath your blade." Fortunately, Marco could hold the Heavenly Guard for an hour more. But in an actual battle where Marco was wont to use INVIOLABLE EDICT, it was detrimental to casting the spell since it would block his tendrils of holy energy from making contact with his environment. Thus, if he were to use his talent, he would need to dispel the Guard for a moment.

"Ah, I need to build up my endurance," Quain sighed, catching his breath. When the body grew tired, the mind faltered. The protection of the Heavenly Guard was only as effective as their mental and physical endurance.

Marco helped him to his feet. "It was a learning experience for me, Lord Foilsebay. I owe you."

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Quain wobbled his head, "Humble as always, Lord Vermilon."

Lucas had come back from the infirmary but Marco had dissuaded him from attending classes yet. He was afraid that his brother would get into trouble in some other way again. He thought it was not too much to ask for a day of respite from such agony. He planned to visit him again. Perhaps, he's ready to talk.

Before that, he made his way back to his own suite to change clothes. His shirt was drenched in sweat from Fighting Techniques and Power Strengthening. Professor Turington had began to delve into the relation of one's physique and the degree of how far one's holy power could be strengthened. It meant running around in the campus until they fainted.

A letter on the floor caught his eye when he swung the door open. It had no name nor address, nor a wax sigil. He opened it and read,

"I have word about one of the loose ends. Preacher's Tavern, after sunset."

It was curt and cryptic. Marco had a feeling he already knew who was waiting there.

The Preacher's Tavern was one of the places Professor Mallory frequented. Marco hoped she was not there at this time. Putting on a black cloak over a simple tunic, he trod past the walls of the Academy and deep into the darkening streets of Gallenport. He might have to miss dinner tonight.

Many shops closed before dusk, but in their place, pubs remained open. The cobblestone pathways were alive with the steps of labourers on their way back home, of mothers bringing back supper for their children, of fathers on their way out to guzzle on bitter ale and cheap wine.

A begging mother with a babe on her breast approached him, hands outstretched, "My lord, just something for supper tonight."

"I am no lord," Marco said, softly. But he dropped a silver on her palm without slowing. He made his way past the row of residences where one woman threw out refuse onto the street at his feet, nearly splattering him had he not stopped. He went on without looking back.

He reached the Preacher's Tavern which was aglow with the light from candles and iron cressets. The place was packed. A serving girl blocked him at the entrance, "Come back later, seats are full. Or you can stand."

"There is vacancy here," the familiar voice of Philip the exorcist yelled over the cacophony in the tavern. The table he was on was flanked by a group of burly men who already had a few pints by the blush on their cheeks. Did he bring company? Coming alone was not clever, he realized.

"Thank you," Marco said, as he took the seat Philip had offered. "I'll call when I have decided," he told the serving girl.

Philip seemed not to have changed over the month that had passed. His face was as lean as he remembered it, his expression cold and calculating. He had put on a plain vest over a cream tunic. No one would suspect he was an exorcist.

The two men beside them chortled about a whore one of them met yesterday. They kept banging on the wooden table.

"Pay them no mind, young lord," Philip said, pretending to drink from a tankard. "They are mundane patrons here, nothing else."

Truth. Lumen Veritatis showed him.

Even so, Marco raised his guard. He let out a single tendril of holy power and claimed control of the tabletop, murmuring softly the INVIOLABLE EDICT. If they made a single suspicious move on him, he was prepared to defend and counterattack.

"I know you want to ask for something in return for the information you hold, name it," Marco ordered, whispering.

"Ha, you know me very well. Knowledge should pay for knowledge, my lord." He leaned closer, the sound of his words nearly drowned by the noise of the tavern and the loud braying of the men around them. "A simple question: Why does Lady Anastasia detest your brother?"