He walked from the inn, leaving behind dead or dying men, and did not look back. Those who survived would long remember the man with the dragon-marks upon his arms.

Five Years Ago.

Cold air froze his very breath.

Each step was a chore, a minor agony that required absolute concentration lest his steps find slick ice frozen over by the incessant snow and sleet that fell from the dark sky. Wind battered at him, trying very hard to push him from the narrow steps carved into the wall. At any other time, Gabriel might have considered pausing to admire the strange architecture – there was nothing else like it in all of Megalos, though if rumor spoke true, this … Fortress of Tears had been wrought by men not of Megalos many, many years ago.

The freezing rain had long since cooled his rage to a dull simmer – it was so very hard to hate a man he could not find or see when the elements hurled ice and snow at him nonstop – but it was not completely gone. He doubted it would ever be gone, even when he finally located that bastard Zabka and sent him screaming to hell. Still, Gabriel was thankful for this climb as it reminded him of a teaching he’d long since forgotten: rage was best managed when cold. The heat of passion was dangerous, deadly, foolish…

He staggered up the steps, gripping his cloak tight with his left hand while his right was wrapped around the hilt of his sheathed sword so tightly that it felt frozen solid. Up and up he went, fighting against God’s wrath and hating Him the entire time. Where was the merciful savior that Mendel had often spoke of? Where was the Lamb who brought peace to all of mankind as was promised? All Gabriel had seen in his life was betrayal and hate, death and murder and blood. God was not merciful, it seemed, but rather malicious, cruel and petty. A tyrant in Heaven who stared down upon his work with contempt.

The steps ended abruptly before a massive set of double wooden doors that bore the elaborate sigils Gabriel recognized from the gauntlets bequeathed upon him by Master Gaius in the hours before sickness finally took the man. Gabriel had promised to seek out the other masters, to prove himself in their eyes and earn the dragon mark that was his by skill at arms, but there had not been the time after the war ended. Auqui’s training was too important, and then there was Kira and her laughing eyes which drew him in, and his duties to Wallace, and so very many excuses …

With barely a sound, the doors opened upon his touch and Gabriel stepped through over the threshold, grimacing at the wall of heat that slammed into him like a physical force. He suddenly felt every ache in his body, every strain, every cut or slice or bruise. And dear God, he was tired. Nine days had passed since he set out on this fool’s expedition, nine days of bitterly cold snow and only an irritated warhorse for company. Cometes was still below, cut loose to wander in the valley that this fortress overlooked, and Gabriel had no doubts that the charger would likely be more fortunate than he in terms of survival.

“You come bearing the gauntlets of one of our brothers,” a voice announced. The speaker glided forward, dark eyes over a well-trimmed beard shot through with gray, but Gabriel could see the grace in the man’s step. A sheathed sword was at the man’s side, though the cloak hanging from the master’s shoulders concealed much of it from sight. “How did you come by them?”

“Master Gaius bequeathed them to me,” Gabriel said through clenched teeth. His body trembled with fatigue and cold, but he pushed them both away, concentrated on the teachings of his father. There was a flame in his mind and he pushed everything – fear, anger, exhaustion, rage, hunger – into that tiny fire. All that was left was him. “In the Otherland, the Huallapan world where we waged bloody constraint,” he continued. He was aware of how his body still shook and shivered, but right now, none of that mattered.

“He died, then.” The master glanced to one of the many shadows moving around him – they were other men, Gabriel realized, though dressed in cloaks that drank in darkness – and scowled. “I remember him. I would have thought him better than to have fallen thus.”

“He died of plague,” Gabriel said. “No weapon could touch him so the god of death sent disease.”

“And now you come to us.” The master studied him but gave no sign of what he thought. “Much time has passed since that war yet you choose now to seek us out, Gabriel of House Auditore.” He nodded when Gabriel tensed. “Yes, we know of you. We have eyes who watch those who might prove worthy of the dragon mark.”

“If you’ve watched me,” Gabriel replied flatly, “then you know why I have not come before.”

“We do.” The master paused, then in a smooth, practiced motion, drew his sword. It was a long blade, with only a single edge and slightly curved. Memory tickled his mind – the elves bore swords much like this and he recalled wearing a body once that used such a blade – but his instincts had already taken over. His own blade whispered free of its scabbard. “I see you are not entirely incapable,” the master said with a very slight nod. He glided forward.

And they began to dance.

At first, Gabriel stayed defensive – The Falling Leaf turned aside Lightning of Three Prongs, The Branch in the Storm deflected Arc of the Moon – but still, the old man came. Familiar steps brought his muscles back to life and Gabriel went on the offensive, suddenly wanting this mummer’s farce to be done with. Courtier Taps His Fan turned into Bundling Straw. Attacking a would-be student at the threshold? Parting the Silk blocked Plucking the Low-Hanging Apple. Where was the logic in this? Cutting the Wind flowed into Kissing the Adder.

“Enough!” A new voice caused them both to pause and another man with cold eyes and silver hair appeared, throwing back his hood of shadow as she stepped forward. “He nearly killed you, Marcus.”

“He came close with that last strike, yes.” The first man had backed away out of striking distance and was eyeing Gabriel with a bit more respect. “The blade is smaller than I am accustomed to but faster. I did not think the forms could so easily be adapted to a rapier.”

“I’ve had plenty of practice,” Gabriel replied carefully. At no time did he relax his guard and the two old men studied him for a moment longer before nodding their approval.

“We shall test you, then,” the second man said.

*

Calling them tests was not the correct word..

The following day, after Gabriel had been granted permission to sleep and eat and recover from the nightmare climb, he faced another of the students with live blades in hand. They were stripped to the waist and he had to reacquaint himself with the lack of weight riding on his shoulders without the elven corselet he’d worn for so many years now. To his surprise, the apprentice came at him with blood in his eyes, so intent on killing him that Gabriel had automatically fallen into old habits, and in seconds, the boy was at his feet, a yard of steel thrust through his heart. Gabriel tried to stauch the bleeding, tried to save the poor fool’s life, but the strike had been too perfectly placed and he could do nothing but watch as the lad sank into oblivion.

None of the masters seemed to care.

The cold rage that swam in his belly began warming up once more as Gabriel found himself pitted against more would-be blademasters, each lethal in their own right and each as solely intent on his death as he was in not giving it to them. He faced them in ones and twos, earning new scars as the better trained of them came closer and closer to leaving him bloody on the ground. The venue also changed – there was the Room of Whispers, which was so loud that one had to rely on senses other than hearing to survive, and the Vault of Fire, where steam from underground baths reduced visibility to non-existent. The Nine Sisters was an arena with ten different kinds of traps and snares – why it was the Nine Sisters, Gabriel never learned – and there, he found himself in the midst of a grand melee with twenty other warriors. Most did not survive the traps, and the handful of ones that did were especially lethal, but Gabriel emerged victorious.

And still, his anger grew.

He could not understand the wisdom in such tests. Each of these warriors were capable in their own ways, skilled and brave and deadly, yet these masters hurled them at each other as if they were toys or gladiators. There was no training being done here! It was only madness. Madness and death. By the end of the second week, Gabriel had lost count of how many men he had seen die, most on the tip of his sword, and when he interacted with the masters, he made no attempt to hide his contempt for them.

“You are well skilled,” the first master told him as the third week began.

“Because I had training,” Gabriel replied in a voice so cold it could freeze fire. He realized that he hated this man, hated him and all of his brothers who played at being masters when in fact, they were simply murderers who wielded weapons of flesh and bone. His fury must have been written on his face because the master gave him an ugly smile.

“You think us monsters for how we teach,” he guessed.

“You’re not teaching,” Gabriel said in response. “And I am done with this madness,” he hissed.

“There is but one challenge remaining,” the old man said as Gabriel began to turn. “You must best an actual dragon mark.”

“You,” Gabriel said automatically. He narrowed his eyes. “I would face you.”

“And you will die,” the master said. He was smiling, though, and an eager, malicious light burned in his eyes. “The House of Sorrows,” he said. “One hour.”

*

The House of Sorrows was as sorely misnamed as the other locations in the fortress. There was no actual ‘house’ involved that Gabriel could see. Instead, it was simply an open platform jutting out from the fortress like a wide lip exposed to the elements. The surface was slick with snow and ice, though some parts of the stone hummed with unseen heat, never freezing even in the coldest of nights. There was only one way to leave, a narrow stairway that led straight down to the valley below.

When the master stepped onto the platform, Gabriel was unsurprised to see the man wearing a light mail hauberk that left his arms free. Wind caught his fur-lined cloak and it flared out, revealing that the older man wore thick boots and pants. He smiled and nodded his approval.

Because Gabriel had donned his own armor.

They exchanged no pleasantries beyond that single nod, instead baring steel and beginning their final dance. The old man struck hard and fast – Two Hares Leaping – but Gabriel was already sliding away, his own counterattack – Watered Silk – nearly taking his foe’s head. They exchanged a handful of strikes and counterstrikes, dancing back and forth over the ice and heated snow. Gabriel sank deeper into concentration. The Falling Leaf became The River Undercuts the Bank. The Kingfisher Circles the Pond batted away Arc of the Moon. Black Pebbles on Snow send ringlets of armor flying into the snow. The old master’s amused and contemptuous expression vanished, only to be replaced by one of fury and of intense concentration. Blood flew.

And still, they danced.

Finally, Gabriel saw it. His opponent was at least as fast as he was and had a hand or so more reach with that straight sword, but each of his forms was … in a word, they were too perfect. There was no spontaneity in his motions, no variation whatsoever. This man had practiced his forms so often that they had become rote, static, unyielding. Mentally, Gabriel nodded.

In mid-strike, he shifted his attack. The Boar Rushes Downhill abruptly became a reverse form of The Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose, flickering up to carve a blood furrow across the old man’s face. The master grimaced, almost but not quite staggering back, and Gabriel caught his riposte with a one-handed parry – The Grapevine Twines – while his other hand, his free hand, flashed for the elven dagger sheathed at the small of his back. The motion was never intended to be more than a distraction and it worked marvelously – the old master’s eyes shifted slightly and his weight shifted, as he prepared to defend against a thrown weapon that was never going to come. The Mongoose Takes a Viper came from his blind side. Gabriel felt his father’s sword punch through the hauberk and pierce vital organs.

With a gasp, the master stumbled. His sword fell from nerveless fingers and he had just enough time to look up as Gabriel flowed into The Thistledown Floats on the Whirlwind. The spinning strike sliced through the man’s neck and a geyser of blood gushed out.

“Memento mori,” Gabriel whispered as the master tried desperately to stem the crimson flood. Their eyes met.

A moment later, the older man was gone.

Gabriel knelt quietly in the snow, his sword still gripped lightly and ready for action should an ambush occur. He watched as the man died, making sure that no one came out to save his life. When he was satisfied that the old monster was gone, he started to rise.

And it was then that the man’s blood moved.

It flowed like quicksilver, crawling across the snow to merge together into a steaming pool of red. Gabriel blinked in surprise before flicking his father’s sword to rid it of the tiny droplets that clung tenaciously to the steel. He felt something on his arm and glanced up, noting in shock that the dead man’s blood had crawled down the length of the sword. It easily seeped through his glove, and then sank onto his flesh, burning like acid. Pain screamed through his arm, agony unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and he overbalanced, his free hand landing squarely in the snow as he tried to keep from falling over. Too late, he realized how close his hand was to the pool.

It was like the flesh under the skin of his arms had caught on fire. He couldn’t smell anything burning, but the pain … dear God, the pain! A scream began building in his throat but the agony pulsing from his arms was so intense his entire body seized up. He felt his body hit the wet snow as his muscles twitched and spasmed. Breathing was impossible.

When the pain passed, he opened his eyes and stared at the overcast sky that was once more spitting snow at him. His flesh felt too tight, too constrained, and he lifted both arms up, nothing instantly the unmistakable dragon marks. They glittered brightly underneath his skin – the red wasn’t tattoos, he realized with horror – but apart from that, he felt no different. Pushing himself to his feet, he gave the corpse one last glance before looking up. The other masters were watching through the windows of the fortress, their hoods thrown and their marked arms held aloft. Despite the great distance, Gabriel could tell that they approve. He gave them all a disgusted glower before sliding his toe underneath the rapier and flipping it up so he could catch it. Without a word, he walked toward the narrow staircase leading down.

He never looked back.