The Ranger (Book 1) by E.A. Whitehead Read Free Book Online Page B

and closed the door behind them.
    The academy was lit by the same orbs which lit the abbey. The narrow stairs ended at a large but plain wooden door. Vincent walked through first, entering the vast room that was the academy hall. In ages past, the room had held three hundred students at different stages in their training; as masters demonstrated fighting techniques and explained war tactics. Now, however, the academy had fewer than fifty students. The storage rooms attached to the main hall were filled with equipment that went unused.
    Vincent drew his swords and started practicing the forms he had performed many times. The blades flowed smoothly from one form to another. He had come a long way from where he was only a year earlier. Thomas had always been a natural with any weapon he touched; it always seemed that he had used them for years, even with the most obscure weapon. Vincent had not been so fortunate. Hours of practice had changed that. He now stood as one of the more proficient weapon masters in the academy.
    “What do you think the event is?” Peter asked, pulling Vincent from his trance.
    “I really don’t know,” Vincent said thinking. “Abbot Markov said it would test our mind, body and spirit. It will probably be some type of combat, as that’s the primary calling of knights, to be warriors, but beyond that I really couldn’t say.” In reality, he just didn’t want to think about what it could be. The flow of the blades was all that was keeping him from breaking down under the pressure.
    An ear-splitting boom echoed through the hall, startling Vincent and putting a stop to his training once again. Both Peter and Vincent stood listening silently, trying to discern what had happened outside.
    The sound of someone pounding their way down the stairs broke the silence after what seemed like an eternity. The door slammed open. The Valkyrie who had escorted them stood in the doorway.
    “Peter shall compete next.” She said in a very cold, emotionless way. “Follow me.”
    She turned and marched back up the stairs. Peter followed like a man condemned, waving solemnly to Vincent as he went. The door slammed behind them with an ominous thud, leaving Vincent alone.
    Again he started the forms; but now, with his turn rapidly approaching, his hands trembled. He couldn’t tell if it was fear or excitement, but it had gripped him thoroughly.
    He knelt down, laying his swords on the ground on either side of him, and tried to calm his troubled nerves. The meditation techniques they had taught him as a child seemed to work, but they took time.
    Just as he was achieving a measure of peace once again, the ground shook violently sending Vincent tumbling over, barely missing his swords. He was just picking himself up when the door slammed open again.
    “Vincent,” the familiar figure said, “your time has come.” She led him back to the field, where she left him standing alone.
    “Vincent, you are the last to compete,” Abbot Markov said somberly, breaking the eerie silence that hung over the assembly. “Be it known that neither of your peers have completed the challenge.” A sudden fear swept over Vincent as he remembered the warning given before that failure to complete the challenge could result in death.
    “Sadly,” the abbot continued, “the Goddess saw fit to claim the life of one of your colleagues, and she may yet claim the other.” Vincent trembled as he forced himself to look as Abbot Markov indicated the side of the field where a congregation of priests and priestesses huddled around the two motionless forms. Thomas had large burns on his face and hands and was gasping for air. The orange glow of healing was thick around him. Vincent heaved a sigh of relief; but it was short lived. His eyes soon fell on Peter. Peter’s legs were distorted and looked as though they had been crushed. To Vincent’s horror, Peter’s right arm had been torn clean off. The sick feeling he had felt earlier