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  VISIONS OF A HIDDEN

  A Ronin Saga Short Story

  Matthew Wolf

  © 2019 Matthew Wolf

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author.

  Learn more at www.matt-wolf.com

  MATTHEW WOLF

  VISIONS OF

  A HIDDEN

  A RONIN SAGA SHORT STORY

  Contents

  VISIONS OF A HIDDEN

  The three elf boys sat silently, nervously. They were uncertain why they had been chosen, only certain that they had. They were young, especially for elves, each younger than their sixth spring. The eldest of these three was a long brown-haired boy with hard eyes named Rydel. He knew that the tall elf before them was someone to be feared.

  On the big elf’s back was a grand-looking cloak that brushed the floor. As Rydel looked at the cloak, his eyes strangely hurt. The big elf shifted subtly and as he did the cloak shimmered, blending with its surroundings as he moved. Rydel was in awe, but the cloak paled compared to the object dangling at the big elf’s hip.

  A sword like out of the stories…

  The big elf stood with one hand on a green-handled blade at his waist, as he talked with an elf with a white beard. Much older, this one wore fancy white robes with green embroidered vines and leaves. Rydel had seen clothes like that before when his mother had pointed to the king and queen as they’d strode through the dappled lit forest.

  The two elves were whispering now, but their words were loud enough to be heard by Rydel’s keen ears. Perhaps they didn’t know or didn’t care, but he listened as the hardened, younger-looking one asked, “King Gias wishes this? You’re certain?” The elf wasn’t just tall. He was big. Rydel had seen strong elves like the Terma, but this man’s simple green clothing didn’t hide his bulging arms and thick neck. He must’ve been the biggest elf Rydel had ever seen. Middling in years for an elf, perhaps Rydel’s father’s age, but the tough look on his face made him look much older still. Rydel had never seen anyone look so mean. He towered over them and cast occasional unsettling glances at the three boys who sat on their knees in the green glade, trembling. On Rydel’s right, the little black-haired boy sniffled, as if holding back tears; while the blonde-haired boy to his left held a distant wide-eyed gaze as if he was imagining being someplace very far from here.

  “From his mouth to my ears,” said the old elf dutifully. “It is the King’s own wish.”

  The big elf growled in frustration. “Why now? Why bring back the old ways now? We are at peace. Fractured and divided from the other Great Kingdoms, but at peace. What is he preparing for?”

  The old elf shook his head, fine, straight white beard swaying. “I can’t say, but King Gias is not one to frighten easily. You know this above all others, Trinaden.” Trinaden… was that the big elf’s name?

  King Gias. Rydel knew that name too. Lord of all the elves and ruler of the Great Kingdom of Leaf. King Gias ordered this? Rydel’s mother hadn’t been able to tell him anything. She had just said she loved him very much, to trust that, and listen to the old elf. That was yesterday. Shortly after, the old one had come and collected him, tears in his mother’s eyes as she had watched him leave. They had walked in silence for what felt like ages until they reached the green glade and the mean-looking master Trinaden. The other two boys had been waiting when he had arrived.

  “You know more than you’re saying, Lorsan,” growled the mean-looking elf.

  The old elf, Lorsan, sighed. “If I had to guess, the King sees something on the horizon we cannot. These boys will be needed one day. Either way, they are yours now,” Lorsan said gravely, nodding his head to Rydel and the other two at his side. “Their provisions will be cared for. Their training and all else is yours to oversee.”

  Trinaden grunted at last. “So be it. I will do what I can. But when I’m done with them, they won’t be boys. They might not even be elves.”

  The way he said it frightened Rydel. Might… not even be elves? What did he mean?

  Trinaden had a haunted look on his face, then it passed and only a hard craggy exterior remained. When Lorsan left, the tall elf turned to them, silent for a long moment. Rydel watched the sword with keen interest. He couldn’t stop staring at it. It had a strange emerald handle and a green glow emanated from within the sheath. Then Rydel spotted the elf’s gnarled hands. They had thick calluses and many tiny white scars. The big elf spoke in a voice like thunder and gravel. “My name is Trinaden dal’ Melowyn, but you will call me Master.”

  The two boys at Rydel’s side gave slow nods.

  Trinaden unsheathed his blade in a rush, pointing to them. His expression was cold and calculated, lacking hatred or remorse. “Words have power. I would have you say it now.”

  “Master,” the two boys echoed in trembling voices.

  Rydel felt their fear, saw their wide terrified eyes in the corner of his vision. He knew he should be scared, too. He knew that this elf was death—that this blade was something the likes he’d never seen before. Not from the Mela, not even the Terma, supposedly the strongest of all Elvin warriors and guards, to the King himself. Trinaden was different still. Instead, Rydel could only stare at the blade before him. The weapon hovered before his eyes, a glistening point of steel with a green hue, drawing him in.

  “You like the blade, boy?” Trina—Master asked.

  Rydel could only nod.

  “You’ve got a fine eye for steel, if that is even its origins, though I doubt it very much. It’s a leafblade, an ancient relic belonging to warriors from a time long before you were born.” Rydel didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded special. “Your name, what is it?”

  “Ry-rydel,” Rydel stuttered. Without warning, the blade sliced and a small bloody pain stung Rydel on the cheek. Fingers unconsciously reached up and felt the split skin and pooling warm blood. Anger and fear flashed inside him. Trinaden’s expression hadn’t altered a single hair. It remained cold, mean, uncaring, and… expectant. Rydel realized his mistake. “Master,” Rydel added quickly.

  Master Trinaden inclined his head, slightly, and sheathed the leafblade. “Understand this,” the big elf announced. “Your parents gave you up. Your brothers, sisters, friends—you have none. I am your family, and I am not your family. You are mine now to do as I will, to craft and mold to one purpose. To wield this,” he lifted the green-hued sword, “and become a leafbearer. Once you have passed your training, you will bear the leafblade, and become something more, something none have seen in a thousand years.”

  “Leafbearer… Master?” The little boy to Rydel’s left asked in a shaky voice. He was the blonde-haired elf and the youngest of the three. His long pointed ears poked out from his hair. He had inquisitive emerald eyes and a small, nervous smile. “What are Leafbearers?”

  “Royal warriors to the Ronin themselves, though some called them the Hidden. The most powerful and revered warriors in all Farhaven. You will become that weapon. If you do not listen as I say, you will be cast out. It will not be easy. You will hurt. You will make pain your friend. I will not lie to you.
Even if you do as I say, you may die,” he said and let it sink in. Rydel realized his body was shivering of its own accord. “But,” the big elf said with a slim smile—the first and last it looked like he’d ever make, “you will be something the likes of which the world has not seen for many an age.”

  “What must we do?” Rydel asked. The others looked to him, surprised. His mother had said to trust that old elf, Lorsan, and Lorsan had put his faith in Trinaden. Rydel would do whatever it took to see his mother again.

  “So eager already, young elf?” Master Trinaden asked, then obliged his head. “The task is simple, but far from easy: withstand my tutelage, speak the oaths, and finally survive the Trial of the Forest. Then, and only then, will you receive your blades and have the honor of being called a Hidden, a Leafbearer.”

  Rydel swallowed and heard the others do the same.

  “Now, names,” Master Trinaden ordered and pointed to the small towheaded boy at Rydel’s side.

  “Hadrian,” the blonde boy answered timidly.

  The long raven-haired boy and the middle in age replied, “Dryan.” He had little scrolls like curling vines under his bright blue eyes, a rare but not unheard of birthmark for elves. His voice too had a keener, higher edge to it, and his face looked like one made for mischief—more sharply angled eyes that flitted about nervously.

  Master grunted. “Good.”

  Master then showed them to their rooms. They were cramped quarters with three beds huddled against the far wall. There was nothing else. No decorations aside from a single window that peered into the verdant, glowing green woods of Eldas, the city of leaf. “This is where you will stay,” Master Trinaden announced. “My room is off-limits. We eat in the living room, and training starts anywhere I say it does.”

  All three stared at the tiny cots, and Master Trinaden answered their unasked question, “You will learn to live sparsely. You are hidden-in-training, not boys, and you’ll have no need of toys or material possessions. Your bodies, your very souls now belong to a higher calling—in light of this, worldly items are meaningless.” He let the words sink in, then announced, “In the morning we begin. Be ready.” Without another word, he shut the door with a bang making the three boys jump.

  Unsure of what else to do, Rydel began to silently unpack his meager belongings. The others did the same when the boy with black hair began to cry. His sobs and little sniffles continued as he half-heartedly laid his clothes in a stack beside his small cot.

  Rydel didn’t know what to say. He wanted comfort himself, so he just stood frozen. Hadrian left his bedside and put his arm around Dryan’s shoulders. Rydel watched them. Tears stained their faces and they wore fearful expressions. “Do you think he’s… do you think it’s true?” Hadrian asked Rydel. “Our family, our friends… they’re gone?”

  Rydel could only nod.

  “Why? Why us?” Hadrian asked.

  “I wanna go home,” the little boy with black-hair said in a sniffly whine.

  Rydel turned away. Anger, fear, and uncertainty swirled inside him when he felt something in his pack—it was the small stone his mother had given him. They weren’t allowed to bring anything aside from clothes, but he’d hidden it. Now he tucked it under his pillow and turned back to the other two. They’re afraid, and so am I, but… My mother said to be brave. As the oldest, this was his duty. It sounded like something his father would say.

  His father had barely spoken to him, but when he had, he’d demanded Rydel to be strong, to overcome his fear. His mother had demanded him to care. Rydel envisioned his mother’s face and drew a deep breath, summoning his courage. He placed his hands on their shoulders. The two boys looked up at him with big, watery eyes, and he smiled as wide as he could, though he was certain they could see how scared he was, too. Mustering his voice, Rydel declared, “He was wrong. This is our home. We are brothers now, and we will protect each other. I won’t let anything happen to you two.” Hadrian smiled, and Dryan nodded. “I promise.” And he meant it.

  Having been exhausted, they curled up in their hard cots and found slumber. When Rydel awoke later in the night to the creaking of floorboards, he found the other two were in his bed. In the morning, Master Trinaden had found them, huddled and bleary-eyed, but he hadn’t said a word. Somehow, Rydel knew it had been a onetime thing.

  In the morning, as promised, they trained. The days were long. They ate little and drank less. Sleep was scarce. Chores filled any gaps not dedicated to some form of training. Climbing on rocks, pushing heavy logs, swimming upriver, and a thousand other exercises became rote. Master trained them to the bone. Crying or complaining was quickly ruled out as it only made Master work them harder. Less work meant less food, and less food meant they were too tired to work. So the more they worked, the more they ate. Some days their bodies wouldn’t move. Rydel would struggle to lift an arm or a leg, the fatigued muscles feeling like glass shards embedded into his leaden limbs.

  On these days, when they were too exhausted to move—and Trinaden could tell when they were faking it—Rydel was allowed to pick a book from Master’s shelf, and they would read.

  Master Trinaden followed his own advice of an austere life, and the hut wasn’t much to look at. There were only four rooms in the hut. Their cramped quarters, Master’s, which was forbidden to enter at all times, a spare room, and the living room. The living room could be described as minimalistic, its decorations as sparse as a freshly picked bone. It held only a metal stove, a few cabinets for essentials, and a fireplace that remained cold unless it was winter. Here, above the mantle, the leafblade hung when not on Master’s waist. Three chairs and a table sat in the center. Among these bare necessities, it bore one peculiarity.

  Books.

  They lined every wall. Even the spare bedroom was devoted entirely to the housing of all varieties of tomes, codex, parchments, and journals.

  The hut held books on all subjects: philosophy, history, languages, geography, government, economics, herb lore, medicine, and any subject Rydel could imagine or wish to learn.

  Once when Rydel was only a few summers old, he remembered his mother taking him to a library in Eldas. It had been much bigger and fancier, with white columns. Several stories tall, it was filled with scholars and all sorts of important folk. Humble as Master Trinaden’s house was, his collection was impressive. Most of the books were old and seemed special. After a time it seemed Trinaden’s goal was for Rydel and the others to read them all. Master Trinaden being Master Trinanden made everything into a test. When they would fail to remember a passage or an important fact, they would be forced to sleep outside in the cold or do some menial task like peel a hundred potatoes with their fingernails. Rydel quickly noticed that Master Trinaden never yelled or raged at them. He had no need. He would simply look at them with his frozen blue eyes until they jumped to task. Despite this, Rydel enjoyed reading days. When he’d asked timidly why warriors needed to read, Trinaden’s answer was simple: An ignorant warrior is a dead warrior. You must keep your mind as sharp as your blade. For both are weapons no warrior can do without. You will learn these texts as well as you know your blade to come, if not better.

  He’d laughed and told Master it was impossible to read that many books.

  Trinaden had pulled a tome off the shelf and asked Rydel to flip to a random page. Upon doing so, Trinaden spoke, reciting the Herbology of the Aster Plains word for word. Stunned, Rydel felt a renewed fear of this elf whom he had assumed was more brawn than brain, and he thought he understood Trinaden’s words a little better.

  It wasn’t long before Master had them train with weapons.

  Rydel learned the bow first. To kill from afar is a more powerful tool than even the sharpest sword, said Master.

  Then he learned the staff: a long staff, then a quarterstaff, and finally all the way down to a broken broom handle. They laughed when Master had shown it at first. When Master used it to b
ruise them from head to toe with his eyes closed, all laughing ceased. Of course, different weights and sizes required slightly different moves. They would spend days practicing the perfect strike, block, parry or redirect. Only once they’d mastered the basics to Trinaden’s very particular satisfaction did they progress. And Master Trinaden was very particular. Moreover, their advancement was together, or not at all. Another time, Rydel and Dryan had stayed up all night with Hadrian teaching him the correct movements for the quarterstaff.

  After basics, they’d learn complex forms to put the moves into patterns to make them become innate. Instinctual, Trinaden had said. You will live and breathe these moves. You will do them in your sleep. He was right. Rydel woke at night more than once performing complex strikes and blocks. Other times while doing chores, like pouring water, he found his feet moving in subtle, but intricate patterns of footwork until he’d realized what he was doing. After the forms came the practice dummies.

  The dummies were wooden poles with arms. They were set up in the hut’s enclosed glade. On these, they’d learn the proper vital targets and to hit as hard as they could. Striking with fists or legs, the wooden dummy toughened their limbs. When questioning why they trained so much without weapons, Trinaden had told them: you are the weapon. A sword or staff is merely a tool. At first, while striking the wooden dummy, Rydel felt his skin split and bruise. He’d go to bed so hurt that sleeping was near impossible. But over days, his skin, his muscle, his very bone hardened. It didn’t take long until he could hit the wooden dummy as hard as he could with only minimal pain.

  They also learned when to use weapons. Some were for close quarters, others for distance. They learned to disarm, and how to incorporate strikes, kicks, joint locks, and pressure points. A single strike to the right place is worth a hundred others to the wrong ones. They began to get used to their master repeating these phrases, his grating voice a chorus to their pain. The words were drilled into their heads until Trinaden’s expressions became truth. Only once they’d shown complete mastery of every element, did they move to the true test and the application of their skills: sparring.