by Jaxon Reed
Nessa felt awestruck. She said, “I just . . . I didn’t think I would ever receive training this soon . . .”
“Not only will you receive training, you’ll receive training well before your fourth year in the Rectory had you stayed. And I’ll let you in on another little secret. Those who learn their clerical skills before Year Four become much more powerful, more quickly. Clerics like to guide their pupils carefully, easing them into magic slowly. We don’t have time for that at Dungeon Corps. I don’t know your circumstances for getting kicked out of the Rectory, and I suppose sending you here was meant to be punishment. But in actuality, it is a far better fate that you are here. At least, for achieving your full potential.”
Norra placed both her hands on the short girl’s shoulders and said, “Now, for the next couple of days I want you to focus on strengthening your spells. You don’t have to worry about learning new ones just yet. One of the secrets to magic is that advanced spells are often just stronger versions of ones you already know. Field of Healing is simply a more advanced form of Rested State. Other ones stemming from the same basic spell include Pool of Mana, Field of Fortitude, and Exalted State.
“Once you learn how to strengthen Rested State, the more advanced area of effect spells will come naturally. Let’s practice.”
-+-
Perhaps because he was embarrassed about his earlier outburst, or perhaps because Lord Percel surprised him with his hit to the backside, Toby refused to fly into a rage after lunch.
It was not from lack of effort on Percel’s part, who slapped him several times with the flat of the sword. Toby just looked at him, and did not respond to the old man’s goading.
Frustrated, Percel finally gave up. He turned to watch Clencher and Erik spar.
Erik looked good. He knew his footwork and kept excellent form. He gave Clencher a run for the money.
But after half an hour, Clencher began edging him out, parrying his thrusts and throwing effective countermoves and ripostes.
Erik stepped back, artfully blocking a series of swings by Clencher as their wooden swords clacked together.
Suddenly, Clencher changed tactics, coming in low. Erik blocked with his sword, only to find the move a feint. Clencher whipped around and attacked Eric’s unguarded chest, thwacking across his breast in what would have been a deathblow with a real sword.
“Ah, you got me.”
Erik smiled good naturedly, but disappointment shone in his eyes.
“What say you, Lord Percel?” Clencher said, turning to their lone audience member.
Percel looked at Erik with appraising eyes. He said, “Methinks you have it in you for greatness, lad. But, you’ll never get there so long as you focus on trying to improve your swordplay.”
Erik blinked, confused. He said, “What? I mean . . . that doesn’t make any sense. Of course I’ll get better if I improve my swordplay . . . Your Lordship.”
At the last moment, Erik remembered who he was addressing and added the honorific as an afterthought.
Percel shook his head, ignoring the faux pas and keeping his face expressionless.
He said, “You’re thinking like a normal person, a villager. A typical man. But I ask you, did Hedgrick become great by thinking that way? Perhaps you know this. He came from your village. You might even be related to him somehow.”
Erik’s chest swelled with pride. He said, “Hedgrick is my mother’s cousin.”
“Of course. Your mother’s cousin. And I’m sure he’s well loved by all back home. But I promise you, lad, he did not become great . . . he did not become Hedgrick, the greatest swordsman of our time, by thinking like a normal man. He reached inside himself to grasp something far greater.”
Erik let his wooden sword tip touch the ground. He ignored the burning bruise on his chest and he gave Percel his undivided attention.
“How?”
Percel smiled. He said, “I’ll be happy to show you, if you are willing to learn. If you would become one of the greats, I can show you the way.”
Erik nodded, slowly at first then faster.
“Show me. Please, Your Lordship.”
“Alright.”
Percel approached the rack and chose a sword. He moved to stand before Erik in the classic pose, presenting his body from the side with one hand on his back hip, the other holding the sword up at an angle.
Facing him, Erik copied the pose.
Percel said, “Now, focus. Focus on your spirit.”
“How do I do that?”
“Focus on yourself. Your very innermost being. Shut everything else out, and focus on . . . you.”
Percel closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. Erik followed suit. The sounds of wooden swords clacking on shields and the crackles of lightning from around the large courtyard seemed to fade a bit.
“Now . . . the sword has a spirit, too. It connects with yours when you hold its hilt. You and the sword are one. Your will, your essence combines with the sword’s.”
Percel breathed in deep and kept his eyes closed.
Erik tried to focus. He breathed in . . . breathed out . . .
After a moment, he opened one eye and looked around.
Erik said, “I don’t think a wooden sword has much of a spirit . . .”
-+-
“It’s not that you have too much magic,” Norra said to Tawny. “It’s that you haven’t learned to control it all yet.”
Tawny shrugged, her shapely shoulders jumping up and down.
“I know that. I just don’t know how to do all the things you’re saying I should be doing.”
“It will come with time. In the meantime, you have too much energy. Most mages would kill to have your so-called problem. Typically, a mage never seems to have enough energy. But, you hold so much mana that it’s practically overflowing. Like a cup trying to contain too much water. Your body seeks to burn it off somehow, and that’s why your eyes sparkle.”
“Oh.”
Tawny felt stunned. Everything the older human said made perfect sense. No one had ever explained it to her before.
“Did you not receive any training in Dryadopolis?”
Tawny shook her head. She said, “No, not really. It’s true elves are born with some innate abilities, and we’re more . . . in tune with magic. It comes naturally to most of us. But, I received no formal training. My brother and I left home . . . and came here.”
She gave Norra a blank look, one suggesting she did not wish to discuss the matter any further.
Norra sighed and dropped it. What could possibly be the circumstances surrounding two elves leaving Dryadopolis before their training? She had no idea. She had never heard of such a thing before. What few elves she had met, what few she had heard of who travelled outside Dryadopolis, were all highly skilled in the magical arts.
Some unfortunate event or other must have resulted in these two getting kicked out of elven society. But then, Norra thought, that was the case for most of Dungeon Corps’s recruits. Few willingly agreed to go down into the crypts without cause. Many of their First Years were sent to them by magistrates as punishment. Every judge and guard in the land knew that the survival rate of First Years in Dungeon Corps was abysmal. It was deemed a fitting punishment for many crimes.
She returned her attention to Tawny.
“As you gain experience, your ability to hold mana will increase, and the sparkling eyes phenomenon will go away on its own accord. In the meantime, if you want to mitigate the sparkling, you simply find another spell to cast that suffices to burn off your excess mana. Ideally, this would be a spell that no one notices.”
Norra pointed up in the air and said, “Cast a light spell several feet up.”
Tawny concentrated, and a small glowing ball appeared overhead. It seemed weak in the bright daylight.
“Excellent. Now, if we had a mirror I could show you that your eyes are not sparkling right now. The excess mana is going into your spell. Casting a ball of light is a simple way to di
ssipate the sparkles.”
Tawny said, “It would be much more noticeable inside.”
“Indeed. So, can you think of a spell that would be inconspicuous while you are indoors?”
“Um . . . no. Everything I can do is obvious to anyone looking.”
Norra smiled. She said, “Then, my dear, you have to do something that is not obvious.”
Tawny’s nostrils flared in irritation. She said, “Like what?”
Norra sighed, but she kept her smile in place.
She said, “You have to be creative with magic. You have to be able to use it to solve problems, especially while deep inside a dungeon. Your team’s survival will often depend on how well you can come up with answers to vexing dilemmas. I will help you with this problem, but from now on I want you to come up with your own solutions.”
Tawny nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed. She should be able to come up with an idea, but her mind drew a blank. What could she cast inside that nobody else would notice?
Norra said, “You’re an elf. I know you can help things grow. That’s a standard of elven magic.”
Tawny nodded again.
“So, make something grow where nobody can see it. Sprout a tendril from your arm, inside your sleeve.”
Tawny looked down at her left elbow and concentrated. A tiny vine popped out of her skin.
Norra said, “It does not have to grow fast, or large. Just direct enough magical energy to keep it alive and going. This will serve to burn off the mana, and no one need know what you are doing.”
Tawny smiled at this revelation. She kept the spell going, looping it. The tendril grew at a naturally slow rate, fueled by her excess mana.
“Of course, you won’t have to worry about this forever, dear. At some point, you’ll outgrow the need to burn off excess mana. For now, enjoy mastering it. But even with this knowledge, you can let your eyes sparkle if you grow tired of burning it off elsewhere. Especially while you are here. No one at Headquarters cares what you look like. It’s how you perform down in the dungeons that we are concerned with.”
They relaxed a bit, the lesson concluded. Together they turned and watched the swordplay on the other side of the courtyard, wooden weapons clacking together as people traded blows.
“And you know,” Norra said, “Some men find sparkling eyes very attractive.”
-+-
Days passed and the skills of the Dungeon Corps’s new recruits grew. Except for Toby who continued to smile happily while watching swordplay. Percel could not get the giant elf riled again, despite repeated cajoling. Eventually he gave up and focused his efforts almost entirely on Erik of Norvold, whom he considered the best recruit of the bunch.
Norvold consistently produced excellent swordsmen, and Percel felt Erik had the potential to be another great one, on par with Hedgrick. Maybe even greater, he confessed to Dunken one night over drinks after most of the students had retired to their bunks for the evening.
“He can sense a sword’s spirit,” Percel said.
Dunken nodded. “I noticed you’ve had him practicing with metal swords lately.”
Percel shrugged. “They’ve got more spirit than the wooden ones.”
Dunken took a long sip from his mug then furrowed his brows as he was struck with a thought.
“Lord Percel, how many swordsmen have you known over the years who could sense a sword’s spirit?”
Percel shrugged again. “Not many. Not many.”
“One in a hundred?”
“Ha. More like one in . . . ten thousand. ’Tis rare.”
Dunken nodded, deep in thought. He said, “It occurs to me we have an exceptionally talented pool of raw recruits lately. Lady Norra tells me that the simpleton’s sister is phenomenal, even for an elf. Unfortunately, she is almost entirely self-taught and has had no formal training.”
“And the cleric?”
“Another diamond in the rough. A First Year kicked out for rules violation. Much latent talent, little to no training.”
“Hm. Give us some time, and you are looking at a formidable team, Dunken.”
Dunken nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking. Your swordsman, a powerful mage, and a cleric for healing. If we can get another couple of fighters in there with them, they have the potential for being the finest five man team we’ve fielded in a while.”
“Aye. One of the fighters will have to be the big stupid elf.”
“Oh? Well, he has no training. It would be suicide to send him down.”
“I think, in the right circumstances, he would offer sufficient protection. Even while not enraged, he’s quite the presence with his size alone. And remember, all elves have some innate magical abilities. Granted, I’ve never seen or heard of a simpleton elf before. But I imagine even their lowest of intellect are capable of surprises.”
Percel took another long sip, draining his mug. He set it down on the table and said, “No, I think our big idiot is perfect for the fourth member of the team. Besides, I doubt his sister would fight without him. They seem close.”
Dunken drained his own mug and set it down beside Percel’s.
He said, “That leaves the fifth. Typically, a slot taken by an instructor on their first run.”
“Aye.”
Percel’s eyes lit up and his scarred face creased into a smile.
He said, “I’ve been wanting to revisit the Crypts of Phanos for a while now . . .”
-+-
Thimral looked back down the long passageway they had come with a nervous glance. Beside him, Vesp stood watch over Phel, who toiled diligently on the locked grate barring further progress.
“What’sa matter, Phel? Can’t you hurry it up?”
“Patience, patience, Thim. Even with an enchanted set of lock picks, this takes considerable effort. The gate has been spelled, warded, and locked with iron. I have to work through all three.”
Thimral glanced back over his shoulder anxiously. Vesp saw it and smiled at him. He slapped the smaller man’s back. All three wore chainmail, so the effort made a tiny Clink! that echoed down the hall. Thimral jumped at the sound.
“Relex, Thim,” Vesp said. “What’s back up the corridor is naught to worry ’bout. If you wanna be scared, be scared of what’s behind this grate. The Dungeon Corps has it locked off for a reason.”
“I know that,” Thimral said. “I’m not stupid. I went through my first dungeon run here in the crypts when I first came to Thanos and joined the corps as a lad. I’m just concerned. I don’t want to be caught breaking into the lower levels, that’s all.”
Phel chuckled, working over the lock to the grate.
He said, “It’s not like they’ve got a patrol, Thim. And besides, we’re all rogues. If someone comes by we can simply Stealth away.”
Thimral growled. He did not wish to argue with his two companions.
Instead he said, “Just hurry up. The sooner we get what we came for and leave, the better. If I learned one thing during my time in Dungeon Corps, it was that I hate dungeons.”
That statement brought a chorus of chuckles from the other two.
Then Phel said, “I got it!”
They heard a loud Thunk! as the bolt in the grate slid back into the lock.
Vesp said, “Are we ready?”
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Phel said. He cast Stealth and disappeared. Thimral and Vesp followed suit. Together they pushed on the grate, and it creaked open. The three rogues made their way through the entry, heading deeper down the corridor, invisible and noiseless.
The three men used Night Vision and avoided casting light. They came to an intersection and Phil cautiously peered around the right corner, then the left.
Very quietly he said to the others, “The map indicated we go right. There are pressure steps on the floor.”
Vesp nodded, although the other two could not see him. Along the wall at different heights, he could make out holes for quarrel bolts that would come flying out when the unwary stepped on the wrong
pavement stone.
Vesp said, “Right. Use your Wall Walker boots.”
The three rogues wore identical footwear. They had cost almost 1,000 gold coins a pair, but were well worth it for deep-dungeon pressure traps.
Vesp moved first, stepping on the side of the wall, and walking along it as if it were the floor. The other two followed silently.
Halfway down the hall, Phel said, “I suppose you were right, Vesp.”
“What about?”
“You have to spend money to make money.”
Vesp smiled, stepping back down to the floor when they reached the end of the corridor at a T intersection.
Phel said, “We should go left. The way ahead is populated by gheists. Remain quiet until the next intersection, and for the Matron’s sake, don’t bump into any.”
The three cautiously tread down the new corridor. Half a dozen gheists wandered the passageway aimlessly, phantasms comprised of softly glowing ectoplasm. Phel and Vesp deftly weaved through the spectral traffic. Thimral brought up the rear. He slid by, completely silent in Stealth.
The last gheist stood between him and a doorway at the end of the corridor. The monster looked like an old man, with a long wavy beard flowing down to his belly. He stared aimlessly at the wall.
Thimral headed to the right, to pass behind the gheist, when it wheeled around and walked forward. Thimral hurried to the door, making the air rustle in his wake. The gheist felt the atmosphere stir, and it stopped. It peered up and down the corridor, suspiciously. The three rogues froze in place watching it . . . waiting . . .
Finally, the gheist slid back into his boring routine. He paced to the wall on the other side of the corridor, stared at it for a moment, then wandered further away.
The three rogues let out a collective sigh of relief.
“Right,” Phel said softly. “The burial rooms behind this door should have several unlooted crypts.”
“And there are no traps behind the door?” Vesp whispered.
“Not according to the map, no. And I don’t remember any when I was down here as a youngster.”
Phel set to work on the lock. This one was not nearly as difficult as the grate guarding the entrance to the lower levels. He slid the bolt back as quietly as he could. Fortunately, all the gheists were too far away to hear. He opened it wide enough to squeeze through.