* * *
"Gentlemen," I began, later that evening on the top of the tower. "I want to remind you just what titanic forces you are about to encounter. In one moment you will be as powerful as any mage since the fall of the Imperial Magocracy. You will be exposed to power you would otherwise never wield. I don't pretend to understand it, how it works, or what eventual dangers lay in its use. But I will give you this caution: be careful with everything you do! A misstep could burn your brain to a cinder."
The faces of Garkesku's apprentices were pale and even their master looked shaken. Tyndal, standing at the end of the line, was trying to decide if he was more scared or more eager. Eager won out, as I knew it would. It's hard to describe to an outsider, but to a mage this kind of power more addictive than breathing. The desire to wield the power was palpable. I'd noticed it in myself, and made a point to keep an eye on it.
I had the irionite nuggets in a basket, each wrapped in a layer of cloth. They had spent two full days in contact with my sphere, long enough to neutralize any hold the shamans might have had over them. I had struggled over which stone to give to which mage all afternoon, but I think I finally had decided. Each stone had a particular feel about it that is difficult to describe. I honestly didn't know if that feel made any difference or not, but my instinct told me to match the stone with the person.
I hadn’t spoken much of Garkesku's apprentices up to now. For the longest time I had lumped them all together in my mind as mere appendages of their sleazy master. They weren't, of course. They had very separate and individual characteristics that I had just started to get to know.
Eldest was Fenar, who was becoming a competent spellmonger in his own right. He was about nineteen, and he could have set up shop on his own had his master allowed it. Fenar didn't excel at any particular thing, unless you counted the snotty attitude his master had taught him – he was really good at that.
Fenar was a bit of a bully, I guess, but in every craft the senior apprentices have that kind of overbearing attitude. He was the son of a Hymas fisherman, and he had the same flat-headed view of the world that his father had. I had selected a centimeter-wide, irregular shard for him that hummed with quiet but thick power.
Garkesku's middle apprentice was fifteen, a studious young lad named Rondal. He had been the product of a union between a castle servant and any one of a number of knights, men-at-arms, or passing travelers. He bore no stigma of his bastardy – the people of Boval had pretty relaxed social standards – and I know he held out the hope of the possibility of noble parentage.
Rondal was a bright kid, a little nearsighted, and he excelled in alchemy, for which I envied him. I'd never done very well at the subject myself. I had toyed with the idea of sponsoring Rondal at the Academy to fully develop his talents, but I hadn't wanted to piss in Garkesku's front yard. I had selected a largish chunk that was flat on one side for Rondal. It seethed with power, but had more focus than the other pieces.
Lastly was Urik, a twelve-year-old, whiney little snot who was chubby, bordering on fat. He had an intermittent talent that seemed to favor telekinetic abilities. It might develop into something pretty impressive, someday, but at twelve, when your talent is first manifesting itself, it often appears sporadically. Some days it's almost overwhelming and others it won't appear at all.
That can be pretty frustrating for a mageling, and between that and the constant abuse from the two older apprentices – and their master – I couldn't really blame him for whining. The smallest piece I had reserved for him. As I handed it to him I stumbled, briefly, realizing that I had just given a child a weapon more powerful than the Mad Mage had used against an army of magi. He accepted it eagerly, and I hoped I knew what I was doing.
For Garkesku I had selected the biggest piece. It was almost as big as my sphere, and I had picked it for him not only because its size, but also because of its relatively low power. I don't know if there were impurities in the nugget, or if it had somehow lost a little of its magical efficacy, but I hoped that by limiting his access a bit I might reign in his ego. He had a solemn look on his face, but there was a gleam in those eyes that made me uncomfortable. Desperate measures for desperate times, I suppose.
Tyndal had earned a special reward, I had decided, and so I had given him what was, to my mind, the most potent of the nuggets. He was a cautious and good-hearted boy, and I trusted him not to abuse the power I was giving him. He took the green amber as eagerly as the others.
For a good ten minutes they stood around and just stared at the irionite chunks, exploring the details of their stones with their minds. As they became acclimatized to them they started experimenting with them, with my encouragement and direction. We went through a number of basic drills and for an hour the tower top was filled with flames and lights and hovering stones and fanciful illusions. I'm sure it looked eerily spectacular from downstairs. Hopefully it would boost the castle's morale and lower that of the gurvani, whose large nocturnal patrols also witnessed the feats.
It was on the gurvani that we next turned our attentions, before retiring for the evening. I had each mage prepare and fire a magical bolt at the foe, who were easy to spot in magesight. Once they saw how easy such a thing was, now that their natural talents were augmented, they spent several minutes gleefully showering magical death on the patrols below. I doubt they killed more than a score of gurvani, but I know it was satisfying.
Even Urik had no trouble conjuring a potent blast – indeed, he seemed better at it than the scholarly Rondal, which pleased the younger lad immensely. Eventually the patrols summoned a shaman, who put up decent enough defenses to make the impromptu attack too difficult to be easy fun. For good measure the gurvani sent a bolt back toward us. I easily blocked it, but it signaled an end to play-time.
"You all have been exposed to the power of irionite, now. Keep them your stones in their protective wrappings at night, and do not let anyone else handle them. Have a bite to eat and get some rest – these things will wear at you if you're not careful. Tomorrow we will use them to further strengthen our defenses. That's all," I said, and watched as the excited magical corps filed down the steps. Tyndal lingered, a fire in his eyes.
"Master," he began, "I had no idea how . . . powerful the irionite makes you! I feel like I could kill every gurvani from here to the other side of the mountains, or fly through the air, or . . . anything!"
"Easy there, lad,” I cautioned, patiently. “It will take you months, if not years, to learn how to use it properly. Hells, I don't even know very much about them yet. Let's take it as slow as the situation warrants."
"Master, I have a question. With access to this kind of power, why haven't the gurvani leveled this castle? How could they not? If they have dozens of shamans using them, then what is preventing our fall – other than your defense, that is," he added smoothly. I shrugged.
"Actually, Tyndal, I’ve wondered about that, of late. You're right; they should have overwhelmed us long ago. They waste their warriors on their attacks when it would be easy enough to blast their way in here, and it isn't my efforts that have stopped them. Oh, our defensive spells are adequate for most of the more subtle forms of attack, but they would do little against a dozen shamans making an all-out attack on us with their stones. The truth is I have no idea. I sense that their siege is part of some larger plan."
"Something to do with the – whatever-it-is – that approaches us daily?" he whispered.
"Yes," I sighed, "I'm afraid so. Our time is running out, lad, and while tonight was fun I can't see any good way out of our situation."
Tyndal couldn't think of anything to say, and neither could I. We went downstairs and went to bed. Tomorrow would be a long day.
* * *
Sometime long past midnight I sat bolt upright in shock. If you every try doing this in a hammock, you will discover that sitting bolt upright is not only difficult, but potentially disastrous. Having someone sharing your hammock while you do so is even less recommen
ded. Alya looked at me angrily, having been rudely woken from a sound sleep and almost dumped on the floor.
I ignored her. There was trouble afoot.
I could feel the vibrations throb through the tower like a low bass note – someone was using a lot of power around us. It had to be an attack. The shamans had finally found a way passed our defenses and gotten a strike force inside the castle itself, I reasoned. I called to Tyndal, who was awake for the same reason I was, and with a nod he flipped me my sword from where it had been hanging while strapping on his own. I started for the stairs to the top of the tower.
"Minalan," Alya complained, "where are you going?"
"We're under attack!" I called back. "Stay there until I come back for you!"
Tyndal was already starting up the ladder when we both realized that the emanations were coming from below, not above. Reversing course immediately, we spilled down the stairs into Garkesku's lab.
And into a scene out of one of the six hells.
Garkesku was smashed flat against a wall, struggling to move. There didn't seem to be anything holding him up, until you used magesight. Rondal was floating ineffectually through the air, waving his arms in a manner that would have been hilarious under other circumstances. Fenar was writhing around on the floor, engulfed in bright blue flames. That just left . . .
Urik. The boy was lit with an insane glow, so potent were the forces he had unleashed. He had a maniacal expression on his face, a mad leer of satisfaction that I had last seen on the Mad Mage of Farise. He had levitated himself about four feet off the ground and had three witchstones whirling around his head. I stopped dead in the doorway for a second and stared.
"Master Minalan!" he said, with relish. "Nice of you to join us! I was just telling Master Garkesku and Senior Apprentice Fenar how shitty it was being a junior apprentice." He glanced at the burning figure of Fenar. "Let's see, I had just finished talking about how educational it was doing all of their fucking laundry. I guess I can talk about how fulfilling it was getting beat up and teased all of the time, just 'cause I am youngest. I guess the fucking shoe is on the other fucking foot, now, isn't it?" He laughed giddily as Fenar writhed in agony.
"Urik, don't!" I yelled, as Tyndal slipped into the room behind me. He held his sword down at his side, concealing it. He had a wand in the other hand. Smart boy.
"Fuck you, mister mage! All you had that we didn't was the witchstones, and I've got four of the things, now! Do you know how long I've waited for this chance? I always knew I was better, and they hated me for it. I was better than Fenar, I was better than Rondal, I was better than you, and you all hated me for it!"
"No one hates you, Urik. We know how good you are, but you don't know everything you need to, yet."
"No one hates me?" he asked me, his eyes full of rage. "Then why did they make me do all of the shit-work around the lab? Why did they make me do dishes and sweep, night after night? Why did they call me names? Why did they yell at me, and beat me up? Why does Fenar bugger me every other night, mister mage? Huh? The ‘Senior Apprentices’ Prerogative’ he calls it! Why does he do that, huh? Because he loves me? Oh, Urik," he said, in the mocking voice twelve-year-old boys everywhere know instinctively, "I love you so much that I want to shove my—"
Tyndal chose this moment of distraction to fire a volley of bolts at the kid with his wand. It took him by surprise, but he easily blocked it with the sheer power of the stones. I rolled into the room and sent another bolt at him, summoned on the spur of the moment, and knocked him back a ways. He recovered quickly, though, and it took every ounce of my power to keep from falling to the return bolt he threw at me. Such rage, such emotion filtered through the power of the stones was daunting. It was like trying to stand up straight in a windstorm.
Tyndal didn't let up on his own attack, searing the air with his well-practiced magical strikes. The part of my mind that wasn't preoccupied with staying alive took a moment to appreciate the ease with which he summoned the spells, and their apparent elegance. Every bolt was different, in an attempt to foil the boy's shield, and a few did get through. I threw a couple of low-strength attacks at him myself while I thought furiously.
There was no way that Tyndal and I, even combined, could match the raw power of his irionite halo. Like the gurvani we had faced, we would have to finesse the attack. Hell, it should have been easier than taking out a shaman, as Urik wasn't nearly as well-trained – Garkesku was pretty stingy with passing on spellwork. The problem was the reckless way that the boy was drawing power from the stones, flinging it around without a thought to the consequences. It was a wild assault on anything and everything, raw power with little control. How do you fight a bolt of lightning?
Twice I tried a frontal assault and I'm lucky that I wasn't killed. Both times he flung me back to the floor, where I had to dodge a wildly writhing Fenar while Urik dealt with Tyndal's latest attack. The second time put me flat on my back, staring up at Rondal floating lazily by. He tried to say something to me, but the roar of the fight between Tyndal and Urik made his words meaningless. I prepared myself for a third direct attack when I saw what Rondal had been excited about.
The shields around Urik were solid, almost impenetrable. With the power he had at his disposal and the will borne of adolescent rebellion he had enveloped his body with a swirling globe of radiance.
He hadn't thought to extend the protection to the stones that powered it, however. All three were orbiting above his head, outside of his defenses. Perhaps he thought that they would protect themselves. More likely, he had probably overlooked the weakness entirely. As potent as they were, the witchstones were still only pieces of amber, no harder or more resilient than any other rocks. They could be attacked.
Gathering myself up for the attempt, I nodded to my apprentice and indicated that he should keep the boy busy. Tyndal redoubled his efforts, sailing bolt after bolt at the spherical shield while dodging the raw power Urik volleyed back at him. I took a deep breath and cast one of the more advanced warmage spells. It increased my speed and my agility measurably, and could, perhaps, let me get away with the damnfool stunt I was planning.
I waved my sword menacingly and sprung at Urik, who was laughing madly at Tyndal's distraction. He gave me a glance, tossed a stray bolt in my direction, and returned his attention to my apprentice – I guess it was just more fun to beat up on an older kid than an adult. My enhanced reflexes allowed me to anticipate and dodge the attack, while simultaneously sheathing my sword – if I had tried to do this un-enhanced, I probably would have disemboweled myself. As it was, I sped toward the defensive globe of the twelve-year-old tyrant, my hands free.
That last part is important, because instead of crashing into the boy (which would have been unlikely, if not impossible, considering the potency of his defense) I crouched at the last second and vaulted over his head, clearing the top of the globe by inches. I swung my legs up over my head, gave myself a little telekinetic push to ensure I'd make it, and in less than a second I had two of the witchstones in my palms. They burnt with the power that was flowing through them, but they came away from the boy's control as easy as pulling a nail out of wood.
When I had landed behind him, I had shifted the balance of power in our favor. Urik's shield weakened considerably, and Tyndal's bolts were starting to have an effect. I had three stones in my possession, and I knew I had to end this thing quickly – the duel was having a profound impact on the integrity of the tower around us. I didn't really think about it. I raised both stones, accessed the one around my neck, and with the combined might of all three I unloosed a massive shock bolt directly at Urik's remaining stone.
It shattered, or more accurately pulverized, into dust-like shards, releasing a thunderclap of pure magical power that overtook everyone in the room. Tyndal fell to the floor, while I was knocked backward. Garkesku fell from his uncomfortable perch, and poor Rondal plummeted a good fifteen feet to the hard floor. He took it in the shoulder, which was painful but spared
him any more serious trauma. Fenar was perhaps the least affected, as he was already on the floor and already unconscious, his skin a mass of nasty red welts from the magical blue fire. Me? I lost consciousness.
Ten minutes later I came to, cradled in Alya's lap and surrounded by Koucey's men. Tyndal was still out cold, but Garkesku and Rondal were awake, if shaken. Fenar looked like someone had run him over with a wagon and a team of four – and then backed up. Alya held a cup to my lips and I tasted wine, coughed, and tasted it again.
Tyndal awoke soon after, and all of us who could gathered around little Urik's body. His head was charred into an unrecognizable mass, leaving only his blankly staring eyes to show that it had once been a face. The air was filled with the aroma of ozone and cooked flesh – and something else. I didn't think about it at the time, but it would eventually come back to haunt me.
Koucey wanted answers, of course, and between Garkesku and myself we tried to fill him in on what went wrong. He tried to be understanding, but it was obvious that the duel had deflated his hopes that a creative magical corps could overcome the armies that swelled around us. With Urik dead and Fenar in the infirmary, unlikely to survive the night, our power had been cut by almost a third.
Recriminations could wait. Urik's body was removed, and the two surviving magi found other quarters to finish up the night. Me, I dragged Tyndal upstairs with Alya's help and went back to bed, where horrible nightmares tortured my soul.
But, hells, what else was I supposed to do?
Chapter Ten
The Prisoner Speaks
The incident was later known as "Urik's Rebellion" and grew with the telling, as such things do. While most of the particulars of the story -- as it is popularly known -- are dead wrong, the one accurate part of the folk tale is that it marked the point where I started taking personal responsibility for the disposition of the stones. I didn't even realize it myself, at the time. All I felt was a deep sense of loss and despair and failure over the tragic death of a poor little boy.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 01 - Spellmonger Page 26