A Mage's Power (Journey to Chaos)

by Wilkerson, Brian

  Basilard took a deep breath and let it out. “Eric, welcome the Dragon's Lair.” The novice couldn't help noticing the pride in his mentor's voice. “Look up there. That's the founder of our guild, the Mother Dragon. We believe she watches over us; that includes you now.”

  At the ground level was a rune larger and more complex than any other. Basilard grabbed one of its rings and twisted. The door opened. He passed under it and the door frame glowed with innumerable sigils. A bell rang.

  “Hi, and welcome to,—Oh Uncle Basi, you're back!” The speaker was a young lady sitting behind a wooden desk. A headset was secured over her hair and long red pigtails draped over her shoulders. Her smile lit up her red eyes. Wow . . .She's pretty . . .

  “And you must be the new novice!” She jumped over the desk and leaned in close to get a good look at him. “I'm Mia Bladi, the receptionist. Pleased to meet you.” She stepped back and extended her hand. “I'll be the one giving you all your missions so we'll be seeing a lot of each other!” Her cheery mood infected Eric and he smiled back.

  He shook her hand and said, “I'm Eric Watley. The pleasure's all mine.”

  “Welcome to the Dragon's Lair, Eric.” She hugged him, then jumped up to hug Basilard's neck.

  To hide his red face, Eric examined the lobby. The room was bright and spacious and smelled of dust. Other than the entrance, there were four doors; one at each side of the room and two at either side of Mia's desk. Behind the desk was a message board, and above it, a big mechanical clock.

  “Now that you're part of our guild, you'll be sorted into a squad,” Mia said as she returned to her desk. “I should have your papers right around here.” She stuck out her arm and to Eric's astonishment, it disappeared. “Now where is it?” Her face scrunched up and she stuck her head in; it, too, disappeared. “I really should clean this thing out . . .” She climbed all the way into where-ever-it-was and disappeared entirely.

  Eric looked at his mentor. Basilard grinned.

  “Duck.”

  A swarm of miscellaneous junk flew out of nowhere: papers, pens, half-eaten food, daggers, and a live snake. Eric ducked just in time. Basilard caught the snake before it crashed into the wall. When Mia reappeared, she gave Eric a scare; she was a floating head.

  “Found em!” she chirped. Her arm reappeared and handed Eric a bag. “Those are your citizenship papers. For some reason, they were sent here; your diploma—congratulations congratulations by the way—the badge signifying your membership to the Dragon's Lair, and the ones about your sorting. Take that one—yes, the red one on the bottom—to Old Man Aaloon down at Archives, and he'll assign you to a squad.”

  Eric took the bag and Mia's arm disappeared. “Now if you'll excuse me, I'll finish cleaning this out. Have a good day!” With that, she disappeared.

  “Oh Mia . . .This way to Archives, Eric.” He led his student out of the lobby. “Oh, and Eric, you might want to watch your head.”

  “Why?” The word had barely left his mouth when a blade soared towards him. Basilard pushed his head down. The sword thudded into the door where Eric's head had been.

  “Sorry! Did I kill anyone?” Eric looked at the still quivering sword, inches above his head.

  “Not quite!” Basilard called back.

  “Okay!”

  Basilard pulled the sword out and rapped Eric's head with his palm. “That's why.”

  The ceiling was solid basalt, but a large glowing crystal at its center lit up the room. It was supported by smaller crystals along the walls. At the four corners were four statues: an orc in robes with a winged girl perched on his shoulder, a seven foot armored canine, an elf with a bottle, and a woman with a flower and a dagger.

  There were three more figures, but these were of the flesh and blood variety: a red-haired girl wearing two scabbards lying flat on her stomach, a slightly older man wearing two bucklers pinning said girl's arms behind her back, and a woman older than both juggling swords; ten swords with four arms. A demon . . .?

  “Raki, I declare this match in Aegis' favor,” The four-armed woman said.

  “But I can, ehh, still win!” The redhead protested and struggled. He twisted and she yelped.

  “Do you yield?” Raki hmpfhed and stopped struggling, so the man let go. Eric guessed what happened. They were fighting, Raki was disarmed, and her swords went flying—one in his direction.

  “Basilard, who’s the shrimp?” the four-armed woman asked.

  “This is the new novice, Eric Watley,” Basilard said, pushing Eric forward. “Eric, meet Squad One Captain Giji Mesh.”

  “How're you Eric?” Giji asked and extended one of her hands to him. This left only three to juggle the swords; their blades glinted in the light and whistled as they sliced the air. Eric gulped. Giji raised an eyebrow, then laughed. “Don't worry. I'm an expert.”

  “Captain, if you would, humor the novice,” Basilard pleaded.

  “All right.” Giji tossed the swords up into the air one by one, caught them on their way down, and sheathed them. “Better?” she asked, extending her hand again.

  “Er, yes. Thank you,” he said and shook her hand.

  “I'll win next time, old man!” Raki was on her feet and glaring at the shield bearer.

  Aegis glared back. “Old man!? I've told you a hundred times; I'm only twenty-eight!”

  “What's up with those two?” Eric asked.

  “It's . . .a long story,” Basilard answered.

  “Uncle Basi!” Raki shouted. “What am I doing wrong?”

  “I don't know, Raki,” Basilard said. “I didn't see the fight.” Raki crossed her arms and fumed. “Eric, why don't you go to Archives while I help Raki improve her technique?”

  He has more than one student . . . I should've known. “Sure.” Eric forced a smile.

  “Thanks. Archives is just beyond that door.” Basilard pointed to a door at the end of the chamber. “Now, can you show me the battle?”

  The walls and floors weren't pure basalt; limestone, quartz, and other types he didn't recognize were mixed in. The hallway tilted, curved, and dipped in ways no human would ever design. Anything artificial looked tacked on. The guild is a cave . . . A real dragon's lair?

  Eventually, he reached a wooden door with a crest of a scroll nailed on. This must be the place. He knocked, but no one answered. Opening the door, he entered a long and wide hall that seemed to stretch into infinity. Archives? It looks like someone lives here. There was a bed, a desk, a dresser, stacks of food, bottles of drink, and other items one would find in a home. However, both walls were shelves with scrolls neatly arranged and organized.

  “Hello? Old Man Aaloon? Are you here?” His only answer was his own voice calling back to him. Maybe he can't hear me . . . This is a big place . . .if he's further in . . .

  It was rude, but Eric's curiosity overcame his inhibitions and he ventured deeper into the hall of never-ending scrolls. He turned down corridors and hallways; they all looked the same and he was soon lost but he didn't feel lost. Where he came from was no longer important. All that mattered was moving forward.

  Deeper and deeper he went into the archives. It seemed to go on forever. Finally, he found a clearing. A pedestal stood in the center with a single scroll laying on it; a scroll that glowed with a faint golden-brown light. Without his command, his hand rose to grab it. The paper tingled in his hands; a pleasant feeling, empowering. Again, without his thought, his other hand rose to undo the clasp. He didn't know why, but he was excited. He couldn't wait to see what the scroll contained; what secrets—

  “Halt!” Eric froze. “Who are you and what are you doing here?!” Behind him was a wrinkled little creature, wearing clothes that looked as old as he was, and hanging on a staff twice his size. Although his face was hidden behind bushy eyebrows and a long beard, the anger in his eyes was very clear. “I leave to pee and a little brat sneaks into my home!”

  “P-please e-excuse me. I'm Eric W-w-watley, a new n-novice. I'm h-he—”

 
; “Don't lie to me, boy!” the old voice hissed. “You're a thief, aren't you? Yes, that's what you are! How else could you have unlocked the locks?!” But the door wasn't locked . . . “You're here to steal my scrolls, aren't you? Aren't you! You little thief! NO ONE touches my scrolls!”

  “But—”

  The old man whacked him with his staff. “Get out!”

  “Ow!” Eric dropped the scroll. “But I need to—!”

  “Out! Out!”

  The old man chased Eric back into the halls by pogoing on his staff. Then he jumped off and swung it down with elderly fury. Eric yelped, grabbed the bump, and ran faster. He hit a dead end and he got whacked for his mistake. When he finally found the exit, the old man chambered like a hockey player and whacked him straight out of it.

  “And stay out!” He slammed the door and locked the numerous locks.

  Eric sat on the floor, stunned.

  “Touched his scrolls, didn't you?” A young man was suddenly behind him. A three-talon dragon claw hung from his neck and a headset rested on his ear.

  “Well . . .” Eric scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment.

  He pulled Eric to his feet. “Don't worry about it. The old man's a nutcase; it's not your fault.” He paused as if realizing something. “Who are you?”

  “Oh . . .uh . . . I'm Eric Watley . . .a new novice.”

  The young man smiled widely. “Wonderful! Pleased to meet you. I'm Retis Sasti, Ridley's apprentice. What can I do for you?”

  “Mia told me to go to Archives for my squad assignment.”

  Retis pulled a flat crystal from his pocket and tapped it with a stylus. “I see . . . Mia's supposed to warn novices about the old man . . . I'll talk to her later.”

  “I-it's not Mia's fault, really!” Eric protested. “I touched his scrolls and—”

  “Don't worry, she's not in trouble.” There was something about this guy that made Eric like him instantly; like talking to a cool older brother. “Now for the old man.” Retis knocked softly. “OPEN THE DOOR, YOU OLD MUMMY!” His voice was a physical thing that knocked Eric off balance.

  “Never! There's a thief outside!”

  “THAT'S THE NEWEST MEMBER OF OUR GUILD!” Eric plugged his ears. Retis's voice was a wave of power that shook the walls. “DO I HAVE TO BEAT MANNERS INTO YOU LIKE LAST TIME?” Retis fought an old man?

  “LAST TIME?” Aaloon shrieked. “WHO BEAT MANNERS INTO WHOM LAST TIME!?” And . . .lost? Is this a regular occurrence?” Arrogant youngster . . .”

  “Fine, then! I'll just burn the door down! AND ALL YOUR PRECIOUS SCROLLS WITH IT!”

  “YOU WOULDN'T DARE!”

  “Crimson fire . . .” Retis chanted and fire appeared. “Grant my desire!” The ball of flame swelled with each word and was now the size of a basketball. “FIRE—”

  “FINE!” Countless locks unlocked and the door opened.

  “That wasn't so hard now was it?” Retis said, his voice soft again. Aaloon glared. Retis put his hands on Eric's shoulders and the novice felt a vague shield-like feeling as the young man put him between himself and Aaloon.

  “This is Eric Watley, a brand new novice,” Retis said. “He needs to be assigned to a squad. Afterward, you can go back to your all-important scrolls.” Aaloon turned his glare on Eric and was meekly handed the red paper. He snatched it away and looked over it closely. Then he rolled it up and tucked it under his cloak.

  “Very well.” Aaloon's staff glowed and he lightly touched Eric's head with it. Images from his past shot to and from his sight. Someone swam through his mind, probing its depths. Deeper and deeper; more and more; it reached his soul! He was about to scream when the force retreated and the feeling eased. Aaloon removed his staff from Eric's head.

  “Yes, a Threan is hardly fit for Squad One . . .” he said to the piece of wood. “No, we can't put him in Squad Two either because of Hasina. She'd have him on the examining table quicker than you can say 'scroll thief' . . .” Eric blushed. “True, such people do deserve such fates . . .” Eric swallowed hard. “But Dragon Girl would be angry . . .hmm, he wouldn't do for Squad Four, not cut out . . .but Squad Three . . . He might do well there. Yes, a lot of work will be needed, but you can't deny it fits.”

  “Is he talking to himself?” Eric asked Retis.

  “No, his staff. The two have grown close over the millennium.”

  “Millennium!?” Eric screeched. “Are you saying he's a thousand years old!?”

  “Three thousand,” Retis said. “He's older than this mountain.”

  “But . . .but how?”

  “He's very dedicated to his work.”

  “Yes, that will do,” Aaloon said to his staff. “Thief, you will be in Squad Three, the one for battle mages. The office for Squad Three is in the east wing. Now go and introduce yourself to Captain Quando.” Without as much as a goodbye, he withdrew. The door slammed and the locks clicked.

  Eric looked to Retis, but the vice-guildhead was talking into his headset. “The spoon? Again? Okay, I'll be right there.” Ending the call, he said, “I'm sorry, Eric, but I can't guide you. There's an emergency in the kitchen. But I can give you directions.”

  Again, Eric walked alone with only spoken directions as a guide. The strangeness of this place was getting to him. First, a guild called “The Dragon's Lair” is housed in a real cave, the receptionist pulls objects out of nowhere, the record keeper's a lunatic, and the vice-guildhead's bipolar. Further unnerving him were the guild's hallways: they were spooky. Bathed in the green light of overhead crystals, shadows in every corner, and the rustle of stray pebbles under his feet; he could never tell what was right around the corner, or—

  “BOGABOGABOGA!”

  “AHHHH!” Eric shouted and jumped. Floating before him was a bona fide ghost. The specter cackled maniacally before sinking back into the floor. What the abyss was that!?

  A girl rushed by, skidded to a stop, turned on her heels, and ran back. “Did you see a ghost?” Eric pointed at the floor. The girl bowed. “Thank you, and I apologize if the captain scared you.” She disappeared into the shadows.

  What kind of a guild did I join!? Eric thought, his heart pounding. Oh well . . .beggars can't be choosers . . .With that thought in mind, he stood up.

  At the East Wing's entrance, he met a tall balding man with a strange odor who asked if he was hungry. Eric's stomach answered before his mouth could. The man shoved a sandwich into his hands and insisted he have it. Eric relented and took a bite. Instantly, he felt dizzy. He swallowed on reflex and the world went black.

  “I swear . . .” a voice said as Eric regained consciousness. “If it's not the captain, it's you, Noisop.”

  “Oh, come on, Lieutenant.” The voice was familiar . . .The sandwich! “I have to try out my new recipes to see if they work. If I don't know that I—”

  “--can't rely on them in the field.” This voice was Jemas, the lieutenant of Squad Two. “At least the captain gets consent for her experiments.”

  “No one would consent to try out poisons!” Noisop protested. I wonder why?

  “Oh, there you are, Otherworlder,” said a familiar female voice.

  Eric suddenly feared for his life.

  “I had nothing to do with it, lieutenant, honest!” Noisop protested.

  “You haven't been honest a day in your life,” Jemas replied.

  “Hey! Don't compare me to Tsilaer! I'm an honest hard worker.”

  Eric snorted. He opened his eyes and saw a lamp crystal above his head. Spread across the room were more couches, some chairs, and a great many wooden perches. At one end, a seventy-inch flat-screen Crystal Vision was being watched by three creatures and two were fighting over the remote.

  “Ah! He's up!” Noisop said. “That means the powder wasn't deadly . . . excellent!”

  “That powder could have been lethal!?” Jemas demanded.

  Noisop shrugged. “It wasn't supposed to be, but who knows what will happen in the field?”

  “Thus the ne
ed for experimentation,” Hasina said proudly. “Don't forget the follow up.”

  “Of course, the follow up is most important.” Noisop turned to Eric with a pen in one hand and paper in the other. “Now tell me Otherworlder—”

  “Eric Watley,” Jemas interrupted.

  “--how do you feel?” Noisop finished. “Dizzy? Tired? . . .Agreeable?” Oito and Revas were right; the Dragon's Lair IS full of nutjobs and weirdos. “This is for future research; please tell me . . .Eric, I really have to know.” Eric looked to Jemas, who shrugged.

  “I feel hungry.”

  Noisop hmmed as he wrote that down. “Anything else?”

  “Not really.” Noisop walked away, muttering to himself.

  “Mr. Watley, you were on your way to meet Captain Quando, am I right?” Jemas asked and Eric nodded. “Then allow me to escort you in case something else happens.”

  Eric sighed. “That would be great.”

  Before they could leave the Squad Two Lounge, every healer present insisted on meeting the novice. Most stopped with introductions, but others asked him questions. When the questions became medically oriented, Jemas steered him away. With his help, the remaining journey to the Squad Three lounge was uneventful.

  “Here we are, Mr. Watley,” Jemas said. “I doubt you'll have any trouble now.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  “My pleasure.” He bowed and returned the way he came.

  The door to the lounge of Squad Three was marked by a pair of crossed black staves. Inside, moss grew on the walls and some of the mages were talking with it. Tusks and horns and skins acted as decoration and soda fountains. A Crystal Vision played a soap opera and a bipedal dog shared a box of tissues with a humanoid tree.

  “Uh . . .I'm new . . .where's the captain?” They all pointed to the back of the room. “Thanks.”

  Eric expected them to ignore him, but all stopped what they were doing to introduce themselves. Only when they shook his hand and heard his name would they return to their business. Some even hugged him; after the first, he got over the shock.

  It was dark in the captain's office. All he could see was a silhouette of a man facing the rear window. On his head and shoulders sat a trio of puppets. The door closed and they began to sing.