Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  Aram spent the rest of the morning at the forge folding steel then spent the afternoon in the Henge with Markus and Esmir. Esmir didn’t make him go back into the portal, but instead worked with them both on timing, making them repeat the same forms over and over until Aram’s arms felt like they would fall off, especially after using the sledgehammer all morning. At the end of the day, when Esmir let them go, two very sweaty youths practically fell over each other to escape down the stairs to the baths.

  Halfway down the stairs, someone called Aram’s name. He stopped and looked back, panting. It was Calise, rushing down the steps toward them. Seeing her, his spirits lifted, for he hadn’t spoken to her in days and days.

  “Aram! I haven’t seen you in so long!”

  Suddenly realizing how terrible he must look, Aram felt an instant of panic. He was so covered in sweat and soot, people across the canyon could probably smell him.

  “I’ve been really busy,” he said, fighting to contain his embarrassment. “How… How have you been?”

  “I’ve been busy too. The enemy’s marching across the Altier Highlands, sacking towns and villages as they go. It’s not looking good. There’s been a lot of skirmishes. They’re getting reinforcements from somewhere. A lot of reinforcements.”

  “Will there be another battle?” asked Markus, nervous excitement in his voice.

  “This is Markus,” Aram said, realizing that the two had never met.

  Calise turned to Markus, her gaze wandering over him with a look of … something … in her eyes. Something that made Aram’s stomach clench in jealousy.

  “Probably,” she said.

  “I hope not,” Aram said, feeling suddenly disheartened. “Battles are dangerous. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  His words made her smile, and she turned her attention back to him. It was a beautiful smile that lifted his spirits, making him forget the brief moment of jealousy.

  “Zandril will keep me safe,” she said.

  “Still.”

  Suddenly, Aram’s eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. “We’re going on an adventure to the abandoned eyries tomorrow. Want to come?”

  “Really?” Calise gasped. “Esmir is letting you?”

  “Esmir doesn’t—”

  “Mind.” Markus stated firmly, his stare locking on Aram’s. “Esmir doesn’t mind.”

  Aram frowned, trying to figure out what he had done to earn such a look from his best friend. Calise glanced back and forth between the two of them, at last asking suspiciously, “Esmir doesn’t know, does he?” Before either of them could respond, she said, “That’s all right. I’d still love to go!”

  “Better ask the others first,” Markus warned. “What if they say no?”

  Calise snorted. “Then I’ll come anyway. When are we going?”

  “Tomorrow after supper.”

  “I’ll be there.” With a smile, she headed back up the stairs, leaving both Markus and Aram looking after her in consternation.

  “She likes you,” Markus said, laughing as they started down again.

  Aram shook his head. “She doesn’t like me. She just wants to go on an adventure.”

  “And risk Vandra finding out? No way! She must like you a lot.”

  The statement made Aram’s hopes soar higher than the cliffs. But then reality brought them crashing back down.

  “No.” The weight of disappointment crushed the word. “Girls don’t like me.”

  Markus grinned. “Maybe girls didn’t used to like you. But you’ve changed a lot. Come on.”

  “Do you really think I’ve changed?” Aram asked, hurrying to keep up with him.

  “Yeah, I think you’ve changed,” Markus said. “I mean, look at you.”

  Maybe he was right, but Aram just didn’t feel any different. Especially when he was around Calise. For some reason, she made him nervous. Maybe it was because she was so pretty.

  “You’ve really got to get better about the way you think about yourself,” Markus chided, looking back at him. Suddenly, he halted, turning to peer at Aram closely. “Why are you smiling?”

  Aram realized he’d been thinking of Calise and forced the expression off his face. “I’m not smiling.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re smiling!”

  “No, I’m not!” Aram insisted. When Markus started laughing, his face turned burning red.

  “Don’t worry.” Markus patted him on the back. “She likes you too.”

  “She doesn’t!”

  “She does.”

  “She doesn’t!”

  Markus chortled. “Yes. She does.”

  That night when Aram lay down to sleep, his thoughts drifted to Calise. He felt just a tinge of envy, though he didn’t understand why. Calise was older than he was—somewhere between him and Markus in age. She was sweet and yet strong, with a casual confidence and grace. Someone like her would want someone like Markus, who was intelligent and handsome and self-assured. As Aram closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, he decided that Markus would be better for her, and that thought made him sad. Sad, but glad because, more than anything, he just wanted his two best friends to be happy.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The next morning was the last that Aram spent helping Onsel Brausa forge his blade. They spent all morning folding steel, working up to the point that the blade was ready to be shaped. But that was all Aram could do. The remainder of the work would have to be finished by much more capable hands than his own. When he left the brothers’ shop, Aram thanked Onsel profusely for giving him an opportunity to be a part of the making of his own blade. He was actually sad the work had ended, for he found it gratifying, and he enjoyed learning new things. He left the Brausas’ shop feeling bittersweet, anxious to see how the final blade would look.

  After that, he returned with Esmir and Markus to the Henge again, to stand in front of the Portal Stone that had given Aram nightmares half the night, for he knew Esmir would be wanting him to go back through it today. The old Warden stood at his side, long strands of his thinning gray hair tossing about in the wind coming up from the canyon. He leaned heavily on his cane, looking a hundred years older than the twelve hundred he actually was.

  Lifting his cane, Esmir pointed at the portal. “They went easy on you last time. Today, they’ll know you, so they’ll be better prepared.”

  Aram gaped at him, wondering exactly what the old man would define as ‘hard.’ He had no wish to go back into the Shadow Realm, to face those strange creatures again. Last time, he’d barely gotten away with his life. If the Overseers knew him better now, as Esmir claimed, they’d sense every weakness he had and exploit it. He shivered even though the wind wasn’t cold. Reluctantly, Aram set down his practice sword and undressed down to his breeches.

  “Are you sure you want to go in there wearing those?” Esmir asked.

  Aram glanced down at his cotton undershorts and started to untie the drawstring, but then he paused. They didn’t look very deadly. Not wanting to go naked again, he decided to leave them on.

  With a wry smile, Aram responded, “If they want my breeches, they can have them. It’s been a week since I washed them last.”

  “Again?” Markus feigned disgust, while Esmir rolled his eyes.

  “My other pair fell apart.” Aram shrugged with a smirk, then turned and walked toward the portal.

  “Wait,” Markus called, making Aram turn back to him. For a moment, Markus looked like he didn’t know what to say, but then he summoned a halfhearted smile. “Be careful.”

  Aram smiled back. Then, squaring his shoulders, he drew a deep breath then entered the portal.

  He was back in the world of darkness, only, this time, he was in a different place. The standing stones were gone, as was the obelisk. Instead, he stood on a flat surface that seemed to go on forever in every direction. There was nothing else around, as though the world consisted of just a level plain. Wherever he was, it existed in a mute twilight that seemed to come from everywhere and
nowhere, barely enough to ease the darkness just a little.

  Turning in a slow circle, he scanned the flat terrain, looking for the Overseers but not finding them. He didn’t trust their absence any more than he would have trusted their presence. He knew they were there somewhere, scheming against him.

  He was fully clothed again in a different tunic and cloak. Or maybe it was the same one, just without the burns. No, that couldn’t be. Esmir had kept the outfit he’d emerged with the last time he’d gone in. His breeches were missing, he discovered. In their place, he wore a loincloth, his legs bare beneath the long tunic.

  He was holding a sword of a type he had never seen before. It wasn’t like the elegant, curved blade Onsel was making for him. Nor was it anything like the heavier, double-edged blades carried by the soldiers of his own world. This sword was slender and slightly tapered, possessing a single edge. There was no crossguard, just a copper disk attached to the tang. He held it up and tested its weight, finding it light and perfectly balanced. He wondered if it was a sword from the realm of the Overseers.

  For the moment, there didn’t seem to be anyone to use it against.

  The thought of his missing breeches returning to attack him made Aram smile. Holding the sword ready, he walked forward. There was really no place to go, for what lay ahead of him was exactly like what lay behind, the same as in every other direction. But he couldn’t just stand there waiting for something to attack him, and forward seemed just as good a place as backward.

  As he walked, Aram noticed that there was no sound to his footsteps. In fact, there was no sound at all to the world. Neither was there any movement of the air or even scent. It was as though all of his senses had been stripped from him. The farther he walked, the more he came to question the existence of this place. Perhaps he was just imagining it, and this place didn’t exist at all. Maybe none of it did. Maybe the Overseers were all just part of his imagination. But a nagging fear that this place was very real and very dangerous continued to nettle him, and he decided to take it seriously.

  Lost in thought, he wasn’t expecting the attack when it came.

  A rupture appeared in the air before him and a shadow stepped out of it. Before he could bring his sword up, the shadow fell upon him, striking out at him with a blade of its own. Aram twisted back out of reach, blocking the next strike that came for him. The sword connected with his own with a solid hit that rattled his bones.

  Before he could recover, the shadow came at him again. Once more, Aram barely dodged the slice. The shadow was fast. Every time it attacked, he was always an instant behind it.

  Perhaps the shadow-man wasn’t real, but his fear was. All he could think about was Master Henrik saying that a swordfight was not a dance, that it should be brief and brutal. Already, this dance had gone on too long. The skill of his faceless opponent surpassed his own, and he knew he couldn’t keep dodging and retreating the whole length of the forever-plane.

  Don’t attack. Counterattack.

  Henrik had said that too. That’s what he was doing wrong, Aram realized—he was passively defending. He needed to start aggressively defending.

  He parried the next thrust, turning the shadow-sword aside with the strength of his blade, at the same time slicing out with the blade’s weakness.

  For the first time, his faceless opponent was forced to defend. Without hesitation, Aram stepped forward to press his advantage. It was as though his body suddenly remembered all the long hours it had spent training and finally realized that it knew what to do. With an empty mind, Aram let his body take over, dealing a rapid succession of blows that drove the shadow-man backward. With a final thrust, his blade pierced his opponent’s chest.

  But the shadow-man did not go down. Instead, he cleaved in half.

  Suddenly, Aram found himself facing two shadowy opponents that separated and then came at him from both sides. The acute panic Aram felt was over in an instant, for he couldn’t afford the distraction. Once again, his mind turned off, and his body moved of its own accord, his sword defending and attacking at the same time as he danced backward in an effort to put both of his opponents in front of him.

  There was a deafening thunder and a brilliant flash of light. He closed his eyes, the scorching light glaring red through his eyelids.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that both his opponents had disappeared, and that he was once again alone on the flat, expansive plain. Panting, Aram lowered his sword slowly, turning in a circle as he glanced about. It was too much to believe that the Overseers would let him off so easily when they almost had him defeated.

  When one of the Overseers appeared before him, he skittered backward with a cry.

  Aram’s sword flew from his hands and something wound around his neck and started strangling him. He tried to slip his fingers under it, but it was already too late—a thin length of string was cutting into his skin like a garrote.

  Just when he started to panic, one thought occurred to him: string had always been his ally, and he refused to be killed by it.

  Reaching out with his mind, Aram sliced the cord around his neck with a knife of sharpened aether.

  The Overseer made a pushing motion, and suddenly Aram was sliding backward. He slid faster and faster across the nothingness, until he was flying.

  Then the Portal Stone appeared behind him, swallowing him whole and spitting him out the other side.

  Aram stared up at Esmir, who was gazing down at him with the mid-day sun haloing his head. When he saw that the old man was chuckling, Aram glanced down at himself. The clothes the Overseers had garbed him in were gone, and so were his breeches. When he saw that he was lying naked on the ground, his cheeks glowed red-hot with embarrassment.

  Reaching down, Esmir removed a length of cord from around Aram’s neck, holding it up before his eyes. “Seems to look familiar.”

  Aram gaped at the dangling cord that had almost strangled him, at last recognizing it for what it was: the drawstring of his breeches. He threw a hand up, smacking his forehead. Esmir stepped away and Markus tossed his tunic at him. When he was decently clothed again, Aram reached a hand up and groped at his neck, realizing that the ligature mark from the cord was still there, a thin indentation that encircled his neck. It hadn’t healed like his burns had the previous day.

  “Why didn’t they heal me like they did before?” he asked Esmir as the old man led them toward the stairs.

  “Because you weren’t really burned, I imagine,” Esmir answered. “Maybe next time, you’ll think twice before taking anything in there with you.”

  “I won’t think about it at all! I’d be stupid to take anything in there!”

  Markus clapped him on the back. “You’re just lucky they didn’t strangle you with your dirty breeches.”

  Aram grimaced at the image, but then he winced, his eyes going wide as a thought occurred to him. “That was my last pair of breeches!”

  At that, both Markus and Esmir started laughing.

  The rest of the day dragged by at a glacier’s pace. Aram sat sprawled against the wall in Esmir’s quarters, a book open and unread in his lap. He had spent more time watching the candle burning down than he had reading, convinced that the taper was made of special wax that burned at an impossibly slow rate.

  Perhaps sensing their restlessness, Esmir dismissed them early. Aram raced Markus out the door. They took the stairs down to the baths and made it to Hearth Home in time for supper. When they reached the table they shared with the other young men from their dorm, all eyes went to Aram, and jaws dropped. Aram glanced from face to face, wondering what he could have possibly done now. Slowly, it dawned on him, and his hand went to his throat, which was covered in dark bruises from the drawcord.

  “What happened?” gasped Corley. “I know Esmir said he wanted to strangle you, but I thought he was joking!”

  Setting his plate on the table, Aram glanced at Markus. “Go ahead. Tell them,” he muttered, staring at his plate.

  “Aram s
trangled himself,” Markus announced, trying but unable to keep a straight face. “With his own breeches!”

  Aram hid his face in his hands as the table erupted around him.

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “No shit!”

  “Are you serious?”

  Pretty soon, the whole table was roiling with laughter, especially after the full story came out. The inevitable jokes that followed continued even after supper on the long walk back up the stairs to the dormatory. At first, Aram was scared they were making fun of him—until he realized it was nothing of the sort. He had mysteriously found himself in a position he’d never expected to be in: the center of attention in a good way.

  The last of the Underwear Head jokes were still coming in when they burst through the door of their room to find Calise there, waiting inside.

  Aram felt his cheeks go from blotchy to brazen red in the span of a heartbeat.

  “Underwear Head?” Calise arched her eyebrows.

  Mortified, Aram turned and made for the door, but Markus thrust his arm out, blocking any hope of escape. Squeezing his eyes closed, Aram turned around slowly to face a grinning Calise.

  After Markus had recounted the tale, Calise reassured Aram, “It’s all right! I’m sure it happens to everyone.” But then she saw the ligature marks around his neck. “Oh, that looks bad. Are you sure your breeches did this to you?”

  “It was the drawcord,” Aram admitted, making Markus smirk.

  “Uh-huh…” Calise looked around at the young men in the room. “So, are we going on an adventure, or what?”

  “Why, yes, we are!” exclaimed Corley, clapping his hands together. “You’re coming along too?” When Calise nodded, he raised his hands. “All right. Everyone get a sack!”

  “What’s the sack for?” asked Jeran.

  “For things we find that we want to take with us.”

  “Wouldn’t that be stealing?” asked Markus.