Star-Born Mage

by David Estes

  Roan wheeled about in a circle—a dark shape surrounded him, rising up toward the red, green, and gold stars. The wall is real, Roan thought. Which might mean the other obstacle was real, too, but he chose not to think too hard about that. Not yet. The wall was first, then whatever came next.

  Although he could sense the plague all around him, hanging thickly in the fetid air, Roan did not have the plague. Not anymore. He’d used his curse to take care of that little problem.

  Unfortunately, healing himself had left him feeling drained and ashamed. All of these people were in need of what he could offer, and he selfishly chose to help himself. But there were too many to help. Even if he wanted to, he would collapse from exhaustion before he could heal them all. And then he would die.

  He shook his head, trying to focus. His legs felt like lead, but he forced them forward, toward a part of the ground that seemed less littered with bodies.

  Dark shapes stumbled across the open terrain, the living dead wandering without purpose.

  What felt like hours later, Roan reached the wall, which appeared to stretch all the way to the heavens. All along the base of the wall were bodies in various stages of decay. They formed a pyramid, not unlike the enormous pyramids of Calypso, except constructed of flesh and bone rather than stone and mortar. At its apex, the ramp reached nearly halfway to the wall’s summit.

  Despite its morbid nature, the human pyramid strategy was an interesting one. Plague victims continued to flock toward the wall, climbing the bodies, eventually succumbing to the disease at the top, becoming new building blocks for future victims to climb. For those afflicted with the plague, climbing the wall would be next to impossible, but perhaps for Roan, who still had his strength…

  Roan started his ascent, using his hands to steady himself on the unbalanced terrain. His power flared up each time the plague attempted to infiltrate his body, holding the disease at bay. Other climbers noticed his progress, and tried to grab him, their mouths opening to reveal toothless maws. He knocked their disease-weakened arms away and fought onward.

  When Roan reached the top of the human pyramid, he was exhausted, his knees trembling, his back sore. Even his bones felt weary, the constant use of his power sapping them of all strength.

  Three plague victims were trying to grasp the stone, but their dark skin was slippery with sweat from the fever burning through their bodies. Hearing Roan’s approach, they turned, their lips contorted with pain. “Help me,” one said, his teeth chattering. “Please,” said another. “Please.” The third one only reached blindly for Roan; her eyes were milky and unseeing.

  “I’m sorry,” Roan said, trying to dodge around them.

  The largest one, a man who might’ve once been as tall as Roan before the plague hunched his back and bent his legs, moved far quicker than Roan thought possible. Like him, he might’ve been a new arrival, not yet fully broken. He grabbed Roan around the neck and slammed him against the wall, his breaths coming hot and quick. Spit flew from his mouth as he demanded, “Give me a boost, boy!”

  Roan could feel the plague trying to squirm inside him, the force of his tattooya fighting back valiantly. His vision began to blur from the effort. He had the sudden desire to stop fighting, to give in to the disease, to embrace the darkness and relief it would eventually bring.

  His legs wobbled. His heart stuttered. His breath clawed in and out of his throat with ragged gasps.

  And then he remembered his mother. Not her, exactly, for he couldn’t remember anything about her. Only what his guardian had told him about her, how strong and good she was. How she’d sacrificed everything so he could live.

  Could he really throw away her sacrifice so easily?

  He couldn’t and he wouldn’t. “I will help you,” he choked out, feeling the sting of the lie in his throat, even as the man released his grip.

  The second he was free, he used the wall for leverage and kicked out, knocking the man down the human hill. He smashed into the blind woman, sending her flying as well. The third victim tripped of his own accord, screaming in pain.

  Roan’s stomach hurt from what he had done, but he forced himself to turn back toward the wall.

  He had two choices, die or climb, and that was no choice for a man like Roan.

  Mustering what strength he had left, he raised his arms and began to climb.

  Thankfully, the wall was hastily constructed and eroded by steady ocean winds, and he had no difficulty finding hand and footholds. Still, with his last reserves nearly depleted, the biting wind threatened to tear him from the wall with each inch he gained. Every time he stared up, the apex seemed farther and farther away, an unreachable goal.

  He refused to look down at all the poor souls he had abandoned.

  He began to growl with each step up, his feet aching, his hands cracked and bleeding from gripping the rough stone. He was no longer capable of healing himself.

  But then, like a rocky coastline disappearing into the sea, the wall ended. He sprawled on the broad windswept surface, unable to hold back a sudden burst of laughter. His chest rose and fell. His hands dripped blood. His muscles spasmed and cramped.

  And, despite the gnawing hunger he suddenly felt in the pit of his stomach, Roan drifted off into a deep sleep.

  Beneath him, just outside the island’s walls, the slumbering dragon’s chains rattled as it began to stir.

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