She wanted to help. All of her spells, however, had disappeared from her mind. She just felt hopeless and dumb.
Sasha had no such problems. Linaera watched as she lifted her hand, saying:
“Volter.”
There was a blinding flash of light as lightning spewed from her hand. It hit the crocodile man straight in the chest.
He staggered, and stumbled.
Then, he began to move again.
Sasha’s mouth was open in shock. Stella tried to help.
Linaera watched as she emitted beams of white light, beams of white death. She watched as they slowly cut through the ranks.
Too slowly, of course.
Perrien kept on firing arrows; they were of limited use, as the creatures quickly learned whatever subtle pattern was giving him away.
By now, Harold and Damon had arrived.
The first turtle sunk its teeth into John’s leg; he screamed.
Harold withdrew a dagger, stabbing it in the eye. The thing stilled... but Linaera knew it not to be dead.
The crocodile man had come.
It reached out with its deadly talons, ready to spear Damon, to take its prize.
“Udothanas.”
Damon’s hands became alight. Fire exploded into the crocodile man, burning with a heat so intense Linaera could feel it from where she stood.
The crocodile man was consumed. But more were following.
Linaera observed the weariness in Damon’s movements; the clumsiness, the slowness. Clearly, the spell had been a taxing one.
The two freed John from the clutches of the evil Swamp. They began dragging him back.
But then, a huge snake – a python, by the looks of it – curled itself around Harold. As he struggled to get it off, Linaera stood still.
Something had to be done...
SIX
Many leagues away, in the centre of Arachadia, lies the city of Dresh.
The name means “The Wonder” in the old language, the Proto-Zaelic as the scholars call it.
But what is so wondrous about it? Is it the poor and the homeless, as their women lie in filthy streets caring for children barely clinging on to life? Is it the worse off sectors – the parts where there are no sewers, and the smell of human faeces hangs in the air?
Or is it among the rich, as they are spoilt in finery and pampered by servants little better than the peasants they so reprobate?
In one of these places of riches, these places of petty wealth and pettier concerns, lies the mage school. The Central School. The biggest in all of Arachadia, the most powerful... the most prestigious.
Its buildings are of marble, white and gleaming despite the lonely guardians of grey that hang above. They possess great windows, with fashionable gold-plated rims worth more than a peasant’s yearly wage. And they also stand home for a tower.
This tower is not quite as grand as its northern companions; in fact, it is scarcely more than a three storey construction. And yet it is grand all the same. It is a tribute to marble, displaying it in the most unusual fashions: pillars, stairs, inlays, even on the ceiling.
In this tower, lies Nateldorth. The Great Mage.
The room in which his office is stationed is a somewhat unremarkable affair, for one so powerful. Its walls are of plain wood, and shelves stacked with various paraphernalia – maps, globes, books and other such things – decorate them; its ceiling is also wood, but darker and more intimidating; while its floor differentiates itself, being made from cool marble. Centre-stage, there is Nateldorth himself.
His beard is snow white, like that of Suter Claas. His eyes are kindly brown; his hands can set thousands alight.
A sigh escapes his lips, like the gasp of defeat from stubborn children. His spirits are gloomy as he surveys the report.
Its elegant, geometric font (created by a strange, metallic press recently invented) does nothing to conceal the fact that what it says is, in a word, terrible.
It speaks of children that have disappeared (“under the most indecorous of circumstances” – weasel words for kidnapping). It speaks of grieving parents, puzzled investigators, and oncoming doom.
What is this, the fifteenth report? he thinks to himself. This report is referring to Matthew – a teenage boy, no more than sixteen – that had disappeared on the aptly named Baker Street.
He fell back on his seat (an old leather recliner) and massaged his temples.
Outside, the weather was unhelpful: there was a blurriness to the world, a dulled edge to it that somehow managed to highlight the peasants and nobles alike as they scurried about.
It didn’t help that Terrin – a friend of his – had informed him that Eiliara the Silver Mage was, apparently, dead.
There was a muffled knock on the door.
“Come in, Elrias.”
His friend and adviser came in. He was a benevolent looking fellow: his features were delicate, like that of a child; his eyes were blue, like that of a newborn; and his expression was sombre and yet harmless.
Elrias was no fighter – he worked as an Enchanter mage. Though Nateldorth knew he had a mind that was sharper than the utensils he so used.
“Sir, why don’t you let me sort the reports?” Nateldorth found his formal attitude absurd, but he was ever so helpful.
“You do that, Elrias. My bones tire of this wearisome work, and there are indeed other matters to occupy me.”
Nateldorth once again recounted his many duties as Great Mage. He was a leader of the mages, and often dealt with matters most political; he was the most powerful mage in all the land, and was tasked to lead dangerous spells; and he was a Judge, for those whose purpose was lost.
He did not take pleasure in any of them; but this time, he would be glad to rid Arachadia of the scheming mage behind this escapade of kidnappings.
He exited the room, out into the busy corridors. People all around greeted him with their smiles and flattery, and he smiled back, as was polite: but in truth, such fickle matters of the court did not suit him. Sycophants, the lot.
He went down past the stairs (their handrails were pure gold), past the doors (made from trees that grew on the other side of Arachadia), and into the reception area.
The reception area had taken his younger self’s breath away. Golden chandeliers cast rich illumination – the marble flooring’s colourful mosaic gave it playful reflections. The windows were as they should be: tall, grand, and imposing. The ceiling too was most resplendent; and those who gazed at it could not help but wonder at the smoothness of the curves, and at the finish of the marble frescoes.
People talked in groups; they parted at his arrival.
As they should, he thought.
Nateldorth had not become Great Mage for no good reason. He had been a mere apprentice once, but a fiery one all the same; and when he defeated his teacher in anger, the old Great Mage had taken an interest. He had been examined, trained, and the rest was history.
From then on, many foes had been battled: the Meslas Sandwalkers to the South; Haleghar pirates to the East; and wild monsters from the West. Or monsters he called them, for truly, they were shapeshifters that took various different guises.
He called them monsters lest he forget what they really were.
He walked, out into the rain.
The water spell made it fall idly outside him, while the few citizens that still remained hurried inside, soaked.
At least no one’s here to annoy me, he thought wryly.
He had decided to meet a friend of his. Ilas was his name; a good, honourable man, who he had met on campaign.
He was also leader of a thief guild, and dealt with many a matter that would not befit a mage of his rank.
That was why he was visiting.
***
Nateldorth walked. He did so surreptitiously, for although none were watching... he was conspicuous. And this was not a meeting he wanted known.
Somedays, he would even go as far as casting a cloaking spell in order to a
void the danger.
The cloaking spell was another little gimmick of Nateldorth’s. It was not some sort of illusion, or shadow; it was something else entirely.
A cloaking spell was a mental cloud. In its radius, all persons would have their attention diverted. They would overlook the rustle of a cloak, the shadow on the wall, the scuffle of a boot. They would cease to notice the caster entirely.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t full-proof: if the intended targets had enough will – or had otherwise been trained to combat the spell – they could see through it. Moreover, it was a weak spell, and any semi-competent mage trained in high-level telepathy would be immune.
Fortunately, Nateldorth had no need of it.
His footsteps were muffled; his breath came in clouds. The current neighbourhood – a wealthy one – had great villas and estates. Their gardens were immaculate; their façades pristine – and their windows immodest.
He took a sidestreet, away from the main road.
This was a more unusual area. It did not possess the same grandeur – the houses were smaller, their façades simpler and more practical – but it was pretty and quiet all the same. It was home to a new group of people: typically minor mages, but also travelling salesmen, alchemists and the like.
He took a few more turns, and he was in a different area altogether.
These houses were dingy things. Many of their gardens were brown and poorly kept; their roofs were home to dying shingles; and they seemed to possess the spirit of poverty itself.
Nateldorth cared not. He could slaughter thousands of thieves, footpads and brigands.
He walked up to an unassuming door connected to an even more unassuming house.
He knocked.
The reply was swift: “Password?”
“The sun is bright, but the ice burns cold.”
Inwardly, he smiled. Of course he knew the password. He came up with it in the first place.
There was the sound of locks being pulled back. Moments later, the door was opened.
The man that stood behind it was somewhat gruff, and very unremarkable. His hair was a light, but slightly unkempt brown. His eyes were also brown, and his attire was black.
Nateldorth spied a dagger hidden in the folds of his cloak. This man could be dangerous... to a non-mage.
To him, he was merely amusing.
The man wore no markers. Ilas did not want his thieves recognisable.
Nateldorth smiled. “I am sorry, but I do not know you.”
“Bran’s the name, thief-friend.”
Quietly, Nateldorth chuckled. The man had referred to him as “friend” – not Lord. It was rather refreshing. (At the back of his mind, there was a low groan: he really was sick of the title.)
“Is Ilas in?” Nateldorth continued.
“I am here, old friend.”
Nateldorth went inside.
The house was as unremarkable as its façade. A stale smell hung in the air, like it had not been cleaned for many years. Its furniture was plain, and its carpets grey. No trace of outside light graced the denizens with its presence; lamps burned instead, and oil ones at that.
It contrasted with the man inside.
Although ageing (the faint creases around the eyes gave that away), he was impressive all the same. His eyes were diamond blue; his hair matte and dark, hanging in loose folds. His protruding jaw and faint stubble declared masculinity, and impugned pretence.
He had been a big fan of the ladies, Nateldorth knew. (The concept was alien to him: he had never given interest to women, or men for that matter.)
“I didn’t see you there, Old Friend,” Nateldorth said.
It had become something of a joke among them. The mage and the thief. Friends.
It was true, really.
“Let us discuss matters in a more… comfortable area. I would have given you a warmer welcome, but you know how procedures go.” Ilas smiled sadly, as if he had become bored of his own safety.
Ilas walked; Nateldorth followed.
Ilas touched a lamp, and a small doorway clicked open on the floor. Ilas gripped the ladder – one as strong as its owner – and Nateldorth did the same.
For a brief moment, the world was dark. The sound of water could be heard, echoing as if in places more majestic. Nateldorth was tempted to cast a light; but he resisted. Ilas liked it this way.
Then, he felt solid ground. Soon, light gave the underground tunnel form.
(It had been built centuries ago, Nateldorth knew. Few still remembered.)
He traced his fingers along the walls, enjoying the smoothness, wondering at the effort.
They entered a room.
It was a beautiful room, if confined by chthonic limitations. Walls decorated in pleasant white and beige were accented by dark leather sofas; while lamps – of the magical kind – emitted a relaxing glow.
Ilas sat on one of the sofas. Nateldorth took his place next to him. Ilas beckoned to a nearby thief:
“Bring us some wine, please.”
The thief did a small salute. He was pretty: his sandy hair was long, straight, and stretched just past his forehead. His frame was slim; his eyes, golden, like a cat’s.
Nateldorth had not requested the wine. It had become habit, like everything else; a competition, if you like. Who would have the best wine: the Great Mage, with his (virtually) limitless wealth? Or the thief, with his dubious contacts?
So far, Nateldorth had yet to win.
“So what brings you here, old friend? As much as I like you, I know you are not a man to come and renew friendly acquaintances. And at such an hour, no less.”
“I assume you are aware of the string of kidnappings that have been plaguing Dresh as of late,” he began. Nateldorth had followed the Queen’s wishes and kept the incidents quiet, but he had no doubt Ilas had heard of it.
He was right.
“Ah yes, terrible things. Tell me about it.”
Nateldorth smiled, in the charming way he did to those playing games.
“I was hoping you would be the one to elucidate.”
The thief came back, interrupting whatever Ilas was about to say.
He placed two glasses of wine (their colour was deep red, like blood) and began to walk back.
But not before Nateldorth the Observant had made one of his observations.
“Ilas... how should I say this? That thief of yours has been giving you some, shall we say, strange looks.”
Ilas merely chuckled.
“I am not clueless in the lusts of my thieves, old friend. I know of his fancying me, though he has yet to make a move. Let him come to me, and we shall see.”
“But anyway...”
“Yes, the kidnappings. As you may be aware, I do have some information. But first – the wine.”
“Indeed,” Nateldorth agreed.
It was an elixir that brought forth memories of burning suns and insouciant lusts; an after taste – lingering longer than fitting for decorous drinks – promised to make them reality.
Impressive, he thought, and not for the first time.
“Wonderful, is it not? Made from the finest Southern grapes.”
Nateldorth nodded, solemn in his appreciation.
“But yes. I have received reports. I am told that one of my thieves – his name eludes me – had spotted a lone figure making its way in the night. Which would be nothing noteworthy in itself, except this figure originated from the palace.”
“Curious.”
“What do you know, Nateldorth?”
“I know the kidnappings were magical in their nature. The victims disappeared without trace.”
“And I, as a thief, know that no normal kidnapping would be quite so traceless.”
“So who do you think may be responsible?” Nateldorth continued, sipping more of the wine. (It was rather strong: it was a good thing magic made him resilient to its allure.)
“A rogue sorcerer, perhaps?”
Rogue sorcerers were mages who broke away f
rom the guild. They were hunted down mercilessly, for in their vindictive autocracy they broke any and all laws.
“That was my first thought. Yet I have heard of none. Moreover, rogues tend to be rather more flamboyant in their destruction – they may leave bloody tokens, and demands. They enjoy taunting authority.”
“And yet these attacks were quiet.”
“Utterly so.”
A pause.
“What other explanations are there?” Ilas continued.
“I know not.”
Nateldorth got up.
“In any case: your information has been useful, as per usual. At least now, we know these attacks may be committed by mages but instigated by an official in the court.”
“I hope you catch them.”
“I hope so too.”
Nateldorth began walking back.
“Goodbye, old friend.”
“Goodbye.”
Nateldorth suddenly paused.
“Oh, Ilas? The wine was delicious. Mine shall be better.”
Ilas gave him a supercilious grin. He would be expecting the latest candidate...
***
Nateldorth walked back. Night’s sordid kiss tempted those young, and promised to those foolish. Her caress threatened to blanket the light; but she would have no success. Nateldorth’s power was greater than hers.
In the distance, thunder rumbled. Its messenger – a wind whose touch withered bone, and whose tantrums ruffled cloak – made Nateldorth wonder if the element’s new temerity was magical in nature. Perhaps I should discuss it with Elrias, he thought.
What light there was flickered as if uncertain in the face of such opposition. The houses too seemed to huddle in fear; and if Nateldorth had been able to peer inside, he would have seen peasants assaulted by their dark dreams.
Confidence lay in Nateldorth’s steps. His work was much too important to be stopped by a little wind.
***
Elrias met him at the front door. He was tired; a fact revealed by hitherto unseen wrinkles.
“Sir, your appointment with the missing child’s parents is scheduled in about ten minutes.”
Nateldorth could not even muster a sigh.
“So late Elrias? Very well, where is it?”
“We can walk. ’Tis not far.”
And so they walked.
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