The Crystal College

by Nathaniel Sullivan

  “I take it you didn’t have time to steal them yet?”

  Gevor nodded, “I was going to try after lunch. First I needed to be sure that you were away from Nix’s dorm.”

  “Hmmm…” Nandor frowned, standing to his feet. He regarded the abused boy at his feet through furrowed brows. “Then go about your task. Do as Sagger and Lareja commanded you. Say nothing of what happened here—if you betray us, you will have voided our mercy. Understand?” He pulled the boy to his feet, and they met on level ground.

  They exchanged a wordless glance—perhaps there was a measure of fear in the boy’s look. Or respect. Or both. “I understand, sir,” he said.

  “Good. You have a decision to make, son. I’m giving you the chance at redemption you claim to seek. So make the right choice this time. Don’t be a fool. We have the grandmaster’s blessing, and you’ve no doubt heard of what I’m capable of, so don’t get on our bad side again. You wouldn’t live through it,” Nandor promised. He pushed the boy towards the door. “Now go. Steal my skis, bring them to your master, then get out of that tower however you can, for when I come to retrieve them, I will spare no man who stands in my way.”

  Nandor held open the door to the stormy outside. Gevor glanced tentatively back as he stepped into the howling wind. “Thank you sir. I will not let you down,” he said, and then headed off into the snow, quickly disappearing underneath a cloud of white.

  “Do you honestly think we can trust him?” Dorin asked.

  “I think that even if he does try to betray us, it will just make one more body for me to leave in the tower,” he muttered. “Either way, our problems will be resolved.”

  “But if you’re headed into a trap sir…” the bot let its words fade off.

  “Witches. Wizards. Mystics. Enchanters—they can prepare all they want. Let them put as many spells on the floors and walls as they wish. They cannot stop my rage. For too long have men like Gevor been created by this culture of cruelty. For too long have men like the nameless student Nix and I found been dropped in the snow and left for dead for the crime of questioning their studies. While I’m at the college, this will go on no more. Sagger and Lareja will die, along with any who stand in my way. I’ll purge this college clean. I’ll make it the place of learning it was always meant to be, but never had the chance to become.”

  “But what will Grandmaster Forojen say?”

  “This is war, Nix. Make no mistake. A war between those stuck in the old ways of the college, and those who are ready for change. I’ll not make the same mistake I made the last time I came to a war. No—this war I’ll finish.”

  “Does that mean no more trying for peace?” the bot chirped.

  “It means, Dorin, that Sagger will die. If peace is made from war, then perhaps this is the only path there ever was. I was simply too foolish to see it, before.”

  It nodded happily. “Oh, Nandor,” it whispered, “I was scared for a moment back there when you decided to spare the boy, but heavens! I am ever so glad that you are finally coming around…”

  “What was that?” Nandor asked, busy charging up his stun-stick with a removable crank.

  “Nothing sir, nothing!” it replied. “Just happy to be by your side.” It turned away, and pulled at the blade attached to its saw, grinning. And very happy to be back in the business of murder. Cleanse the college he says… cleanse the world says I!

  I was right to bring back Nandor from his grave. It delighted in its wisdom, hugging its arms together. Together we will do great things.

  This is only the beginning…

  Chapter 22: College without Hope

  His name, if I recall correctly, was Nandor. But when he lived with us, we never called him that. It is the way of the Bear Tribe to name each man and woman as their worth. So when he came to us starving and cold, we beat him and called him Worthless. Then when he preached to us we called him Fool. Later, when he fought the goblins with us, we called him Strong. Then, when he tried to negotiate peace with the abhorrent goblins, we called him Fool again. Then, much later, after the war was over, our prize was lost, and he was gone, we called him Prophet. I am one of the few who remembers the full context of his deeds, and if I could go back, I would have begged us to listen to the man we called the Worthless Fool, as strange as his words might seem…

  —The Shaman of the Barbarian Bear Tribe

  How does one prepare to dive into a nest of venomous serpents?

  How does one prepare for magical traps and angry magicians?

  The most powerful foes to have at the college—all ripe with hatred and twisted lies. Headmasters angry that a man has appeared on their doorstep who desires to teach rather than to brainwash and torment.

  Nandor was no stranger to battle among mages. He had faced many before, when he was a student. Elementalists, mystics, duelers, scholars, enchanters—any with a grudge who hated him for his oddities.

  He had not always won every battle, but he always managed to survive.

  This battle, however, he intended on winning. Survival was not enough. Sagger had to die, and Lareja with him, and whoever else was too indoctrinated to change their ways.

  The grandmaster might be too cowardly to set things at his college right—but while I’m here I will not let students suffer the terror I faced as a young man. It is long past time that things changed at the Crystal College.

  “What’s the plan, sir?” Dorin, the ever faithful Jack-Bot asked.

  Nandor allowed himself a smile, despite the dark task they had before them. He was glad to have such loyal companions. Nixie, Doirn—they had brought him back from the brink of death when many would have spat on his body instead.

  “The plan is to assault the tower, swords swinging, and kill anyone working for Sagger.”

  “What kind of resistance do you expect?”

  “Hard to tell. Based on Gevor’s warning, we must face Sagger, Lareja, whatever lackeys they have, and possibly magical enchantments. Spell wards, illusions and such. If they know how to lay the right kind of traps, we could be entering a slaughter house. We must be cautious.”

  The three companions quietly approached the mystic tower at the far corner of the college grounds, and looked upwards. It was not a particularly wide tower, but it stretched high. The snowstorm obscured their vision too much to see the top, and from the windows they could only make out faint flickers of blue and purple lights, flashing mysteriously through the darkened sky.

  Nixie huddled close to Nandor, sharing his warmth. “Very odd,” she muttered.

  “What? What do you see?” the bot asked.

  Forojen’s goggles were secured over her eyes. “All sorts of things. Several auras at the top—I think four or five different people. Two more powerful—probably Sagger and Lareja. The others could belong to anyone, possibly even Gevor, if he betrayed us. Towards the bottom levels, there are uncertain energies. Lingering traces of where people have been, and silvery shreds of sparkling lines. Does that make any sense?”

  Nandor nodded, “It does.” His own aura detecting spectacle was wedged before his right eye, and he saw everything she saw and more. “What we’re seeing, is traces of where mystic energy and enchantment have been interwoven together to create something very nearly whole. Something that’s been recently put together. The silver lines… that’s trickier. Could be more people—I’ve seen silver auras like that linger on men before, but something tells me it is… different.”

  Nix glanced at Nandor, and her eyebrows shot up as if she had seen a ghost.

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “N-nothing. It’s just your aura. It surprised me again.”

  “Ah,” he nodded. “Is something wrong?”

  “N-no.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Nix. What do you see?”

  “Nothing! It’s still blue and brilliant, just like always!” More softly, she added, “B-but there is something different about it. Rainbow flickers. Different energies in it that there weren’t befo
re. I can’t explain it.”

  “Humm…” He puzzled on her statement for a moment, trying to remember if he had ever seen a person’s aura change before. He hadn’t. Perhaps it’s possible, but it would have to mean that a different energy had entered into the person, changing who they are, wouldn’t it? What energy would have changed me? He glanced suspiciously at his companions. Perhaps something they did to heal me? “I suppose it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head clear. “Right now, we need to focus on our task.”

  He looked to Nix, and held out his stun-stick. “Perhaps we should trade weapons?” he offered. Lady Mikja’s longsword was still slung over her back. It was a long and elegant weapon—light for its size, but still too heavy for a small and unskilled woman. Nandor recalled it in his hands as he had fought Lord Viken—although his own swordsmanship was somewhat lacking, Mikja’s weapon had proven to be an unmatched blade. He very much wished for it to be in his grip once again.

  Nix looked reluctant. “I suppose since Mikja left it with you, it is your sword, technically…” She slipped the strap off her shoulder. “But do you really want to part with your stun-stick? I thought that you preferred the club?”

  He smiled as he flicked his electric stick gently in his hand. “I am rather fond of it, but the truth is, it is a weapon from a different time. A time when I wished to reason rather than kill. Today, I’m afraid I will need to kill. I’ll need the reach of the longsword, and the sharp edge it holds.”

  Dorin grinned, “If you can’t club them into their senses, than cut them into pieces!”

  Nandor frowned, “Well… that wasn’t exactly what I meant. But sure.” He stood apart from his companions, and gave Mikja’s sword a swing. It felt just like he remembered it—swift and deadly. “Looks like it’s been sharpened,” he noticed with a nod of approval. “You’re doing?”

  Nix shook her head. “I think you can thank Cajorn for that. He was first tending to your wounds, but after Dorin took you, the sword was the only item left behind. It was already sharpened when I received it from him.”

  “The old healer, eh? Who would have thought he knew how to sharpen a blade?” He sheathed the sword, and tied it to his waist. He needed it to be in a ready position, in case they were attacked without warning. If he put it over his back like Nix had, it would be too awkward to remove, which could waste valued seconds in a life or death scenario.

  Nix kept the stun-stick in her grip, and tested the power. “How much charge do I have?”

  “Plenty,” he responded. “I cranked it until it went on overcharge—it’ll be practically bleeding volts, begging to be used. You should get at least three good swings out of it before it becomes your average club.” He glanced at Dorin, “Your weapons ready?”

  The bot whirled its saw-arm in response, and beamed. “Ready to kill, sir.”

  “Good,” they walked the last few steps to the tower door. “I know not what we face behind this door,” he waved at the wooden entrance. “It could be traps. It could be foes. But whatever it is, remain calm, and look to me for your command. I’ll not have my companions blindly swinging blades at every curve and shadow—understood?”

  Nix looked up at him sheepishly, and Dorin nodded. Good enough, he thought, and reached out for the door knob.

  The metal knob twisted without resistance, and the door slowly creaked open. The entrance room was glowing with mystic powers, woven into the very rug at their feet.

  “Nandor? Is that you?” A pair of eyes shined from the carpet. The lines and embroidery was formed to fill a humanoid face that gasped as they stood on it.

  “What in the hells?” Dorin exclaimed.

  Nix jumped away, landing several feet further inside.

  “Wait!” Nandor called, “Don’t take a step further!”

  She froze at his command, and he looked back to the bewitched carpet. It was still eyeing him, as if uncertain it saw what it saw. “You are Nandor, aren’t you? The one I was told to wait for!” it cried.

  “How is there a talking carpet?” the bot exclaimed.

  The same way you’re a talking robot, probably, Nandor thought, but didn’t voice it out loud. He pulled out his sword, and held it low so that the sharp edge was pointed directly at the rug’s face. “What are you?”

  “I am what I am!” the carpet exclaimed. “But I think I know what you are! Nandor!” it yelled as loud as it could, “Nandor has arrived! NANDOR is HERE!”

  “Stop! Silence!” Nandor hissed, but the rug paid him no mind, yelling louder and louder. “Fine!” he roared, and swung his sword downwards. It cut through the rug and then there was a puff of mystic red, and the screaming stopped as fast as it had begun.

  As the rug’s cries echoed to its doom, Dorin let out a sigh of relief, and curiously poked the carpet with its saw. “What in the hells was that supposed to be?”

  “An alarm, I imagine,” Nandor kicked the rug away with a disgusted look. “And it worked. The whole damned tower knows where here. We’ve failed our first task.” He eyed Nix. “Be more careful. Examine everything before you move—even the floor itself.”

  “But there is energy everywhere!” Nix said.

  Nandor turned his head, and knew that she was right. The table at the far end was purple, wisps of light blue flickered around them, and the path to the stairway leading upwards was… funny. In an odd way, as if it had been warped.

  “I don’t like this. All this… this magic nonsense,” the bot protested. “I just want something to kill.”

  “We will kill them, my mechanical friend. We just have to make our way up the tower, first.” Nandor pointed to the stairs. “Nix—does something look off to you? With the staircase?”

  Her head tilted as she examined the curved stairs through her aura detecting goggles. “Yes. But I can’t tell what it is.”

  He exhaled uncomfortably. He did not wish to charge up something that could shift beneath his feet, or worse. “You’ve been here before—you are training to be a mystic, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then try to remember—what is the staircase supposed to look like? Is it a little too wide? Too narrow? Not in the right location? Is there anything at all that seems different from how you remember it?”

  Her brows furrowed, and she powered the stun stick on to shed light on the stairs. Electric sparks spat from the weapon to illuminate the room, and she bit her lip as she tried to name what was wrong—but she couldn’t. “I have no idea. It just looks… wrong.”

  “Indeed,” Nandor agreed, and slowly approached it. Nix and Dorin kept close behind. The stairs appeared as solid as any stairs he had ever seen—stone, strong, and curving all the way up the tower. But he knew it was a trick—it had to be. There was something too… easy about it. He glanced backwards, and saw nothing of significance. A wooden chair, and a tall mirror. The second item caused him to frown. “Give me the stun stick.” He held back his hand, and Nix placed it in his grip. “Now, keep your eyes on the mirror behind us,” he instructed her.

  With a steady hand, he gently pushed the glowing club into the stairway.

  There was a gasp. “Nandor! Stop! Something’s wrong!”

  He froze. “What is it?”

  “The stun-stick—it’s disappeared! The mirror isn’t showing it! As soon as you moved it to the stairway!”

  Cautiously, he pulled the weapon back. “And now?”

  “It’s back in your grip!”

  He looked over his should and saw that she was right. When he moved the stick towards the stairway, it disappeared in the mirror, but when he pulled it back, the reflection was the same as always.

  “What sort of trickery is this?” Dorin wondered.

  “Something far more complex than I had imagined,” Nandor sighed. “Everyone, move away from both the mirror and the stairway. Nix—does the tower have a lower level? One that tunnels beneath the ground?”

  She nodded, “There is a study room, and lower than that a storage room—very deep! But it�
�s only accessible through the cellar entrance, and a hatch underneath the table.”

  “Then it is as I feared. One wrong step could send us plunging to our deaths. Stay in the center of the room—the both of you. I need to figure this out for myself.” He paced back and forth in the room, examining the mirror and then the stairway. He knew they were connected somehow, but he didn’t dare try until he was certain. “Do you ever recall there being a mirror in this room?”

  “No,” Nix replied after a moment. “But remember, I have not attended the college since before the war—when we met. Anything could have changed at the tower.”

  “What of mirrors? What does it have to do with the stairs?” Dorin asked.

  Nandor ignored the bot. “Is there rumored to be an enchanted mirror at the college? Surely someone would have heard something if it is what I think it is!”

  “An enchanted mirror?” She pulled back her blue hood and twisted her hair together as she thought. “Nothing that I remember…” Her eyes snapped up, “Wait! Yes! Headmistress Lareja! I’ve heard enchantment students who take her classes say that in her room she keeps a mirror that reflects beauty upon her! Makes her look fifteen years younger and fifty pounds lighter!” She grinned, “Makes the male students feel very conflicted. They see a beautiful woman in their classroom, but away from the mirror she becomes an old fat cow!”

  Slowly, the pieces fell into place. “So this must be her mirror,” he pointed at it. “But instead of projecting beauty, it’s doing something else. Something equally deceptive, I suspect, and doubly deadly.” He glanced from Dorin to Nix. “Any guesses?”

  “My! If it could reflect beauty onto an ugly woman, it could be doing anything!” Dorin thought.

  Nix joined Nandor in his restless pacing. “Not anything,” she mumbled. “According to what I’ve heard, it could only reflect beauty on her when she was within its view. As soon as she left the room, she would appear as she was. So the mirror needs a direct line of sight to pull off such a powerful deception.”

  “Good reasoning, Nix,” Nandor nodded his approval. “Figure out what it can’t do so that we may narrow down what it is doing.” He very nearly smiled—the enchanted tower was likely a better lesson than any class Nix would ever attend. “So follow up on that line of reasoning, if you will,” he instructed. “If it can turn ugly into beauty, what other kinds of deception is it capable of? More so, what kind of deception would our foes want it to do to ensure our death?”