The Crystal College

by Nathaniel Sullivan

  Nandor held out his left hand. “Ready,” he replied.

  There was a vivid hum, and then, she thrust the stick into Nandor’s hand.

  His body tensed as the volts entered him, but he didn’t allow them an outlet. He couldn’t. Not yet. He had to gather more energy, even if it risked damaging his body. “Keep it pressed against my hand!” He whispered through a tense jaw.

  Nix did as she was told, and more energy poured inside him. It rushed through his muscles and clashed against his skin, pleading for a way to escape. It was a strange feeling, both terrible and electrifying. If he didn’t control the power just right, it would gather too close to his skin, and shock him as it searched for a way to equalize.

  In those brief seconds of pain, he recalled what he was taught by the barbarian tribes. All forces of power in the world look for the path of least resistance. They all want to stabilize—to equalize and spread out until they are empty. Wind, fire, electricity, even cold—it is all a pathway, a channel. The wind only blows through the sky to soothe its pain. It wants to steady the constant changes from cold to hot, to find a peaceful balance between the two.

  His body had to be the same—such an influx of power requires intricate channeling. He had to form pathways and miniature circuits for the electricity to loop itself between as he gathered up power, waiting for the right moment to unleash it.

  At last, the stun-stick was drained, and he held out his other hand to the door.

  Nix’s eyes were wider than he had ever seen them. “Y-you’re… your whole body is pulsing! Glowing blue!”

  He looked downwards—she was right. So much power had entered him that it lit up his skin as it searched for a pathway out. He let it gather around his right hand, “Stay back,” he warned his companions, and then, he unleashed it.

  All of it.

  A crackle of thunder erupted throughout the door, and it burst into a thousand wooden shards, exploding into the room.

  Someone screamed. He heard the barking of orders. Panic surrounded them.

  Ideal, he smiled, and grabbed Mikja’s sword, charging with the blade leading the way.

  Sagger was in his path. So was someone else. A brawny man cloaked in heavy furs, and holding a large axe. There was no sign of Lareja. Nandor’s eyes darted from the bodyguard, to Sagger. The headmaster was screaming, ordering his protector to attack.

  Nandor didn’t give him a chance. He rushed to meet the man, and their weapons clashed, sword against axe, followed by a terrible metal sound ringing throughout the room. The large man danced sideways to avoid Nandor’s next swing, and then he lunged with his own.

  Nandor breathed heavy as he avoided the blow. His opponent was a good fighter—not just a common hired blade, but a true warrior. A challenge.

  They struggled for a period that felt like minutes, though it was only seconds. Vaguely he was aware of Sagger scampering up a ladder to the tower top, but he ignored it. He would deal with the cowardly headmaster later.

  “Dorin!” he cried. “Give me a hand!”

  Perhaps the bot was preoccupied with its own challenges, for he received no help. As they fought he was immensely aware of his handicap—the axe was both larger and weightier than his own sword, and the man swinging it swung with both power and speed. Blocking the heavy blows was difficult. Dodging was risky.

  He growled as he realized he had no choice—it was kill or be killed. With a bark, he roared out his rage and swiped the man’s axe aside with his sword. The attack left a brief opening in his opponent’s defenses, and he whipped his blade back, slicing the man from chest to navel, cutting through both fur and skin.

  “Ah!” the man cried.

  In that moment, he might have offered the man a chance to retreat, but he couldn’t risk it. He had to take full advantage of his wound. He swung his blade back up to knock aside the axe again, and then he cleft his sword downwards, biting into the bodyguard’s shoulder, just below the neck.

  The man crumbled in a pile before him, screaming in agony. He ended it swiftly, thrusting into the man’s heart, and pulling back the blade with a kick.

  His eyes darted around the room wildly. He hadn’t noticed it, but there were two more men with swords. They were both occupied with Dorin, who kept one at bay by spraying steam into his eyes, and the other with his saw, rattling against his opponent’s blade.

  The bot looked to have the situation under control. Nix was out of sight and safe. The ladder, he suddenly remembered, and rushed to climb it. He couldn’t allow Sagger a chance to escape.

  He climbed swiftly, but awkwardly, one arm holding Mikja’s sword over his head in case of a surprise attack. The hatch at the top was closed, but it was no obstacle for him. He grunted and thrust his shoulder against it. The small latch up top rattled as it snapped in half and the hatch swung open. There was a rush of ice-cold air as the storm poured in, and he quickly climbed to his feet.

  Snow whirled around him, and a rush of air hit so hard that it made standing difficult. The clouds were dark as they unleashed their fury.

  From somewhere, there was an impossibly bright source of light. He shielded his eyes as he looked towards the center of the tower. There, a bonfire was burning, built high and shielded from the wind by a small stone wall. Nearby, he heard laughter.

  Sagger stood beside it, his hand placed on a fire-conductor. The metal obelisk had pipes fueling it from the bonfire, and it irradiated an immense amount of energy. His other hand was stretched out towards Nandor, ready to burn him with flame.

  “So you survived my little traps, did you?” Sagger’s eyes lit up red as both mystic and elemental energy compelled him.

  Nandor became aware of a subtle probing reaching outwards into his mind. The fool’s actually trying to read my mind. Arrogant prick. You’re a dead man. He let his last two thoughts be heard, then he blocked his mind up tight.

  “You have some power, Nandor, I’ll give you that,” Sagger panted. “I see why the Grandmaster wanted you on our side. But he was a fool for not identifying your weaknesses, and the trouble you bring with you.”

  “You are the fool for standing against me, Sagger. The way you punish your students… ordering Dobry’s death… It didn’t have to be like this.”

  “Oh, but it does,” his hand remained ready to cast fire as he spoke, “You see, the college is ready for a change—of that much the grandmaster is right. Headmistress Lareja should be seeing to it now that our leadership is… well, how to put it… improved. You see? We planned this ever since we heard of your appointment. The war changed nothing. You are not worthy to be a headmaster, and Forojen is too foolish to continue leading the college. You both have to die, and so you both will! Tonight!”

  Flames suddenly erupted from Sagger’s hand, ripping through the falling snow and rushing towards Nandor.

  But he was ready. He reached out to catch the flames as they arrived, and he channeled them back around from one hand to another, projecting them back towards Sagger.

  The headmaster cried out in shock as the flames reflected back towards him. His eyes became frantic, and he fell to the ground. “H-how? Impossible!” He screamed, and then, the flames fell around him.

  It was not a swift death. Fire rarely is.

  There were terrible, blood-curdling shrieks as the fallen headmaster rolled across the tower, consumed in flame. Nandor approached him slowly, recalling how Dobry had been killed. He certainly didn’t deserve any mercy. But as he watched Sagger’s skin turn to wax, and his scream grow louder, he found he couldn’t stomach it any longer.

  He tossed aside his sword, and picked up Sagger’s burning body through gloved hands.

  Then, he flung him from the tower.

  Sagger screamed as he fell.

  One second, then two, then—snap—the final sound of his death as he collided with the ground far below.

  For a while, Nandor leaned against the tower’s wall, gazing downwards. He could see nothing through the haze of constant snow, but he
knew Sagger was dead. His task was finished.

  His companions approached at his side. Nix was looking at where Sagger had fallen. Dorin was covered in red, its saw dripping blood that sizzled as it hit the cold ground.

  “A fitting end,” Nix said at last.

  “A fitting start,” Nandor revised. “I still have much work to do.”

  “But Dobry is at last avenged.”

  Technically, Gevor is still alive, he thought, but decided to not voice his words. If she found some measure of peace in Sagger’s death, then he would let her have it. “Yes, Dobry is avenged. However, Lareja is still alive, and Sagger told me that she plans to kill the grandmaster.”

  “Forojen is being attacked?”

  “Possibly,” Nandor nodded, finally turning from the wall to face her. “You think we should do something about it?”

  Nix frowned, “I know you aren’t on the best of terms with him, but he’s the city’s greatest chance of ever gaining back a piece of what it’s lost. If we want to save Froj, then we need him.”

  “Then I suppose we should go and save him, eh?” He patted her shoulder, and the three hurried back down the deathly tower. On the way, he made sure to retrieve his skis lying beside the bodies Dorin had carved to death.

  Chapter 25: Fools Hunting Gods

  How do I do it? Ha! It’s easy. Everyone thinks that it’s so complicated, but really, like anything else, I find it to be rather simple.

  Gather around woeful men!

  Allow me to explain!

  First, YOU tell ME: What is your ailment?

  “You can’t catch your darling fancy?”

  “Your vegetable sales are low?”

  “You find it hard to relate to others?”

  “Your relationship isn’t working as you expected?”

  Ha! Such simple woes! I yearn for the time when I struggled over fair maidens and paltry copper coins!

  But let me tell you the secret—for it is no secret at all. People are people all over the world, and it only takes one thing to get on their good side. Even as a singer or a performer, it is not your job to dance and to flaunt about the stage! As every good performer knows—the true job is to make the other person happy! No showboating, no lies, no deception, no false smiles—unless they want them. Mostly, it is far simpler than that.

  “But what is the secret?” you cry, “tell me tell me please wise bard!”

  Ha! I told you already! It is no secret!

  I once met a man who said there is a root cause to everything—from the wind, to the stars, to the very nature of humanity itself. He claimed that if you learn the root, you could apply something called the Universal Principals of Life to the underlying root in order to manipulate it into a better state.

  If he is right, then this is another root as well. Plain as day, soft as snow, and simple as sunshine. Just be interested in the other person, and that’s it. Everyone wants someone to earnestly care. Honest, playful, not obtrusive, but genuine interest.

  That is all it takes. If you have interest in a person, your best self will shine through. But it must not be selfish, and it must not be overly eager—just plain old simple modest attraction. Works like a charm for me! Has ever since I scored my first lass.

  Take my advice. Trust me. Without honest interest, every relationship is doomed from the start anyway. Be it rearing a child, or finding a suitable mate.

  You want an example? Ha!

  My very life is the example! Watch and learn, watch and learn!

  —The Bard’s View of Life

  Even through the snowy fog they could tell that something was wrong. In the distance, Grandmaster Forojen’s home was illuminated with dark colors—nothing like the kindly shining lights that normally hung in the air.

  It was as if the house itself was being assaulted, and was angered of the attack.

  “What in the hells do you think is going on?” Dorin wondered.

  “It seems Lareja’s already arrived,” Nandor muttered, walking swiftly. He drew Mikja’s sword from his scabbard once again, realizing it would be a long night.

  The bot was confused. “I thought Lareja was the headmistress of magical tinkering and enchantment—what sort of attack would she be capable of?”

  He shrugged, “Not all attacks are magical attacks. Could be a simple knife in the dark.”

  A flash of red suddenly burst throughout the home, illuminating the windows and bathing the outside snow. The three paused, looked to each other, and then, ran towards Forojen’s door.

  “That didn’t look like any knife!” Dorin huffed, steam puffing from its vents as they sprinted.

  “Be ready for anything,” Nandor advised, and shouldered the door open.

  His sword led the way into Forojen’s enchanted home. It had changed immensely from when last they had seen it. Nothing much was out of place, but the lights were dimmed, flickering, and glowing from red to flame orange. There was a stillness in the air that stole their voices, and it was all that they could do not to shiver from the cold.

  There was no incense burning, nor were the steam-warmers heating the house.

  At first, it appeared empty.

  But then, it became entirely evident that it was not.

  A drip fell from the ceiling, landing just before Nandor’s boots. He slowly knelt down to examine the strange splash—it was red. A tug at his sleeve from Nix caused him to look over his shoulder. “What?” he hissed.

  In response, she simply pointed up.

  A body was impaled on the upwards crystal chandelier. It was a twisted and broken body of a man, with a dreadful scream written across its face.

  “My god…” he muttered.

  The further they walked, the more horrors they uncovered. Two more men were splayed across the stone dining table, their bodies mangled and broken as if they had tumbled down cliff after cliff. A third figure lay at their feet. It looked almost pristine next to the other bodies, save for an indention just below the shoulder—its heart had been ripped out. The figure held the rosy organ in its own hand, arteries still erratically pulsing red spurts. His eyes were rolled back as if he had experienced some great form of ecstasy upon its removal.

  Even Dorin’s eyes flickered in shock. “I-I’m not sure it’s Forojen we have to save…” it murmured.

  Nandor nodded his agreement. If the old grandmaster killed these men, he certainly doesn’t need our help…

  From up above, they heard a sudden scream. It was a woman’s voice.

  Nandor charged up the stairs to Forojen’s bedroom, and froze.

  The grandmaster stood before them with Lareja at his feet, whimpering in pain, although there was no sign of a struggle. Forojen’s eyes flickered over to Nandor, then back to his victim.

  “You really thought you could overthrow me?” the grandmaster growled—it was not the same kind of growl that Nandor gave, which warned of danger. It was a growl of death itself.

  “P-p-please!” Lareja begged at his heels, almost sobbing. “Don’t kill me like you did my apprentices! Do it fast! Please! I beg you!”

  “You. Sagger. You both conspired against me. First you tried to slay those under my protection,” he glanced briefly over at Nix, “Then you try to murder Nandor and I, yet you think I owe you anything? A swift death?” He shrugged, as if the consideration was no more than the decision between coffee or tea. “Fine!” he snarled, “May death take you and all your witless ways forever away into the realms of nothing!”

  Forojen reached out his hand, and tapped Lareja on her forehead. At the soft touch, there was a brief flicker of red from his eyes that transferred into her own. Her expression became ravenous, and wild. She jumped to her feet, screamed, and then bashed her own head against the wall over and over until her body lay twitching at Forojen’s feet.

  He stretched out his hand to touch her again, and whispered, “Die,” and all at once, her twitching stopped.

  Suddenly, the room became brighter, and Forojen stood a notch taller, s
traightening his robes. “Well,” he sighed, looking over at Nandor. “That was a bit of nastiness, wasn’t it?”

  “It was brilliant…” something mechanical whispered from Nandor’s side.

  “I take it you were able to handle Sagger on your own?” The Grandmaster continued, stepping over Lareja’s body, casually strolling towards them as if they spoke about the weather.

  At last, Nandor was able to find words. “Yes. Yes, Sagger and his flunkies set several traps for us in the mystic tower, but I was able to overcome them. He is dead.”

  “Good!” Forojen smiled, and moved to embrace his shoulder in a brotherly hug.

  Nandor smoothly side-stepped the grandmaster’s approach, keeping him at a distance. “Forgive me, Grandmaster, if I am a little wary of your touch after seeing what you did so easily to Ms. Lareja.”

  Forojen’s eyes fell. Perhaps in shame? “Ah, no matter,” he circled around them, and walked to the staircase, waving for them to follow. “I take no pleasure in defending myself, Nandor,” he said as they descended to the lower floor. “However, I do extract a certain amount of justice in those who have intentionally wronged me.” He glanced backwards. “Make sense?”

  Nandor recalled how he had killed Sagger. Burned him alive and then flung him from the tower. Was I any better? “I suppose,” he agreed, unsure.

  “A lot has changed since our last little meeting,” Forojen said. “The college is in worse state than I thought. I knew Sagger disapproved of my actions, but I never thought he would actually try to rally an uprising against me. Suppose this world still has a few surprises in store even for a man as old as I.”

  They approached the dining room, where the bodies were sprawled across the table. “How—what sort of magic did you use on your attackers?” Nandor asked both in awe and revulsion. It was if a tornado had twisted them apart.

  “These men?” Forojen’s hands nonchalantly swept before the table, and he smiled. “The best elementalists can channel more than fire. I simply channeled some of the outside storm—then I gave them a little taste.”