Tides of Faith: Travail of The Dark Mage Book Two

by Brian S. Pratt

  Jiron bolted forward and finished him off before the man had the chance to sink to the floor.

  “We better make this fast,” he said.

  James nodded.

  Jiron moved to the where a steep set of steps rose to the main deck, down which came the sound of men droning in a sing-song style.

  “What are they doing?” Shorty asked.

  “Praying.”

  They turned to Father Vickor. “They are praying. I can feel it.”

  “Why?” Potbelly asked.

  The priest shrugged. “That I cannot tell you.”

  To Scar, Jiron said, “You and Potbelly take Shorty down to the other end and wait for our signal.”

  “Right.” To Potbelly, Scar said, “Try to be quiet.”

  “Me?” he replied in mock irritation. “You’re the one that moves like a pregnant rhino-lizard.”

  His friend just grinned as they headed down the passageway.

  James followed Jiron as he sneaked up the steps and to the opening at the top. Father Vickor brought up the rear. At the top, Jiron signaled for the others to wait as he peered at what lay beyond. After a brief reconnoiter, he came back down a step.

  “Everyone on the ship, other than the two priests and the captain look to be in prayer.”

  “Let me see,” James said.

  Moving to the top, he peered out on scores of kneeling men. Heads bowed and hands held aloft, they chanted a repeating mantra. The two priests stood by the three magical weapons at the bow. Their priestly glow surrounded them and the weapons.

  James closed his eyes and with the barest amount of magic, sent his senses out to see what was going on. To do so with such a miniscule amount of power took far greater concentration than was usually required, but he dared not risk detection.

  As his senses reached the nearest of the praying men, he detected faint lines of power radiating outward from each. Extending his senses further, he saw how the power tendrils coming from those praying met at a central point above them. From there the power flowed toward the priests. Once at the priests, he saw how the magic was being channeled toward the magic weapons’ crystals. James gasped.

  “They’re using prayer to recharge the crystals.”

  “Is that even possible?” asked Jiron.

  “Magic is magic,” James explained, “whether priestly, or from a mage. If I can do it, so can anyone else. They just have to believe they can and figure out how.”

  He felt very bad about what he was about to do, but could see no way around it. Taking one of the two crystals out of his pocket, he held it tight, raised it so as to aim at those praying. Setting in his mind to draw all their power from them in one, massive burst of leeching magic, he activated the spell.

  Those nearest slumped to the deck but the remainder continued prayer as if nothing happened. Magic was being drawn into the crystal at an alarming rate, yet only a handful of men had been affected. It took but a moment to realize the magic being leeched came from the prayers, not the men.

  The priest’s head spun toward him and James threw up a shield spell just as a blast of priestly magic slammed into it. He responded with a burst of his own. A wall of air hit the priests, knocking the lesser one back to the edge of the ship; the elder one looked to not have been affected at all.

  A shield interposed itself between James and those praying. Instantly, the magic being drawn into the crystal ceased.

  For a brief moment, he and the priest faced off, eyes locked. Then the ship erupted in motion as men ceased praying and leapt to their feet. Drawing weapons, they turned and attacked.

  Jiron and Father Vickor interposed themselves between James and the scores of armed men. Morcyth’s white light enveloped Father Vickor. To Jiron’s surprise, a glowing shield of sorts sprang into being on the priest’s left forearm. It deflected a downward hack. Father Vickor followed through with a crushing blow to the man’s midsection.

  “Nice,” Jiron said.

  “Morcyth protects his own.” Offering a prayer of gratitude to his god, Father Vickor crashed his glowing, translucent shield into another man knocking him back.

  Three men already lay at Jiron’s feet and commotion at the other side of the mob of enemy soldiers said Scar, Potbelly and Shorty had entered the fray.

  James only had eyes for the priest; he trusted his friends to handle the soldiers.

  He and the priest tested each other’s shields; a probe here, a jab there, each searching for a weakness to be exploited. James had to admit, the priest he faced was far more experienced than the ones previously encountered.

  Father Vickor cried out as he was pushed back when a blade took him in the shoulder.

  Jiron stepped in and kicked the soldier in the side of the knee as the man tried to follow through with another thrust on the off-balanced priest. A satisfying snap broke through the din and the man fell.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  The blood flowing from the wound slowed to a trickle, then the skin began to knit as Father Vickor’s priestly magic went to work. “Fine,” he said. Stepping forward once again, he engaged another man, a sailor this time. Short sword deflected on his shield, a solid hit to the man’s midsection with his mace and then a knee to the face when the man doubled over sent him unconscious to the deck.

  The din was deafening. The clash of metal on metal, men shouting, men dying, and through it all, James played parry and counter-parry with the priest.

  He reached to the dissipating clouds above, found just enough electric charge available, and sent a bolt of lightning down onto the priest. The concussion sent nearby soldiers flying and when the flash subsided, saw the priest standing beneath a protective bubble.

  Accessing the magic within the crystal in his hand, he sent a powerful wave along the deck toward the priest. Boards splintered, sailors and soldiers alike flew into the air or were knocked off their feet as a ten foot wide swath of deck disintegrated and fell to the hold below. Upon reaching the priest’s shield, the wave of destruction continued on beneath it only a short distance before the priest altered the shield’s position and halted the attack.

  “Almost had you,” James mumbled.

  His attack had left a massive hole; most of the enemy soldiers were now a deck below amidst the wreckage; most barely moved. Potbelly and Father Vickor easily dealt with the few that remained.

  “What in the name of the gods is he doing?” Scar said as his twin long swords wove a dance of death among those that made ill-fated attempts to attack.

  “Trying to sink us by the looks of it,” Potbelly replied.

  His dagger knocked a thrust to the right and he followed with his sword to take the soldier in the gut. He kicked the man back into his fellows and thrust at another on his left that tried to close.

  Over by Scar and Potbelly, the fighting was still quite furious. The two pit masters held the line while Shorty darted to and fro behind them seeking opportunities for his knives to find a home.

  Scar dropped a soldier, an opening appeared and a knife spun through the air to sink into the chest of a sailor further back in the pack. Shorty then drew another knife and waited.

  Less than half a score soldiers stood before them. They lacked the skill of pit fighters who had been seasoned against the meanest fighters coins and no small amount of trickery could throw at them. The enemy had the numbers, but Scar and Potbelly’s skill and the confining area in which they fought negated much of that advantage.

  Piercing a man through the chest then blocking an overhand hack from another, Scar spun and kicked another back several steps. “Can you hold?”

  “Yes,” Potbelly replied. “You going somewhere?”

  “See if I can help James.” He pressed those facing him furiously causing them to fall back. “Shorty, take over.”

  “You got it,” the knifer said. Stepping forward, he drew his fighting knives and allowed Scar to fall back.

  Scar then went to the side of the ship, grabbed the side and slipped o
ver the edge.

  Tinok looked up from the image in Miko’s bowl and spied the captain. “Turn us around!”

  “The Dark Mage said for us to lead them,” argued Captain Anyn.

  “That time is past.” Tinok’s face turned stony. “Now I’m telling you to turn us about.”

  The captain glanced to Miko who nodded. Looking defeated, he hollered, “Turn us about!”

  “That priest is holding his own.”

  Miko glanced to Father Keller. “He does seem skilled.”

  “What does Scar hope to accomplish, Reverend Father?” Kip asked. In the bowl’s image, Scar was making his way along the outer edge of the ship toward the front where the two priests stood beneath the yellowish, glowing shield.

  “I do not know.”

  “Our Master needs help,” Azhan said.

  “And what do you propose to do?” Miko asked. “At this distance, not hitting our friends with whatever you attempt would prove quite difficult.”

  The young mage paced to and fro. He knew he could do nothing and it frustrated him.

  “The Dark Mage will win out,” Miko assured him.

  “Are you sure?” Hikai asked.

  “He has overcome much worse.”

  “None of our previous masters could do even half what we’ve seen him accomplish” Hikai said.

  Azhan nodded.

  The ship turned and as it headed back toward the enemy flagship, the young mage gazed out over the water. Above, the clouds were dissipating steadily as the winds broke them apart or sent them on their way. Stretches of clear blue now filled most of the sky. Even from this distance he could feel the magic being used. The prickling along his skin grew with each passing breath. He swelled with no small amount of pride at the abilities of his master.

  Then from out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shimmering in the sky above. He looked up and gasped; several miles off, the sky shimmered. Not in just one section of the sky, but three. One came from the northwest, another from almost due east and the third out of the southern sky. They looked to be converging on the flagship where his master fought the priest.

  “Look!” he hollered as he pointed upward.

  Miko saw the shimmering fields with dread. He well remembered the problems James had had with those in the Waste.

  “Azhan, fill the sails,” he commanded. “We need to get back there and fast!”

  The soldiers and sailors had been dealt with. The ship’s captain laid dead with his men. Any wounds received had been healed by Father Vickor. Now there was a standoff between James and the priest.

  Having lashed out unsuccessfully multiple times, the priest and his subordinate stood within the protective bubble.

  Everyone but Scar had joined James behind his protective shield.

  “If we can get his shield down,” Potbelly said, “Scar should be able to hit him with a dart and end this.”

  James eyed the ship’s railing beyond the two priests and saw the top of Scar’s head poking up from where he hung on the far side.

  “I could try talking to him,” Father Vickor said, “priest to priest.”

  “Doubt that would accomplish anything,” James replied. “Besides, I got an idea.”

  Sending out his senses, he inspected the priest’s protective bubble. Tried a leech spell upon it and at first it failed to connect with the priest’s magic. After several attempts at different modulations, finally managed to drain magic. He canceled the leech spell and opened his eyes.

  “Let’s see how much magic he can control at one time.”

  Cupping his hands together, he formed a small glowing speck between them. After creating a spell that would both leech the magic and send waves of force back to strike the shield, he opened his hands.

  The small speck floated up to hover a short distance away from the ship. Once in position, the spells activated. Instantly, James’ skin prickled as the speck began to draw power. He allowed it to run a few moments then activated the secondary, attack spell. That spell would send the drawn power back to the shield in an intermittent, pulsating attack. Kind of like a malignant parasite killing its host.

  Wham!

  The priest easily dealt with the attack and the shield held.

  James once again cupped his hands, made a second speck and sent it up to hover opposite the first. Once it had begun to leech and strike with its pulsating attack, he cupped his hands to make a third… then a fourth.

  The priest was sweating now. The younger priest was aglow with their god’s power; a yellowish tendril of priestly magic stretched from one to the other.

  Wham!

  Wham!

  Wham! Wham!

  A fifth parasitic speck joined the others, then a sixth. The sextuplet of specs formed a rough hexagon in the air surrounding them.

  The glowing tendril between the two priests now glowed much brighter. Sweat ran down the face of the younger. His breathing grew labored.

  “Shouldn’t be too much longer now,” Father Vickor said.

  Already the protective bubble was dimmer than previously. Each time one of the specks sent an attack, the older mage visibly winced. James had to agree, it shouldn’t take much longer.

  Behind the priests, Scar edged up over the rail and came lightly down on the deck. He squatted behind a barrel sitting near the back railing. Dart in hand, he waited for an opportunity.

  Potbelly, too, held a dart…just in case.

  Subconsciously, James ran his hand along his arm to still the prickling sensation. With the specks in play, it had grown rather uncomfortable; and the longer they were in effect, the feeling only grew more intense.

  His senses probed the protective bubble, seeking weaknesses. When a fissure momentarily opened in it only to close a heartbeat later, he knew it wouldn’t be much longer.

  “Maybe another of those?” suggested Shorty, gesturing to a glowing spec that hovered not far from where they stood.

  James shook his head. “Six will be enough. They are already taking their toll.”

  The link between the two priests vanished as the younger priest pitched forward to land unmoving upon the deck.

  “Nope, not long now.”

  Anticipating the end, James sent his senses to each of the specks in order that when the protective bubble failed, he could deactivate them. He wanted to capture the priest, not kill him.

  The bubble wavered, nearly collapsing altogether before the priest managed to get it back in place.

  One of Scar’s darts pinged off the back of it when he had sensed an opportunity. Cursing his ill-luck, he readied a second dart.

  “What is that?”

  James heard Father Vickor’s question but at first dismissed it. But then Shorty’s, “By the gods!” drew him back to himself. Everyone was looking out to sea beyond the ship’s stern.

  An arc of roiling water stretching across a great swath of the surface steadily made its way toward them. Still a mile or so out, the cause of the roiling was difficult to determine. Drawing closer, it soon became clear that an untold number of fish were thrashing on the surface.

  One large specimen with a spear-like nose leapt from the water, twisted completely around in mid-air, then fell back to the water.

  A distortion in the sky above the roiling drew his attention. The shimmering was almost upon them.

  “Damn!” he cried and latched his senses upon the nearest speck and tried to deactivate it. Already, fissures had opened and the nature of the spell was changing.

  “James, the shimmering…” began Jiron.

  “I know,” he said, cutting him off.

  “The fish,” Potbelly said, “the leading edge of the fish disturbance is directly under the beginning of the shimmering.”

  Zzzzzt!

  An arc of lightning lanced into the approaching shimmering field from the northwest.

  James’ jaw dropped when he saw the second shimmering field.

  “Look there!” shouted Father Vickor. Yet a third was coming in
from the east.

  “Three?” James asked, incredulously. “But…how? Why?”

  Zzzzzt!

  This time lightning shot from the southern shimmering field to the one to the east.

  Zzzzzt! Zzzzzt!

  As the fields drew closer together, the frequency of lightning strikes increased. Winds picked up and the sea grew choppy. By now the thrashing of the fish was clearly audible and ominously close. Another large fish leapt greater than the height of a man, spun in air three times before hitting the surface in a plume of water.

  A sudden burst of crackling and popping drew his attention to the nearest speck. Sparks flew from it and an arc of magic flared outward, striking Father Vickor. Stumbling backward, the priest cried out as he fell to the deck. Starting from just below his left eye and traveling down to his larynx, ran a jagged, foot long welt. Calling out to Morcyth, he was quickly enveloped in the god’s whitish glow and the wound began to diminish.

  Jiron was at the priest’s side and helped him stand.

  “Get back, all of you!” James hollered.

  Red ants marched along his skin, so bad had the prickling become. In the sky above, the three shimmering fields were quickly moving to merge together. He turned his senses to the specks. They, and the magic they were utilizing, were drawing the fields to them.

  Spells were being corrupted at an alarming rate. All had mass fissures with new spell matrix’s being formed. Concentrating on the one that attacked Father Vickor, James sought the core spell.

  “James!”

  Ignoring Jiron’s cry, he threw himself into the closing of the spell. Never had concentration come so hard, nor had results been so wavering. Not only were the spells being corrupted, but the magic he sought to perform was affected the moment he bent the power to his will.

  He put everything he had into closing the spell and unraveling the Gordian Knot of corrupted power conduits. Wending his way through the convoluted matrix, he was about to reach the core spell when fissures erupted all around where his senses sought to penetrate.

  Power took hold of his mind’s eye and a backlash of magic wrenched the spell from him and dropped him to his knees.