Wizard Dawning (The Battle Wizard Saga, No. 1)

by Lance, C. M.

  Wizard Dawning

  Book One of the Battle Wizard Saga

  Copyright © 2013 C. M. Lance

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  http://CM-Lance.com

  Cover Design by Kjersten Lance

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following names are used in the saga you are about to read. They originated in the Old Norse language which has evolved into Norwegian, Swedish, German, Finish, and Icelandic.

  Aðalbrandr – Ah'–dthul–bronder

  Old Norse – Aðal (noble) + Brandr (sword)

  Sigurd – Sig'–erd (as in Signal)

  Modern form of Old Norse name Sigurðr

  Sig (victorious) + Vard (guard)

  Thorval – Thor'–vul

  Modern form of Old Norse þórvaldr

  Thor (thunder) + valdr (ruler)

  Late in the first quarter of the twenty-first century, the effect of climate change made magic stronger, forcing it out of the shadows.

  The weight burden on the earth's crust shifted as icecaps and glaciers melted, flowing from land to sea. Magma flow increased, altering magnetic flux. Earthquake and volcanic violence and frequency grew. The earth's axis wobbled and shifted through a two-degree arc.

  While scientists focused on climatic and geologic upheaval, others became aware of consequential changes to rivers of magical energy flowing through the earth.

  Untrained people began to sense the flows and to exhibit magic randomly. Witches finally ventured into the open to inform scientists about the changes and dangers. Ley flows, rivers of magical energy, increased significantly and some even shifted like rivers changing course. Comparing the strongest Ley lines to rivers, their currents surged from the trudging Mississippi to become the torrent of the Amazon. And dark magic became easier to wield.

  Headlines read:

  GLOBAL WARMING HEATS UP MAGIC.Chicago Post V3.1

  Magic intensifies, spreads and goes public.

  GOVERNMENTS REGULATE MAGIC. LA Tribune 9.0.2

  Danger from Dark Magic swells. Politicians panic.

  Despite those ominous headlines from ten years ago, for most people little changed in everyday life.

  The effects of magic, like climate change itself, were slow and inexorable. The fortunate found themselves gifted by the rising tide of magic with the equivalent of ocean front property. Others were overtaken and lost everything. Most carried on, however, oblivious to changes reshaping the world.

  Sig's footsteps, crackling through the thin snow crust, broke the morning silence. No clouds floated in the brightening blue arc of sky stretching across the Minnesota prairie as he headed for the barn.

  Static electricity sizzled in the air. Hair on Sig's forearm stood up. How would his horse react to a zap on his big, velvety nose? Sig smiled at the vision, but up close, the response from a three-quarter-ton horse wouldn't be funny to watch.

  Just outside the barn, he felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle. The uncomfortable feeling wasn't caused by low humidity. An involuntary snarl shaped his lips. He rotated his head to the right. Arrayed in an uneven line behind the white rail fence of the farm across the road, seven men stood motionless holding, or leaning on farm tools as they watched him… again.

  Did that farm grow anything besides handymen? Long past having enough to run the farm across the road, every time he looked there were more.

  The Watchers. It seemed that they spent more time watching him than they did working.

  Sig had excellent vision, but the men across the road seemed out of focus. The headache behind his eyes that erupted whenever he looked at them began to simmer.

  He stared at them until they turned and moved away one-by-one. Turning his back on them felt like the wrong thing to do.

  When they were gone, he rubbed his aching temples and turned back to the barn. He still had to feed the horses.

  He glanced back across the road before he opened the barn door. They were gone, but a scent like decaying meat lingered.

  When Sig opened the barn door, his horse poked his head out over his stall door, huffed, and nodded his head. Sig laughed despite the pain still throbbing in his head, remembered to touch metal to dissipate static charge, and reached up to rub Bjørn's nose and scratch his ears. "I guess the Watchers don't bother you, big fella."

  At eighteen hands, or six feet at the withers, he stood the same height as Sig.

  Bjørn sniffed and pulled at Sig's down vest with his lips while Sig curried him and checked his hooves. When he finished, Sig reached into his pocket and pulled out slices of dried apple that Bjørn had been begging for. While Bjørn munched, Sig dumped a can of oats into the feed troughs of the other three warm-blood horses. Bjørn could wait until later.

  Sig finished and patted Bjørn's neck. "Grampa always wants to see what you can do. I'll feed you after your workout."

  Grampa Thor, the driving force behind Sig's martial arts training, would want to see Sig put Bjørn through his paces. Grampa called Dressage "schooling the Battle Horse". Sure, the sport had its roots in training warhorses, but Olympic equestrian competitors, in their top hats and tails, looked nothing like warriors. Besides, over half the riders were women. Women warriors—wasn't that an oxymoron?

  Grampa Thor, actually Mom's grandfather, making him Sig's great–grandfather, was Grampa to everyone.

  Even Grandfather Edward, Mom's father, called him Grampa, or used to. Thor was arriving today to attend his son Edward's funeral.

  Funerals visits were becoming a habit. The last time Grampa came, it was for Sig's father's funeral, a little over a year ago.

  The clatter of a diesel engine sounded through the partially open door. It must be Grampa. Sig hurried to finish with the horses.

  After he closed the barn door, he stopped and looked across the road. The Watchers weren't visible, but he sensed their scrutiny.

  Sig jogged around to the front of the house. When he turned the corner, a vintage Ford dually pickup truck sat in the driveway at the foot of the steps to the front porch. The engine pinged as it cooled.

  A suitcase lay in the back seat. Anticipation built as Sig grabbed it and climbed the stairs to the wraparound porch. Grampa was a pillar of strength—especially after Sig's dad died.

  Only in the last few of his seventeen years did Sig wonder why Grampa Thor looked younger than his son, Grandfather Edward. At 89, Edward looked old, moved old and smelled old. Grampa Thor looked and acted like a man many years younger.

  Sig swept into the kitchen with a big smile and then stopped, the smile frozen on his lips. Grampa looked up at him with a smile from where he sat at the kitchen table. Mom stood behind him looking down with concern.

  Strong white teeth had yellowed. Skin, always tanned and ruddy, now sagged and appeared ashen. His hair had thinned. Only his eyes, Persian blue like Meredith and Sig's, looked the same.

  Instead of springing to his feet, he used the table to lever himself up and held out his hands. The fingers were crooked and lumpy. "Come here and give me a hug young man. You're not too old to hug are you?"

  Sig shook off his immobility, stepped forward into Grampa's embrace, and hugged back. The formerly robust frame felt slight. Over Grampa's shoulder, uncertaint
y reflected in Mom's eyes. They broke off the hug, clapping each others back in the traditional man hug fashion.

  Grampa sat back down and rubbed his chest. Mom handed him a steaming white mug from which a tea bag string dangled. He stopped rubbing his chest, reached out with both callused hands for the mug and smiled up at her. "Thank you Meredith. A nice hot cup of green tea is just the thing to warm my bones."

  "How are you feeling Grampa?" Sig blurted.

  Grampa Thor looked up at Meredith then at Sig. "Why does everybody keep asking me that? Can't a fellow grow old gracefully without being pestered?" A smile softened the cantankerous words. "I've been a little under the weather is all." He waved his hand. "It'll pass, it'll pass. If you have to know, I've got a bit of a bug in my chest. Don't worry about that and let's catch up. How is fencing going?"

  "Sig won the state championship this year—surprised a lot of people," Mom interjected.

  Grampa nodded. "Very good. I thought you had it in you."

  "Can I fix you something? I made Huevos con Chorizo, your favorite." Mom asked.

  "Thank you Meredith, but just some toast, if you would. My stomach is a little sensitive."

  "You must be under the weather. You usually eat at least as much as your great-grandson, the bottomless pit, does." She patted him on the shoulder. "I'll get some English muffins for you."

  "How long will you be able to stay with us this time?" Sig asked.

  "A better question is how long can you put up with an old codger like me?"

  Meredith set the muffins in front of him and said, "Grampa, stay as long as you'd like. We've got plenty of room. Since you mentioned it, how old are you now?"

  "I feel every bit of 193 today, but what's a decade or two either way," Grampa replied.

  Meredith laughed, but it sounded forced.

  Grampa turned to Sig "Are you keeping up with your riding?"

  "Come out and I'll show Bjørn to you. He needs exercise."

  "Get him ready while I finish up this breakfast." He gestured at the muffin. "I'll be out in a few minutes."

  Sig saddled Bjørn and rode him into the outdoor arena to warm him up and work off pent up energy.

  Grampa limped up to the arena as Bjørn made a half-pass to the left. A standard Dressage move, the horse advanced in a sideways slant. In battle, it would have allowed the rider to wield a sword or spear, without having to reach over or around the horse's head.

  As Sig spun him to return, Grampa Thor hollered out. "Well done. Does that critter have any other gears?"

  Sig cued Bjørn into a passage, a showy, slow motion, suspended trot that demonstrated control. The horse seemed to float between each stride, as if trotting underwater.

  After watching Bjorn and Sig make a circuit of the arena in the passage, Grampa yelled again. "Does he do a piaffe?"

  Acknowledging the request with a salute, Sig brought Bjørn almost to a stop. While trotting in place, with a slight pause in the suspension of each stride, and his rear quarters bearing most of the weight, Bjørn's front hooves flared high. Steel shod hooves the size of platters sliced through air before slamming into the soil. It didn't take much imagination to picture what they would have done to an enemy infantryman.

  Thor motioned Sig over. "Let me look at him." He felt the horse's legs, shoulders, and hips. "Yep, I can see Bjørn the bear in him—big, solidly muscled, a heavy haunch but light on his feet. Quite an athlete, made to carry a warrior into battle. A horse this size could carry a large warrior."

  Bjørn stretched out his neck and Grampa rubbed his nose. "Well Sigurd, it looks like you've been practicing and keeping him in shape."

  Sig led him back to his stall, and Grampa dumped a coffee tin of oats into Bjørn's feed trough.

  "Thanks Grampa."

  "He earned it."

  Sig snorted. "What about me?" He asked.

  "Why, do you want some oats too?" Grampa looked at Bjørn, snuffling up oats, "You can reach your hand in there, but watch out for your fingers."

  Sig rolled his eyes almost enough to loose balance. Grampa humor.

  Grampa glanced up from under his thick eyebrows. "You start college next year. What are you planning to study?"

  "Originally Computer Engineering, but I'm interested in magic. Most of the discoveries in magic are coming from Physics. I applied and was accepted at Northwestern to study the Physics of Magic."

  "Have you noticed any magical phenomena, feelings, thoughts…" Grampa asked.

  "I wish. I always hoped that I would have magic. I took the MAT, Magical Aptitude Test. I didn't even score in the tenth percentile. I bought magical tricks. I bought the top that spins for 48 hours, the disappearing glass, and the flaming toad. They weren't fake; they worked, but not for me. I gave them away to other kids who could make them work."

  He shook his head in frustration. "No, I have as much magic as Bjørn."

  Bjørn, finished snuffling up the oats in the trough, turned his head to Sig and, lips forming around a deep voice suited to a 1500-pound stallion drawled, "Do you have any more oats?"

  Sig would swear that the horse raised an eyebrow at him.

  Sig's eyes grew large. He turned to his great–grandfather "Did you hear that?" He looked back at the horse, surprised and confused, wondering if it would talk again.

  Grampa narrowed his eyes. "I couldn't have. You said he doesn't have any magic."

  "You did it! You used ventriloquism."

  Grampa shrugged and shook his head. "Nope, not ventriloquism."

  Sig stared at him intently, and then an unpleasant feeling washed over him again. A feeling best compared with smelling a sauna filled with rotting garbage. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled and his nose wrinkled.

  Noticing the reaction, Grampa asked, "What's wrong?"

  Sig turned his head towards the front of the barn next to the doors. "The Watchers."

  Grampa Thor's looked in the direction of Sig's stare, an empty corner to the left of the barn door. He swung back with a puzzled look. "Watchers? What are Watchers?"

  "The weird handymen across the road; they're out there."

  "What do you mean, out there?"

  "They're outside the door."

  "Did you hear something?"

  "No. I feel when they're around, but I never see them clearly."

  Grampa Thor cocked his head sideways. "Never see them?"

  "They always look blurry, like 3-D without the glasses. It's like two images are shifting back and forth. It hurts my head."

  Grampa frowned. "You say they're weird. What do you mean?"

  "Grandfather Edward said they look underfed." Sig glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. "Mom says she doesn't like them because they starred in dreams she had before Dad died."

  Grampa Thor looked at him for a beat, before he asked, "OK, that's their opinion. What about you?"

  "I get a bad feeling, like a putrid, greasy smell that no one else smells, when they look at me, even when I don't see them around." He shook his head. "That sounds weird. I mean that, whenever I get the feeling, and look around, some of them are always watching."

  "Let's go look at them." Grampa limped toward the barn door.

  Sig scrambled and grabbed Grampa's arm. "No, they never come on our property. Now, they're right outside."

  Grampa Thor looked at him speculatively. Then he pointed in the direction Sig was looking, "At the corner there?"

  Sig nodded.

  "C'mon." Grampa entered an empty stall on that side of the barn and opened the upper half of the outside door. He peered out to the right.

  Sig stood behind him and craned his head to see.

  Six of them stood at the corner of the barn. Features rippled in his vision. His head began to ache.

  Grampa raised an arm, made an unusual gesture with his fingers, and mumbled something. Like a spotlight, the handymen were covered in a glow and at last, Sig saw them clearly. He wished he couldn't.

  Grampa grunted, rubbed his chest, and
muttered, "Zombies … covered in simulacra spells. Get back."

  Decomposing corpses carrying pitchforks, shovels, and axes turned and shambled towards them. Grampa shoved him back and slammed the top of the door. It cut off the vision of rotted and peeling skin that hung and flopped as they approached.

  Grampa Thor walked out of the stall, looking around. "Can't kill them, they're already dead. But, the laws of physics still work. Hack off a leg and they can't walk. Lop off an arm and they can't grab; a head and they can't see. Is there anything in here we can use—axe, pitchfork, machete, sledge hammer?"

  Sig ran down the central aisle and into a storeroom. He emerged with two pitchforks, two small sledgehammers and a machete. Grampa took a sledge, stuck it in his belt, and then grabbed the machete and a pitchfork. "Take those," he said, leaving Sig with a sledge and a pitchfork.

  "Use the pitchfork. Keep them away. Jab, don't stab. If it sticks, they can pull it out of your hands. Break bones with the sledge. Disable arms and legs.

  "Smash their eyes so they can't see. Let's go. Out the back. Lead the way."

  Banging erupted from the stall where they had been. Horses screamed in fear. Sig heard Bjørn's squeal.

  "Come on, let's get out of here. They won't hurt the horses. They'll follow us," Grampa Thor motioned him forward.

  But Bjørn needed him; he had to help.

  Grampa Thor stepped closer and said calmly, "The horses will be better off if we leave." Sig hesitated, nodded, and then sprinted down the aisle to the back of the barn; Grampa limped behind.

  Sig paused at the back door, and turned to the empty stall on the left. "This way. Zombies outside there." He whispered, motioning toward the backdoor before opening the lower door of the stall that led outside, He bent to exit and then held the door until Grampa ducked through. He shut it quietly.

  Grampa whispered, "Did you feel them again?"

  Sig nodded.

  "Do you feel any between us and the house?"