by Dan Bilodeau
“And now,” Hadrian said with a twinkle in his eye, “it’s time to begin your training, young Dalziel.”
“You sneaky old man.”
“Of course I’m sneaky. How do you think I got to become an old man in the first place?”
Hadrian walked twenty paces and turned to face Dal. “First, I want you to learn how to summon your Seraph armor.”
Dal fidgeted with his hands in his pockets. He had no idea how he had done it the first time; it had just sort of happened. Hadrian gave Dal a knowing look. “Pull out the stone, Dalziel.” He did as told. The stone was emitting the low hum he had become used to, but now its red hues were pulsing rapidly.
“The stone responds to your will and emotions. When you ascended in the market the other day, it was because the stone sensed your distress and anger. It responded to your will to destroy those soldiers. What you have to learn is how to ascend without relying solely on your emotions, which are unstable. When you can master your will and focus yourself completely, you’ll be able to call upon your Seraph self whenever you desire. Then you won’t have a repeat of yesterday, when nothing happened.”
That last part stung. Dal remembered how helpless he felt at not being able to aid Hadrian in the fight. “I felt fear, isn’t that a strong enough emotion?”
“Fear is indeed a strong emotion, but at the farm it was not powerful enough to enable you to ascend. You must focus your will if you are to master the stone.”
Dal’s inner voice commanded him to concentrate on the stone. He clutched it with such force that his fingers hurt. He attempted to put everything out of his mind except for the stone. Time slowed. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He could hear the clear chirping of a jay and smell the fresh dew on the grass and the wet bark on the nearby oaks. He let his mind call out to the stone and opened his eyes. Nothing happened, and he threw up his hands.
“Try again,” Hadrian said. He did, and again nothing happened. “You must be one with the stone, Dalziel. You must focus on it and listen to it. Remember, the stone is alive. It is a conduit to Dio Himself.”
Dal closed his eyes, listening for any hints from the stone. What are you waiting for, you stupid rock? Help me! I need to ascend, or whatever Hadrian calls it. Still, Dal got the same result.
Hadrian sighed. “All right, I guess focus will have to wait. For now, we can just work on summoning magic the old-fashioned way.”
Without warning, a fireball came streaking toward Dal from Hadrian’s direction. Dal dived out of the way. “What in Dio’s name are you doing? You could have killed me!”
“I should have. You can’t even ascend like a proper Seraph. Maybe you should give me the stone. I'll bet I can save your friends by myself anyway.” Another bolt of flame came toward Dal. He dived again. The flame hit a tree 50 feet behind him. Its trunk began to crackle and spit as a flame rose up from it.
"Stop it, Hade. This isn’t a game.”
“Who said it was? I need a Seraph at my side, not a boy.” A long thin red band began forming in front of the old man. It became thicker and caught fire. Dal was furious. Pad and Curran were in trouble, and Hade was playing around like some kid.
Dal screamed, “Stop it! We don’t have time for this!” The stone was now a fiery red, humming loudly, and pulsing rapidly. The flame became a fireball and shot toward him. Without thinking, he raised both hands and a wall of flame appeared. Hadrian’s fireball hit it and dissipated.
Hadrian smiled. “Not bad for a beginner,” he said. The armor was back, and Dal was hovering several feet in the air. He soared a hundred feet above Hadrian, relishing the freedom. “Now try an offensive spell,” the old man shouted.
Dal had no idea how he’d create anything. He stretched his hand toward Hadrian and tried to bring his anger to the surface. “The old man’s been manipulating me,” he said to himself, legitimately seething inside. Two red orbs appeared, each the same color as his stone, pulsating and changing hues as if molten rock. Dal held them in place by red strands connected to his hands. He pointed in Hadrian’s direction, and the orbs streaked toward him. Hadrian made no attempt to move, but stared serenely at the objects.
“Hade, run!” Dal yelled, not realizing what he’d done until it was too late. In a split second, Hadrian was immersed in a self-contained sphere of water with ripples and currents roiling inside it. He smiled at Dal as the orbs entered the sphere and fizzled out harmlessly.
Dal’s immediate thought was that he could have killed Hadrian, and the stone was a curse. Then he found himself falling. He didn’t even have time to yell out, but right before he hit, his descent slowed and there was a flash and his armor disappeared. He landed hard enough, though, and he felt his leg and winced, certain he’d have a nice bruise. Why couldn’t the armor have waited?
Hadrian was standing over him. “Not bad, not bad at all. Now, how did I beat you, young Dalziel?”
“You’re more experienced. You have control of the elements.”
“You are partially correct and partially wrong. I am more experienced than you, but that’s not why I beat you. I beat you because I manipulated your emotions. I made you feel the way I wanted you to feel, and you ascended in anger, and for this reason you were unable to control your magic, although those fire orbs were impressive. You will never survive if you cannot master your will. But, still, it’s good that you now know just how much anger to muster to become a Seraph. I suspect that ability will come in handy this afternoon when we’re outnumbered 20 to one.”
“I just thought of something. Once we sneak into the city and rescue Pad and Curran, can’t I just fly everyone out with me?”
“The stories are unclear, but there weren’t many instances of Seraphs carrying people to safety or hauling large objects. From what I’ve read, when a Seraph tries to carry much more than his armor, he becomes awkward and cumbersome in flight, which is always dangerous. Remember, arrows have killed a Seraph. That’s enough for right now. Ah, here comes Deidre. I expect she’s got something for us to cook for breakfast.” Hadrian helped Dal to his feet.
“Come on, you two, I've got some mushrooms and a rabbit for breakfast,” she said. She scampered into the woods without waiting for a response.
They followed her, and Dal said, “I saw something when we were trying to burn each other to a crisp. At first I just saw the fire appear, but once I ascended I saw red strands coming from your arms. What does that mean?”
“You were attuned to the magic through your anger, so you saw what type of magic I was using. We call them weaves because of the strandlike shape. As you form your magic, the strands weave together like fabric on a loom. It’s a rare gift among Druids to see weaves, because many never see them their whole lives. They can use the magic but they can never fully understand it. Someday, with a little luck, you won’t have that issue to deal with.”
They continued walking until they reached a fire Deidre had built deeper in the woods. Quite hungry, Dal could smell the rabbit roasting before he saw it on the spit, and had started salivating. “Rabbit, nice,” he said to Deidre once he caught up with her.
“It’s easy when you know how to use one of these,” she replied as she hoisted her bow. “So, what were you two doing?”
“Learning how to make fire,” Dal responded.
Hadrian winked at her. “You impress me more and more with your skill with that bow, young lady. I’ll never forget that you saved my life with it.”
“I need you alive so we can kill Andals together,” she said while she flexed the bowstring. “I’m going to get as many of those bastards as I can.”
“As am I,” Dal said in a quiet voice, thinking about Soren. “As am I.”
“She has her bow, what do you have?” Hade asked Dal.
“My magic. What else do I need?”
“There are other ways even a Seraph must defend himself.” Hadrian flicked his wrist and Dal saw a flash and heard a thunk. A knife’s blade stuck deep into a tree 20 feet away.
Dal pulled it out, which was no easy chore. “How’d you do that?” he asked Hadrian.
“I willed the knife and made it fly straight to its target.”
“Can you teach me?”
“After we eat,” he said, and Dal didn’t argue with him.
They finished the meal and Hadrian showed Dal how to create a knife and make it always hit its mark. Dal didn’t want to take long to practice, more anxious than ever to get to Pad and Curran, but as they walked and planned the rescue of his friends, he practiced what Hadrian had taught him. By the time they reached the outskirts of Quork, he could conjure up a knife and make it fly exactly where he desired, every time.
TWELVE
Dal walked toward the town square by himself. The sun was hot on his face, and he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the rays. He was wearing Hadrian’s brown robe and had the hood pulled over his head. He passed some vendors he knew in the marketplace, but none took notice of him.
Dal ambled by the barracks, where there was little activity, which was good. Two guards stood at the entrance, their armor gleaming in the sun. He hoped that a majority of the soldiers in the garrison were out scouring the countryside. Regardless, he wanted to kill as many Andals as he could, since Curran and Pad were not Dal’s only reason for coming. Soren had to be answered for.
He saw Slaig and heard him touting his crops and their freshness in his customary booming voice, Dal’s normal spot empty beside him. Only a few days before he had stood next to him, selling their crops together, but it may as well have been a lifetime ago. Now Soren was gone, never to play in the market again. Slaig would never rub his brother’s head again or remark on how big he was getting. Slaig acted the meanie, but he had loved Soren. Dal had to stop thinking about this, because he couldn’t let his sorrow overtake his anger.
Dal walked up the granite steps to the entrance of the town hall. Two Andals stood guard at the door. “What’s your business here, potato-eater?” one of the soldiers said to him. Both idly fingered their pikes. Good. They didn’t see him as a threat.
“I have some information for the magistrate,” Dal said. “It involves secret gatherings of the locals.” The Andals were always looking for informants, and they had offered substantial money. This idea had been met with disdain and rejection, as people from Quork had always protected their own, but there was the thought that, for the right amount, someone might come forward.
The soldier who had spoken raised his eyebrow while the other checked Dal for a weapon, with him palming the pulsing red stone all the while. After the guard was finished, he said something to the other one and went inside. The man who remained at his watch sneered at Dal, since being in close proximity to an Ibernian for any period of time was clearly repugnant to him.
Dal was sweating from the robe, the heat, and the pressure. His heart was pounding in his chest, but the guard didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, or didn’t care.
After what took much too long to Dal’s liking, one of the double doors swung open and the guard and magistrate Hobarth emerged. The magistrate was out in the open, and the plan had worked--so far. Now would come the hard part.
"I understand you have some information for me,” the magistrate said in an irritable tone. “Out with it now, I haven’t got all day."
“I do,” Dal said as he removed his hood. “My brother’s name was Soren, and he sends his regards.” Thinking of his brother and his father, and of his mother's now having to live in the forest, a wicked-looking knife appeared in Dal’s hand. In the blink of an eye, he slit the magistrate’s throat with it. Hobarth tried to scream, but all that emerged was a gurgling plea. He clutched his neck and fell into what quickly became a puddle of blood.
The guards were caught by surprise. Before the first soldier could lower his pike at Dal, an arrow took him in the eye. He fell down the concrete steps, his armor clanking all the way to the bottom. The second soldier looked on in confusion as his partner’s body tumbled from the last step and the racket ended. He charged at Dal, but was thrown off the building by an invisible force, landing on the concrete 50 feet below the building’s high porch. The impact was loud and a pool of blood began gathering around the man’s head.
Dal gazed at Hobarth’s body for a moment. Before, in the square, he had killed, only by accident. But now he had killed on purpose. Yet he felt strangely good about it. This was justice. A single tear fell from his eye. “Soren,” he whispered, “I love you, brother.”
And now there was no turning back.
He saw a crowd forming. Deidre was standing on Slaig’s cart, bow in hand. He kept shouting about his vegetables as if nothing had happened, but a grin now covered his face as he continued to go about his business.
Deidre urgently pointed behind Dal, and he saw her mouth the word ‘go’. Hadrian was standing amongst the crowd in Dal’s clothes. He appeared to be a simple farmer. Well, a simple farmer who was in command of the elements.
Between the foot traffic milling about and the noise made by the vendors hawking their wares, there was an odd indifference. Maybe some had viewed the dead Andals and decided it was safer to be elsewhere. Or perhaps they didn’t want to congregate for long and draw attention to what had happened.
Dal entered the building, expecting more soldiers, but there were none in sight. Paintings of the Emperor hung on the walls, and below these an array of formidable weapons. To the rear of the main room, a wide, well-lit hallway had ornate doors spaced evenly up and down on both sides. Prisoners were hardly housed behind that kind of hardware.
At the end of the corridor was a staircase leading up to the next level. A servant met Dal at the top and, aghast at seeing him, ran down the steps. Dal didn’t have time to worry about him. He had to find his friends, and prayed they were in this building and still in one piece.
He came to large door made of heavy, highly polished wood. He opened it and entered the magistrate’s office, as identified by his official seal on the wall. A quill and ink were on a desk, along with a partially finished letter the unfortunate Hobarth had been in the middle of writing when Dal’s visit interrupted him. Dal smiled and tipped over the ink so it spilled all over everything.
The second door he tried led to a smaller office. He worked his way down the hall to a door that opened up to a stairway leading to two large iron cells. Dal covered his nose reflexively. The stench coming from the area smelled of dying animals mixed with the odor of vomit. Pad and Curran were in one of the cells, their arms and legs chained to the wall.
Dal found keys hanging on a metal rung behind a panel. He tried several until he heard a click and the cell unlocked. Curran looked to be in decent shape except for a cut lip and a bruise above one eye. Pad, however, was unconscious. His head was leaning to the side, and he had ligature marks around his neck and a badly swollen nose.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Curran asked as Dal found the key to release the iron cuffs holding his arms and legs.
“Long story,” Dal said. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” he said as he shook his arms. “I’m worried about Pad.”
“Can he move?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Dal got Pad free of his chains, and as the two boys lifted him to his feet, he opened his eyes. “Dal! Thank Dio it’s you. I thought they were going to….” He had a severe gash in one of his legs, and there was no way he could walk on his own, so they half dragged him from the cell.
“How did you get in, Dal?” Curran asked. “The guards--”
“I’ll explain everything later. Right now, we’ve got to get out of here.” They made it down the staircase and managed not to drop Pad. Dal opened the door and peeked down the hallway. No soldiers. Pad was able to help them get him to the next stairway, which they were able to descend without too much difficulty. The hallway was clear, and when they reached the main room, it was empty. Dal saw a shaft of sunlight enter through a slit in the double doors at the
entrance and heard a commotion outside. He told Curran to keep Pad on his feet and be prepared to carry him down the steps. He took a deep breath, mustered his courage, and burst through the doors and into the daylight.
Four Andal soldiers stood over the dead magistrate. Spotting Dal, they started shouting and raised their pikes. In the corner of his eye, Dal saw a blur by Slaig’s cart. Deidre! She fired an arrow and hit one of the soldiers in the back. He let out a cry and fell to the ground. The earth then erupted next to two of the soldiers and knocked them backward with terrific force. People in the square had to jump aside or get hit with armor and body parts.
The remaining soldier, knocked down by the concussion from the blast, got to his feet. He had climbed two steps toward the trio when a knife appeared in Dal’s hand. He could have thrown it, but he calmly walked down the steps and confronted the soldier, who was aiming his pike at Dal’s head. The Andal raised his pike higher and Dal buried the knife in his throat in a smooth motion so fast that the man dropped his weapon and stood there as if nothing had happened. But as Dal withdrew the knife, the wound spewed blood and he collapsed.
Hadrian approached Dal from what was now a visibly nervous crowd that was scurrying in all directions. “We have to move!” Hadrian shouted. Curran had managed to get Pad down the steps by himself, and he’d opened his eyes again.
“I need you to help Curran so he can get you out of here. You won’t make it if you don’t help too.”
“How did you do all this?”
“Not now. Try to walk as best you can.” They started off and Deidre crashed into Dal, hugging him tightly.
“Are they okay?” she asked.
“Pad’s hurt pretty bad. He’s got a wound that has to be dressed, and he’s going to need time to recover.” He turned to Hadrian. “The woods?”
He nodded and they started toward the forest. The market had cleared out and there were few farmers on the road leading from it. The people they did see either steered clear of them or hurried to get away. Hadrian was taking them on the quickest route to the woods, but it was also closest to the main barracks.