Kari. Magi had always liked Kari, Kyle’s younger sister. She was so stunning, so witty, so fiery. She was one of the guys when Magi was eight. By fourteen, all the boys had a crush on Kyle’s kid sister. Now at eighteen, their thoughts went a little farther than a mere crush. A mere year behind at seventeen Kari—a woman by all accounts, well, she was rarely able to avoid attention.
Actually, she can avoid attention any time she wants, Magi thought with a smirk. Kari was studying the Art of Illusion, a seldom-used track of magic at Marik’s school. At seventeen, she was competent enough to blend in just about anywhere when necessary. I mean, how amazing is that? He smiled, shaking his head.
CRACK! A shock-jolt came from Kyle’s outstretched hand as Magi daydreamed away. A less-gifted mage would have had no chance to block or recover from it. It was only the sound of the spell that brought Magi back to attention and gave him that fraction of a second he needed to duck and roll as a mild form of lightning sizzled over his head and struck the invisible barrier behind him. Several villagers pressed in close against the barrier leapt backwards as the jolt reminded them this was for real. Kyle may be his best friend, but on this day, he was his adversary. Focus.
Magi looked across the square at Kyle, his dusty blond hair both messy and cool at the same time, like always. He was wondering whether Kyle would flash him a smirk or something. Nothing. He was getting his next spell ready. Magi gave himself over to his magic as well; he relished that heightened state of awareness that came so easily for him—that fraction of a moment before he called forth his magic where everything slowed in a manner that was almost unfair. He noticed a faint salt taste in the air, mingled with the smell of Kyle’s sweat from across the square. The sunlight felt hot on the back of his hands. A hundred yards away in the stables, one of Marik’s precious unicorns just moved its bowels. Kari had washed her hair earlier, and scented her bath water with hibiscus. The spell was instantly on his lips.
An invisible air hammer the size of a wagon wheel crashed down on Kyle, who was frantically trying to crush a marble for some sort of defensive spell. It mattered not.
The side of Kyle’s head opened, and with a sickening thud his body crumpled to the ground as a small pool of blood began to form underneath him. It was the same spell he’d used to break open the door to their room earlier that week.
Magi was running the moment the hammer struck his friend, and got to him right before Kari, with Marik and dozens of others right behind. Marik shoved people out of the way to get to Kyle. Kari rounded on Magi just as Marik knelt beside her slightly older brother.
“Kyle—can you hear me?” Marik said.
No response. Marik calmly crumpled a few bone-dry leaves over the wound and said a few words of healing. The wound began to knit closed. He scooped Kyle off the Tournament square to carry him back to the small home he shared with Magi and a couple of other boys attending Marik’s school. “Tarsh, help me carry Kyle back to the school.”
“That was no simple spell!” Kari screamed at Magi. She was wrong…and right. It was a fairly simple spell. Most of the time the target got a knock on the head that disoriented them a little bit, or in the case of the door—it might get pushed open or knocked askew from its hinges. A good spell for escaping trouble and one that Magi thought would help him ease past Kyle in the Tournament. But like many of his spells lately, it seemed to be more powerful, almost super-charged. He would never, ever intentionally hurt Kyle.
Magi just stood there dumbfounded watching Kari depart with Marik and Tarsh as they carefully moved Kyle back to his barracks. What happened?
Xaro
The trip across the sea had been uneventful. His prayers to Kuth-Cergor for favorable winds and calm seas had been answered, and the entire fleet of Lord Kensington had been commandeered for Xaro’s trip to Sands End. Indeed, he left barely enough food for the humbled noble to survive upon after his departure. He certainly stripped the Lord of all his wealth. Six weeks of aggressive sailing had landed him at the ancient western stronghold with two thousand men.
The castle was old and deserted—a relic of kingdoms past. There were stones that were crumbling, winches that had not turned in a century, waste ditches that had to be re-dug. But it suited his needs for the moment. Perched atop a mesa in the ancient city of Garinthia, overlooking the cracked dirt and tortured land, the fortress at Sand’s End was virtually isolated, but strategically located. Protected by the Ajax Mountains to the south, it was surrounded by desert on three sides. It was, however, close enough to the coast of Ipidine that supplies could be procured over water to the west. Food from the fertile plains to the north in Adimand came by ship. So, too, did stone and minerals get shipped to Xaro from the mines of Harken just across the mountains. He bought wood from the merchant Elves that lived further south in Shinty-Moor, a thriving city in the woods. The Elves who settled this far from their homeland traded on their knowledge of woodcraft, and Xaro paid better than most for the high quality lumber. At least until my gold runs out, he thought ruefully. Sands End really was the perfect encampment from which to launch his campaign.
It was now time for Xaro to begin to assemble his Lieutenants.
He had some ideas. These individuals would be crucial to his plans, and if they were successful, they would each find themselves ruling vast areas of Tenebrae if they so chose. It was not a trivial appointment.
He would start with easiest, since he had made up his mind weeks ago. To be fair, Strongiron made my mind up for me, but it is pointless to look back. He summoned Tar-Tan to a meeting.
The half-ogre entered the sitting room and stood before Xaro, who motioned for him to be seated and comfortable.
“General,” Xaro began. “I am pleased you accepted my appointment. Your help marshalling the ships and organizing the men into fighting units was very efficient. Excellent work, Tar-Tan.”
“Your faith in me is well placed, my Lord.” Tar-Tan said. He and Xaro had been peers of a sort during their training in the pits, but after Xaro revealed the depth of his power, the half-ogre had taken to calling him ‘Lord.’ Of course, he had also referred to Kensington in that fashion, but that was before the half-ogre saw fit to flay strips of flesh from the weakling noble. Xaro had thought that unnecessary at the time, but it did put an end to any hint of status he might claim. As to the title of Lord…Xaro was comfortable with it.
“And the plans for the reshaping of Sands End go well?” Xaro asked.
“They do. We have enough gold for the majority of materials we need—wood, minerals, clay, food, equipment. We are rebuilding training pits, finishing the task of turning these men into True Warriors, however I am modifying their training to focus on learning to fight in groups, rather than as individuals. I estimate that our gold will cover these expenses, but as you know, it will take more to launch any attack on the mainland of Elvidor.”
Xaro nodded. “Yes, it will. But one thing at a time. Right now I have another task for you, General.”
“Yes, my Lord?” Tar-Tan focused his beady, yellow eyes on Xaro.
“Before we worry about attacking anyone, it is time we acquire a real army. I am looking for a force of hearty men, 50,000 strong, with which to go to war.”
“It will take more gold than we have to acquire that many mercenaries.” The half-ogre was direct.
“I don’t envision us taking on mercenaries in that great a number. I expect you to handpick a large force, a thousand or more well-trained men, and sail south to the Uncharted Isles. There you will find strong, but untrained men. Tens of thousands of fighting-age men, and even some hardy women, that I would have you conquer and forge into an army.”
“Lord…islanders? Is that wise? How will they fight?” Tar-Tan rose to his full eight-foot, six-inch height, not to protest, but to think while he paced—or so it seemed to Xaro. He was rubbing his chin as if already trying to work out the logistics, the tactics.
“Kuth-Cergor will give them over to us; I have faith in him. And I
have faith in you, my General. I will leave the planning to you; whenever enough of the men have been trained to your satisfaction, you may leave. Take as many as you see fit, but remember you will be returning with fifty thousand more men than with which you depart, so plan well. As to your last question—they will not fight. That is how you may overtake them outnumbered forty or fifty to one. They are farmers, and while their bodies are hard and strong, their preparation, organization, and fighting skills will be weak or even nonexistent. Bring them back to the pits, and we will train them for a new life. A purposeful life. I have seen what you have done with the rabble we brought from Kekero—you can turn these farmers into a real army within a year. And that will give me enough time to find the gold we’ll need to move that many east against Elvidor, and her capital—the mountain fortress of Rookwood.”
The half-ogre stopped pacing and looked at Xaro, crossing his massive arms across his chest in a posture that caused his forearms to ripple. The bulging muscles drew even more attention to the symbols he had tattooed across his arms. Dozens of black circles were painted close together on his flesh, like bubbles grouped together. Inside each was what appeared to be a knife bisecting each circle at different angles. He offered the faintest of smiles. “Then I shall commence my planning, Lord Xaro. It shall be done…you will have your army.” He nodded, turned, and started to leave.
“Remember one last thing, General. Give these men something to fight for, not just something to fear.”
Tar-Tan grunted, gave one final curt nod, and departed without fanfare.
His test will hardly be the logistics. And it will hardly be subjugation; any brute can whip a weaker man. No…my doubts rest in his leadership. Will he get these men to fight under him when he returns?
Magi
“Magi Blacksmooth—what did you do to my brother? Answer me!” Kari’s voice was insistent.
“I don’t know, Kari. I’m not exactly sure how it happened. It was a simple spell, one we’ve both used before dozens of times. The air hammer was a lot bigger and much more powerful than I’ve ever seen it. You know I’d never hurt Kyle. It was an accident.” Magi turned to Marik, their Master, who had just returned to the Square. “Do you know what happened? Is he all right?”
Marik turned to face them. No matter how many times Magi had stared at a real Mage—a true Master that has climbed the Staircase—it was always disconcerting to see their eyes. Marik was no different. His white eyes made him look eerie because it was harder to gauge his emotion in some ways. It was said that long ago, God had marked these individuals as a warning for all who would associate with them. Of course that was just balderdash—there was no evidence of God anywhere in the land. And having grown up in Marik’s care, Magi could read him as well as anyone.
His face was kind and gentle. “Kyle will be fine. He needs rest now more than anything. May I have a word with our young mage, Kari? Thank you.” His voice was reassuring.
“Yes. Of course. Thank you, Master. My brother looked awful after that spell. Magi—will you come by later?” The edge had left her voice now.
“Absolutely. I’m so sorry, Kari.” I never wanted to face Kyle in The Tournament.
Kari gave the slightest of nods to Magi without saying a word, and left.
“Magi,” Marik said. “Walk with me.”
They walked to a small grove of trees near the boys’ barracks. Off to one side was The Tree. Magi’s Tree. It was 18 years old, just like him. Marik had told him the story of how his close friend, Magi’s real father, had wanted Marik to plant a sapling in the village when Magi was born, hoping it would grow and blossom and be his same age whenever he sent him off to learn at Marik’s school. His father could have never dreamed he would leave for Marik’s school before Magi’s first birthday.
His father had been a jewelry maker and very poor, and his mother was always in terrible health, according to Marik. He had a gift for working with objects, and though his passion was trinkets, few could afford his gem work. He began making other small objects out of wood and less precious materials, such as spoons and mugs, but it was hard to sell these for more than a few coppers. His parents were poor, but ambitious. Obsessed with riches, his father began experimenting more and more with alchemy, looking for ways to convert iron to gold. Marik was visiting one day, before Magi had yet turned one, when it happened. His mother and father…their faces close to the edge of a bubbling cauldron…Magi and Marik in another room…an acid explosion. His parents both died from the explosion and subsequent burns, despite Marik’s best efforts and spellwork to cure them. Marik took him in as a baby, and his introduction to Marik’s school began early.
He had heard that story many times since then, though Marik mercifully spared him the gory details. Magi looked at his Tree again. He wasn’t even sure what kind of tree it was, but it was his. Seeing it always reminded him of the father he’d never known.
He often studied under the Tree; he felt more aware—more alive—near it. The way he felt right before the magic coursed through his body was the same way he felt under this Tree. He couldn’t explain how, but he felt things, heard things, sensed things that others couldn’t when he was under its boughs. Like the far off scent of a rare unicorn moving its bowels, or the distant sight of Lionel’s arrow stuck in a tree, or the near silent footfalls of a murderer’s footsteps on the cold marble of a library…Magi’s senses were finely tuned underneath this Tree. He loved being shaded underneath its leafy branches more than just about anything in the world, save for his Art. He took a familiar seat underneath the Tree, where the grass had been worn away long ago from countless hours of sitting.
Marik sat down next to him. “How do you feel, Magi?”
“Puzzled, truth be told.”
“How so?” The Master asked.
Magi continued twisting his ring. A slight breeze caressed the leaves overhead. Somewhere, off in the woods near the foothills of the Crystal Mountains, a leopard was dining on a fresh kill, Magi mused, before thinking, feels likely to rain tonight. “I’m puzzled by the strength of that spell. I’ve cast it dozens of times. It should have merely disoriented Kyle. I don’t understand what happened,” Magi said, like a man stuck on a math problem.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Marik asked.
Here we go. “No. If it was obvious, I wouldn’t be puzzled. What happened—Master?” Magi quickly added. Insolence was not tolerated, even from star pupils.
Marik’s answering smile was patient. “Magi, your skills are developing faster than most. I’ve taught you many times that a spell’s power is not in the casting, but comes from the caster. The same spell cast perfectly from mages of different skill levels will have dramatically different results. For example, take the simple light spell. It can create a light no brighter than a candle, or illuminate an entire underground cavern with the strength of a thousand torches. You have mastered many spells. We must continue to focus on controlling the power of those spells—how much of your own energy you allow to be consumed during casting. You have great skill, but are not yet in command of your strength. Tell me, what were you thinking about right before you cast?”
“Your unicorns taking a dump.” He distinctly remembered that.
“I think something else.” Marik smiled again, this time it was a knowing, sly smile. “I could smell Kyle sweating.” He could almost hear a distant stream slashing its way down the Crystal Mountains. He twisted his ring again, not about to admit who else he’d been thinking of.
“Fine.” Marik sighed. “My unicorns and Kyle. It doesn’t matter about what—or whom—you were thinking, it could have been puffy cloud shapes. The point is that you must learn to regulate the energy you put forth. Even the simplest of spells can be devastating if you don’t properly control their strength. And, just as important, even you do not have an endless amount of energy. It is replenished with rest, but you can waste your energy on one spell and find yourself unable to cast another. This, too, can be devastating in the wrong s
ituation. You are gifted in that your well of energy is deeper than most—but it has its limits. This will continue to be my greatest point of emphasis with you—control. Kyle was fortunate. You could have killed him.”
“I’m sorry, Master.” A lump rose in Magi’s throat as he was overwhelmed by guilt. Why, Kyle?
The Master shook his head. “Don’t be sorry! You miss my point. Every apprentice who aspires to be a Wizard, a True Mage, must learn this. What makes you different is that you must begin mastering this skill—this restraint—at a younger age than most. Most mages do not attempt to climb the Staircase until they are well into their twenties. You may be ready much sooner than that.” Marik could not hide the pride in his voice.
“Will you tell me what the Staircase is now?” Magi felt a raindrop hit his cheek.
“No. Not yet—”
Of course not, Magi thought.
“I’m going to check on Kyle, and speak with his sister. You should come, too.” Marik got up to leave.
“In a minute, Master. I’ll join you soon, if that’s ok.”
“Very well. I’d hurry, it looks like rain is coming.” Marik turned to head back to the barracks.
Magi smiled to himself as large, plump drops began to fall.
Strongiron
“Where is King Alomar, my Queen?” asked Strongiron, kneeling formally as he always did. He was tired after his long voyage across the strait, but his message could not wait. “It would be best if both of you were present to hear the news I bear.”
“Strongiron, I—” the Queen’s voice faltered, just slightly. She quickly gathered herself.
“My Queen?” Strongiron looked up, and rose. “Where is King Alomar?” he repeated softly.
“Strongiron, King Alomar is dead. He fell ill shortly after you left for the pits, and there were no healers in the land capable of saving him. Our mages tried to apply herbs and some spells, but disease ate away at him quickly, and he—he just left us. He did leave some instructions, and they may be pertinent to your update. As you know he personally chose to lead our army. He made it known that should you come back from the pits a True Warrior intact, that you should not only be knighted, but that you should be promoted to Commander of our army at Rookwood and take a seat on my small council as a Warrior General. Do you accept this?”
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 12