Creation Mage 5

by Dante King

  Creation Mage 5

  War Mage Academy 5

  Dante King

  Copyright © 2021 by Dante King

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

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  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Now, son,” said my father, Zenidor, “what is it that you want to know?”

  Well, I thought, isn’t that the goddamn ten-thousand-dollar question?

  I looked around at the all-gray environment I now found myself in as I tried to marshal my thoughts. My gaze flittered to the smoky gray walls, floor, and vague furniture that looked like mist given shape. My eyes rested on the bronze dragon that was quite casually lying off to one side and regarding me through its volcanic eyes.

  The dragon had just told me that it too, like my father, was the embodiment of a spirit. My father was trapped inside the black crystal staff that had once been his vector. In turn, this staff had been given to me by the Prophet King of the Gemstone Elementals. The bronze dragon, however, was the spirit inhabiting the vector I had obtained on my very first day in this magical world. That vector had been combined into the black crystal staff when I had come into possession of it, which essentially meant that I possessed a two-in-one vector. Something that I was pretty sure was unique, as far as War Mages went.

  Who exactly this dragon spirit had been, I had not yet ascertained.

  Outside the one window that was set into one gray wall, a lightning storm raged. The window was a looking glass into the real world that I had left behind. Somewhere, outside of this illusion or dream or whatever the hell it was, I was kneeling on the hillside next to my parents’ house on the outskirts of the town of Nevermoor.

  I turned my attention then to the man who had his hand on my shoulder. It was a long, strong hand, crisscrossed with the thin white scars as well as the thick calluses of a swordsman. My father’s hand felt warm and comforting on my shoulder. Familiar too, somehow.

  “Well,” I said, “I’m not going to lie to you, I’ve got a whole lot of questions backed up in my mind.”

  Zenidor grinned that boyish, charming grin of his once more.

  Damn, but it was so weird to see someone who looked so much like myself. I recognized so many of my own little features in my father’s face. I wondered if people who’d had parents around their whole life caught themselves marveling at such similarities in their day-to-day lives.

  “You’re my son,” Zenidor said simply, clapping me on the shoulder and taking a step backward. “I would’ve been disappointed if you didn’t have more questions to ask me than this brief time together will allow.”

  “Anyone with half a brain and a working tongue would have questions coming out their ears,” I pointed out.

  Zenidor chuckled. “True. Very true. As my son though, I expect that you have cultivated a keen sense of what questions are more important than others. You have also found yourself embroiled in this unexpected and somewhat erratic magical world of ours. From what I understand, you have taken to it like a duck to water.”

  “I like to think that I’ve become a bit more discerning,” I said. “Being in a bunch of life and death situations has definitely helped me make decisions on the fly.”

  A wistful expression passed over my father’s face at the mention of life and death situations. Here was a man who, if he had lived his life on Earth, would most probably have lived in it in the same way that Travis Pastrana did: balls to the wall, adrenaline-fueled, and at a hundred miles per hour.

  Clearly, being dead had put a real crimp in his zest for life.

  Zenidor snapped his fingers, pulling me out from my reveries. Lightning cracked across the sky with an eerie silence outside the single window.

  “And with that in mind, son, what do you want to ask me?” my father said.

  “How’d you get into this vector in the first place?” I blurted out. It hadn’t actually been the question that I was going to ask initially, but I need a baseline. I needed somewhere to start from so that I could understand my father’s thinking. “Not all mages have their spirits channeled into vectors when they die, right?”

  “That’s correct,” my father said. “Only mages of considerable power and of considerable willpower can do it. Even then, those who possess these two attributes rarely choose to take that path.”

  “Then why did you?” I asked.

  “Because I left the world of the living having not fulfilled my true purpose,” my father said. “The deed that your mother and I wanted to accomplish for the good of, not just Avalonia, but the universe.”

  “Saving the universe, huh?” I said. “Nothing like aiming small.”

  “Yes, well, your mother and I always thrived when we were under pressure, when we were pushing ourselves,” my dad said, rubbing thoughtfully at his stubbly jaw. “Let me tell you, nothing will get your ass out of bed in the morning faster than the realization that you have the ability to save the universal magic—except, maybe, one of Igor Chaosbane’s stimulating little morning pick-me-ups…”

  “Man alive, don’t get me started on old Igor’s stimulants,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that S.O.B is more stimulant than human being.”

  My father’s eyes widened. “You’ve met Igor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That reprobate is still alive?” my dad said.

  “I assume so,” I said. “He’s still walking about—although I know that doesn’t mean anything on Avalonia.”

  My dad made a little sound of amazement in his throat. “Just goes to show you, doesn’t it?”

  “Show you what?”

  “That some men are just born to cheat Death.”

  I nodded. “Like Keith Richards.”

  Zenidor snorted. “That’s the guy from the Rolling Stones, is it not? Your uncle used to tell me about them whenever we communicated.”

  “Speaking of which,” I said. “Have you been able to see or experience whatever I’ve been up to from within the vector?”

  My mind was suddenly full of memories, full of the recollections of the numerous hot nights I had spent with the likes of Cecilia, Janet, Madame Xel, and the rest of my girlfriends. The thought that I might have been inadvertently sharing those intimate moments with my old man was far from a comfortable one.

  “No, not with any
real clarity,” he said.

  I let out an internal sigh of relief.

  “I mean, I receive flashes of emotions that you might be feeling when you’re wielding the staff or have it nearby, but nothing concrete. It’s not like I can peer out of it like I can that window and see what’s going on. Things are a lot hazier, a lot less distinct, once you cross the veil.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  My dad gave me one of those disquieting, knowing smiles that fathers have been giving their sons ever since the universe was first formed.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You know what,” he replied. “Creation Mage…”

  “Urgh, let’s not go there,” I said.

  Zenidor shook his head and cast a look out of the window. I got the impression that he was able to gauge how much time we had left by what he saw out there.

  “Anyway, me being inside this vector,” he said. “Yes. Right. So. When you die… Well, I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you. Suffice to say that time, at the point of death, becomes immaterial. I made the decision to channel myself back into the vector—a vector that I had created. I wanted to ensure that I lived on in some way because I knew, deep in my soul, that you would one day find your way back to this world. And to me.”

  I puffed out my cheeks. “Dad, if you’re about to say something along the lines of ‘and continue my great work’, I’ve got to tell you that I’m not a fan of genocide. It’s a fucking tough sell. The toughest sell, one might argue.”

  My father didn’t sigh, but he gave me a long calculating look. His dark eyes pierced me to the core of my being.

  “I’m not asking you to think how I think, or do what I did,” he said. “All your mother and I ever wanted was for you to go through life with your mind and eyes open. You’re a smart kid. You always have been. You’ll figure out what needs to be done. You’ll decide on what is right, and you’ll act accordingly. Of that I have no doubt.”

  “Pretty fucking philosophical, Dad,” I said.

  Zenidor grinned that big, white smile of his. “Nothing like a bit of death to give a man a healthy dose of philosophy. Just try and remember that no matter what has taken place before you, no matter what has happened behind you, it is what is taking place within you that is of the utmost import. Listen to your gut. It never lies and is rarely wrong.”

  “Except after ingesting some of old Igor’s stimulants?” I quipped.

  “Gods, you’re better off listening to a fencepost after eating anything offered to you by that particular Chaosbane,” my dad said.

  “Dad, how come you and Mom sent me away? Why’d you make me live out my whole life on Earth? I mean Uncle Mickey is a cool guy and I miss him and that creepy shop of his, but as soon as I landed in Avalonia, I felt suddenly… complete, you know? It was like, without even realizing it, I’d been homesick for a place that I’d never even seen.”

  “Safety,” my father said. “That’s why Istrea and I sent you through the portal to live with my estranged brother. Safety.”

  “Safety? You don’t think I can look after myself?” I said.

  Zenidor clapped his hands and gazed at me with fond, sparkling eyes. “Gods, but you have some fire in you, don’t you? Of course, being the offspring of your mother and I, I knew that you would grow up to be a man and a mage that would shake the foundations of this world!” The smile that had lit his face faded a touch. “But, when you were a baby, all considerations and predictions for the future were null and void. Your immediate safety was all that your mother and I were concerned about when we realized what was happening, what the Avalonian Kingdom and those running it were prepared to do to stop us in our goal.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Give me some context here, please! There have been a lot of tantalizing hints from many quarters. It’s enough to drive me nuts.”

  My father pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “As succinctly as possible then, the Avalonian Kingdom has access to, and has always known about, other Creation Mages.”

  “I’ve heard as much, I think from Reginald Chaosbane, but I haven’t seen any of them. But what have the other Creation Mages got to do with why you had to send me to Earth?”

  “Well, to understand that, first you have to understand—in the most simplistic terms—what a Creation Mage is to a kingdom like Avalonia,” my father said. He began to stride about the smoky gray room, his feet kicking up clouds of insubstantial mist. “To them, all mages are potential resources and weapons. Creation Mages, being the most powerful—in magic and potentiality—of all mages are, unsurprisingly, the weapons and resources that those in the Arcane Council covet the most.”

  I shook my head. “What’re you talking about? Surely, people are just people? No matter what branch of magic they practice.”

  “That might have been the case once,” Zenidor conceded. “However, after the legend of the Twin Spirits was born, and the Arcane Council heard the rough outline of what me, your mother, and the people who followed us were planning on doing, things changed.”

  “Changed how?” I asked.

  “The Arcane Council began rounding up Creation Mages. They gathered them up from across the lands, paying members of the Guild of Bounty Hunters to track them down. They didn’t want them dead, because what good is a living weapon if you cannot wield it? They simply wanted to ensure that, should a war ever be waged between the two factions that were dividing in Avalonia, they held the aces.”

  “So, that’s why you sent me away?” I asked. “Because you knew that, as your progeny and a Creation Mage, I’d be number one on their list.”

  Zenidor nodded. He wasn’t smiling now. Not even close. His handsome face was earnest. Taut with intensity.

  “What happened to the Creation Mages they captured?” I asked. “And what is happening to Creation Mages now that you and Mom have gone?”

  “Well,” my father said, “like I said, it’s difficult for me to descry much of what is going on in the outside world from inside this damned staff. But, as far as I can gather, the purge of the Creation Mages is still happening, albeit secretly. The Arcane Council have, unless they have changed their practice, trapped them in the Castle of Ascendance, along with other sensitive items, scrolls, and artifacts which could revive the quest the Twin Spirits started.”

  I held up my hands, and my father stopped talking.

  “You’re telling me that this mustering of mages is still happening?” I asked.

  “Yes, I believe it is,” Zenidor said.

  I thought of the antics that I had been involved with since starting my time at the Mazirian Academy. I had more than a few run-ins with some rather questionable people. I had put myself on the map around both the Mazirian Academy and the town of Nevermoor in more ways than one, and you can’t do that without pissing at least a few people off.

  “If that’s the case,” I said, “why haven’t I been carted in by some bounty hunter? I have to tell you that I haven’t really been keeping a low profile, you know?”

  “That, at least, is an easy one,” Zenidor replied. “Reginald Chaosbane has been sheltering you under his wing—and his wing is substantial and feathered with steel and razor blades. If you have Igor on your side too, then it’s no wonder that the Arcane Council is treading carefully around you. Reginald commands the loyalty of all those who work and study at the Mazirian Academy—a host of the most talented mages in the Avalonian realm. With Igor’s connections with the less savory elements of our fair world…”

  “Not to mention Mortimer too,” I interjected.

  This brought my father up short. “Mortimer Chaosbane? But he’s a bounty hunter himself, isn’t he?”

  I shrugged. “He was. I’ve a feeling that his loyalty isn’t quite as easy to attain as it once was.”

  My father made a little noise of surprise. “Reggie… Igor… Mort…” he said. “You’ve almost got the complete set.”

  His eyes went to the window again. “Hurry,” he said. “
Time’s a-wasting and there’s doubtless a lot more that we need to discuss. Fire away, son, fire away!”

  I eyed the bronze dragon, who had been lying as still as a statue for this entire exchange, and cleared my throat. I preferred the next topic of conversation not to be in front of a stranger, but the sand was trickling through the old hourglass.

  For his part, the dragon watched me through impassive eyes and occasionally tasted the air with a long, black forked tongue.

  “There’s been some speculation as to whether or not a Creation Mage like me has a limit when it comes to spells…” I said tentatively.

  Zenidor’s forehead crinkled in confusion and then cleared. He grinned, and his eyes sparkled. “Ah, I get what you mean, boy, I get what you mean! You’ve been kicking your can down a few alleyways, have you? Enjoying slapping a bit of skin on skin, is that it?”

  “Oh good grief, please stop,” I said weakly.

  “Stirring a few pots with your paintbrush…”

  “Enough, Dad.”

  “Playing Scrabble with your wiener…”

  “I—what? How does that even make sense as an innuendo?” I said.

  My father was beaming infuriatingly at me.

  “What?” I asked, trying to keep the blush that had started at my neck from traversing my face.

  “Nothing,” my old man said. “Just takes me back to my Academy days is all… You know, it was a friend of mine studying the healing arts that actually developed and refined the anti-fungal jinx that came to be known as the ‘cock pox reverser.’ That was a hell of a summer…”