Creation Mage 5

by Dante King

  “Would you rather I use another word then?” he asked as we went with the flow of the spectators and rounded a large roller coaster-type ride covered in flashing, flaring bulbs filled with smoke and lightning. “Would you rather I say renown or distinction?”

  I waved his half-joking words away.

  “I just mean that I didn’t set out to be a fucking celebrity here. I set out to embrace this world of magic—I’m not sure if you guys understand just how goddamn incredible this world is, how much possibility it holds, compared to the world that I’m from.”

  Ragnar nodded his head. “I have heard that Earth is somewhat limited in its capacity for wonder.”

  “I dunno about that,” I countered. “The world, Earth, is full to bursting with wonder. It’s just that, most of the time, people don’t have the wits or are too beat down by life to see it.”

  “I was alluding more to magical wonder,” Ragnar said. “Magic in its rawest, flashiest form.”

  “Yeah, it’s definitely lacking in spellwork, that’s for sure,” I said. “And now that I know that there are such things as mages, magic, and Mage Games, I want to be the best at it. Who wouldn’t? It’s not like being top of your geography class, where you might get a certificate and a pat on the shoulder from your principal. Here, if you excel, you are rewarded with incredible abilities! It’s worth studying and hard work and risking your life on, basically, a daily basis.”

  “Precisely,” Ragnar said, shooting me a knowing sideways glance, “and it’s this drive of yours, this focus, despite coming from one of the least magical places in the universe, which people here find so fascinating.”

  We were at the mouth of the dark tunnel that cut through the colosseum and let out into the wooded and enclosed battlegrounds beyond.

  “I’m sure I’m not the only one who loves to use magic,” I said.

  “Of course you’re not,” Ragnar said, “but you have to marry that up with your ability to learn new spells at the drop of a hat—word of that has spread far and wide of its own accord. Then there is the fact that you are so close knit with the teachers, that you’re often away from the Academy on unknown business, and that half-chewed rumors and half-true tales are woven about you like mist around the mountains.”

  “You sure make me and my friends being in the right place at the right time, when the shit hits the windmill, sound very poetic, Master Ironskin,” I said drily.

  Ragnar looked at me as we were enveloped by the darkness of the tunnel. For the briefest of moments, all I could make of him was the flash of light in his eyes and on his glittering teeth.

  “You have to understand, Justin,” he said in a low voice. “All these things that surround you, these are the ingredients from which legends rise.”

  We walked along in silence for a minute or two while I digested these words. They were a little hard to swallow, but, if I was honest, they were pretty sweet too.

  “After Qualifiers, if you are victorious, I will come and find you,” Ragnar said. “Then, we will talk more about the white staff.”

  “All right,” I said, “but you better hurry. After talking to my old man, I’m anxious to get my hands on it. You’re sure you can’t tell me now?”

  We walked back out into the light, and I blinked as my vision adjusted.

  Ragnar Ironskin was gone.

  “Goddamn, but I’ve got to learn how to do that,” I muttered, scanning the crowd. “That’s so fucking cool.”

  “Yo, Justin!” Damien said from behind me.

  I turned and saw that the Fire Mage was pointing ahead of us. I followed his digit. There, a hundred yards away and off to one side, was a glittering sign.

  WAR MAGE TEAMS AND COMPETITORS HERE

  It looked like a neon sign, only it was messier, more slapdash. As we drew closer, I noticed that it wasn’t made from glass. It looked like someone had inscribed words into the air itself with magical, glowing fire, and then frozen them in place. They fizzed and spat sparks.

  “I guess that’s us, boys,” I said. “Let’s boogie.”

  Chapter Eleven

  When Rick, Nigel, Bradley, Damien, and I reached the sign, we noticed that it was hanging in the air above a slim entrance in the wall of what was clearly the enormous stadium beyond. A red velvet curtain blocked it.

  Last time I had stood here, I’d been met by an irate dwarf guard captain. This time, there were no dwarves in sight, but there were a couple of intimidating trolls guarding the door. Someone had painted them in black paint and stenciled the word ‘security’ onto the front and back of their rocky bodies in white.

  “I guess it’s hard to find clothes that fit you fellas, huh?” I asked as me and my fraternity brothers came to halt in front of the walking monoliths.

  Neither of the security trolls said a word. They were both wearing crudely made sunglasses; uneven coarsely ground lenses looped into gold wire. They looked so handmade that all the fashion-centric jackasses back on Earth would have fawned over them. The trolls probably could have charged five hundred bucks a pair.

  Slowly, one of the trolls leaned down and looked at me. Even more slowly, he turned his head to the side and hawked a fat glob of phlegm into the bushes. The leaves that the snot-shot landed on shriveled and withered instantly.

  “You on the list?” the troll rumbled.

  “What list? You don’t have a list,” I countered.

  The troll sighed, and I took an involuntary step backward. It wasn’t because I was scared or overawed. It was because the troll’s breath smelled like a car fire, if the trunk of the car had been filled with rotting garbage, a dead goat, and Easy Cheese that was about three years past its expiry date.

  “Who are you?” the troll asked.

  “Justin Mauler and this is the fraternity I’m part of,” I said. “We’re competing in the Qualifiers, I assure you.”

  “Hey, Yavo,” the other troll said, “this guy is all right. I saw him win the Exhibition matches.”

  “Yeah?” Yavo growled, spitting again and melting an unlucky passing beetle into a blob of twisted exoskeleton. “You sure, Hoodah?”

  “Yes, man,” replied Hoodah.

  The troll looked back down at me and the other four lads.

  “Go on, then,” he said grudgingly, indicating the curtain behind him with a nod of his massive, blocky head.

  The lads and I filed past. As we did, I patted the troll on his elbow and said, “Hang in there, Yavo, I’m sure some little rascals will come along soon, and you can grind their bones to make your bread.”

  “Don’t eat bread,” the massive hulk of a troll said. “Gives me the runs. Fuckin’ gluten intolerant.”

  I made a face and thought, What a world.

  “Hey friends,” Rick said, poking his head back through the velvet curtain and hailing the security trolls, “make sure you keep an eye out for anyone called Dhor, Qildro, or Ike, okay? They’re trouble.”

  Those three belonged to a rival fraternity, the one Arun had led before he’d turned zombie. They had caused a bunch of trouble for me and my friends, but, fortunately, we’d paid them back in spades.

  “Thanks for the tip,” Hoodah growled, cracking his egg-sized knuckles.

  I followed the lads through the velvet curtain and found myself in the same contestant holding area that Cecilia and I had stood in last time. The five of us handed our broomsticks over to a halfling woman standing behind a coat-check counter. Then we turned to take in our surroundings.

  In front of us were a bunch of seats and tables. A long buffet sat at the back with all sorts of breakfast foods and drinks laid out on it. Predictably, Rick had already made a beeline for it and was busy loading a plate with black pudding, salmon fillets, and fried potatoes.

  “Hey man,” I said, “this is why we had those breakfast bars, remember? The whole point is to stay light on our feet. It’d be smart for you to not eat five breakfasts while we wait to hear what’s going on, don’t you think?”

  Rick stared wi
stfully down at his plate.

  I looked around.

  “Look, no one else is eating,” I said. “If it turns out that we’re not fighting today, then you can come back in here and fill yourself to the back teeth. Otherwise,” and I slapped Rick on his muscular arm, “we, as a team, need you to be lean and mean!”

  Rick turned to look at me. He nodded and put his plate down.

  “Okay, friend,” he said grudgingly, “but if we don’t fight, I’m coming back.”

  “I’ll cart you out of here in a wheelbarrow myself afterward,” I said.

  The wall of this competitor’s section, which peered out into the vast arena beyond, was transparent. It wasn’t glass or Perspex or anything like that, but constructed out of some undoubtedly complex magic. It rippled slightly every now and again, giving the impression that anything thrown at it would bounce right back.

  It seemed that we had arrived fashionably late to this gathering of entrants. The room was already full of nymphs, dwarves, imps, gnomes, elves, and a handful of other, less immediately discernible races. Every one of them had the same concentrated, eager fire burning in their eyes. Clearly, there would be no prisoners taken here today.

  I noticed that everyone was standing around in teams of five. There had to be over a hundred people here, so I figured there were at least 20 teams competing in the Qualifiers. I wondered if there would be any more coming. No one was chatting to anyone from outside their little five-person coteries. I figured that was because there was nothing more likely to kill a buzz during conversation than wondering whether the person with whom you were speaking would stab you in the head later on in the day. Or blow you up. Or eviscerate you . Or impale you , strangle you , melt you with magic or in some other way ruin your day.

  I scanned the crowd of wannabe Qualifier champions but couldn’t catch sight of anyone that I recognized. Before I could have a good look, my attention was captured by a sudden swelling of noise from the crowd in the stadium.

  The boys and I, not being seated like most of the other competitors, approached the magical transparent partition and stared out into the stadium.

  “Holy crap in a cauldron,” Nigel said, so awed at the extravaganza that greeted his eyes that he didn’t even stutter. He whipped his spectacles off the bridge of his nose, polished them, and then rammed them back on.

  “Nope,” he said, “still just as insane as before.”

  We must have ridden on the wave of spectators that had filled the stadium. The tiered seating surrounding the battle arena rose higher into the sky than any stadium on Earth, and it was almost full.

  “Yeah,” I said, my heart racing as I looked at the thousands upon thousands of people out there, “but if you think this is nuts, just wait until you step out there and start fighting in front of them.”

  The faces of my frat brothers shone with anticipation as they stared out at the carnival scenes in the stands. Despite it still being fairly early in the morning, War Mage Games fans were already cutting loose. Flares of many different colors burned, magical fireworks blasted out into the vast open space of the arena and exploded in crazy kaleidoscopic patterns, and the beat of drums throbbed like the heartbeat of some enormous beast.

  Into this tumult, into the center of the arena, Reginald Chaosbane came swaggering. Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, I envied the man’s effortless brazen braggadocio. He walked like a man who owned the place—which, in manner of speaking, he did.

  The Headmaster of the Mazirian Academy strolled out into the middle of the empty battleground. He might have looked tiny when set against the enormous backdrop and the tens of thousands of fans that filled it, but his magical prowess and reputation stretched out from him like a great shadow.

  Ragnar could say what he liked about my growing fame, but Reginald Chaosbane was the real deal. He was a fucking living legend. A walking example of magical badassery.

  The Headmaster was dressed in a fashionably tattered and faded crimson suede coat with enormous lapels that reached down to his knees. His beard and mustache were styled with a seemingly complete lack of care, though I would have paid good money to know how he did it. His dark, erudite eyes flashed around at the crowd, and a wide smile spread across his roguishly handsome features.

  Rick chuckled next to me.

  “What?” Damien asked him.

  Rick shook his big head, setting his dreadlocks to swaying like thick ropes.

  “It’s just, can the Arcane Council ever hope to match the Headmaster in terms of popularity or sway, friends? I do not see how they can.”

  Bradley snorted and ran a hand through his thick, perfect hair.

  “I have to concur with you, Rick,” he said. “The son of a bitch sure does have style, does he not?”

  Reginald had stopped in the very center of the arena. He revolved on the spot, bowing to every side. Then, he pulled out a hip flask, unscrewed the cap, and raised it to the spectators.

  This simple gesture was greeted with a roar of noise so loud that it hit the eardrums like a physical object. It was as if I had been standing on a runway and a fighter jet had cleared its throat next to me.

  Reginald took a long swallow, smacked his lips, replaced the flask into the folds of his eye-catching coat, and then raised his hands. After at least a minute, the noise died to an appropriate level.

  He tapped his throat, in much the same way that you might tap a microphone to see if it was working, and said in a magically magnified voice, “Good morning, Nevermoor, those of the Mazirian Academy, and guests from afar! Welcome to the four-hundred and sixteenth Mage Games Qualifiers!”

  I covered my ears this time, but the noise of the elated crowd still washed over me like a wave of sound.

  “Yes, yes, thank you very much indeed, my friends,” the Headmaster continued. “Please, before we get down to the nitty-gritty, allow me to say this: it is with perfect truth that I declare that I would much rather be here, standing in this arena with all of you, than with the finest people I know!”

  Another deafening roar of approval.

  Damn, Reginald knows how and what to feed the mob, I thought. He doesn’t just have them eating out of the palm of his hand, he has them living there.

  “Explaining to all of you wonderful, bloodthirsty folk what comes next is most likely an exercise in time-wasting,” Reginald said, “but seeing as the longer we get to sit here and enjoy the show, the longer we get to take off work, I think it’s worth me going through things, don’t you?”

  Another burst of euphoric applause.

  “The last time we gathered to enjoy the Exhibition games, we were gathered only for a single afternoon,” Reginald said, his voice dropping low and a chorus boos rising to greet these words. “The magical battles that we had the pleasure of witnessing were sweet, but too short. Am I right?”

  Fifty thousand mouths bellowed their agreement.

  “This time, with the Mage Games Qualifiers, the festivities and the mayhem will be stretched out over a full week!” Reginald said.

  This got my attention. I had no idea that this was the case. I looked to my right and saw that only Damien looked as surprised about this bit of news as I did.

  “You guys knew that?” I asked Bradley.

  “Of course,” Bradley replied in a surprised tone. “It’s always been that way. The Mazirian Academy escalates the War Mage competitions as they intensify. The proper Games themselves last longer than a week.”

  Reginald continued. “Yes, yes, a whole glorious week of jollification! One match per day and, of course, all the debauched afterparties and knees-ups that accompany the Qualifiers. It is, as it always is, the Mazirian Academy’s greatest thrill and honor to present the most promising and keen of our students for you to cheer on.”

  Reginald pulled the flask absently from his pocket once more and took another fortifying swig. I looked around the crowd as he drank and saw that many of the onlookers were doing the same.

  “You know,
” Nigel said, “I heard that it’s become a d-d-drinking game at these events?”

  “What has?” Damien asked.

  “You have to drink whenever the Headmaster drinks,” Nigel said.

  I raised my eyebrows and snorted in amusement. “Shit, there must be wasted people at the end of that game.”

  Nigel grinned and nodded his head. “I’ve heard that there have b-b-been more than a few students who have woken up with new tattoos.”

  “I didn’t even know there was a tattoo parlor in Nevermoor,” Rick rumbled.

  “There’s n-not,” Nigel said.

  “These Qualifiers,” Reginald continued after he had partaken heartily from his apparently bottomless hip flask. “These Qualifiers encourage all Academy students to compete, and reward not just the winners, but also those who execute their, ah, executions with pizzazz and flair.”

  He took another quick nip from his hip flask and executed a tight little 180 degree twirl so that he was talking to the other side of the arena.

  “Now allow me to introduce our three impartial judges. These three individuals will be carrying the weighty responsibility of the hopes, dreams and, potentially, the futures of our competitors in their decrepit and withered—or should I say wise and antediluvian—hands.” Reginald wagged a theatrically admonishing finger up toward one particular section of the stands. “So, no pressure, you three!” he said.

  There was a nice bit of jeering here, as befitted a large, brave, faceless crowd heckling authority of any kind.

  “Your judges have been forced upon—my, my, I mean volunteered—by the wise and non-partisan Arcane Council today!” Reginald crowed, whirling around in a circle so liquor sprayed in a ring of silver droplets. It might have been the lighting, but I almost thought the stuff he was drinking smoked as it landed upon the dirt floor of the arena.

  “They include the gloriously obsolescent, Bhoho Sanni!”

  A great boo rose up at the name.

  “The inimitably ornery, Lilith Van Cantona!”