Creation Mage 5

by Dante King

  Reginald , in his fragile state, had been knocked over backward by the sudden explosion of sound. He picked himself up now, conjuring a flask that looked like a scientific measuring beaker, filled with a highlighter yellow potion. He took a fortifying swig of the liquid, belched blue flame, and then raised his hands for quiet.

  “Yes, yes, yes, I know what you’re all thinking,” he said into the falling hush. “You’re thinking that dear old Reginald has finally gone completely bonkers, barking mad, bananas and batty. He’s off his chump, non compos mentis, whacko and away with the fairies. I assure you, that is not the case—not anymore than usual, at least.”

  He cleared his throat. His gaze swept around the crowd, across the congregation of participants and lingered up in the stands where I thought the Arcane Council members and the judges were probably seated.

  “It is somewhat unprecedented, I admit,” Reginald said, “to throw down such a challenge at the feet of mages who are fairly inexperienced and still under tutelage at the Mazirian Academy and Academies from further afield. This is doubly so when you consider that there is another daring facet to this task I have laid out: there will be no regeneration runes.”

  This announcement came as such a shock that the audience didn’t even make a big song and dance of it. A muted muttering swept the spectators, but no one called out or yelled.

  “This is why I have also brought in two new rules to compliment this uncommon task I have set,” Reginald said.

  “Raiding a f-f-fucking dragon’s hoard with no regeneration runes!” Nigel squeaked next to me. “He must have actually gone nuts this time! One of the rules better be that we can bring one of Barry’s old sky galleons with us, complete with cannons!”

  I shushed Nigel’s ramblings with a finger raised to my lips.

  “So,” Reginald carried on, “that being said, participants are given the option to completely stand down from this round should they wish. There is no shame in that, my friends, not with your very lives on the line. A loss of pride can be overcome, but a loss of life… Well, it takes more than a stiff vampirical vodka to get over losing that.”

  Reginald let this sink into everyone’s heads before he continued.

  “The second little quirk of a round that is already fairly out of the ordinary,” he said, “is that, due to the risky and exigent nature of what I’m asking, I shall allow teams to enlist the help of two freelancers.”

  “What the hell do you mean by freelancers?” Damien called out. I suspected that he hadn’t meant to yell out quite so loudly, but his nerves had got the better of him.

  “An excellent and apposite query, Mr. Davis,” Reginald said, without missing a beat. “And I’m glad you voiced it. Fundamentally, it means that you can bring in two mages from outside the Academy to help you overcome the dragon-sized problem.”

  A hubbub broke out then amongst the crowd, more an intrigued babble than anything else.

  I made out the words “regeneration runes” amidst the multitude of raised voices.

  “Yes, I know, I know, my friends,” Reginald said. “The lack of regeneration runes throws in added soupçon of spice to the proceedings, of course it does! But such things have been done in the War Mage Games before, although, admittedly, not in the Qualifiers. And the presence of the freelancers should—I imagined—ensure the safety of our contestants. What can I say? I am a mage that likes to defy convention! Is that not why you love me?”

  There was a chorus of cheers at this; laughter and magnanimous catcalls. There were also a few amiable boos thrown out for good measure.

  “Is that not why the Arcane Council holds me in such a high regard?” the Headmaster said.

  There was a lot more cheering and laughter at this.

  “That’s right, that’s right, I thought so,” Reginald said.

  There were a host of questions queuing up to be asked in my head. However, they would have to remain unasked until Reginald finished his address and the boys and I managed to find him. I mean, I knew the motherfucker was pretty reckless, but when I considered what an absolute slaughter this freshly concocted round of his could turn out to be…

  I had never seen a real dragon, but I had always wanted to—who wouldn’t? But just because I’d never seen one didn’t mean that I could not envision how fucking dangerous the thing was likely to be. Deadly scimitar-like claws, teeth as long as I was tall, and jet-engine breath; these were all fairly large obstacles to overcome in themselves.

  When you threw a bunch of inexperienced mages into the mixer too; males and females hell bent on killing one another, then things were bound to get out of hand pretty quickly.

  My thoughts were broken off by Reginald Chasobane.

  “There is an obvious stipulation to a normally unbendable part of the Qualifier battles,” he said. “It is something that I’m sure many of you were mulling over just now. Due to dragons being as dangerous as all hell—being able to flambé one to a jelly, slice one into uneven chunks, or chew one into hamburger meat—there are to be no attacks directed from participants at one another. After careful discussion with my staff and other trusted sources, we decided that the body count would just be too high if we allowed combatants to try and liquidate one another as well as fight dragons.”

  Some more ironic jeering went up from some of the bigger smart-asses in the crowd.

  “I assure you,” Reginald said. “There will be enough treasure caches for all the students, since there are many dragons living at the bottom of the mountain that I have selected as the venue for this round. Each team has been designated a particular dragon, so there should be no fighting over who gets to fight which dragons.”

  Reginald belched hugely. He took off his enormous rock’n’roll sunglasses, clearly thought better of it, and put them back on.

  “Now, before I potentially disgrace myself in public,” he said, “let me finish by informing you that the final round of our Qualifiers will kick off this afternoon at two o’clock. The reasons for this are three-fold. Firstly, it will give our brave competitors adequate time in which to decide whether or not they wish to participate. The second is that, if they elect to continue down this potentially fatal road, they have three and one half hours in which to enlist the help of two freelancers—should they wish to. The third reason is that the afternoon light falling on the mountain slopes where these dragons live is truly evocative, and I wanted all of our good fans here to be able to fully immerse themselves in the drama that will undoubtedly unfold!”

  The crowd cheered, as crowds do when whoever has their attention makes mention of them or acknowledges that they are there.

  Reginald drained the rest of the vividly yellow contents in the glass beaker and tossed it high into the air. It arched over us, the combatants, before bursting apart and morphing into a flock of soap bubble doves that winged their way into the heavens.

  Reginald toppled backward after he had thrown the beaker, but was saved from falling by one of the ladies of negotiable affection, who stuck out a hand and kept him mostly upright.

  “Now that we have that all cleared up!” the Headmaster said, his hands looping and twirling through the air in expansive gestures that somehow seemed to embrace the crowd to his bosom. ”Let us go forth and enjoy the rides and food and drink that still await us outside in the Academy’s ancient arena. I shall see you all back here at the strike of two, when those brave—or foolish—Qualifier contestants step through the portal I shall provide and stride out to face their dragon on the slopes of Dragonhold!”

  Chapter Twenty

  After we had all been dismissed, the boys and I made our way back through the forest. We continued through the tunnel that separated the newer War Mage arena from the old practice colosseum in which all the rides, stalls, booths, and minor entertainments were set out in.

  We wandered around for thirty minutes before I finally caught sight of Reginald swaggering through the crowd. The Headmaster really was a man of the people. He had the knack fo
r being able to make just the right amount of small talk with anyone who hailed him before he slipped on through the crowd. He smiled at everyone who greeted them and called them by their names, asking some intimate little question that instantly put the other person at ease and made them feel special.

  I caught the sleeve of the Headmaster just as he was moving toward a coconut shy. He still had his enormous, ground glass sunglasses on, but his face was fixed in the direction of the coconut shy with the single-minded concentration of a man who had spotted an old nemesis from across the battlefield.

  “Eh?” Reginald said as I arrested his progress toward the stall. He looked down and saw that he had been snagged by his voluminous sleeve. Then he looked up. His face split in a gracious smile.

  “Justin Mauler, as I live and breathe! How are you, my old china duck? Come to join me in a little light-hearted ball-tossing?”

  He gestured at the coconut shy, and his expression turned menacing.

  “I’m sure you have probably run across one of these damned stalls before, no? The aim of the game, or so the cursed individual who runs this particular stall tells me, is to throw the balls he supplies at the coconuts resting on the poles. Hit three of them and you take ownership of one of those delightful stuffed mermaids you see hanging up there. Care to join me in a toss? My treat.”

  “Uh, sure, sir, sure,” I said distractedly.

  “Your fellow braves here are welcome to stand by and cheer us on,” Reginald said, nodding amiably at Rick, Bradley, Damien, and Nigel. “In fact, I should be very much appreciative if they would act as a screen of sorts and hide us from the prying eyes that seek to pin me down and winkle me out of this shell of fun I’m in right now.”

  “No problemo, Headmaster,” Damien said.

  The lads gathered at mine and Reginald’s backs as we took up our positions at the front of the stall and were handed our balls by the proprietor.

  “Back once again, Headmaster,” the stall owner said with a greasy smile. She had twiggy hair the copper color of oak leaves in the fall and dark skin that bore a barky quality. I took her for a dryad.

  “Hello, Briar, you infuriating cove,” Reginald said suavely. “I would like to say that it’s a pleasure to see you, but I think we both know that the torment that you have put me through the years with this game of yours has destroyed any chance of a friendship springing up between us.”

  The dryad, Briar, smiled more widely.

  “I mourn the lack of friendship, your Headmastership,” she said in a voice that contradicted her words, “but I’ll not deny that the money you have spent here is almost wholly responsible for my house being built.”

  “You spent enough gold at this stall to build this woman a house?” I asked incredulously.

  “Indeed he has,” Briar replied. “Though, in his defense, it’s not a big one.

  “You might not know this about me, Justin,” Reginald said, taking a quick nip from a flask that must have been no bigger than my thumb, “but I have quite an addictive personality.”

  Behind us, Bradley snorted with mirth.

  “Bless you, Flamewalker,” the Headmaster said. “My own allergies are somewhat rife today. I attribute them to the pounding head, dry mouth, and eyeballs that feel like they have been dipped in fire ants.”

  “Sir, I need to have just a quick word with you,”I said.

  “Ah,” Reginald said genteely, “I didn’t think that you had sought me out only with the delights of the coconut shy in mind.”

  He threw a ball at one of the coconuts and missed.

  “Son of a cussed whore! Cursed hairy fruit! Have you no decency in that withered soul that resides inside that shell of yours!” the Headmaster bellowed, taking me off guard so that my own throw went wide of the mark.

  “Headmaster,” I said, “are you sure that having the competitors take part in such a… well, such an insane task is very wise?”

  “Probably not,” Reginald said, quite casually. “I think there’s very little that could be considered wise about going toe to toe with a fully grown dragon guarding a treasure hoard. I should know. I’ve done it.”

  “But—” I started to say.

  “You are asking the wrong question, my good man,” Reginald said, cutting me off. “Is it wise? No. Is it necessary? Yes.”

  He threw a ball overarm, so hard that any MBL team scout would have signed him up on the spot as a pitcher had they seen it.

  It missed by a whisker.

  “Damnation and ruin upon you, you damn nuts! And a pox upon the private parts of the woman that labels herself your master!” Reginald roared, blurting out the words in a manner that made me think he couldn’t have held them in even if he had wanted to.

  I looked over at Briar. She shrugged and said in a stage whisper, “He always gets like this, the poor dear. I don’t take it personal like. Not like he does.”

  “Uh, why is it necessary, sir?” I asked.

  “Because,” Reginald said in his normal voice, “it was the only way that I could contrive, at short notice, to get you access to the restricted area you need to get to.”

  I tossed my ball at a coconut and this time made contact. The nut flipped off its perched and landed in the straw underneath.

  “One to the lad,” said Briar.

  I was fairly certain that I could hear Reginald’s teeth grinding.

  “What secret or restricted area is this, Headmaster?” I asked.

  Reginald stuck his tongue between his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and took aim. “This man will be able to tell you what you need to know,” he said.

  “What man?” I asked.

  “Excuse me gentlemen,” a familiar calm voice said from behind me. “I require a word with Justin.”

  As Reginald threw his ball and exploded into a fresh bout of cursing when he missed, Ragnar Ironskin slipped between Damien and Bradley.

  “Ragnar,” I said, “how’s it going, man?”

  “Well, thank you,” the steel-toothed Viking-looking warrior said politely.

  “What can I do for you?” I said.

  “It’s not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you,” Ragnar replied.

  “Yeah, Headmaster Chaosbane hinted that someone—you, I figure—was about to tell me something about some restricted area that I need to get to while we’re taking part in this final round?” I said.

  Ragnar nodded. “I have an early gift for you. I am usually a man of my word, but circumstances are forcing me not to hold with the bargain I made with you concerning your mother’s staff.”

  I turned and absentmindedly knocked another coconut off its perch with my next throw. Then I turned back to Ragnar and asked, “So, what, this second round is a distraction? A coverup of some kind?”

  “This dragon cache is where you can find your mother’s white staff, Justin,” Ragnar said, getting to the point with very un-Avalonian brusqueness. “Now that the Arcane Council is sniffing around, getting that staff in your hands has become of paramount importance.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  A series of delighted, almost tearful, compliments issuing from Reginald and aimed in the direction of the dryad, Briar, told me that the Headmaster had managed to knock off a coconut of his own.

  “I’ve been doing some extensive research, at the behest of Headmaster Reginald,” Ragnar said. “Looking into why and how quickly our world’s naturally occurring mana is disappearing. It is very delicate research. The type of investigation that would see the Arcane Council disappear me and ship Reginald off to some backwater school if they heard anything about it. I believe that Istrea knew exactly how to bring back the magic that is being leached or lost from the world.”

  “Genocide, right?”

  Ragnar shook his head. “Istrea discovered another option. Something that involved the reason why said magic is dying. There’s something sinister that’s causing it to die out or be lost, and it was your mother’s discovery of such that was the true reason behind the Voi
d Wars. It was a secret she kept even from her husband, Zenidor—from your father—so explosive was it.”

  “And you think that that secret, my mother’s knowledge, could be contained in her white staff?” I asked.

  Ragnar nodded.

  I swiveled on the spot, threw a ball, and missed.

  Turning back, I said, “So, the plan is to steal the staff, along with the rest of a very particular dragon’s hoard, under the guise of this little unprecedented War Mage Games Qualifier round? That’s the only way that you guys think that we will be able to acquire it?”

  Ragnar nodded.

  “And, with everyone watching, the Arcane Council will not try to intervene, right?” I said.

  “That is what we’re hoping,” Ragnar said, pitching his voice a little louder so that I could hear him over the vigorous cursing coming from Reginald as he missed yet again.

  “We don’t think they have a clue that it is there,” Ragnar continued, “but even if they do and they realize what we’re up to, we’re hoping that such a public audience will prevent them moving to stop us.”

  “And it must be done in the Qualifiers?” asked Bradley, who had been listening attentively along with the rest of the lads.

  “Yes. If the Council learns where the staff is and manages to stop us before we can retrieve it, the staff will undoubtedly be removed by them. Then, it could take another few dozen years to find it—if we ever find it at all,” said Ragnar.

  My mind started racing ahead then. I tossed my last ball from hand to hand; thinking, thinking, thinking.

  I lobbed the ball, and it skimmed the side of a coconut but did not knock it free.

  “I’ve just thought,” I said. “If we want to access the memories in my mother’s staff—if they’re in there at all—we’re going to need the energy from three more departing souls, aren’t we?”

  Ragnar looked slightly uncomfortable with this question. I figured Ragnar Ironskin was one of those old school kind of warriors. The kind of warrior that would rather die honorably than survive at all costs. He was one mage who had a code of honor.