The Black Mage: Candidate

by Rachel E. Carter

  If no one else was going to lead the attacks it was going to have to be me. Time to make it three.

  The throwing daggers whizzed through the air faster than my breath.

  One caught the bleeding man in the shoulder, the other in the leg. Magic sputtered in front of him—the makings of a blast of fire—but it extinguished before it crossed even half the distance between us. The mage crumbled, and I skirted forward, watching as he tried again only to have the flames flicker and die at the tips of his fingers. He swore at me, raising his palms in surrender.

  The other two met my eyes across the stadium as the announcer declared yet another candidate down. They had started to inch closer during my attack. All of us knew victory was bare minutes away.

  I waited, gulping heavy drags of air in an effort to prepare. My lips were cracked, and sweat was pouring so hard and so fast that I had to keep wiping it away lest I go blind.

  The wound in my leg? It ached worse than any injury I had ever encountered during my apprenticeship, possibly even more than that dagger to the ribs during the battle as a fifth year in Ferren. That had only lasted a couple minutes before I lost consciousness—this had lasted thirty minutes and counting. All my movement had tugged and pulled at the head so that my whole thigh was shiny red and tender at the slightest touch. I was quite sure with my pain casting earlier I had scraped against bone. The pain was even worse because it was only increasing every time I moved.

  I thanked the gods my constant pain casting had increased my tolerance to bodily abuse.

  When they got close enough to pause, the three of us made up a triangle—an equal distance apart.

  My gaze flicked to the limping mage first. His expression was fierce and despite his limp I knew he wasn’t out yet. The second man was still inscrutable and deadly. Now that we were on our last limbs of magic he had the best defense with his armor because it didn’t cost him anything to keep it.

  I swallowed. If the armored mage had lasted this long despite his lack of agility then his magic had to be great, his stamina even greater.

  My eyes flicked back and forth between the two, my fists ready to cast at the slightest attack. A movement caught my eye and my chin jerked, ever so slightly to catch the limping mage’s wink. He did it one more time, and then I casually returned my stare to the armored mage who was shifting from one foot to the next, no injury that I could see.

  I prayed it wasn’t a trick. After all, it made sense. We could waste our magic battling each other, neither keeping enough to challenge the armored mage on our own. Or we could both take him on first, and then let the best mage win.

  Please, please don’t let this be a trick.

  Magic shot out of my palms at the same moment as the other. The armored mage threw up a sphere not a moment too soon—but cracks crept across, snaking trails of purple across his globe, and then the shield vanished and our castings sent him flying back against the sand.

  The man struggled to rise, clunky mail making the stand difficult as twin bolts of ice shot at the two of us. One ball of fire from the black-haired mage deflected one as I sent up a gust of sand to overtake the second.

  Back and forth our magic danced. After a couple quick bouts the armored mage dug his blade into his flesh. There was a ricocheting boom that echoed across the arena as the black-haired mage and I collapsed to the ground, spheres up just in time before a hot wall of fire cut across the gap.

  I held back another cry as the bandage cut into my thigh, clinging to my casted shield with the last of my regular magic. The moment the wave passed my shield fell, and I pressed down on my wound, sending a set of three war hammers slamming against the armored mage’s chains. The black-haired mage set his magic with a mace, and two of our castings pounded into the armored mage’s flesh.

  Chainmail might protect against sharp blades but it did not prevent a blunt but powerful force.

  The armored man roared a surrender after his next pain casting barely charged—dying before it even reached the air. His magic had run out, and he wasn’t in a position to outmatch two of us still with magic.

  I barely heard the announcer declare his loss. My eyes had flown to the black-haired man and his to me.

  And then there were two.

  This was it. I was so, so close. Every bit of me was crying out in pain as I pushed myself to stand; I could see he was struggling to do the same.

  For a moment neither of us moved. He cocked his head, studying me as I studied him. The mage was definitely older—but not quite thirty if my assessment was correct. He was slimmer than most, and if he had survived this long he had to be my equal in agility and strength. He was down to pain casting just like me—and neither of us was faring well. His skin was clammy and red and he was shaking just to stand. I could see blood seeping through his bandages; blood was streaking down my leg.

  That didn’t stop him from casting, and it didn’t stop me.

  WHAM!

  Our castings collided. His ice melded with my sand, and I snorted as the cluster dropped like a pile of crumbled debris between us. Clearly we had our favorite moves.

  He scooted closer and I followed suit. This time neither of us chose a casting until we were barely fifteen feet apart. He knew his limits—well, so did I.

  Another flare as this time I cast flying daggers and he arrows. Both of our castings fell as we threw up shields that crumbled the barest second after deflecting one another’s casting.

  I couldn’t help but notice he had been digging a finger into his wound as I had pressed down on mine. Pain casting and we were already at our second limits. I bit down on my tongue as I added pressure but a wave of sickness roared up in its place. I bowled over and the other mage seemed to have a similar effect.

  Our magic was gone.

  I sucked in a deep breath and charged, every bit of me crying out as a fist feigned right and my leg swept at his feet. The man anticipated the move and caught my leg with both hands and pulled—causing me to stumble—before jerking back and throwing his weight forward so that I lost footing and fell to my back.

  My hand had shot out and grabbed onto one of his long braids. When I fell the man came crashing down on top of me. The blow momentarily knocked the wind from my lungs and then the two of us were rolling and struggling in the sand.

  When he had my hands and legs pinned—he was a bit heavier—I wriggled with all my might. Before the mage could make his hips and chest parallel to mine, my fingernails clawed desperately at the sand. I managed a small wad and shut my eyes and mouth just as I lobbed it at his face. The granules barely reached—my aim was severely hampered by the positioning of my wrist—but just enough took flight to catch in his breath. He started to sputter, and I thrust all my weight to the side, rolling with all my might until it was me on top of him.

  I choked on my breath as my arms started to shake violently while he fought my grip. With his weight he had the clear advantage, and my arms were always my weakest strength.

  He would win. He would outlast me in this, and then I’d be back on the ground, his victory at hand.

  No. This couldn’t be it. Already I was losing hold, my muscles screaming out in pain as the numbing pain in my leg echoed their call and begged me to quit.

  NO.

  I clung to my resolve and fought against every quivering fiber, refusing to let go of the victory so close at hand. The man shifted and squirmed, his eyes alight with a vigor I refused to accept.

  My muscles contracted, and he flipped me back to the ground. One hand pinned my defenseless wrists, his other reaching for my throat.

  “Surrender?”

  “No.” I whimpered the word, and the man squeezed, hard. I choked as the pressure increased and pain lanced across my lungs. A searing heat was ripping at my chest and my skin was afire, every single bit of me raging as he continued to press. My teeth chattered violently as I gasped for breath.

  You came this far, no one ever expected you to win anyway.

  “Surrender
n—”

  The shuddering halted as a sudden, biting pain seemed to claw its way right out of my flesh. A jarring flash and then the abrupt pain—and the pressure on my throat—was gone.

  When the dizziness faded I was able to push myself up with both fists and elbows digging into the ground for support. What I saw—it sucked the joy right out of my breath.

  The other mage was sprawled out in the sand not five feet away. His limbs flailing up and down, eyelids fluttering and expression blank, as his lips flapped in some meaningless words. There was nothing natural to his bodily tremors.

  Then I noticed the red marks on his palm, feathering down his arm like a snake. Master Byron had explained those symptoms before, though I had never seen them in person: lightning.

  The heavy vibrations, the pain, the heightened emotions.

  I’d been wrong. I’d still had magic.

  We weren’t so equal after all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The mage survived. His name was Hadrian, I found out later. Lightning strikes, as the healers reminded me post-melee, hardly resulted in death if treated. My casting had only hit his palm. As far as injuries could go, it was quite possibly the best one he could get.

  We spent the rest of the day being treated with the rest of the candidates in the local infirmary. Extra healers had been hired for the week of the Candidacy, so even though we had eighty-one injured by the time Darren’s party arrived, every one of us were treated by no less than two healers a piece.

  I was so tired that evening that I hardly remembered a thing. Except that the prince had also won. Not that I had ever expected anything less.

  Before the sun had even finished making an attempt through the hazy morning sky, the final candidates were escorted to the special candidates’ box. A section of seats reserved for the five best ranks and the Three Colored Robes.

  A judge met with our group to go over the day’s schedule. Not one of us spoke. We listened as the man instructed us on how to proceed.

  Each rank’s winner would challenge the one from the rank above. After the match concluded both candidates would be taken to the infirmary where an anxious staff of healers awaited. The next match would begin as soon as the winning candidate from the previous match was treated.

  Most of our day—and the audience’s—would be spent waiting for the matches to start. Now that each round was a duel, the contests took no more than an hour at most; healings, on the other hand, could take several hours—even with several healers working at once—to complete. Each winning candidate had to be at full strength and stamina before entering into their next match.

  “No visitors!” The judge barked at a crowd of squabbling highborns that had attempted to push past the guards. No one was allowed to converse with the candidates until after the day’s event was over. Too many bets had been placed and the stakes—though obviously in favor of the prince—were too at risk to have some sneaky spectator try to pay off a contestant, though I doubted it would work—all five of us had spent too much time training to let it come to that.

  The fifth and fourth-rank candidates were called away to begin.

  The judge came to escort the contestants with a pair of guards. Their expressions were equal terror and excitement. I noted that neither looked more than two years past Darren and me.

  The loud rumblings of the audience quieted to a hush. It was as if everyone had taken a collective breath at once. The hazy sky—still unbearably hot—mirrored the abrupt mood, dark and light clouds dancing against the hazy morning sun.

  Darren’s gaze flitted to mine, and I swallowed hard.

  And so it begins. My stomach coiled, and the little food I’d managed to force down threatened to rise. I pulled my feet onto the bench and rested my forehead on my knees, arms wrapped around my legs.

  A hand pulled my clamped fingers apart. I didn’t need to look up to register the sudden weight beside me, or whose thumb was now pressing against my palm. The heavy pounding of his pulse matched my own.

  He didn’t say anything, and neither did I. We just watched the stadium. And we waited.

  ****

  Twenty-five minutes. That was how long it took me to outlast my fifth-rank opponent in the arena.

  I didn’t even have to resort to pain casting. Gwyn had been overconfident after winning two matches against the fourth-rank, Argus, and the third-rank, Rowan. She was good. Much more deserving than her fifth-rank status Master Byron had so cruelly proclaimed. She’d advanced two ranks—more than any Combat candidate had ever managed to do in the Candidacy—but she lost to me.

  My match the day before had made me more aware of my surroundings. Toward the end of our duel it had started to sprinkle—just a light misting of rain, but one I had embraced in my castings. I’d funneled enough to evoke a quicksand-like patch in the ground, and Gwyn hadn’t noticed it until it was too late.

  While she had struggled to free herself, I’d managed to break through her defenses with an onslaught of magic—essentially forcing her hand. She’d surrendered—the both of us bleeding heavily from our injuries in the arena.

  I’d endured a broken arm, a burn down the side of my stomach—so intense that the slightest wind had me convinced someone had taken a tray of hot coals and thrust them against my ribs, and a deep wound at the shoulder thanks to a throwing knife I had failed to deflect.

  Gwyn’s injuries had been worse.

  “Is she fully well?” The judge pushed through my crowd of healers and his sharp eyes bore into my own. “How are those injuries, Mage Ryiah? Have you already tested your magic? Full stamina?”

  I nodded. My fingers were trembling, and I thrust them in my lap. There was no point delaying the inevitable. The team of Restoration mages had put me through a complete recovery both physically and magically—all within the course of three hours.

  The burly man turned to the healers, and they affirmed I was ready.

  “Good. I don’t want anyone saying a prince of the kingdom won because his opponent wasn’t up to potential.” I cringed. Clearly the judge had already placed his bet. “Brenner, tell Godwin to bring His Highness around to the second entrance, I’ll have Rhett escort her to the first. Make sure the announcer knows we are ready.”

  With the flap of his long black mage’s robe he was gone. The healers handed me a new set of fighting garments to change into out of my clean shift. When I had finished, I stared out at my reflection in the mirror.

  Supple deerskin boots that rose to my knees, skintight breeches of some stretchy material that allowed me the same freedom as my sleeveless top, a fitted leather vest that showed more skin than it hid, and arm guards that tied around my wrists. All candidates were given the same garb for our final day—no armor was allowed in these rounds. The only difference was the men went shirtless: something the women couldn’t quite replicate on the battlefield.

  I quickly braided my hair down the side. The plait I’d had the day before at the top of my head had come loose too easily, a down braid would hopefully be much easier to keep.

  Gwyn walked up behind me—she was still in her shift and there was still a slight limp to her step. I swallowed, wondering whether she would wish me luck or misfortune after I had robbed her of the second-rank title.

  “If it can’t be me, I hope it’s you.”

  I whirled around to thank her and her eyes crinkled. “Don’t let the men get all the glory. It’s our time to wear the robe.”

  I started to speak but Rhett—who had arrived and noticed I was finished dressing—took my arm and led me away before I had a chance to properly thank the mage.

  I had to jog to keep up with the tall guard whose normal gait seemed to be a sprint, and by the time we had reached the primary tunnel blood was soaring through my veins—almost enough to distract me from the crippling anxiety that was beating at my chest.

  Up until now I had managed to all but ignore who was waiting for me at the other side of the stadium. But then the announcer bellowed his n
ame.

  I could hear the raucous screams and cheers from the spectators like a giant clap of thunder.

  “DARREN! DARREN! DARREN!”

  The thick clay walls were shaking from the stomp of thousands of feet.

  And then it was silent.

  “Best of luck, my lady.” The guard walked me to the edge of the tunnel and then looked my way. “My sister was a second-year apprentice during your last year with the prince. She convinced several of her friends to bet on you.”

  My tongue stuck to the back of my throat, and it was a great effort to swallow. “And you?”

  “The prince. But I do believe you will give him a run for my gold.”

  “Thank you, Rhett.”

  “Good luck, my lady.”

  I strode out into the night.

  ****

  Hundreds of cheers cut the air as I emerged from a tunnel of darkness to a somber violet sky. Rolling black clouds were speeding across the expanse, and I could barely make out the stands, bright blue mage’s orbs lining the rows against a sea of shadowed faces.

  Tiny sapphires of water poured down like glittering tears and made wet sand stick to the bottom of my boots as I ran. Thunder groaned and heaved, stark flashes of light sliced above like a waiting knife. The summer storm that had been brewing all day was here.

  By the time I reached the center I was slick with sweat and rain, every inch of me alive.

  The prince stood facing me, not fifteen feet away—dark garnet eyes and hair as black as coal. Droplets slid down his bare chest as he regarded me with the crook of a grin.

  “It was always you,” he said.

  “TEN SECONDS, CANDIDATES! TEN. NINE. EIGHT…”

  I gave Darren a shaky smile. “May the best of us win?”

  “FIVE. FOUR. THREE…”

  “They already have. But, yes…” His eyes danced, a streak of crimson in a shadowy night. “May the best mage win.”

  “ONE. AAAAAAND BEGIN!!!”

  Twin blasts of power crackled and soared.

  A brilliant flare lit up the whole arena as our castings shot out against the night—and then an awful ear-shattering screech as the brute strength of our magic collided. The sheer force of the impact sent the prince and me airborne, soaring back against the sand. Back, far, possibly a hundred and fifty feet between us when we landed.