Tarrin Kael Firestaff Collection Book 2 - The Questing Game by Fel ©

by James Galloway (aka Fel)

  Tarrin stood in place and watched as the mage carefully mixed the two liquids, nearly drop by drop, until the liquid in the beaker on the table suddenly began to bubble and turn dark. "There we are," Phandebrass said, mainly to himself, watching the bubbling reaction carefully. The solution frothed violently, then seemed to stop with a suddenness that surprised him. "Very good. What did you want, my boy?" he asked, then he picked up the strange foamed mixture, and to Tarrin's shock, began to drink it.

  Whatever he was doing, he must know what he was doing, Tarrin decided after watching him imbibe the entire contents of the beaker. "I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your magic."

  "Oh? And what did you want to know?" he asked, setting the beaker down.

  "Just how it works, I guess. I've never seen wizard magic in use before until the battle, and I didn't realize it was so--"

  "Versatile? Yes, that's the power of Wizardry, my boy. Our spells are very wide-ranging. There's a spell for nearly anything you can think of."

  "How does it work?"

  Phandebrass laughed. "That, my boy, is something that takes years to learn," he replied. "There's more to it than jabbering strange words and making pretzels of your fingers. You have to have the concentration to control the power you create, or it will blow up in your face."

  "I learned a little about Wizard magic in the Tower. That rod of steel you used, that was a material con-component?"

  Phandebrass nodded. "Some spells need the presence of an item or material to act as a catalyst for the magic. Most components are consumed in the casting of the spell."

  "Why?"

  Phandebrass stared at him, and then he laughed. "You can't have something for nothing, my boy. A mage sometimes has to give to receive his magic. Every spell a mage casts requires that the mage give a little something, if only his breath and a little bit of his energy. Most of the stronger spells demand something a bit more than that, though. That means that for some spells, we have to find the right materials to make it work right. Some of them can be very expensive."

  "Huh," Tarrin mused, looking at the beakers on the table. "Dolanna told me that wizards receive their magic from an elsewhere, a place not of our world. Is that what you learned?"

  "I know where my magic comes from, my boy," Phandebrass smiled. "Wizards tap the energies of the Energy Realms for their magic. All our power comes from those two dimensions. There's the Realm of Light, which is positive energy, and the Realm of Darkness, which is negative energy. A spell is just that raw energy shaped into a specific effect. A great deal how your Sorcery works. You take the raw energy of your spheres and shape it into a specific effect. We do the same, just with one type of energy rather than several."

  "One? You said you tapped two powers."

  "There are two powers, I say, but no spell taps them both at the same time. They would cancel each other out, my boy. A spell is made up of either positive energy or negative energy, depending on what the spell does."

  "What would a negative energy spell be?"

  "Well, let's see," he pondered. "A spell of darkness is negative energy. There's a spell to conjure the voices of the dead--any spell dealing with Necromancy is negative energy--and a spell to suck the energy right out of someone. I say, generally any spell that takes away, drains, or reduces something is negative energy. Battlemagic like fire and explosions, spells that grant the recepient of the spell limited magical abilities, things like that, that's positive energy. You're not draining, you're adding. The spell where I turned myself to steel is a positive energy spell. It's a spell of Transmutation."

  "Trans-what?"

  "You have your spheres, my boy," Phandebrass chuckled. "We mages divide up our spells into categories that define what they do. There's Transmutation, changing one thing to another, there's Abjuration, spells of protection, there's Evocation, spells that summon energy in one form or another, which is the majority of wizard battlemagic, there's Charming, using spells to affect the mind or emotions of a subject, there's Enchantment, that imbues magical energy on mundane objects, and there's Necromancy, using magic to interact with the dead."

  "I heard about Necromancy. It gives your group a bad reputation."

  "Some use it in ways I don't approve, my boy, but all power is as good or as bad as the reasons behind using it. There are Necromancy spells that are very beneficial, but I must admit that even I know some that most people would consider ghastly."

  "Like what?"

  "Like a spell that imbues animate force in dead bodies, making them zombies," he replied. "I say, I don't much like Necromancy, but I'll learn the spells even if I have no intent to use them. It's knowledge, and a man can never know enough." He set his beaker down. "That Doomwalker is the result of a Necromancy spell."

  Tarrin's ears picked up, and he regarded Phandebrass intently. "How much do you know about that?"

  "Enough to know to stay out of its way, my boy," the mage replied. "Doomwalkers are not to be tested."

  "Can I make it just die?"

  "I say, I'm afraid not, my boy," he replied. "The wizard who summoned it has hold of the Doomwalker's soul, and it's doing what the summoner impels it to do, because its very soul hangs in the balance. Destroy it, and the Doomwalker's bound soul can make it animate the nearest available suitable corpse. If you totally destroy the current host body, it is forced back into its prison vessel, and has to be conjured again."

  "So that's why it took so long to come back," Tarrin mused. "I totally destroyed it the first time with magic, but the last time, Triana just killed it. That means that it's close to me again, right?"

  Phandebrass nodded. "It probably took it about a tenday to find a new body suitable for its needs and re-animate. Then it had to find suitable weapons to deal with you. It can't just create magical weapons, it had to go find one. You know how rare those are. That explains why we didn't see it in Shoran's Fork. It wasn't ready to tackle you again."

  "Do you know any spells to get rid of it?"

  Phandebrass shook his head. "Doomwalkers are a creation of Wizard magic, so they can't be affected by Wizard magic. Other orders of magic can affect them, but a Doomwalker's magical nature makes it very hard to affect with any type of magic. The only way to permanently kill it is to take or destroy the soul prison the conjuring mage uses to trap its soul. When you face it again, I highly suggest you destroy it, my boy. Send it back to its creator. That will give you more time before you have to face it again."

  "It's good, Phandebrass. I usually don't have many options when I face it."

  "Then don't face it alone, my boy," the mage said calmly. "You have a good many people around you that will help you deal with it, deal with anything. Why you don't accept their aid boggles me sometimes."

  The simple effectiveness of his statement struck Tarrin hard, but it was something that he had faced himself long ago. He wouldn't involve others in his personal battles because he wouldn't risk their lives. Miranda had proved to him that if he lost someone close to him, he wouldn't survive the rage that would result. Keeping his friends and sisters out of harm's way was as much an act of self-preservation as it was keeping them safe.

  "It's an act of preservation, Phandebrass," he replied quietly. "Mine as well as theirs. Remember what happened when Miranda and Sisska were hurt?"

  Phandebrass looked at him, then nodded in understanding. "I say, I guess I should have just asked," he said with a wry smile.

  "That does work," Tarrin agreed.

  "I say, my boy, I need to do some mixing, and it's something of a delicate nature. If you're willing to keep quiet, you're welcome to stay, but I can't afford any distractions. A moment's distraction could cause it to explode."

  "That's alright. If you're going to do something that serious, it'd be best if I leave."

  "I say, take Turnkey and Chopstick with you," he said. "They sometimes don't understand that bothering me while I work is dangerous."

  "Alright, I guess," he said. "Where did you fin
d them?"

  "Drakes inhabit the southern areas of Nyr and northern Sharadar. I found them as babies while I was searching for certain rare mosses that only grow in the forested regions of Telluria, after their mother was killed by an eagle. I raised them myself," he said proudly. "Chopstick, Turnkey, go out and play," the mage ordered the two green scaly reptiles. "Go on now," he shooed at them. "I'll be out in a while."

  "They understand you?"

  "Sometimes, they seem to," he replied. "Drakes are very intelligent. Some say as smart as people, but I haven't gotten around to studying them yet. They're relatives of dragons, you know."

  "Dragons? I thought they were just fairy tales."

  "They were very real, my boy," he replied. "Legend says they died in the Breaking, since they were so magical. I've seen some skeletons of dragons. They have one on display in the Cathedral of Knowledge in Sharadar, and I stumbled on another in a cave some ten years ago."

  "Huh," Tarrin mused. "I'd love to see that."

  "It was most impressive. Its legbone is taller than a man. It was hundreds of longspans long, with a wingspan longer than this ship. A truly magnificent creature."

  "That's big," Tarrin agreed. "It must have preyed on Rocs."

  "Probably," Phandebrass agreed. "See you later, my boy. I have to do this today, and I can't stand around and jabber anymore. We'll talk again later."

  The talk with Phandebrass had been productive. The doddering mage was very intelligent, and if anything, having a better understanding about Jegojah made it worth his while. So, the Doomwalker was being forced to do what it was doing. That only made sense, going on what he knew of it. It spoke of honor and fought bravely, and that didn't seem right for someone who was enjoying what it was doing. It was doing what it was being forced to do, and that was something that Tarrin with which could identify. He actually felt a little sorry for it. Having one's soul dragged from the Final Rest and being forced to do the bidding of another, that was slavery at its ultimate and most vile level. It made it no less dangerous, but Tarrin could sympathize with it. By now, Jegojah was probably taking his defeats personally.

  He sheparded the drakes outside, where they began to fly around the rigging, and found himself staring at Camara Tal. The Amazon had her back to him, and a bare back told him that she had her haltar off on the middle of the deck. The men around her were having a hard time not staring as she seemed to be fixing the garment, then shrugged it back on. Tarrin himself was rather indifferent about nudity because of who and what he was, and it seemed that the Amazons were much the same. She was lacing up the front of it as she turned and nodded to him. "It's about time, boy," she told him. "I'm ready to start the lessons again."

  "Begging your pardon, Mistress Tal, but I need to talk to the lad, yes," Renoit broke in as he came down off the steering deck.

  "What about, Renoit?" Tarrin asked.

  "Tarrin, I hoped to sneak you through without making you perform with the troupe, yes, but I think that maybe you should have a skill, just in case," he explained. "I talked with Faalken about you, and he said that your marksmanship with a bow is exceptional. I have seen you take the human shape, yes, so you could handle a bow. Do you think you could turn this skill into an act? I assure you, I will not use it unless we are forced to," he said quickly. "But if demands to see you perform are made, you must be ready to carry out, yes."

  "I'm no sharpshooter, Renoit, and it's been nearly a year since I've so much as picked up a bow," Tarrin protested.

  "Give yourself some credit, Tarrin," Faalken said as he came over from the other strongmen. "I've seen you shoot. Any man that can peg a bull's-eye from two hundred paces is a sharpshooter."

  "But I can't do it every time," he protested anew. "If you make me shoot, I'll have to do tricks, and I was never taught anything like that."

  "You have seen my dancers, lad, yes," Renoit soothed. "They are demonstrators, nothing more. I have my strongmen who also demonstrate fighting styles of the world. You will demonstrate the use of the bow. As long as you are consistent, then it is all I need, yes."

  "The lad's competent in the Ungardt Ways, Renoit," Faalken mentioned. "Could he do that instead?"

  "Uh, no," Tarrin said. "I'd have to work with someone else, and I'd rather not risked getting punched in the mouth and losing my temper."

  "Good point," Faalken grunted.

  "Well, lad, can you hit a target from long distances?" Renoit asked.

  "Yes, I can."

  "Can you hit a moving target from short or medium range?"

  "I used the bow to hunt, Renoit, I'd better be able to hit a moving target."

  "Then that's all I need, yes. Just humor me and practice with the bow while we travel. I will not use you unless we have no choice in the matter, but this way we will be ready, yes. Best safe than sorry."

  Tarrin couldn't really refute the man's logic. Just in case, it was a good idea for Tarrin to have a skill to fall back on. The bow would let him work alone, removing the risk of him losing control of himself, and he was a pretty good shot with a bow. He doubted that he had the skill to be a circus performer, but if all Renoit wanted was someone that could shoot straight, that was something that he could do. He was fairly certain that Renoit would see his practice and realize that he wouldn't be a good performer, and after all, if he wanted to avoid performing, all he had to do was change into a cat and not be seen in his humanoid form. That was a solution that Renoit hadn't considered, most likely.

  "It's going to be tricky practicing on the deck of a ship," Tarrin said dubiously. "The ship moves, there's people in the way, and I'll lose too many arrows. I don't have a good bow, either."

  "Where is your bow?" Faalken asked.

  "Walten still has it," Tarrin replied. "After this happened, I didn't see much need to keep it."

  "That's not a problem," Sarraya piped in, flitting up and landing lightly on Tarrin's shoulder. "How long did you have the bow, Tarrin?"

  "Years," he replied. "My father made it for me."

  "Easy enough. Hold out your hands."

  "What?"

  "Just do it, Tarrin," Sarraya said winsomely. "Trust me."

  Tarrin wasn't sure what Sarraya wanted, so he held his paws out. The Faerie left his shoulder and hovered just in front of his paws, and he felt her reach out with her power in a peculiar way. She held her arms out to the sides of her body, and she actually began to glow with a very faint light. Then she pointed at him, and to his surprise, his bow simply appeared in his hands. It was his bow; its every curve and faint scratch were still intimately known to him.

  "Impressive," Faalken said appreciatively. "How'd you do that, Sarraya?"

  "Magic, Faalken," the sprite teased with a grin. "Druidic magic lets us conjure things. We can also use it to summon an object intimately connected with someone, so long as it's not that large. Tarrin's father made his bow, he owned it for a long time, and it's small enough to fit in his hands. That connected it to him, and let me summon it to him."

  "Neat trick," he commended.

  "I've learned a few useful little tricks here and there," she said grandly. "Here's another trick for you. Hold it still, Tarrin," she commanded. Tarrin did so, and the Faerie reached out and touched the bowstring. His bow shimmered for just a second, then faded. "There. Now the bow and the bowstring can't break or be cut. Just in case you want to use it with your paws," she told him with a smile.

  "That could be useful," Faalken chuckled.

  "Just trying to be more than a paperweight, Faalken," Sarraya told him. Tarrin could sense the underlying need to make amends in her voice, one of her ways for atoning for what she did. Tarrin could accept that. Sarraya had started off on the wrong foot, but she was steadily working herself back into the good graces of those around her. Just like Camara Tal and Phandebrass, Tarrin rather liked the little sprite. She had gotten on his nerves, but he'd felt that way about nearly all his friends here and there. It was part of his nature. He still didn't trust her, though. He pull
ed on the bowstring tentatively, feeling its familiar pull, a pull that felt much weaker now that he was so much stronger. He extended a claw and put its cutting edges right on the bowstring and tried to sever it, but true to her word, the bowstring would not cut.

  "Thanks," Tarrin said, nearly involuntarily. "It'd feel weird using some other bow."

  "You're welcome, Tarrin," she replied.

  "Well, I guess you can practice the bow while I teach you," Camara Tal said after a moment.

  "I'll conjure you some arrows, Tarrin," Sarraya promised. "They won't have steel heads, but I can weight the front of them to simulate that. That way you'll have an unlimited supply."

  "I guess that would work," Tarrin said, but he privately worried that being exposed to both Camara Tal and Sarraya may be too much for his nerves. Especially since they didn't seem to get along with each other. Well, scratching them up a bit would convince them to be civil in his presence, and he wasn't going to give up on learning how to accept them.

  He'd have to wait and see.

  GoTo: Title EoF

  Chapter 19

  It felt strange to hold his bow again.

  Tarrin stood at the bow of the ship in human form, holding the bow in his hands and letting his mind wander over memories of what seemed to him to be long ago. Back when he was human. He would range through the Frontier with his bow in search of deer, going alot further than he was supposed to go. It was a very good bow, made by his father's careful hands, and with a pull so strong that not many men could draw it, and fewer could hold it pulled for very long. That draw was customized for his strength, at least back then, giving the bow power. His father's careful craftmanship had ensured the bow had deadly accuracy, depending only on the condition of the arrow used with it. He had owned the bow for only a year before leaving Aldreth. He had given his old bow to Jenna, which had been made for him when he was fifteen, and his father had made him a new bow, a much larger one more suited for his size and strength. Jenna still hadn't grown into his old bow, and now that she could use Sorcery, he doubted she ever would use it. A pity, it was a very good bow.