Journeyman Warsmith

by Chris Hollaway

  Bertus’s crossbow twanged, and moments later the Orclord bawled, as the boy shouted in triumph.

  Kevon could not waste the time or energy to turn, but Carlo’s barking laughter was assurance enough that they had just won another small victory.

  Five exhausting minutes later, Carlo spoke again.

  “Well, now it’s just angry, lad.”

  The Seeker heard Bertus sigh and stop briefly to reload his weapon.

  Mirsa stirred, groaning, and the fatigued warrior stopped and lowered her to her feet.

  “Can you walk?” he asked, “Or better, run?”

  Her gaze drifted back behind him, to where Kevon had not looked since he had scooped her up. Wide eyed, she nodded, and turned to flee.

  The Warsmith followed closely behind Mirsa, with limbs that felt as sturdy as Feastday pudding. His mind felt little better, having been constantly taxed the last few hours. Nevertheless, Kevon pushed outwards with his magical senses, and still felt the slight corruption affecting the Elemental magic.

  But only just… Kevon thought, horrified and elated at how near the Orclord must be drawing, and at how close they were to having the means to destroy it. He weighed the meager amount of energy he had accumulated in the minutes since he’d spent himself helping Mirsa, and judged it was not enough to delve more than a foot into the earth, and he was sure Mirsa had recovered even less than he. If only there were some other place I could…

  A frenzied roar from the approaching Orclord, and a sudden shift in footing as one of Kevon’s steps coincided with a shockwave from his pursuer pushed the unreasonable hope into a frantic search. In that moment of panic, Kevon expended all of his magic to reach out in all directions, searching for anything to latch onto, anything that could save them.

  Kevon drank deeply of the power he found, right in the palm of his hand.

  Or near the palm of my hand, He thought, smirking as he turned to face the charging Orc. Giddy with power, Kevon unleashed a surge of magic. The ground before him buckled, and an earthen wave flowed forth, gaining in size and speed as it traveled.

  “Hah!” Kevon shouted, gesturing upward as the wave crested to slam, chest high, into the oncoming Orclord. Suddenly aware of what he had just done, he released the power. “Is it dead?” he asked, peering ahead at the newly shattered landscape.

  As if in response, the rubble shifted. After a few moments, it shifted again.

  “What do you think we should…” Kevon stopped short as he turned and spotted the expressions on his friends’ faces. Carlo, weapon still in its scabbard, nonetheless appeared to be sizing Kevon up as a possible adversary. Mirsa’s face was a mask of shock and confusion. Only Bertus’s grin and eyes shining with excitement and hope seemed in character.

  “How did…?” Mirsa whispered, backing away.

  “I’ll explain after!” Kevon snapped. “Right now we need to deal with…”

  The broken earth he’d turned his back on shifted audibly. Kevon turned to look directly at Carlo.

  “You seemed to be doing fine,” the Commander grunted.

  Kevon sighed, and turned to face the Orclord, who was struggling into a sitting position. He cleared his mind, and wrenched more Earth magic from the ring. He wrapped himself in the energy, readying a strike larger than the last, when the well ran dry.

  The power that he’d gathered began diffusing, ebbing swiftly below the amount of magic he’d used for the previous spell. Seeing no alternative, Kevon used his swiftly frazzling reserves to sink into the earth. To his waist. To his neck. Six feet under. Twelve. Sympathetic magic flowed inward, punching through the disarray of the broken enchantments, offering, then forcing its way into his mind. He wrestled with the forces, and as he mastered them, brought his friends down to safety, covering the shafts above them as he merged their passageways into his chamber.

  Mirsa drew a light orb from her cloak pocket, and lit it, but Kevon’s senses were elsewhere, as he pushed the stone chamber they were now encased in through the earth to the east.

  The strain of managing the power was wearing him down, but he paused long enough to direct his attention back to where they had left the Orclord, He flung his palm toward the west, unleashing all of the forces that he had drawn in. He pushed back against the renewed influx of Earth magic, and ended the spell. Grasping his sword hilt for relief, he smiled, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 20

  Kevon awoke to a flurry of jabs in his leg. Before he could steel himself against it, the pain from his overtaxed muscles washed over him. His head throbbed, and copious amounts of Earth magic threatened to cascade into his mind.

  “Wake up,” Bertus pleaded, whispering. “We let you sleep about an hour, but Mirsa is not well.”

  The Mage peered over to the other side of the chamber, where Mirsa crouched, holding the flickering Light orb, eyes closed, rocking back and forth on her heels. He knew what she must be feeling, trapped here, mind being crushed by the magic, afraid to wield it even this far from the source of the corruption. He rose and walked stiffly over to Mirsa. “I told you it will be all right,” he said, cupping the side of her face in his hand. “And it starts now.”

  Not willing to wait any longer, Kevon formed an Earth rune in his mind, and accepted the power that was bearing down on him. He siphoned the energies he felt gathered around Mirsa, actively drawing from that direction, while passively absorbing whatever other magic that presented itself. Shortly, he had gathered more than enough to begin propelling their stone chamber toward the surface, and the ascent began.

  Mirsa stood, and Kevon adjusted the flows to compensate for her change in position, and hastened the chamber upward. He could feel her mind reach out and touch the torrents of magic that writhed past her, and then withdraw. Moments later, the stone overhead split, opening to the sky and light rain. The floor of their temporary sanctuary had almost reached ground level when the magic gave out, and the spell ended.

  Carlo and Bertus both turned their faces into the oncoming rain, no doubt thankful to be free of an underground prison they had no chance of escaping on their own. Color started returning to Mirsa’s face, and Kevon breathed deeply of fresh air that did not smell of sweat and fear.

  Kevon vaulted over the partially formed wall to the west, and leaned back against it, peering at his handiwork in the distance. Several hundred yards away, standing, half slumped forward, was the Orclord. Supporting its still form was a field of stone spikes that thrust up at an angle toward the west. Some of the rock formations extended above the height of the lifeless orc, and at least four of them pierced completely through it.

  Bertus climbed the wall and sat next to Kevon, letting out a low whistle of approval. “Fortunate that I slowed it down for you back there,” he commented, shoving the Mage playfully.

  “Yes, it was,” Kevon agreed. “Waine would have been proud of you… Of all of us.”

  Mirsa climbed out of the depression at a notch in what remained of the wall, and walked around to where the others waited. She regarded the slain orc in silence, then turned to Kevon. “You’ve been able to bend great amounts of power to your will. As much as I’ve seen any Master work, at least.” She locked her gaze to his. “By now you must have realized the potentials for power, as well as disaster, when using borrowed Elemental magic.”

  Kevon grimaced.

  “Even with the corrupted state of magic in this area,” Mirsa continued, “It’s safer to use large amounts of Elemental energy, where there are no other Magi, to speak of.”

  “Why is that?” Bertus chimed in.

  “All another Mage would need to do would be to gather magic from a source you are using at the wrong time, and the results could be… Well, you’ve seen them for yourself.”

  “Hmm?” Bertus asked, face scrunched in disbelief.

  “The wastelands of the Southern Frontier?” Mirsa asked, eyes widening. “The final battleground of the War of the Magi?”

  “Miners and blacksmiths wouldn’t normally spea
k of such things, even if they knew them,” Kevon offered. “I must admit, I’ve only seen brief mention of the War, myself.”

  Mirsa drew her cloak tighter about her as the wind picked up. The rain was no more than scattered droplets by then, and clothing seemed to dry as fast as it dampened. “This is as much of a shelter as I expect we’ll find today?” Mirsa asked, nodding to the broken chamber. “I don’t fancy going underground any too soon.”

  “The orc’s dead,” Carlo grunted. “As far as I’m concerned, the Leapers can eat us.”

  Bertus laughed, the weariness showing in his young face perhaps more than the others.

  * * *

  Hours later, they sat gathered around a small fire in the waning light. Carlo perched atop the rim of one of the lower walls, inspecting his blades. Bertus was wedged into a corner, quietly dozing. Kevon and Mirsa sat, backs to another wall, quietly conversing.

  “The Magi of long ago were more powerful, unafraid to wrest their spell energies from the elements.” Mirsa explained. “Before the Realm of Kærtis was even formed, smaller nation-states battled for control of the northern and southern ends of the continent. Few settled the middle part, for nothing grew well, and even then, orcs roamed in abundance. Then, as now, Magi were reluctant to become involved in political matters, territorial disputes. They preferred to be left to their studies, lending aid as they could when the other races threatened to rise against Men.”

  Mirsa remained silent for a few moments, lost in thought. “Power on the continent stabilized, the Monarchy consolidating its forces in the north, and a federation of states formed an uneasy alliance in the south. Hostilities ebbed for a number of years…”

  “Until?”

  “Word reached the two nations at about the same time. Someone living in the middle-lands had unearthed a relic, a thing of myth. Some say it was a Seat of Power.”

  Kevon shook his head. “I don’t…”

  “The oldest legends tell of the making of Ærth,” Mirsa sighed. “That the creators walked among us, and ruled different areas of the world. More people had faith in the old tales then, and acted upon their beliefs.”

  “M’Lani…” Kevon breathed, recalling a story he’d read what seemed a lifetime ago.

  “The goddess of Light,” Mirsa nodded. “You do know some of the Old Lore.”

  “It was something I read in a children’s storybook,” Kevon explained, “Something about it seemed…” Kevon searched for words, but couldn’t manage to find the right ones.

  “Believers of the Old Lore are often persuasive, eloquent,” Mirsa agreed, “But I’ve researched magic for years, torn at the fabric of the world and the planes that lie beyond. I’ve seen no proof.” She paused, as if she expected Kevon to continue interrupting. When he did not, she proceeded. “A Seat of Power would have been an incredible find, not just ideologically, but the magical potential would have been incalculable. Neither the King in the north, nor the Council in the south, could allow the other side to have such an advantage. Troops were deployed. They met in the Middle-lands, skirmished back and forth, killing each other fruitlessly. According to the legends, the Council was the first to convince the Magi to join the battle. After all, if the King held the Seat, his subjects would prosper, and the southern states would be overrun. The King, fearing a similar fate, enlisted Magi from his own lands. Once the Magi had tasted battle, what was left of the regular armies fled. For days the storm clouds gathered, and flashes of fire were seen for miles. No one knows which side did it, but it was felt across the Realm, some say even across the sea. Years later, when people ventured back, the landscape was forever changed.”

  “So the Seat was destroyed?”

  “If it ever existed, it wouldn’t have survived the cataclysm.” Mirsa affirmed. “None of the soldiers knew the location, just rumors. And none of the Magi from the final battle survived.”

  “How many Magi would it have taken to do that?” Kevon wondered aloud.

  “If one could delve deep enough, survive the power long enough to misuse it…” Mirsa shuddered. “One would be all it took. Add another Mage to disrupt or try and divert his focus…”

  “Our second night away from the Company…” Kevon began, surprised at how difficult it was trying to recall the recent events. “I was sensing almost the whole valley, drawing power from the mountain cave we were in. I thought I felt a group of orcs on the move. I knew that it would only take a thought to kill them all, but the power scared me.”

  Mirsa nodded. “You would be better able to handle it now, with the experience you’ve gained in the last few days. But, the more you use the elements, the more you draw from sympathetic sources, the more power you attract from those sources. Powerful Elementalists often have to retire to places where the elements are balanced, preferably away from their element of choice. The Geomancers that caused the cataclysm would have been best off living among the Sea Elves, atop one of their islands. Open to the sky, surrounded by water.”

  “A high mountain village, next to a stream?” Kevon asked, tensing up.

  “More ideal for a Pyromancer,” Mirsa responded. “Why do you…”

  “Holten…” Kevon spat. “What better reason for a Master Mage to move to somewhere so out of the way? Maybe he was hiding from himself, as well as others.”

  “It’s possible,” she whispered.

  “Would…” Kevon frowned. “Would a Mage that needed to isolate himself from Fire… Would he be able to open a gateway to the Plane of Fire, summon a dragon?”

  “With the right tools, bonfires lit nearby, anywhere near midday, and the skill to focus the magic…” Mirsa pursed her lips. “It may be possible. But there is no record of such a powerful Pyromancer in ages. Having access to the Royal Library has its benefits. Court Wizards keep meticulous track of all known Magi that reach Journeyman status.” She giggled. “Except you, of course.”

  The Warsmith stood and leapt out of the circular depression. The pounding of his heart was mirrored by the pulsing Earth rune that rasped at his awareness, whispering to be used.

  Mirsa followed, clambering over the low wall, summoning a globe of Light after she stood and dusted herself off.

  “Life is strange,” Kevon mused, kicking at pebbles that he spotted by mage-light. “If my suspicions are correct, not only was Holten conspiring to unleash the Orclord on our Realm, he could have been the Mage that summoned the dragon that killed my father.”

  “More revenge, eh?” Carlo called from his nearby perch.

  “I’m going!” Bertus gasped, now half awake. “Where are we going?”

  Chapter 21

  “I’m still going,” Bertus sniped, riding past Kevon and Mirsa to catch up with Carlo.

  Kevon smiled. He knew the boy was right. Bertus was the logical choice, as Mirsa and Carlo both had obligations in Navlia. Obligations that lay less than an hour’s ride ahead, he thought, furrowing his brow.

  The return trip had gone smoothly enough, after they had retrieved the horses. There had been one attack by a trio of Leapers the second night, and well clear of the hindrance on elemental magic, Kevon and Mirsa had made short work of the beasts. A lone imp harassed them for three nights, finally drawing close enough that Bertus could skewer it with a bolt. The remaining weeks had served to heal wounds, replenish provisions, and rest weary muscles and minds.

  Kevon glanced at the Guardsman riding behind them, and sighed. He’d been unable to talk openly with his friends about magic for the last few days. The four companions had been rather tight-lipped about the defeat of the Orclord, not wanting to chance the spread of rumors before Alacrit had been briefed on the encounter.

  “By your leave, Mirsa Magus,” Kevon said politely, and at her nod, rode ahead to join the others.

  “I don’t envy your paperwork,” he said, pulling alongside Carlo.

  “Recounting Mirsa’s triumph against the Orclord should be more amusing than most of my reports,” the commander replied, giving Kevon a sidelong glan
ce. “Have you decided where your next assignment should be?”

  “Unless I hear differently, I should head back to Eastport to settle affairs there.”

  “I can have orders drawn up to that effect by the morning, should you need them.” Carlo glanced askew at Kevon. “Settle affairs, or scores?”

  “Whatever needs settling, I suppose.” Kevon let his mount drift to the side of the road, and did not speak until they reached the city.

  * * *

  “What was it like?” Xæver pressed, as Kevon straightened up his belongings and readied for the evening banquet.

  Kevon shrugged. “We just protected the Wizard,” he sighed. “She did all the work.”

  “Just back from the greatest battle in generations, and rumor has it you’re being reassigned to a post up north?”

  “I will have dinner first.” Kevon smiled, and finished changing into his dress uniform. The overly talkative Warsmith kept jabbering as Kevon stood in front of a mirror and scraped away the remaining few whiskers he’d missed earlier with the edge of his knife.

  Carlo and Bertus arrived as he was finishing up, and escorted by a ceremonial guard, they made their way to the Great Hall.

  The four guardsmen that flanked Kevon and his friends halted at the entrance to the room, and motioned them ahead. Carlo, Kevon, and then Bertus entered single file, each expecting something far grander than their last meal with the Prince.

  Instead, Mirsa and the young monarch sat at one of the smaller dining tables, while the rest of the room sat quiet and empty. Plates and utensils for over a hundred lay on the other tables, which were otherwise barren.

  “Your Highness?” Carlo bowed as they approached the table.

  “Come,” the Prince stood and motioned to the others. “Sit.”