by James Hunter
“Much better, Little Seven,” Ick said, his mandibles clicking with approval.
The Nocturnus clambered down from his perch using the arachnoid legs sprouting from his back. Just as when Roark had first met Ick, he was struck by how frail the Nocturnus appeared in spite of being covered in shiny black chitin. Ick’s eight sapphire eyes sparkled with an unnerving intelligence, and masses of segmented tentacles hung around his face like hair. Even after he had reached the floor and unfolded his humanoid legs, taking the weight from the arachnoid ones, Ick’s chitin-covered appendages continued moving independently of one another.
“Sensei on the floor!” the little Changeling shrieked at the top of his lungs, then dropped to his knees and bowed his bald blue head to the wooden boards.
Because Roark and Zyra were students, they bowed to Ick as well, though the Nocturnus had never required them to kowtow as he required from the full disciples. Still, a master was a master. Before the Tyrant King had come to bloody power, Roark had trained at the Academy—laboring under the watchful eyes of his instructors, including the revered Arch-Acolyte Sarvlax. If there was one lesson that had been beaten into his head, it was this: an apprentice respects his master.
Admittedly, however, observing the slow and seemingly endless formalities of the school every time they trained chafed at Roark. It felt as if they were simply throwing time into a fire and watching it burn. Ick claimed that the procedures were a vital part of the training. And, Roark begrudgingly admitted, after a lifetime of dashing off to take care of whatever he felt most needed to be done for the resistance without regard for the rest of the Rebel Council, it wasn’t hurting him to learn patience.
Ick folded his arms in his wide sleeves and returned their greeting bows with far more grace than the Changeling had displayed.
“You may return to your station, Little Seven,” Ick said, dismissing the Changeling.
The little creature bowed again before scampering back outside onto the porch to await further visitors.
Zyra gave a shudder as she watched him go. “Gives me the heebie-jeebies to see a Troll acting so... civil.”
Ick laughed his clicking laugh as he led them to the training room.
“Ick understands this well,” the Nocturnus replied, bobbing his head sagely. “But for those who dedicate their lives to the study of Night Magick, nothing is more important than respect and humility. From this foundation, we may begin to build our place in the universe.”
Zyra extended her black claws as if for a Death Scratch. “And here I’ve been building mine on the bodies of my enemies.”
“More like on the bodies of your apprentices,” Roark muttered under his breath.
She Scratched him. He chuckled and waved the Clearblood Ring at her. He’d put it on after the incident at the alchemy shop, knowing the hooded Reaver was in a poison-happy mood.
The school’s training room was entirely unlike the pit Griff used to teach his students. Rather than being out in the open where spectators could gather around on all sides—a vital part of learning to fight under pressure and ignore distractions, according to the grizzled old arena hand—the Night Magick training room was at the center of the school, entirely enclosed, and open only to active participants. It was possible to steal inside, but with the number of students constantly roaming the school, one would have to be capable of Shadow Stalk or Invisibility to get in without being caught.
The vaulted dome ceiling stretched high overhead like an overturned bowl. Octagonal, interlocking plates of crafted steel covered every inch of the room, each one etched with a myriad of runes. The room had taken Roark nearly a week to construct. He’d had to forge and etch all of the steel plates by hand, and he was proud of his work. It was specially designed as a buffer that kept magicks from spreading or seeping through to the outside, while also nullifying the long-term effects of the casts. A tricky bit of work, that. But it was the perfect place to practice wildly unsafe magick like Ick’s, because, in theory, it prevented one from killing themselves or their opponents.
“Tonight, Ick will show you both a very special variety of Night Magick, yes?” Ick’s voice echoed in the enormous training room. “Discordant Inversion and Deflection.”
“What does it do?” Roark asked. One of the first spells he’d taught himself after his family’s death was a simple deflection spell, vital for survival in any magnitude of magical combat, but Discordant Inversion was new to him. Already his mind was racing with the possibilities. “Transpose offensive attacks?”
“Sensei’s pet,” Zyra coughed into her hand wrappings.
“In time, Dungeon Lord,” the Nocturnus promised. He sank into a sitting position, his extra legs folding neatly behind him. “Let us prepare our minds and bodies for the tasks ahead.”
With that, Ick closed his multitude of sapphire eyes and began a low, thrumming, buzzing song from deep in his throat. Roark and Zyra knelt in front of him and pressed their fists to their thighs.
Each lesson began the same way: They breathed in time with Ick’s throat-singing, inhaling alertness and attention to the training and exhaling their cares and distractions from the rest of their lives. Breathe in the Magicka Ick claimed surrounded them at all times, breathe out the thoughts and concerns that were impediments to that Magicka’s natural flow. The Nocturnus called this emptying their cups.
For all her teasing, Zyra had taken to the Empty Cup breathing within moments of their first lesson. For Roark, it had taken much longer. He had not only the Cruel Citadel and the whole of the Troll Nation constantly demanding his attention, but an entire world back home depending on him to find a way back and kill the Tyrant King. He couldn’t just stop thinking about everything that needed to be done and everyone who depended on him. Lives were at stake.
It was getting easier, however, a little at a time.
The throat-singing tapered off.
“Now that our cups are ready to receive, let us fill them,” Ick intoned.
From there, the Nocturnus guided them through a series of stances that reminded Roark of the limbering exercises he’d learned as a child while practicing the rapier—though these postures were obviously intended for creatures with far more appendages than a Troll. Still, despite his limitations and lack of extra limbs, they were much easier for him to grasp than quieting his mind.
“The Stance of the Patient Hunter,” Ick said. As they moved into the stance, he explained, “Spiders are nature’s most fearsome killers, the original dungeon lords, spinning their webs and lying in wait for a creature foolish or careless enough to step into their trap. Far different from other predators, they are patient, passive... until the time is right.
“Sensing Vibrations in the Many-stringed Web,” he directed.
Roark shifted into the defensive posture. From the corner of his eye, he saw Zyra do the same.
“Night Magick takes its philosophy from the spider, yes?” Ick circled them as he spoke. “Its strength is not in offense, but in turning the strength of a foolish opponent against itself. When a creature stumbles into a web, its mighty struggling only ensnares the beast more deeply. Rather than wearing an opponent down itself, all while risking injury and death, the spider lets its carefully prepared trap do the work. So, too, is the path of the Witchdoctor.
“Numerous Limbs Bring Stability to Many,” Ick bade them.
This was a more complicated stance, one that seemed to be neither offensive or defensive, though it was solid and heavily rooted to the ground. Whenever Ick demonstrated it for them, Roark doubted that even a raging Thursr Behemoth could move the frail-looking Nocturnus.
“Witchdoctors, such as Ick, are support casters by trade. One of the craftier techniques my ilk employ is a discipline called Discordant Magicks. You see, there are a myriad of different magick types in Hearthworld—a great wheel with many spokes that drives the unseen world with primal power. As you have already discerned, some magicks are more potent against one type of player or class, while othe
rs are weak. Even void. But why is this so, hmmm? At first it may seem random, but there is a harmonious order to it all, if you have the eyes to see.
“Reflection from the Hidden Eyes.”
They stepped into the stance. They had learned this one during their previous lesson, and Roark was quite taken with it. The strange position felt as if it could actually reflect magical damage onto his opponent.
“Take yourself, Dungeon Lord.” Ick gestured toward Roark. “Infernal Magick cannot stand against the radiance of the Divine, yet it dominates the power of Fire. And, in the same vein, the power of the Witchdoctor, of Night Magick, rules supreme over the power of Water and Tides, but stands naked before the ferocious gales of Air. Every form of magick has three connecting dyads, yes?” He stuck three chitinous digits into the air in illustration. “Together, these dyads compose the great and ever-turning wheel.” One of his spidery limbs twitched, tracing a burning, circular shadow in the air.
[The Primal Creation Wheel has been added to your Initiate’s Spell Book!]
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ROARK STARED AT THE strange image, both mystified and captivated by what he was seeing.
“The Primal Creation Wheel—a secret passed down among my people—traces the truth and order of all power in Hearthworld,” Ick said, his tone reverent. “It shows us the strands of the grand web and reveals the weakness of even the deadliest foes. Starting with the symbol of the Divine at the top, the wheel is read like that of a clockface.
“Cast your eyes at the symbol of the Infernal, the Twined Serpents. To the left is the Oppositional Dyad. The Magick against which your power is weakest, the Divine. To the right is the Subservient Dyad, Fire—as helpless before your Infernal power as your Infernal power is before the Divine. And, directly opposite, sits the Dyad of Balance: Earth. A double-edged sword that can cut effectively in either direction.
“Because we Nocturnuses are physically weaker than many of the other chimeras of Hearthworld, we found a way to tip the scales in our favor through the art of Discordant Magicks. Witchdoctors use their intimate knowledge of these oppositional dyads to redirect spells back onto their caster. Noble Yevin, Paragon of Light, has politely offered to help with this demonstration,” Ick said, gesturing toward the training room door with several arachnoid limbs. “Since Light and Night are Balanced Dyads, it should make for an excellent demonstration.”
Yevin, a burly rog in the flowing white robes of a Paragon, stepped into the room, a grin on his face. The rog sorcerer was a fitting foil for the Nocturnus in many ways—heavy and solid where Ick was thin and fragile-looking, bright where Ick was dark, and quick-tempered where Ick was serene.
“Heard you had to settle another scrap between our students today, Dungeon Lord,” Yevin said, padding across the floor. “Thanks for stepping in. You can rest easy knowing they’re all being punished.”
“I’ll rest easier knowing it’s not going to happen again,” Roark replied, his mind momentarily slipping away from the wonders of the Primal Creation Wheel back to all the problems waiting for him once he stepped out of the training room.
“Oh, I imagine it will,” Yevin said, rocking on his heels. “But the knuckleheads know now that if they’re involved in the next one, they’ll be expelled before they can say ‘permanent frog curse.’ Without a refund, of course.”
The clicking of Ick’s mandibles interceded. “Let us not refill our cups with distractions. For while friction may occasionally erupt between our most misguided disciples, noble Yevin and I have actually become fast friends. Now, let us proceed with today’s lesson.”
Yevin stepped forward with a little flourish.
“As with the spider laying its web, preparation is key to the Witchdoctor’s combat magicks,” Ick said.
Roark watched with fascination as the Nocturnus began the cast for an elaborate spell he’d never seen before. Ick’s humanoid hands moved with quick, precise motions, his arachnoid legs reaching over his shoulder occasionally to help. It almost looked like Ick was building a web in midair, weaving it from dark strands of shadow. As he laid the final string, the whole web disappeared with a little pop.
“Witchdoctors’ fighting spells, much like your own, Roark, are cast before the battle,” Ick explained. “We pay the price now and store the spell form in our grimoire. Later, when it becomes necessary, we are able to cast it in a blink at no cost whatsoever. The spell Ick just wove is particularly potent, but there is a catch, hmmm? A Discordant Inversion and Deflection spell can be cast for any sign contained within the Primal Creation Wheel, but you must specify which sign during the casting phase. If you spin a web meant to hold Light, say, but use it against any other power, the conjuration will simply shatter like glass lace. Now, please observe.”
He stepped back a few paces from Yevin, then nodded. The Paragon dropped into a low stance, brow furrowed, a snarl forming on his lips as he fired off a devastating Spear of Light. A shaft of pure white magick, blindingly bright, tore across the training room, aimed at Ick’s fragile body. At a glance, such an attack seemed like a death sentence for the Nocturnus.
A low growl erupted from Ick’s throat, filling the air with that buzzing song.
The web he’d cast before flashed to life again, not merely absorbing the Spear of Light or deflecting it as Roark’s deflection spells would have, but changing the spear entirely. Transforming it into a bolt of bloody crimson light that ricocheted back toward Yevin. The Paragon dove to the side, curling into a tight roll, narrowly avoiding the blast, which careened harmlessly into the metal walls. Ick’s throat-singing cut off abruptly, and he turned to face Roark and Zyra once more.
“Discordant Inversion and Deflection,” Ick croaked, tucking his dark humanoid hands back into his wide sleeves. His arachnoid arms straightened his tentacled hair, though the attack had hardly disordered it. “My spell transformed Yevin’s attack into a bolt of Blood energy capable of cutting through even the most formidable defenses a Paragon of Light can conjure. For an opponent who is unprepared, it can be quite the nasty surprise.”
Yevin straightened his robes as he walked back to them, breathing hard, sweat trickling down his face. “These spells hit hard, let me tell you. Just ask my fool disciples who were in that rumble earlier. At least half of them wound up eating their own corrupted spells.”
“More would have if my own fools were disciplined enough to practice the technique regularly,” Ick said. His multitude of sapphire eyes sparkled. “Though perhaps we should all feel gratitude that they do not.”
Yevin and Zyra both chuckled at that, but Roark’s mind was racing too fast to follow their banter.
Perhaps this was the edge he’d been searching for. With a spell like this, he could take Lowen by surprise. Or, at least, give himself a fighting chance if they ever faced off toe-to-toe. As much as the arrogant ass overwrote every spell he ever cast, the inversion would be so powerful he would never be able to shield himself properly—especially if the fool didn’t know what was coming. It was perfect. Even though Roark was just a level 39, with this Discordant Inversion and Deflection, he would be able to use Lowen’s level 99 strength against him.
“Would I be able to use this spell to deflect Divine Magick even though it’s Oppositional rather than Balanced with my own?” Roark asked.
“Yes, if such a thing is written into the spell when it is woven,” Ick said. Then he blinked a few of his eyes. “But let us not get ahead of ourselves. If noble Yevin agrees, we will first practice the technique.”
Yevin nodded. “Of course, friend.”
“Our lady of darkness.” Ick gestured for Zyra to step forward. “Take the Stance of the Patient Hunter, then Sensing Vibrations in the Many-stringed Web.”
“Should I be casting something?” Zyra asked. “You said it had to be done before the battle.”
Ick shook his head, tentacled hair sliding over his shoulders. “This is a very dangerous spell, one which can go ho
rribly wrong if done incorrectly, so we will learn the motions before we will apply the magick.”
While the hooded Reaver did as the Nocturnus bade, Roark imagined moving through the same stances. His muscles twitched in response, ready for his turn.
Yevin’s posture changed slightly, not dropping into the full stance he had taken earlier, but certainly expressing a shift in his intent. Roark’s muscles twitched in response to the imminent attack.
Ick’s extra arms gestured, pointing out the change in Yevin’s stony face and the mounting tension in his shoulders.
“He has walked unknowingly into your web and now prepares to strike,” the Nocturnus said. “Reflection of Hidden Eyes, please.”
Zyra moved into the stance, Roark mimicking her on a much smaller scale off to the side.
“Heralds!” a breathless shout echoed throughout the training room. “We’re under attack!”
A pair of Changelings burst through the door, flailing their mismatched arms and crowing at the top of their lungs.
“Dungeon Lord, help! Heralds attacking the Cruel Citadel! Help!”
Opening Salvo
ROARK JOGGED TOWARD the portal plate leaving the marketplace with Zyra, Ick, and Yevin hard on his heels. As they ran, he cast the level 8 Alarm Spell he’d put in place for just such an attack. Warhorns blared throughout the Cruel Citadel, shaking the place to its foundations. Though he’d felt in a bit of a rut since his battle with Bad_Karma, he hadn’t been idle. In a war for survival, idle hands soon became corpse-cold hands. No, he’d been preparing mercilessly for the day Lowen finally came after him. Hopefully all his hard work would be enough.
“Heralds?” Griff asked, falling in with them, his trusty short sword and scarred buckler at the ready.
“Lowen’s striking the first blow,” Roark replied with a scowl.