The Ancients

by Adam-Clay Webb

  “My lady, can we now lower the barrier?” Hawthorne asked pleadingly, feeling light-headed. In order to keep its existence, the barrier constantly sapped mana from those who erected it.

  “No!” Quincy demanded, “Not until we’re sure he’s dead!” Quincy spaceshifted and appeared just over Viknor’s body, holding up a sword to finish him.

  “Stop at once!” his sister’s voice halted him. “Lower the barrier!” Catherina said, and as Hawthorne cut off her supply from the barrier, it was destabilized and it disappeared.

  “What is this?” Quincy asked angrily and impatiently, glaring at his sister.

  “Gather yourselves around him!” she commanded, ignoring Quincy. In a second, the councillors surrounded the dead-looking man. They saw his hand twitch. Catherina sighed, seeing he was still alive.

  “Why do you now hesitate?” Viknor asked in a groan. Quincy himself wondered about the answer to this.

  “We are not criminals,” Catherina said, “and are not governed by feelings. We shall abide by the laws and will refrain from killing an unarmed man.”

  “What?!” Quincy was certainly not pleased.

  “We will use an Ogal technique forbidden to all but the Ogal Council, and seal away his mana. Then this man will face the courts of law.”

  “Are you insane?!” Quincy blasted, rousing his mana, “Have you forgotten--”

  “Enough, little brother!” Catherina stood up.

  “You—you traitor!” he blasted. The others said nothing. They all knew of what had happened five years before. But none of them could fully understand Quincy’s feelings, and they knew that.

  “Hands of Oga, unite and cast upon this criminal a seal upon his magic!” With that, the councillors grabbed on to the wizard’s beaten and burnt body. They recited an ancient chant, and a bright light covered all of them. After moments, the incantation was ended. A weakness drew itself over all of them. “No longer a wizard, this criminal is now a mere man,” Catherina said, “and he will be tried and judged for his atrocities.” The councillor stepped back a bit as Viknor struggled to rise. He finally stood up, facing Catherina. Both Catherina and Quincy roused their mana. Viknor still felt, though faintly, the presence of his father with him. His face was sombre.

  “I will let Quincy kill me,” Viknor said, “but there is something I must first do.” Quincy summoned his sword again.

  “Be patient a while longer, Quincy,” Viknor said, still facing Catherina. He stepped forward quickly and grabbed on to the witch, and stealing a bit of her mana, having none of his own, he shifted out of the midst of them. He left behind black and purple mana.

  Powered by Catherina’s mana, which was almost at the seventh grade, his shift brought him across continents, getting him to the furthest possible distance he could cover from Catherina. He landed in some random street, a headache and extreme dizziness grabbing hold of him. He struggled to fight a heavy weight that pressed breakingly against his consciousness. He soon passed out, and woke some time later in a cell he would spend decades sitting in.

  He sat against the cool, damp wall silently, not remembering and not really concerned about how he got there. Probably soldiers had seen him appear in a cloud of mana and he was arrested. He knew at least that he was in a state where sorcery was illegal. He was bound by black ropes and trapped by bars that were painted with zarium. There weren’t many cells like these around the world. He would meet Zedra in that same Magmalian prison years later, and other sorcerers with whom, decades later, he would team up with under a Magmalian Prince in a war written of in prophecy.

  For months, even years, Viknor would meditate silently, trying to enter the world inside him. His mind was always bombarded by memories of killing Lydia and Thimius, memories of taking Hilda’s sorcery away, memories of Catherina’s, of Quincy’s tears. Even through the bombardment, he finally managed to break through into the world he remembered facing his father in. He knew his sorcery wasn’t completely gone, as Aredes was strong enough to withstand the spell cast upon him by the council Catherina led. Still, the spell was not completely ineffective. Aredes was severely weakened. Viknor’s sorcery, which Aredes had protected with his will forged of black magic, was not entirely destroyed.

  Viknor faced his father on the infinite white floor. On seeing his father, he found the strength to summon up sixth grade mana.

  “So you finally found your way here, and even before I managed to recover,” Aredes greeted him. “It appears your will’s strength has been severely underestimated by me… I will kill you then, and vanish in your death.” Black mana roused itself about Aredes.

  “You will not be the one to kill me,” Viknor said, “it isn’t you who hold that right.” Viknor could feel that his mana was a tiny fraction of what it used to be. Dammit… With this amount of mana, I can’t perform any useful techniques…

  “Correct,” Aredes said.

  Viknor laughed a little. “I can sense that your mana is close to zero as well.” Aredes’ face straightened. They both relaxed their mana in conservation. Viknor summoned two purple swords.

  “Air Cutter!” Aredes summoned, and a unique-looking blade appeared in his right hand. Aredes clenched its handle tightly, and what seemed like a glass meter that ran along the length of this blade was filled with blackness. “In this legendary blade made my Oga himself I have poured all my remaining mana,” Aredes said.

  “One last lesson before we die,” the man began. “History speaks of one blade that Oga made, the one that ended up in Zakashi’s hands, the legendary unbreakable sword in which Zakashi’s spirit is said to dwell, and from which he protects his people even after his death. What many scholars don’t know is that years after, Oga made for his generations that would follow him a pair of blades called the Air Cutters. He used sapphire, steel and a bit of zarium, the bits left over after making the sacred vials that trapped the demon Maximo. I went out and searched for these swords, but I found only one. I sealed it within my will, so I have it here within you, even after death has stolen my body and soul. What this blade does is negate space entirely, so distance is meaningless. Now using this sword is a little heavy on mana, but since I’ve never used it before, I will resort to it now. Are you ready? Defend!”

  With that, Aredes flashed a swing, though he was meters away from Viknor. Viknor raised his blades up in an awkward-feeling defence. He skated back as he felt the weight of a two-ton sword swung by a giant bashing against his.

  “I see,” Viknor said to himself.

  “Now let us enjoy this battle, my son!” Aredes said, running up to Viknor, though it was far from necessary.

  The fight against Aredes was long and repetitive, an everlasting dance of strange swordplay. Aredes laughed madly throughout the fight, babbling all kinds of things Viknor didn’t care to listen to. The arcane sorcerer used no spells, and Viknor got no chance to use any of his. The battle went on until Aredes’ mana was all used up. Then, after a final swing of the Air Cutter, Aredes’ body simply vanished into a black mist. Viknor fell in exhaustion, and panted until he awoke.

  He heard a gasp and saw a blur of a quick movement to his right as his vision became less hazy. He glanced over at a shivering woman who stared at him like he was a ghost. His brows furrowed. Why was the woman in the cell next to him looking at him so strangely?

  When did she get here? His heart felt weak as he wondered just how much time had passed while he was fighting within himself. “What year is it?!” he asked, struggling in the ropes that bound his hands. Before the woman named Zedra could tell him that she had watched him sit with his eyes closed for about thirty years, he burst out into a random craze of laughter, his face wild.

  “Is he mad?” Zedra asked herself. His laughter was somehow chilling to her. He could have no sensible conversation for many days. He would laugh at anything the guards, or Zedra – who was the only prisoner close to him – would say. He became a lively entertainment to Zedra, whose days had become far less grim because of him.
She told him of stories he would forget the next day, and tried to learn more about him.

  It seemed the battle he and Aredes fought destroyed crucial facets of his mind. He had no memory of Catherina, and had forgotten about the fight with Aredes altogether. After weeks, he began talking a little, but nothing of much intelligence. After many months, Zedra grew to love him in a strange kind of way. The mad old man would sometimes by chance remember some random thing from his past and would excitedly tell Zedra of it, but not with any sense of sombreness or nostalgia. He mostly remembered things of his childhood. His memories of his father began to return, the good ones, and his memories of this girl he was sure he loved. The days of Zedra and Viknor’s story times together would soon end though, as the Magmalian Prince would soon take Zedra away.

  “No! Don’t take her from me!” Viknor called out to the prince, crying profusely. Zedra’s heart sunk as she watched him.

  “My prince! I have a power that can end this war! My father! He was—”

  “Enough, you old madman!” Azar snapped in annoyance. It was the time of the Black War, and the Magmalian Prince was stressed and losing hope that the world would survive the war.

  “Please!” the old man begged, forcing his head through the bars, his hands tied with special rope. “Don’t leave me behind! I can help!” Still in their ropes, lined up before the prince were eight prisoners, including Zedra.

  “I just checked your mana level. You’re useless, old man, and your crimes are the worst in this prison. You’ll only be more trouble, even in a time like this!”

  Time like this? Viknor wondered what was happening outside. He had heard distant noises and screaming and felt the earth tremor a few times before. Crimes? Viknor wondered why he was in prison. “No! Listen, my prince!” the man begged desperately.

  “Come,” Azar told the eight, leaving with them.

  “I have a power that can save the world!” the man declared, but Azar just hissed and left him behind. Indeed, Viknor had remembered some secret potion his father had left behind, and he knew that something was quite special about it.

  Not long after, the prince did return for Viknor, as he was desperate, and needed every possibility of help he could get. Viknor fought with the prince in the world’s second bloodiest war, the Black War, which was later considered to be even far more catastrophic than the Ionide War that occurred millennia before. It was said to be even comparable with the Battle of Gods, the world’s first war. After being by Azar’s side for a while, Viknor was given to Hercule as a gift from Magma Town. It was while he served the Prime Minister there he regained his memories. He had shifted to Notherland with dread in his heart, but all he found were graves of those he knew. The war had taken the woman he loved, the woman he had made to suffer. Missing from Herculean duty, he cried at Catherina’s grave for many days. He thought of ending it all, but resolved that he did not deserve such an easy way out. He returned to Hercule. While serving the Prime Minister, he would again meet some old friends.

  ***

  The two mages lounged forward limply, panting, their bodies burnt by serious magic. The clash of the beams of mana had ended, and it seemed they had consumed one another. Viknor’s vision hazed slightly.

  “Tired already, Viknor?” Hilda asked, slightly tauntingly. Hilda glanced over to her student as she heard her make a nasty scream.

  “Die!” Azar shouted in annoyance, his sword held out toward her. A bolt of current rushed out and blasted into the tired witch who had no time to react. She was flung over meters. She landed, her body jerking in vile spasms, sparks of current about her. Azar felt a glorious rush through his blood. It had been a while since he had felt this way. He recased his sword quickly. A slight orange aura became more pronounced about him, until Viknor noticed that this energy was actually fire. The old man smiled a little.

  “It seems the full complement of his powers is returning,” he said to himself. Azar stretched his right hand out toward Zedra, and fiery power concentrated about it.

  “I’ve missed you dearly,” Azar muttered to himself with a smirk. Zedra struggled to stand. A massive flurry of flames rushed out to the woman, turning her into less than ash in moments. Azar lowered his smoking hand, flexing his muscles. He walked over to where Viknor was. “Seems you need some help, old man,” the prince said. Fire and electricity buzzed about him eagerly. He could also feel his mana climbing up, already nearing the fourth grade. They noticed the fabric of the world they were in disintegrating slowly.

  “Know this,” Hilda said, “it is God who restored my power… With him on my side, when next we meet, I will overcome you.”

  Viknor’s eyes widened.

  Azar’s heart raced as he remembered how his powers were restored. God… The subdimension disappeared, and with it did Hilda.

  Chapter 5: Swords and Mana

  “You have burdened me with destroying you, father,” Azar said, as he realized that he was in the presence of King Aragan.

  “What is this?!” the king panicked as he noticed that Viknor and Azar had appeared. “Guards! Kill them at once!” There were about a dozen guards there in the small room with the king, some of the army’s best of course, but their skill was irrelevant before men like Azar and Viknor. Azar stretched his hands out toward the approaching guards. Viknor had barely enough mana left for a first-grade spell. He was still breathing heavily and suffering from an immense loss of energy. In seconds, as the ruthless streaks of lightning sounded within the tower, bolts killed the guards there. Each of the whitish streaks came forth from a finger of Azar, and was potent enough to steal a life. Aragan grabbed up the sword of one of his guards nervously, staring into the resolute eyes of Azar. “Aaaah!” In one flash of a step, Azar reached up to the king, grabbing and breaking his right wrist that the sword would be forcibly released.

  “You will live for another moment,” Azar said, his mana rousing, feeling like it was already fazing into the fifth grade.

  “Go with your father,” Viknor said, holding his head and taking a sit beside one of the burnt corpses. “I will come along in a moment.” Azar nodded and teleported in a cloud of dark-blue mana.

  Azar appeared in the Herculean Tower with his father, who nearly lost his life instantly to Giovanni’s sword. “Magmalian fool!” the general spat, “You will now command your men to stand down, or your head will be rolling down sixty feet!” Aragan looked down at the straight blade that was pointed at his neck as Azar held tightly to him. Ki and the others glanced quickly as Viknor appeared.

  “Alright,” the man said, not looking quite as beat as he did just a moment before. “I have recovered enough mana for one useful summoning – after that, I’ll need a few hours before I can be functional again,” Viknor said.

  “Summoning?” Ki asked, as curious as Azar. The wizard held his hand out, looking outside. Swords were still smashing against each other below.

  “Dragonite of Lukia!” the man called, and a black portal appeared. A creature flew from the vortex in the air. It was dirt-brown, and certainly resembled a young dragon. Without delay, soldiers on the ground became suddenly distracted by this appearance, many of them paying for a short glance with their lives. Viknor grabbed on to Azar and shifted off with him. Giovanni had grabbed on to the Magmalian King. Viknor, Azar, the Herculean Supreme General and the Magmalian King appeared on the dragon that bobbed in the air, its wings creating small breezes. Azar drew his sword and held it at his father’s throat to make the hostage situation clear. The king breathed heavily and shook nervously, looking down at the war far below him.

  “Descend!” Viknor commanded, and the dragon lowered itself.

  “Order them to stop fighting! Command your men!” Azar told his father.

  “M—Magmalian soldiers! Halt your attack!” the king stuttered as loudly as he could. Viknor used a silent spell to carry his voice over the entire battlefield. The war stopped suddenly.

  “Herculeans! We have captured the Magmalian King!” Giovanni a
nnounced proudly, sounding like that had won them the war. There was a sudden silence as both armies stopped their attacks and looked up at the spectacle.

  “This is Magmalian Supreme General Hax!” Aragan’s highest ranking officer on the field announced. About him was his special squad of elite soldiers – none of whom had been scraped since the chaotic war. “The king has been captured, and is no longer capable of commanding us sensibly! Let us proceed with our attack, lest we be volleyed and slaughtered in a foolish retreat!” Hax was about Aragan’s age, and even resembled him a little.

  “What?! You imbecile! I will have your head, Hax!” the king blasted down in a shaking rage.

  “You will let your king be killed here?!” Viknor asked, “All of you, live to fight another war!”

  “Men of Magma Town, let us finish our mission and resurrect our great nation! Today Hercule shall be slain, even if it means at the cost of the king! If we lay our weapons down, we shall surely perish! Attack! Take down the dragon! Archers!” Hax commanded, and in a sudden roar, the assault continued with even more fire than before.

  “Unbelievable!” Azar blasted. The king stared down at his men with wide eyes. He was in obvious disbelief.

  “Treason! I will kill you all!” the king blasted.

  “This dragon’s existence here in this realm is constantly sapping the last of my mana,” Viknor said, “so it will disappear soon.”

  “Shift us down into the war!” Giovanni said, “Take the king to the tower and have him secured! We’ll find use for him later!”