by Dante King
What about me? I wonder what sort of taste or scent Creation Mages give off? Seeing as it sounds like we take on characteristics of those mages that we sleep with…
My eyes shot open.
Holy shit, I was forgetting!
I boosted out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and dashed into my room. My spellbook was lying on my bedside table. I snatched it up and rifled through the pages until I came to the section that I had been looking for. Under the title, ‘Elemental Magic: Fire’ two new spells had appeared. Where there had been only smudges of ink and dirty parchment, it appeared that the ink had coalesced back into legible words.
“More spells!” I said, with a surreptitious fist-pump. “Fucking day two and I’ve got five spells in the arsenal!”
I sat down, pulled on a fresh pair of underwear and began to read.
FLAME BARRIER
Produces an elemental barrier of imagined shape.
Channel through your vector while imagining the shape of the barrier you wish to conjure.
FIREBALL
Produces a fireball of varying size. Increase size through intention and use of mana.
I sat back and pulled on a set of my new uniform that Bradley hadn’t ruined during his little tantrum the previous evening. I knew, through extensive trawling of the internet and the reading of graphic novels, that in these sort of situations—where a young man comes across new powers, abilities or skills—preparation was key. I remembered that I had read online, that a young man had joined the army somewhere, after taking heart at being a bit of an adept at Battlefield or Call of Duty or one of those first-person shooters. He’d gone through training, through selection and had been deployed somewhere hot, dusty, and dangerous. Once there, he had come into contact with the enemy and, allowing his video game experience to get the better of him, he had taken cover behind a car door in the middle of a gunfight. An enemy, seeing the young guy doing this, had promptly let him have it with an AK, the bullets of which went through the thin metal of the car door as if it were made of cardboard. The poor young video game aficionado had been killed.
I carried this piece of information in my mind as a warning against being under-prepared or not doing my homework. I had already turned one unfortunate person into paste in the past forty-eight hours. Now that I had two new fire-based spells up my sleeve, I needed to make sure that I knew just what the hell I was summoning when I busted them out.
I walked over to my window, ripped back the curtains, and saw that my view was from the cliff side of the house and looked out over the town. After a bit of jiggling and heaving and straining, I eventually managed to get the window unstuck—scattering dead flies and dirt and who knew what else across the floor. A fresh, early morning breeze swept into the room, replacing the smell of sex that had lingered.
I sat on the sill and looked out across the hill for a target. The most obvious one, and the one least likely to complain, was our own postbox, which I could just see sitting innocently at the end of the path that looped around and up the hill. I stuck my hand out of the window—my other hand clutching my staff—and took a steeling, steadying breath. I felt the pricking pull in my stomach, which I associated with accessing my magical will, and made the hand gesture that correlated with the instructions for the Fireball spell.
The Fireball formed in my palm in the blink of an eye—a rapidly expanding bubble of glutinous flame—before shooting out and away from me. All this happened in a second at the most. By the time the Fireball was a couple of hand’s breadths away from my outstretched fingers, it was the size of a soccer ball. It seemed to hold this shape and size as it zipped out into the morning air with a dull rushing whompf. I watched it vanish into the pale blue sky. I was fairly certain that, when it reached the edge of my field of vision, it popped and dissipated.
“As the man on fire said to the man with the bucket of water: I can make use of that,” I said to the world.
I turned back to my room, glanced down at my spellbook to make sure that I had the instructions down right in my head, visualized a simple wall as tall and as wide as I was, and cast Flame Barrier. A thin flaming wall sprang up in front of me. Despite the fact that it was only a few inches in front of my nose, I couldn’t feel any heat whatsoever. Making sure to maintain my concentration on the barrier, I walked around to the other side of it and examined it. Little tendrils of blue and yellow flame ran over a surface that looked like gelatinous glass. It reminded me of Bradley’s armor from the night before. I picked my old underwear off my bed and tossed them at the barrier. The jocks stuck, like a fly to fly-paper, and then shriveled into carbon nothingness.
I blinked, mentally uncoupling myself from the spell, and the barrier disappeared.
After this success, I sat pondering for a moment or two. Surely, if you could form this occult flame into any sort of defensive barrier that you could shape in your mind, then surely you could...
I imagined a shape in my mind, cast the spell and—
—a flaming sword appeared in my hand.
“Oh, hell yes,” I whispered with glee, turning the flaming blade this way and that. It was an exact fiery replica of Aragorn’s sword, Andúril, from The Lord of the Rings movies. It seemed that, although the sword was burning—I touched it to my discarded towel briefly and the towel began to smolder—its magic would not affect the caster. I vanished the sword and conjured up a set of Wolverine-esque claws on each hand, willing them to stay in position, even as I moved my hands about.
“That,” said a deep voice from the doorway, “is impressive, friend.”
I looked up, my concentration momentarily distracted by Rick, and the flaming claws vanished. As soon as the claws disappeared, a wave of tiredness swept over me; a reminder, it seemed, that you couldn’t just go throwing Fireballs about and conjuring awesome flame weapons without it taking some sort of toll on yourself.
“When the hell did you become a pyromancer?” Damien said, slipping past the hulking form of Rick. “I thought you were a freakin’ Storm Mage?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to lie to my fraternity bros, but it was clear that the fact that I was a Creation Mage was sensitive information. I had to tread carefully.
“Honestly, boys,” I said, “I’m going to have to get back to you once I know a little bit more about it myself.”
Nigel appeared behind the other two frat brothers. He was looking about as perky as I felt—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and all that shit.
“Ah, come on now, Justin,” he said. “If my eyes did not deceive me, I saw the rather delightful retreating figure of our dear admissions officer, Miss Emberskull slinking out of the front door a mere forty-seven minutes ago.”
“What the fuck are you even doing up already, Nige?” I asked.
Nigel shrugged. “Yoga,” he said.
I blinked. “So many facets, Nigel,” I said. “Yoga? We’re going to have to revisit that comment later on.”
Nigel rolled his eyes. “Tell us the truth, man,” he said. “You can trust us. Besides,” he added, with an apologetic glance at the three of us, “as the one with the superior intellect in our frat, I have to tell you that I have already formed some pretty sound conclusions.”
I held up my hands in supplication and laughed. I was quickly becoming aware that I hadn’t even had a coffee yet.
“All right!” I said. “I’m a fucking Creation Mage.”
“Ah! I didn’t think that Emberskull was here just to give you a little private tuition, friend,” Rick said.
Damien slapped the massive Islander on one brawny shoulder. “We haven’t even started classes yet, Rick.”
I laughed again.
“And we all know how Creation Mages learn new spells, don’t we fellas?” Nigel said, with a wink.
Rick looked puzzled. “No,” he said.
Damien rolled his eyes and ignored the big man. He was about to say something, when a question suddenly popped into my mind.
“Hey guys,” I said, chi
vying the other three out of my room and guiding them in the direction of the stairs, “how do mages that aren’t Creation Mages learn new spells?”
“Well,” said the knowledgeable Nigel, “whereas Creation Mages obtain their new spells through—through, um…”
I made the universally recognized symbol for fucking by forming a circle with my index finger and thumb and poking my other index finger through it in an enthusiastic manner.
“Um, yeah, through that,” said Nigel. “Well, other mages have to go to Inscribers who award them new spells.”
The four of us trooped down the stairs. The drapes had all been pulled—by whom or what I had no idea—and sunlight flooded into the gloomy interior of the frat house.
“Come on, Nigel, don’t make me ask what the hell an Inscriber is when they’re at home,” I said.
“Oh, right, yeah, sorry,” said Nigel. “I keep forgetting that you’re not from here. You’re taking to this world like a dragon to a treasure hoard.”
“Inscribers, Nigel?” Damien prompted as we strolled through the entrance hall toward the kitchen.
“Inscribers,” continued Nigel, “are, basically, crazily knowledgeable scholars. Men and women who live and breathe magic, spells, and all things arcane. Mages ask them for specific spells and, depending on whether the Inscriber deems it wise, and whether or not that particular Inscriber has the knowing of that particular spell, they unlock that incantation within the mage’s spellbook.”
“So different Inscribers have the knowing of different spells?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” replied Nigel. “All Inscribers know the rudimentary spells, but only the very best have access to the rarest, most powerful incantations. Unfortunately, these Inscribers are often in the exclusive employ of the very rich and powerful.”
I nodded. That sounded about right. The best magic hoarded by the richest and most powerful in the land.
Not so different from Earth, I thought.
“Are Inscribers trained at the Academy?” I asked.
Nigel shook his head and opened the door to the kitchen. “Nah. Inscribers aren’t trained. They’re born.”
As the door opened, we were assailed by the delicious smell of frying bacon and coffee. Bradley Flamewalker stood by the enormous cast-iron stove. On the island bench were plates of mouthwatering breakfast foods: pancakes, scrambled eggs, French toast, waffles, sausages, and more.
There was a deal of appreciative murmuring at this sight. I clapped the low-man on his shoulder as I walked past him.
“Great spread, man,” I said.
Bradley shrugged nonchalantly.
We piled our plates and sat around the island. For a while, the only sounds were the slurp of coffee and the diligent chomping of the terminally hungover.
“So,” I said, wiping up maple syrup with a fragment of pancake, “am I going to be the only person at the Academy without any books?”
The others all turned to look at me. Then Bradley snorted. “Gods, this isn’t one of those academies where we all sit behind desks, our heads buried in arcane textbooks,” he said.
“No?” I asked.
“No! Mazirian is known as a bloody War Mage Academy, Justin. Everything that we are going to learn about magic is done through the medium of combat, on a battleground.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “That sounds fun—if not a little dangerous—but what does that mean exactly?”
A low rumble acted as a herald to something that Rick wanted to say. Everyone else stopped talking and waited.
“That,” the amiable giant said, inhaling an entire waffle in one go, “is the thing.”
I raised my eyebrows, waiting for the follow-up. “Uh, what’s the thing, Rick?”
“Graduate mages are sworn to secrecy by some kind of spell so, even if they want to talk about the Academy, they can only do so with those who have also graduated. It prevents secrets getting out,” Rick said.
“Secrets?” I asked.
“All the academies in this world are very competitive,” Damien explained. “Back in the day, those relationships were straight up deadly—what with all the wars and everything. The Mage Games have mostly smoothed those hostilities, but things can still be pretty tense between academies.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Nigel cut in, wagging a sausage like a particularly fat, crispy finger. “There are rumors that there is some definite disquiet and disharmony brewing between the worlds and their academies...”
“Pfft,” Damien said, and Rick snorted like a skeptical bull. “There ain’t going to be any trouble, man. We’ve only just come good again after the Void War. The academies aren’t going to let something like that happen again. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Nigel took a bite of his sausage and stayed quiet, but I looked at the little guy thoughtfully. Of all my fraternity brothers, if I had to rely on someone’s brain it was going to be Nigel Windmaker. Before I could pick his brain on the matter further though, Bradley looked at his watch.
“Crap,” he said, getting to his feet and finishing his glass of orange juice, “we better get going or we’re going to miss the orientation!”
It turned out that we weren’t as late as we feared we were going to be. In fact, on arrival, our Induction Coordinator—who happened to be Enwyn Emberskull—told us that the first hour of the day was set aside for the new students to wander about the Academy at their leisure and familiarize themselves with its layout.
The five of us strolled around the place, poking our noses into the different rooms and, for a few minutes at a time, watching mages making use of the different areas. Apart from the pool, we took in the spell-casting range, the apothecary, the dueling ground, the gym and spa and, crucially in Rick’s eyes, the refectory. I reconciled myself with the fact that it might be a week or so before any of us newbies actually got to make use of the spell-casting range and the other more exciting facilities, but I was more than happy to sit through a bunch of boring lectures on magical theory if it meant that we got to throw some spells around afterward.
After an hour, we headed back to the enormous hall in which the Choosing had taken place. From there we were shown to a large, empty classroom. The classroom was basically an amphitheater in which lectures were usually held but, on the very rear wall, a crude outline of a door was drawn in chalk.
As we milled about in the center of the room, waiting for whatever it was we were waiting for, I caught sight of a few familiar faces; the two smoking hot Elemental girls, Iowyn and Kryn, and Janet Thunderstone—the girl who had got me started down this road in a way. I also spied Enwyn again. Unable to stop myself, I wandered over.
“Hey, Justin,” she said, greeting me with a smile.
“How are you?” I asked, politely. Enwyn was surrounded by a few older-looking mages. They wore a collection of the sickest armor, clothing, and vectors that I had seen outside of an Assassin’s Creed game and had the look of warriors about them.
While Enwyn was making the introductions, I leaned forward and muttered into her ear, “Have you still got those hand-prints on your ass?”
Enwyn did not answer, but she shot me a sly smile that I took for a yes.
The guys all seemed like pretty cool dudes. I was interested to see that they seemed to regard me with a mixture of awed respect and intimidation.
What the hell have these badasses got to worry about as far as I’m concerned?
“It’s interesting that you popped up just now,” Enwyn said. “I was just telling these guys about what you did to Bernard.”
Ah, that would be the slight hint of trepidation on some of their faces then.
One of the guys—a guy with long blonde hair braided in a way that put me in mind of a Viking and tattoos all around his throat—leaned in and said, “Gnarly, bud. Sounds like you’re going to be a man to watch!” He grinned, and I saw that many of his teeth were silver.
“Ha, yeah, preferably from a distance!” one of the other guys said, twirling a luxuri
ant mustache.
I was stoked at their reactions, if not a touch confused. Surely, people getting accidentally blown to smithereens was all part of the risk of attending a place like the Mazirian Academy?
Before I could voice my confusion, Chaosbane suddenly appeared. He blew into the room like a gale, leaving murmurs and excited exclamations in his wake. He seemed to glide across the floor until he stood at the back of the amphitheater, right next to the crudely scrawled chalk doorway. He threw up his hands for silence, and quiet fell like a shroud over the assembly.
“That suave motherfucker sure has style,” I muttered to myself.
“This,” Chaosbane said, “in his melodic, ringing, captivating voice, “is your first lesson.”
He tapped the chalk outline with a wand. The outline expanded silently until it was about twelve times the size of an average door. Then, the solid stone in its center simply melted away to reveal a lush landscape beyond, with what looked like the remains of an ancient temple scattered through its midst.
That’s a battleground, was my first thought.
“The world of the War Mage is one that is constantly shifting. There are no sureties, no safety, in the arena. The most important attributes of a War Mage are to be able to cope with the unknown and think on their feet,” he said, into the dumbfounded silence. “Unlike other Academies, who tell you magic should be used sparingly, Mazirian teaches that magic should be used for all things,” Chaosbane’s face split in a grin and he bowed. “Case in point: if you don’t use magic here, then you are sure to die. Best of luck and happy hunting, boys and girls!”
Chapter Nine
There are times in life—as the great philosopher, Woody Harrelson, once said—when you have to nut up or shut up. When Chaosbane called for the three volunteers to accompany Miss Emberskull into the lands surrounding the Fractured Temple, I found myself striding forward without even pausing to think. It might have been because the memories of Enwyn’s body yielding under my touch, the smell of her hair and the sensation of her nails running down my bruised back was still coursing through my mind like fizzing fire. Might have been because my dick was leading me on like a divining rod heading for a hidden spring. The main reason though, was because I was here for a fucking adventure.
