Bond of Magic

by Trip Ellington

  His dry mouth reminded him he’d need to find water. He reached up to brush one hand through his unruly brown hair, but the hand froze in mid-air. An unfamiliar scent carried on the breeze, a spicy aroma that prickled his nose and sent a shiver up and down his spine.

  Reminiscent of dust and sulphur, but mixed with another foreign smell that had no place in this forest, nor even in this foundation, the odor recalled to Mithris a circle drawn with salted ashes in which a wavering light signaled the struggle of an otherworldly creature toward its manifestation. The scent was unmistakable—it followed every second foundation creature’s incarnation until the denizens of that dark world returned to its shadowy depths.

  Now, it floated lightly on the breeze from the west. From behind him. He had been tracked and followed. Fear seized the lad tight in its grip.

  Fighting off the panic, Mithris looked around frantically. There was a small clearing up ahead and a little to the side of his chosen course. In the center of the clearing, a rocky outcropping thrust up a dozen paces or more into the air. Nodding to himself, Mithris beat a hasty path to the clearing. Vines tugged at him, thorns scraping his skin, but Mithris ignored everything but the clearing ahead and that awful smell on the wind.

  He didn’t know what he planned to do once he reached the clearing. There was a creature of the second foundation – or maybe dozens of creatures – in pursuit. A hundred dismal possibilities ran through his thoughts.

  Omnitors—beastly denizens of the second foundation who resembled an unholy mixture of ape and hyena—would swarm over that outcropping, tearing him open with their fearsome claws before feasting on his very soul. Or it might be a shidhe, the immensely powerful, black-winged pixie-demons who drew sustenance from fear and other negative emotions.

  He just hoped it wasn’t a devinist.

  Mithris burst out of the underbrush and ran across the narrow clearing. Reaching the rocky outcropping, he scrambled up the near side. Smaller stones tumbled down the outcropping as he climbed with hands and feet. Mithris nearly lost his footing several times, but managed not to slide all the way back down. He reached the summit, wide enough for him to stand but too narrow to allow much movement. He spun around and looked back.

  The first of the omnitors leaped snarling out of the forest, its long legs flashing through the grass as it flung itself across the meadow straight at Mithris on his perch.

  Chapter 6

  Omnitors

  Two more omnitors came bursting out of the trees, trotting up to flank their leader. The trio of summoned creatures crouched in the tall grass, glaring up at Mithris atop the rocks and snarling low in their bestial throats.

  The omnitors had long bodies covered in bristly black hair. They loped along on all fours, but could stand on their backward-jointed hind legs to use their muscled forelegs as arms. Ape-like faces with deviously intelligent, black eyes topped their otherwise vulpine form. They hailed from the Second Foundation, a place of murky darkness and sinister power. Only a powerful and supremely confident conjurer would have summoned such creatures and set them loose.

  Mithris, an apprentice of only nine years, knew he was hopelessly outclassed. None of the pitiful few cantrips he had would have the slightest effect on the omnitors. Even if he should somehow – against all odds – manage to fend off these three, he knew the wizard would only send something more awful. He shuddered, thinking of a devinist.

  No devinist here, said the voice in his head. Just three angry-looking omnitors. What would Master Deinre say if he were here?

  “He would handle it,” Mithris hissed quietly through teeth clenched grinding together in fear. “And I wouldn’t be worried about whether I soil myself before or after they tear out my throat.”

  But what would he say to you? What did he always say to you?

  Wards, of course. Despite his dire situation, Mithris found himself sneering in habitual disgust. Deinre had always gone on and on about the wards, which as far as Mithris was concerned just sat there and did nothing.

  That’s not how you felt about it last night…

  Mithris paused. That was actually a good point. He had felt ashamed at falling asleep without first placing wards, and he they had been the first spells he cast.

  Below, the omnitors had begun stalking in circles around the base of the rocky promontory. Two paced around in one direction, spacing themselves far apart. The third—the leader—loped around in the opposite direction, baleful eyes cast eagerly upward. The impatience of the creatures was visibly evident. They would not wait much longer to strike.

  Hurriedly, Mithris began reciting a ward, the same one he had cast last night. As creatures not of this foundation, the omnitors would be unable to cross the invisible barrier—at least, for a time. Three omnitors working together would be able to break through in a very short time indeed.

  That thought made his concentration waver. Having only recited the spell a few hours previously, Mithris also had trouble remembering the exact pattern of utterances and silent thoughts which made up the incantation. Spells tended to fade in the memory with each usage, another reason Mithris had always spurned memorization.

  Or are they difficult to remember because you spurned memorization?

  Not now, Mithris thought back. He closed his eyes and began the cantrip recitation again from the start. He did his best to ignore the rasping growls carried up from below on the breeze. His hands clenched unconsciously, one of them moving of its own accord to the pouch-like pocket of his robe. There, it closed around the warm and faintly pulsing object within.

  This time, he made it through the spell. Nor had there been time to spare. The instant Mithris felt the ward spring into being, the first of the omnitors began its charge up the rocky hill. It struck the invisible barrier with a crackling discharge of magical energy, and was repelled to tumble the slope in a shower of scree.

  Mithris snapped his eyes open. Dropping the grimoire of domestic spells, he tore open Master Deinre’s personal spellbook and flipped frantically through its pages.

  The omnitor had recovered itself, and stood near the base of the slope growling as it stared up at Mithris. The other two broke off their circling and joined their leader. They sat on their haunches like wolves. Some kind of silent communion passed between them. When the unheard conference was finished, they rose as one and started slowly up the scree-covered slope.

  You’re running out of time, the voice in his head warned Mithris.

  “I know, I know,” he muttered aloud.

  Lighting a candle is much like throwing a fireball, the voice suggested.

  “Omnitors can’t be hurt with fire,” Mithris said without thinking. He flipped another page, scanning the text. No, that wouldn’t do. He turned the page again, so forcefully he nearly ripped the fragile parchment.

  So you do know what you’re doing, then. Right? Was there a faint edge of worry creeping into that disembodied voice?

  “A-ha!” Mithris slapped the open page with his free hand. The spell he had just found looked complex, more complicated than anything he had ever thrown before. But in the portion he had scanned, he found no unfamiliar words. He should be able to manage it. Better yet, there was a crude sketch scrawled at the top of the page; it showed a multifaceted crystal. Any offensive spell that required a foundation crystal must be powerful indeed.

  He dropped to his knees, propping the spellbook open against a large stone.

  Oh, said the voice in his head, sounding resigned now. I see you don’t know what you’re doing. All right then.

  The omnitors crouched just outside his ward. They had begun attacking it in sequence, one omnitor throwing itself against the barrier while the others waited. When it was thrown back, the next omnitor leaped forward. Their poison-dripping claws raked across the bubble of power. Mithris could feel the shield weakening with each assault.

  The time for hesitation had certainly passed. Nervously, he began to read the unknown spell aloud.

  Voice risi
ng with each word, Mithris spoke the words and held the images in his mind. He reached the end, shouting the final words and looking up just in time to see the first omnitor break through his passive ward. He felt a jolt of power that nearly bowled him over.

  The ground beneath the omnitor cracked and split open. Rocks and scree tumbled into the widening crevice. The omnitor scrambled for foothold on the edge, squealing in sudden terror. Its fellows, rather than helping their leader, backed away whining nervously.

  Thick, dark vines shot up out of the pit Mithris had summoned open. The bulging, broad-leafed tentacles lashed through the air with movements far more animal than vegetative. One length of vine curled itself sinuously around the desperate omnitor, contracting and squeezing even as they tore the creature free of its footholds and yanked it screaming into the darkness below.

  The remaining tentacles slapped over the scree-covered ground and against free-standing boulders before themselves retracting and allowing the crevice to close up above them. The entire process had taken only seconds.

  “Yes!” Mithris rose shakily to his feet, pumping one fist triumphantly overhead.

  There are still two more, the voice reminded him. And your ward has collapsed.

  Mithris looked down and saw that the remaining two omnitors had overcome their fear when the pit closed. Malevolent eyes fixed on him, they slunk cautiously up the slope. They would be on him in seconds.

  Chapter 7

  Cantrips

  Mithris knew he barely had time to act. He could not even spare a moment to grab up Deinre’s spellbook, let alone hunt through its pages for another spell. He racked his brain for a cantrip – any spell that might slow the omnitors down.

  Lighting a candle is much like throwing a fireball, repeated the voice in his head. It had said the same thing just moments earlier. Annoyed, Mithris was about to remind his snide inner voice that omnitors couldn’t be hurt by fire.

  But then his eyes fell on the dry brush clinging to the top of the promontory, and had an idea. Drawing out his casting wand, he summoned every ounce of power he could channel through the length of willow and spoke the three words he used each night to light the candle in his bedchamber.

  Flames roared to life in the scraggly bushes at his feet, and Mithris took a startled step backward. He had given it everything he had, but even so had not expected such a result. The fire spread rapidly, flames rising two or three feet off the ground. The stalking omnitors paused, looking at the wall of fire Mithris had created.

  The flames posed them no danger, but they were wary of the wizard who’d killed their leader all the same. They sat back on their haunches and studied the flames. Their jaws hung open. Saliva dripped from multiple, uneven rows of ebony razors that were the monsters’ teeth.

  It surely wasn’t a ward, Mithris thought, but maybe Master Deinre would have been proud.

  Stop patting yourself on the back, and get the spellbook!

  Alarmed, Mithris saw the two spellbooks he’d left lying on the ground. Tongues of flame lapped out toward them.

  “No!” he cried, diving into the dirt and grabbing up both books before pushing himself backward through the dirt. As soon as he had the books safe, he went tearing through Deinre’s grimoire once more. There! That should do it, he thought.

  Lifting his eyes, staring through the crackling orange curtain at the omnitors, he began to recite the spell. This time he spoke with a greater confidence than he had ever felt before. For the first time in his life, Mithris actually felt like a magician.

  He finished the incantation, and immediately started flipping through the pages looking for a follow-up. He would not wait for the first spell to resolve, assuming it would be sufficient. He found a likely looking spell, and began to read it immediately. He held the book propped open in one palm, his other hand weaving symbols in the air with his willow-wood wand.

  But then, as he neared the end of the incantation, Mithris came to a word of power he had not mastered. The symbols were familiar to him, and he sounded it out, but he stumbled through it and bungled the accompanying mental image. What, exactly, is the scent of a violet morning glory in the split second before it blooms with the dawn?

  Mithris uttered the spell’s final words—it would be too dangerous to leave the spell unfinished, power summoned and hanging in the air with no direction given—with rising dread. Finished, he looked up and braced himself for whatever came next.

  The omnitors had overcome their momentary fear and concluded the flames were just ordinary fire, and no threat. They passed through the curtain of fire as if it didn’t exist. For these monsters, it might as well have been empty air.

  A wild, unbridled wind had sprung up in the clearing beneath his stony platform. It howled and whipped its way around the outcrop, building up speed with each revolution. As one, the omnitors froze in place. Their nostrils flared, sniffing danger in the wind.

  Scraggly bushes tore up by their roots and joined the whistling wind. Melon-sized stones lifted almost lazily into the air before joining the rushing whirlwind. One of the omnitors whined in panic. Its fellow made to bolt away, but too late. A broken-off tree limb from the edge of the forest came spinning through the air and struck it on the back of its head. The omnitor was thrown by the blow, its paws scratching madly for purchase as it was carried aloft.

  It slammed into the second omnitor. Both creatures were drawn up into the maelstrom. The force of the wind knocked Mithris back to his knees. He crouched down on himself, cradling his spellbooks protectively against his chest as he stared up at the storm he had summoned.

  The wind intensified. Mithris cowered at the center of a raging hurricane!

  Howling in fear, the omnitors were born upward. One passed within feet of Mithris, lashing out with one paw to rake its claws along his shoulder before the wind snatched it violently away. Gritting his teeth against the searing pain in his arm, Mithris watched as the grim monsters were lifted higher and higher on the screaming wind.

  They receded into the darkening sky until he could barely make them out. They were just two more dark shapes among hundreds of broken branches, uprooted shrubs, and hurtling stones. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the wind died. One moment, the storm raged. The next moment, sunlight returned to dispel the gathering clouds and no sign remained of the howling wind beyond the debris suspended momentarily high in the air.

  Then the stones and branches and bushes and two terrified creatures of the Second Foundation plummeted to the earth. Mithris threw his hands over his head, anticipating heavy blows. The ground trembled around him as rocks larger than his head smashed against it. Over the deafening clatter of falling debris. Mithris heard a terrible, wet splashing sound.

  When the debris had settled, he lifted his head. Mithris was amazed to be alive. A small branch had struck him a glancing blow, but otherwise the rain of stones and wood had left him unscathed. The omnitors had not been so lucky. All that remained of them were two spreading black stains of pulpy goop.

  Chest heaving, Mithris stood uncertainly to his feet and stared at the smashed remains in disbelief. He had done it. He, Mithris, the hapless apprentice, had killed three omnitors single-handedly. Elated, he threw up his arms and whooped his joy.

  “I did it!”

  You certainly did, answered the voice in his head. Don’t forget about that loose end, though. Probably nothing, I know, but…

  “Oh, mercy,” gasped Mithris, who had forgotten all about the bungled spell he had cast just before the windstorm resolved. As the words left his lips, somewhere in the magical distance a gong sounded. The ether folded and parted, making way for the unknown spell which Mithris had mis-cast. The wizard’s apprentice swallowed a nervous lump in his throat and waited to discover what terrible form his mistake would manifest.

  Chapter 8

  Hunger

  Run!

  The wizard’s apprentice needed no further encouragement. He flung himself into motion, dashing over the lip of his pro
montory and scrambling down the treacherous, scree-covered slope. He ran desperately, feet sliding through the dust, arms windmilling at his sides. With each step, his momentum nearly overpowered him and sent him tumbling and rolling.

  The ethereal gong sounded again, somewhere beyond the boundaries of this world. Ghostly light flickered and burst in the air, spectral pyrotechnics from another dimension. Bursts of green and gold and pink and lavender exploded silently above the stony platform above. They came faster and faster, growing in size and brilliance all the while.

  The gong sounded a third time. Mithris, nearly to the foot of the hill, stumbled and pitched headlong into the rocky dirt. He tumbled end over end to land, bruised and bloodied, at the foot of the stone outcrop. Above him, the lights closed in on the place he had stood when casting the renegade spell.

  The ghostly star-bursts slammed against the stone platform. Energy pounded into the earth. Mithris was rocked and jarred by the spreading shock waves. He scrambled to his feet and ran for the trees, too terrified even to look back as he ran.

  When the otherworldly gong sounded its fourth and final peal, there was a blinding flash of multicolored light. The ground shook, tossing Mithris off his feet once more. He landed in a sprawl at the foot of the trees. Rolling over in a panic, he looked back the way he had come.

  The fading light seared his eyes, and he squinted and blinked against it. When his vision cleared, he saw a cloud of dust floating in the otherwise clear sky. No, he realized. Not dust. Ashes. That was all that remained of the tall, stone outcropping on which he had made his stand. The meadow was level and unbroken now, a flat field of grass centered with a gapingly empty hole. The ash drifted on the breeze.

  Lucky you got far enough away in time, said the voice in his head. See, I told you didn’t know what you were doing.