by K. J. Parker
In one fluid motion Gil dropped to his knees, drew his sword, and cut both palms across its blade. His fingers drenched in blood, he scribbled the same rune the old mage had used on him in Astal. The Mallock only inches away, its teeth encircling his head, Gil slammed both his hands into the ground activating the rune. The shard dangling from his neck, glowed red with fire. He looked up, feeling the tremendous power surging through his body, exploding like a volcano from his mind, his eyes blazing red, glowing like two burning coals from hell, as he smiled, and winked good bye to the creature.
As if caught by a great wind, the Mallock was ripped backwards, first as a whole, then in chunks as large blocks of its body tore apart, separating flesh and bone, skin and scalp. Soon it ribboned, swirls of thin flesh peeled away like leaves caught in the storm, swirling and churning and spewing every which direction as blood rained across the slope. Its bulk tore further back, a mash of mottled indistinguishable parts slamming against the stone wall encircling the butte. It held, suspended for a moment, writhing and screaming in agony dribbling blood and pus and bile as parts disappeared and reappeared on the other side of the wall, some in festering bubbling clumps. Some stuck in the wall, mashed in the stone as if blood was mortar, and bone, brick. When it stopped, screaming, when its body stopped twitching, and its crying died out, the great force that had caught it, pushed it, ripped it, and killed it, finally subsided. Gil’s eyes no longer glowed, though none had seen them in the commotion. The slope was silent. The landing was silent, the stairs, the river, everyone, everywhere was silent.
Gil stood, tucked the pendant into his shirt and sheathed his sword. His legs trembling, his hands dripping blood, he walked forward and passed through the archway as the last light of the setting sun left the field. Torches flickered on and lined the staircase in dancing flames as Gil rose to the landing, his blood dripping across the stone blocks in dark blotches as he ascended.
Those on the landing stood along its walls. No one spoke. Their eyes were in awe, curious and afraid. Carmine nodded, proud, and the two druids smiled. The Crimson Wizard stood in the center of the landing silhouetted by the large limestone blocks. Gil climbed the last step and stood, waiting at its edge. A cold wind blew across the landing, whipping at the torches. The Crimson Wizard stared at Gil for some time. Eventually when he opened his mouth to speak he stopped, grasping at his temple in pain. Whatever he was going to say would have to wait. Lifting one arm, pointing to the steps, the wizard bowed, slightly, and gestured to Gil.
“The archmages, will see you now …”
CHAPTER 8: THE ARCHMAGES
An attendant from the castle accompanied Gil as he climbed the narrow stone steps rising the butte. They stopped several times, as Gil had lost much blood and the attendant needed to bandaged his hands with thin strips of white cotton every so often. Once, when they paused a good long while, resting, Gil managed to squeak out a faint, gnawing question, though he already knew the answer.
“No, I don’t know Master Amas? Who’s that?” the attendant answered, staring blankly at the boy. Gil sighed, and continued up the long twisting staircase of the butte. He peered over the railless edge of the rock cut stairs and he wondered why they didn’t use a winch and basket to ascend, rather than all these terrible steps. Night had come before they reached the top, nearly two hours had passed, and many others had ran by them during their climb. Some going up, others down, everyone running. Gil wondered how long the journey took if one ran, though he still wished for a basket.
At the top, the butte was flat, smooth, immense, and at its center was RavensKeep. The great citadel of magic. The Ancient’s castle. Five great towers loomed far above Gil, and for the first time he could plainly see them, as he stood motionless and gawked in the dark. Each tower was made of dark mottled stones, hexagonally shaped, and several hundred, if not thousands of feet tall. The towers had simple names, Forest, River, Rock and Stone. And of course Cloud. Cloud tower was the tallest, and biggest, and dwarfed the others ten times over, a giant among ants.
Gil though back to the old farmer’s description and wondered if the man had ever even seen the castle. The castle was as large as a city, for it was a city, and unlike any other. Gil wondered how many thousands could live in such a place, how many did, and he suddenly felt very small and insignificant.
Gil’s stomach turned at the thought of meeting the archmages. Why did they want to meet him? Why now? The attendant, who was already a dozen yards ahead having not realised that Gil had stopped, clapped his hands at the idiot with his mouth open. As Gil followed, he glanced at the horizon. Far in the distance he could see the twinkling lights of the town of Mendoc, barely a speck far below.
Entering the castle, Gil followed the attendant through a massive iron gateway, lined with statues of terrifying beasts, though most Gil didn’t recognize. Dozens if not hundreds of black eyed, black feathered ravens sat atop the statues, silent and watching. It was said that the ravens were the first inhabitants of the butte, long ago, long before the Ancients built here, and it was said they would be the last, long after men had left.
The passage led to a spacious center courtyard, surrounded by giant, iron-wrought torches illuminating the night. The courtyard was also hexagonally shaped, and on each of its six sides, three archways led to each tower. Gil only had a moment to stare up at the towers, and the starlit sky above, before the attendant quickly led him through one of the arches leading to Stone Tower, the Mage’s Tower. They passed only a few people in the halls, though none paid them any attention, as the attendant toured Gil on a series of twisting turning passages, doorways, and tunnels, eventually ending at a small white tiled room before a large wooden door banded in thick iron. As they approached, the door opened on its own and the attendant motioned for Gil to enter, all be it alone.
Inside, three large, simple wooden chairs formed an arc across the room facing Gil. The room’s walls were bare, off-white, and shadowed in darkness. The three chairs at its center, stood out in contrast to the room, which was illuminated by a soft blue light emanating from the ceiling above. Along one wall, large rectangular windows overlooked the valley below. In the distance Gil could see the village lights again, though they were much smaller, and fainter than before. He didn’t remember climbing any stairs inside the tower, and wondered now, if they had.
In the first chair a man of perhaps fifty sat impatiently, leaning forward with a wrinkled brow and a dark beard, staring intently if not angrily at Gil. He wore a long dark coat, with black trimming and glossy black buttons, though he worn no jewelry save for a hollow bronze pendant around his neck in the shape of a six pointed star. The second chair in the middle was empty, but in the third, a beautiful young woman in her early twenties sat, lazily, with one leg over its arm, twirling her long blonde hair around her index finger. She was very short, and thin, and looked strange sitting atop the enormous chair. Gil thought she was far too young and far too pretty to be an archmage, but he was an idiot after all. She wore a long white coat with silver trimming and silver buttons and wore the same hollow bronze pendant around her neck. The woman stared wistfully at the ceiling causing Gil to glance up as he approached. The ceiling directly above the chairs was made of a down hanging glass dome, five feet wide, banded in copper, and behind it, an ocean of turquoise water sparkled. It was filled with great colorful fishes swimming in every direction, and sunlight which flickered through the water, casting a soft glow on the room below. Gil starred for the longest time, unaware that the two archmages watched his reaction. The woman smiled gently though the man frowned even more. After a long while Gil finally looked down from the ceiling.
“I am Archmage Aldrin, and this is Archmage Cassandra …” the man spoke, gesturing to the young woman in the farthest chair, “we are the high mages of RavensKeep, so tell me Lincoln, where do you come from?”
Gil suddenly felt flush. For a moment he worried if they could see the real him, but they couldn’t. He had been so enchanted by the oce
an in the ceiling his thoughts were scattered, and vulnerable. Thankfully he didn’t answer for sometime but glanced around at the room instead. The two archmages exchanged looks unsure if the boy was delaying or just an idiot.
“Aarroe,” Gil finally answered, thinking of the fishes above them, of the whale skeletons in the mountains, and of the sailor who scared him as a boy. It was a lie, and Gil wondered if they could tell.
“Welcome Lincoln of Aarroe,” the woman’s voice was soft, warm, and comforting. She smiled at Gil when she spoke, though she still sat lazily in her chair. For a moment Gil thought of asking them, surely they knew Master Amas, but something about Cassandra's overly pleasant smile made him consider otherwise. Don’t trust anyone, especially the archmages.
“And where did you train? Which House?”
“None … I’m not of any House.”
“Who taught you magic than? Who was your master?” Aldrin snapped. The questions were quicker, harder, angrier.
“None … I taught myself … sir,” Gil added it quickly, sensing Aldrin’s growing agitation with him. It was the truth. In a way. Gil glanced at Cassandra who still smiled at him. Aldrin leaned back, stroking his beard. A long time passed before anyone spoke and Gil grew increasingly uncomfortable.
“The spell you used to kill the Mallock, where did you learn it?” Aldrin stopped rubbing his beard. Gil felt sick again.
“No where … sir … I made it myself, I …”
Aldrin snorted. Gil stopped talking and glanced at each archmage.
“There are only a handful of people in this world who know how to do that spell, and even fewer who can do it without killing themselves, two of whom … are sitting before you now. So I’ll ask you again, who taught you that spell?” Aldrin voice was calm but harsh. Gil stared at the empty chair, then at Cassandra who still smiled. Gil stood, motionless, thinking. He thought about the rune he drew, and what he had drawn wrong, or different, and tried to remember it as best he could. It would be useful again, he thought.
“No sir … no one taught me that spell, I made it on my own.”
The two archmages looked at each other, waiting in silence. Finally Cassandra turned and spoke to Gil. “Lincoln of Aarroe, you have passed the skills test and therefore have the right to join RavensKeep. However … the spell you used is forbidden magic. It is dangerous, to yourself … and others. If you use it again you will be banished, and other judgements will be regined upon you by this council as deemed necessary. Do not use it, do not speak of it, and do not teach it to anyone, ever. Do you understand?” Gil nodded and he knew she knew he was definitely lying this time, yet she smiled at him anyways, and it made him anything but comfortable. At this Gil bowed and left the room, following the attendant back through the castle once more, while the two archmages sat in their chairs, speechless for a very long while. Cassandra gazed at the ocean above, twirling her hair, waiting for Aldrin to ask what she knew he would.
“He lies?”
“Yes, most certainly. But so did I, as did you …” Cassandra mused thoughtfully, then paused as if listening for something. A moment later she sat up with a look of concern on her face. Aldrin studied her expression. She was too young to be an archmage. Cassandra opened her mouth to speak, then paused for a moment, “He’s home …” she smiled, sarcastically, then glanced up, as the large wooden door of the room swung open, and a man wearing the same hollow bronze pendant as the others entered. He was tall with dark grey hair, a thick grey beard, and a long blue coat with dark trim and dark buttons. Supreme Archmage Monith. He glanced first at Cassandra then at Aldrin.
“Welcome back,” Aldrin bowed, touching his fingers to his forehead. Cassandra smiled and tilted her head to one side mockingly. “How did the negotiations go?”
“Not well, Sovereign Arn is stubborn, he refuses to listen to anything that Schenchon’s envoys offer, though oddly they didn’t seem upset from Arn’s refusals … but … Schenchon is not a patient man. He wants war, he lusts for it, he is only waiting for a reason to attack.” Monith’s face was grave with concern.
“Don’t worry brother, he can’t, not without our help … he doesn’t have the men, or the power, to conquer Pillar and fight us at the same time …” Cassandra flippantly waved her hand in the air.
“He has the Black Order,” Aldrin snapped.
“The Order?!" Cassandra laughed, “Reject magi trained by us to use as his personal inquisitors? HA! They are far too few in number, and I doubt he fully understands where their allegiance lies … besides, the Southern Kingdom is strong, as numerous as the Huu-Di, and with many talented magi of their own. Schenchon couldn’t lift a finger unless we allow it … frankly he should be bowing to us.”
“Careful sister …” Monith cut her off, his voice was harsh, “for ten thousand years RavensKeep has served the Mountain Kingdom, it has served as a balance between all kingdoms, and it has been a mutually beneficial arrangement. Do you know why child? No? Hmmm … we of magic, of real magic, are fewer everyday, and though our powers are strong, even with them, the Huu-Di outnumber us a thousand to one, as they do in every kingdom. In truth, if the King wanted to, he could wage war on our castle and kill us all, you’d be dead, I’d be dead, even Aldrin here would be dead …"
“Let him try! The Huu-Di would lose far more than we would! I’d kill ten thousand before they even got near the castle!” Cassandra jumped from her seat fuming and huffing and stamping around, her temper flaring wildly.
“Perhaps …” Monith patted his hands in the air, trying to calm his sister, “and that is why the King doesn’t attacked, that, and because we still serve him. Bargains are often difficult choices sister, but no mage has unlimited power. Yes, we’d kill many of them in such a battle, but sooner or later you’d be drained, we all would, and then they’d overwhelm us and we’d all still be dead. Trust me, being dead really gets in the way of living, its just not fun anymore after that,” Monith smiled, gently, and Cassandra sat back down. “Still, it is concerning, and you may be right, Aldrin. I sense the King is planning something, something more than just war with Pillar, but perhaps … what? What’s wrong?” Monith sat down in the middle chair, and glanced at Aldrin, whose brow was even more furrowed than normal.
“Valik presided over the skills test today …”
“Gods, what is that ass doing here? And why did you let him? How many died this time? If he keeps killing everyone who comes here, there won’t be anyone left soon enough … what?! What’s wrong now?” Monith glanced at Cassandra who was also frowning.
“The King sent him. No I don’t know why, but he arrived a few days ago. Yes … he has been waiting to speak with you. As for the test, well, it was his right, brother, he asked and we were spread thin as it was, anyways that’s not the problem …" Monith raised a brow in surprise at her words, “it’s not the ones that died … but the ones that passed.”
“Someone passed one of Valik’s tests?” Monith asked in a low voice.
“Four did, as hard as it is to believe. Two rather clever druids, along with the son of Baron Kilgarden, and … one other … a boy, who managed to kill one of Valik’s beasts, a Mallock.” The three archmages sat silent for a very long time.
“A boy killed a Mallock?”
“Yes, a boy. A peasant from what it seems, but we’re not really sure. I couldn’t read him, and he’s not with any house, we’ve checked, and when the scribes took his name, no lineage showed, no record at all, actually … and, the boy … he’s wearing an Ardent Coat. Yes it’s real, and yes, I’m sure.”
“Where did a boy get an Ardent Coat?”
“Good question brother, I thought there weren’t any left?”
“There aren’t.” Another long empty silence passed between the three.
“Also … he’s carrying an Elder Sword, if you can believe it. Though, he doesn’t seem to know it himself."
“What! How do you know that?” Monith stammered.
“When Valik summoned the Mallock t
he boy threw an axe at it, terribly I might add, and set the Elder Sword aside rather than use it. Assumingly, he doesn’t know what it is or what it can do.”
“But you said … he killed the beast?”
“He did," Cassandra smiled, but in a very different way.
“How?”
“The boy activated a spell. He used a spell as easily as one yawns and killed it …” Cassandra laughed a bit, shaking her head, “I’m sorry, my mistake he didn’t just kill it, he tore it apart, fucking shredded its bones and skin and sockets, and ripped it into so many goddamn little pieces that that attendants will be scrubbing the outerwall for the next three months.” Monith glanced at Cassandra, then at Aldrin.
