by Ron Collins
He also felt a more familiar panic, a more human fear.
He had seen it before. These guards would need a culprit, and there was no more simple story than that of an apprentice gone rogue. If they found him here, they would blame him.
The men spoke.
Their words were unintelligible, but the tone of their voices vibrated inside his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the memory of the rotting heap of flesh that had once been a serving boy. Wild magic droned in his ears, gaining power with each moment.
You have given, the power whispered. Now you must take.
“No,” he whimpered, feeling darkness grow inside him as the guards came forward. “I won’t do it.”
He lurched out the back door, pain burning in his chest, intending to run. He was halfway across the manor yard when he sensed more guards. They had surrounded the manor—he felt four more ahead, and another four to his right.
“Halt!” a voice came.
Garrick had nowhere to go. His hunger surged and he fell to his knees.
No, he thought. Go away.
“Who are you?” a rough voice came to him as if it was spoken from everywhere at once.
Garrick looked up to see a man standing between himself and the woods, feet firmly planted, his three compatriots coming into the area to encircle him further.
You have given, the voice urged again. Now you must take.
“I said, who are you, boy?”
It took all of Garrick’s self-control to avoid reaching out to the guard.
It would be so sweet, he thought. So sweet. It took all of his self-control to avoid reaching out to the guard.
“Alistair’s apprentice,” Garrick managed to reply.
“What have you done here?”
“Nothing. I’ve done nothing. It was like this when I came home.”
“It’s a mage’s castle, Captain,” a second guard said. “No telling what goes on here.”
Garrick felt a difference between the captain and his mates. They all had airs of action, but the captain carried himself with more conviction. He was bolder and more certain.
“You’ll come with us,” the captain said.
“That’s not a good idea,” Garrick gasped.
“I’m not suggesting, boy. I’m telling you how it is. Stay here while we go take a look.”
Garrick’s head swam, but he stood still, pleased he had won this battle with the dark curse inside him. He could beat this. He had to beat this.
The captain directed one of his men, a man he named Sidney, to remain behind as sentry while he and the others went to investigate the manor. Garrick felt better as the men moved away.
“Don’t be gettin’ no ideas,” Sidney said to him, pulling a short sword from its sheath. “I ain’t got the patience o’ the captain.”
A sibilant whisper rose in the back of Garrick’s mind. He could escape. It would be easy. He may not even have to touch the man—he could just ease this man’s life force away, steal it without him even knowing what had happened.
Stop it! He screamed, hoping it was just inside his mind. He gritted his teeth, and his breathing became labored.
You have given, the voice whispered.
“Whatever you’re doing, you best stop it,” Sidney said.
But the void inside ripped at his gut and his breathing became even harder. As if moving on its own, Garrick’s hand reached out.
Sidney cried out and swung his blade.
Garrick sidestepped the attack without effort, and used the moment to gather his senses. He swallowed his hunger with a painful shove, then he set a simple spell gate, twisted his tongue around a word, and reached to the plane of magic. Magestuff flowed, and Sidney inexplicably tripped over his own feet.
Garrick was running before the guard hit the ground.
He did not know how long he ran, but it was long and long and longer. The guards gave chase, but he was slender and an able runner. The guards were older, bigger, and heavily encumbered. He pressed his hunger down, and he ran harder as the presence of the guards slipped away from his mind. This run had none of the grace of last night’s race through the woods, though. This was a pell-mell dash. He crashed through the forest, heedless of root or undergrowth. He scrabbled through brush and fern, falling and picking himself up, running harder, and bracing himself as if to crash against waves sent by the undercurrent of the world.
He cursed as he ran.
He cursed Alistair. He cursed Dorfort and their woeful guard. He cursed this pain inside that seemed never to leave.
When he was finally spent, Garrick fell to the ground, gasping for breath.
He was in a clearing of knee-high grass surrounded by elm trees. A pattern of fire pits, now days cold, marked it as a way-point for travelers. He felt his hunger, still there, still stirring beneath his anger.
He had beaten it, though.
Garrick rolled to his back and stared up into the blue bowl of sky.
He had beaten it. He had spared the guard’s life despite his pain. They wouldn’t get him. No one would. He was Garrick. He would not give in.
Chapter 8
Whatever Garrick had been before was in the past, and whatever he had become now was…well, he didn’t know. But he had to find a way to deal with it before it consumed him.
He had to do something.
The problem was that he had too many questions, and not enough answers.
Questions like, what was this hunger? Where did it come from? How could he get rid of it? Questions like, why was Alistair’s manor attacked, and what did it mean that magical residue from both orders had colored the site? Being a Torean, he ignored the possibility of a magewar at his own peril. But if it was a magewar, why were there no Lectodinian or Koradictine dead? And if it was magewar, why did the orders hold their battle on Torean ground?
In the end, this reeked of raid more than it did of battlefield.
Had Alistair grown too strong? Had something of his winter studies caused the orders to fear him? And why take Kelvin, Bryce, and the rest of the apprentices?
These were Garrick’s thoughts as he lay in the clearing. The trees and the grasses of that place, however—cloaked in wind and rustling leaves and the calls of crows—had nothing to say on the matter. Frustration grew like a cancer in his gut. He felt exposed and defenseless. He was so tired.
Why was the world doing this to him?
“Your life is yours, Garrick,” Alistair had often said as he grew. “Take the world on its terms but stay true to your own thoughts, and things will manage themselves.” After long enough Garrick, like a blind fool, had bought it. But it turned out Alistair didn’t understand the world like Garrick did.
The world, it turns out, does not care how things arrange themselves.
Now Alistair was dead and Garrick realized he needed a new superior—someone strong enough to trigger his magic as Alistair had promised he would, someone capable of giving Garrick the power he needed to stand up to this terrifying curse, or at least someone experienced enough to help him unravel it.
Pacar, for example—a friend of Alistair’s who lived in the deep forests fairly close by to the west. Pacar made him uncomfortable, but his magic was strong enough. Or Dontaria Pel-An, another acquaintance who made house in the southern marshes—farther away, but a mage Garrick had always been comfortable with. He was a better choice.
Neither would work for free, of course—no Torean would ply magic without compensation, and sorcery strong enough to remove a curse like this would come only at a hefty price. So Garrick also needed funds.
A job, perhaps.
A task?
It was at that moment that the idea struck home.
Alistair had planned to take Garrick with him next week as he traveled to meet Caledena’s viceroy, a situation that always foretold of work. The viceroy would need a replacement.
Who better than Garrick?
He could make it on foot in a couple days—and merely making that trip meant he wo
uld stay away from people, out of Dorfort, and specifically out of the reach of Dorfort’s guard. If nothing else the trip would provide time to deal with this. It would give him time to settle down.
He had wanted to be his own man, Garrick thought with a grin. No better time than now.
If nothing else, it felt good to have a plan.
He was walking northward almost before he truly decided to go.
Chapter 9
Garrick walked until the sky darkened to purple. He scavenged as he traveled, picking berries and fruit, and digging tubers and roots where he could find them. It wasn’t nearly enough, though. His feet hurt, and his legs felt brittle. But his biggest ache was that he was hungry in ways he could not describe. In this condition, he could not help but turn toward the aroma of roasting meat when it came through the woods, he could not help but be drawn to fires from a small village.
Warmth enveloped him as he drew near—a warmth that he first thought was brought on by the flames of a fire pit, but was instead the tantalizing rise of the villagers’ life forces against the dark desires of his hunger.
He could stave off this need, though. He had done it before. He would not allow this thing inside him to become who he was.
The villagers’ essence grew deeper as he neared—farmers and shepherds, simple people who lived here by the grace of a clear spring and nearby grazing land. They were pure-hearted people, their life forces solid and firm. They reminded him of Arianna’s family.
He paused at that thought, and nearly turned back. The essence of Arianna’s young sister and the clotted remains of the serving boy remained locked in his memory. But the aroma of the roasting meat was stronger than the pain, so he continued through the dark wood until he came upon the clearing.
He could do this.
He was strong.
The village was a ramshackle place marked by dirt paths that ran between huts of wood and soil. He saw no guards or sentries. They should be more cautious, he thought with sudden anger. Didn’t they know how exposed they were out here in the open?
Anyone could steal upon them.
It was almost as if they wanted to be caught unaware, as if they wanted him to destroy them all.
And he could do it, too. He felt the truth of that as his hunger rose, he felt it in the way his legs seemed to move of their own accord, felt it as he drew closer to the gathering at the center of the village. They should be better defended. If he wasn’t so set on controlling this hunger, if he just let it free, he could cause such pain.
It felt strange to think of himself in that way. Almost arrogant. It was the hunger talking, wasn’t it? Yes. But it was also exactly what he had wanted to feel throughout his entire life. It was importance, a feeling that he actually mattered. The dissonance in these thoughts made his head spin.
Who was he?
The people of the village were gathered around a pit, cooking a skewered boar. Embers flared from the fire, and gray smoke rose through an open hole in the shelter’s roof. Women laughed at an unheard joke, and a large man stood beside the pit, examining the boar.
One of the villagers saw him and waved him closer.
“Ho, there! Come, join us.”
Expectant faces turned his way. Their attention was a flaming beacon. He felt rasps of air drawn into lungs. Heartbeats came to him as an avalanche.
He heard the voice, then.
You have given…
Garrick shut off his mind and stepped to the edge of the firelight.
“Oh, my,” a woman gasped.
He brought a hand to his cheek. Did he look that bad?
A man rushed to his side and grabbed Garrick by the elbow to lead him to a seat. The contact was like fire, but Garrick staunched his hunger by clenching his teeth hard enough to strain his jaw.
The man was built like a tree stump—short and squat, muscles solid, his legs thick, his neck nearly non-existent. A black beard covered his rounded face, and his eyes sparkled in the darkness.
A woman with similar proportions came forward.
“Are you well?” the man asked.
Garrick closed his eyes and fought to keep control.
“I’m just hungry,” he replied.
The woman ran her palm over Garrick’s forehead with the efficient motion of a chamber maid. Her hand traced a glorious rainbow of heat over his face.
“I’ve never seen skin so pale.”
A young girl peered from behind her mother’s skirts. “He’s scary,” she said.
“Shush,” the woman replied. “You’ll give the boy a reputation. Bring him some meat, Melli. And a cup of John’s mead. You’re thin as a twig, aren’t you?”
The boar was succulent. The honey sweetness of the mead exploded on his tongue and burned a trail through to his stomach.
“This is marvelous,” he said between bites.
“Can’t be nothing wrong with a boy who eats like that,” the woman said with a grin.
The villagers laughed.
“Welcome to Sjesko,” one said.
Garrick winced. The meal filled his stomach, but did nothing for the other hunger that surged inside him. And as the spirits of the village rose, darkness in his gut wrestled against the bindings of his willpower.
“After he’s eaten, maybe we can convince this lad to tell us his tale,” the stocky man said.
Heads nodded.
“You got a name, boy?” the man asked.
“Garrick.”
“Clem,” the man replied.
“Pleased to meet you.”
Garrick ripped meat from the bone as rapidly as he could chew, and the flurry of activity surrounding his arrival subsided. A lanky farmer told a story.
The young girl who had been afraid of him earlier still stared at him, though. Her attention was a steady, prattling rain against his mind. Her eyes were big and watery. They made him uncomfortable. He felt himself reaching toward her, gently, slowly, reaching like a warm wave toward those watery eyes.
You have given…
“No!” he screamed.
He looked up to face silent stares. An awkward stillness hung in the air.
“He’s scary,” the little girl said again.
“What’s wrong with you?” Clem said, putting himself between Garrick and his wife.
“Nothing,” Garrick replied.
But the word was forced, and he knew it was not the truth. He felt like he was dangling from a cliff that grew out of a dark morass, his grip slipping away with every moment.
Clem’s eyes slitted and his jaw set.
“Look at him,” a voice came from within the crowd, and Garrick sensed the heady flavor of fear. “He’s a demon!”
“No,” he whispered, his voice deep in his throat.
The hair tingled on his arms, and sweat came to his forehead.
“You’d best be leaving, son,” Clem said.
“He’ll just come back, Clem,” Another villager said.
“Kill him,” another voice cried.
His hunger surged at the aggression, burning inside, the heat of each villager etching pain into his senses.
Men brandished tools like weapons. Melli gripped her knife and stood beside her husband. A pick axe appeared further back.
“Don’t do this,” he said.
Fight as you will, Garrick. It will only be worse in the end.
The villagers of Sjesko edged forward.
“I’m dead serious, boy,” Clem said. “You'd best be moving along.”
Something clicked inside him.
Garrick felt release greater than anything he had ever known. He felt power. Desire. Love. Pain. It was as if the world had turned itself inside out, and he could feel every bone in its skeleton. He reached through the noise of his hunger and the panic of the villagers to pull on his link to the plane of magic. Sorcery flowed through gates. Magestuff mixed with his hunger to form ecstasy so thick he thought he might suffocate. He spoke words of wizardry and twisted his fingers, pulling weapons fr
om the villagers’ hands and twirling them into a maelstrom that rose around him.
Screams rang out.
An iron rake bit into Garrick’s leg. He ignored the pain and merely heaved the instrument back into the flow. Magic burned from his outstretched arms and he waded in the familiar scent of warm honey that laced his Torean sorcery. Green fire crackled between his fingers. The essence of this new magic bordered on spiritual—the expenditure of energy was a glorious release of pain.
He threw magic left and right, painting with it as if creating art, conducting his wizardry like it was a symphony. An ax sliced through a man nearby. A knife embedded itself in a woman’s thigh. Sorcerous wind howled, and the smell of blood colored the night crimson. Fire and wood flew through the air, burning thatch and crushing skulls. The villagers screamed, and the stench of human flesh rose.
As villagers died, Garrick breathed them in.
It was like inhaling fire.
What am I doing, he thought as he drank life force, what am I doing?
But he could not stop.
Time became suspended. Magic flowed, and there was only movement and energy and the sweet, rapturous scrub of magic.
When the flow finally subsided, not a hut remained standing.
Mutilated bodies littered the area. Clem lay on the ground, his chest split open. And the others–the others were no better off.
Garrick fell to his knees and held his head in his hands as he tried to understand what had just happened. His head pounded. His skin felt as if it had been scoured by fine sand. His blood ran hard through his veins, and every muscle in his body felt strained and torn.
“I’m sorry,” he cried. “It’s not my fault. I’m sorry.”
But he was wrong.
It was his fault. He had done this. He had created this death and mayhem. It was exactly his fault.
The ghoulish presence of power surged inside him, then, a thing so large and so electric that he felt he might split apart. The skin on his arms crawled. His throat ached from the coarse smoke that hung like gauze in the air.
Garrick cast a bloated gaze over the destruction around him.
