Avondale

by Toby Neighbors

  Tiberius put his hand on Rafe’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. He wanted to impart all his strength and love for his friend, but Rafe was already completely focused on the fight. He looked straight ahead, his jaw set, the muscles in his shoulders and back rolling as he stretched to stay loose.

  They were led into the circle, where Moswanee was already waiting. He wasn’t a big man, in fact he was shorter than Tiberius and so thin that he looked half starved. His beard was oiled, and the spikes coming out of his back had been coated in the white paint. Tiberius tried to see if the spikes were actual bones or if they were some type of ceremonial dress. It was hard to see in the flickering light of the small fires around the circle. The Chieftain was not handsome. Tiberius thought he looked horrific, and surprisingly young. Tiberius guessed Moswanee wasn’t much older than Rafe or himself.

  Then Moswanee’s champion appeared. He was wearing only a small garment around his waist, and his body shone in the firelight. Tiberius guessed that the big warrior was covered in some kind of oil, which made the powerful muscles even more pronounced. Tiberius hoped it was just a scare tactic. He knew that fighting such a large powerful man would frighten most people. If that were to happen to Rafe, the fight would be over before it began.

  “You ready?” Tiberius whispered to his friend.

  Rafe nodded, never taking his eyes off of Ummar.

  “Good, I’ve got your back.”

  The shouting and jumping around the circle suddenly went quiet as Moswanee raised his hands. The group of tribesmen fell silent at the signal from the chief. Tiberius noticed that none of the women or children were present.

  “Now is the time of the Tuscogee,” he said in a loud voice. “Now the gods will choose who leads the Hoskali. Let it begin.”

  Tiberius wasn’t sure who to watch. Ummar stalked forward, the bronze sword looked small in his huge fist. Moswanee cackled with laughter, as if the Tuscogee were merely a game and his own life didn’t hang in the balance.

  Rafe began to circle slowly, keeping his distance from the bigger man. The crowd was silent, almost as if they were holding their breath in anticipation of the first clash. Tiberius felt sick to his stomach. He hated seeing Rafe all alone against the hulking warrior, but Rafe looked calm and determined. After circling each other for several moments, Ummar finally attacked. He moved faster than Tiberius had expected, but not fast enough to catch Rafe. He slashed down with his sword, the bronze flashing gold in the firelight, but Rafe danced to the side. Ummar followed his first attack with a level blow that would have severed Rafe’s head from his shoulders, but the young warrior dropped to the ground, rolled over his back and came up smoothly on his feet, his sword held ready, eyes on his opponent.

  Tiberius glanced at Moswanee, who still looked elated by the fight. Tiberius guessed that the Chieftain wouldn’t use magic unless he had to. He wanted the fight to last, to be a real show for the tribe who saw the Tuscogee the same way people in Avondale saw a holiday.

  Rafe began to circle again, but Ummar jumped forward, raining down another overhanded blow. This time Rafe raised his own weapon, holding it diagonally, with one hand fully extended and supporting the upper part of the blade, the other hand held lower. The two swords clashed violently, with a loud clang that made Tiberius want to cover his ears. He’d grown up hearing his father’s soldiers drill, their swords clashing together over and over. He’d trained with the city Paladins using swords and spears, but he’d never heard anything like the two bronze weapons clashing.

  Rafe was forced back a step by the blow, while Ummar was carried forward by his momentum. Rafe could have struck, but instead he spun away from the larger man. Ummar turned, bellowing a war cry that made the hair on Tiberius’ neck stand up. He was in a blood rage now, striking blow after blow with the heavy sword. Rafe dodged first one way, then the other, blocking the bigger man’s strikes only when necessary. It was impossible to tell how tired the big man was, but Tiberius could see sweat breaking out across Rafe’s chest and shoulders. Ummar, covered in oil, his hair already wet, seemed relentless. He fought like a wild animal, charging forward, chasing down Rafe until finally the smaller man fell. It was the combination of a massive blow by Ummar, and simple trip as Rafe’s feet brushed into one another. Rafe fell onto his back and for an instant Tiberius feared the worst. His breath caught in his throat and his body went rigid with fear.

  Ummar slammed his sword down hard, but Rafe rolled slightly to avoid the blow. The heavy bronze sword bit hard into the spongy turf and at that same moment Rafe rolled back, putting his body weight on top of his opponent’s weapon while thrusting his own up into Ummar’s bulging bicep. Blood gushed out, splashing down on Rafe, turning the white paint on his chest and stomach pink. The big warrior jumped back in pain, but didn’t release his sword. The sudden movement caught Rafe off guard and sent him rolling away. He used the momentum to regain his feet.

  Tiberius looked at Moswanee, and for the first time the Chieftain looked uncertain. Ummar swapped his sword into his other hand, as blood continued to drip down his wounded right arm. He bellowed again, but this time his charge was slower. Tiberius looked at Moswanee and saw the skeletal chief’s mouth moving.

  “Scuti Incantatio” Tiberius said loudly.

  The magic swirled around him. He could feel the wall of magic in front of him, it was so powerful it felt almost solid. He thrust it out, throwing his hands up as if to push the magic forward. He willed it to move in front of Rafe, who was backing up before the furious Ummar.

  “Scuti Incantatio, Scuti Incantatio,” Tiberius said over and over.

  Then he felt Moswanee’s spell clash into his own. It jarred him, the same way it felt when he was holding a sword to block his opponent’s attack. The force of the clash raced up his arms and reverberated in his mind. Then just as quickly as it began, it stopped.

  Moswanee was glaring at him, but already chanting another spell. Tiberius knew he had to act fast.

  “Move Rafe!” he shouted. “Abdidi Incantatio!”

  This time the magic seem to rain down from above and Tiberius willed it toward his friend. Rafe disappeared from view. Tiberius could feel his friend in the magic, and he had to work to keep the flow of magic on Rafe as the young warrior quickly circled around his opponent. For a moment Rafe didn’t know he was invisible, then the look of confusion on Ummar’s face, followed by the tentative swings of his sword at nothing made it clear to him. He jumped forward, ready to thrust his sword into the bigger man’s unprotected side and end the battle, but before his sword touched Ummar a dazzling light sent Rafe flying backward.

  Tiberius let the magic fade away. Rafe was laying on the ground at least ten paces away from Ummar, his sword blackened, his hand burned. He looked over at Tiberius with an expression of fear. It was a look that Tiberius had never seen on his friend’s face. Tiberius felt his anger building. He looked at Moswanee, who was laughing. Ummar was had only just realized what had happened and was starting to move toward Rafe.

  At that moment, everything that Tiberius knew about magic seemed to fade away. All his fears, his pledge to use magic responsibly and to work through the Four Orders progressively, all disappeared in his fury at seeing his friend hurt.

  “Fulguralis!” he shouted.

  Around him the earth seemed to move, even as time seemed to come to screeching halt. He looked and saw Ummar still moving forward, but each step was long and drawn out, sluggish and slow. Moswanee was clapping, but it was too slow, the sound of his maniacal laugh was wrong too, it was deep and strange to Tiberius’ ears.

  Then he felt the movement of incredible power overhead. It was such a vast, torrent of magic that Tiberius knew instantly he couldn’t control it. He did his best to direct it downward, away from himself and toward Moswanee.

  The bolt of lightning crackled across the sky and then down in an awesome blast of raw power. White light blinded everyone, and the current hit the ground so hard that it shook. Tiberus and most of the pe
ople around the circle fell back, covering their faces. When Tiberius looked up, everything was back to normal speed. He could still feel the powerful magic churning overhead and instinctively he knew that if he summoned it again he would lose all control over the powerful force.

  Moswanee was cowering now, visibly afraid. Rafe seemed to be the only person able to bounce back into action. He rolled to his feet, cradling his burned hand. Ummar seemed hesitant to act.

  “Ingesco Exsuscito!” Tiberius bellowed, pointing his hand at Moswanee.

  A track of fire raced across the ground, the moss flaming up brightly and burning to ashes almost in an instant. The fire raced forward and Moswanee screamed as he scrambled away, but the fire wasn’t aimed at the Chieftain. Instead, the strange staff with its gruesome trophies burst into flame.

  “Finish it,” Tiberius yelled to Rafe.

  The young warrior sprang into action. He had dropped the bronze sword, but with his good hand he scooped it up as he charged forward. Ummar was slow to realize what was happening, but once he did, he braced himself for the attack. Rafe flung the heavy sword at his opponent, and Ummar batted it away. He grinned thinking he had turned back Rafe’s attack, but the sword was just a distraction. Ummar’s weapon was no longer in a defensive position, in fact he had swung his arm wide to knock Rafe’s sword away. Rafe bounded forward and kicked the bigger man as hard as he could between the legs.

  Ummar grunted from the blow and staggered back, but didn’t fall. Rafe spun away from the clumsy thrust Ummar made, and swiped a hand across his own paint covered chest. Tiberius and Lexi had plied the paint thick, just as Rafe had instructed them. The white ocher was muddy from sweat and Ummar’s blood. It came up in Rafe’s good hand in a thick, wet clump. He slapped the paint into Ummar’s face. The blow itself was nothing, but the paint splattered into the big man’s mouth, nose, and eyes.

  Ummar dropped his sword and staggered back, spitting and swiping at his eyes. Rafe jumped up, then brought his boot heel down on the side of the big warrior’s knee. The leg bent inward with a pop. Ummar screamed in pain. It was as if the cut to his bicept or the blow to his groin were nothing compared to the pain in his knee. He toppled over, grabbing his leg with both hands.

  Moswanee looked at his flaming staff in terror. Rafe bent and picked up Ummar’s sword. The Chieftain bellowed for his champion to get up and fight. Ummar did his best, struggling up onto his good knee. Rafe hit the big man hard with the heavy sword pommel in the back of the head. Ummar fell face down and didn’t move. The tribe all around the circle were jumping up and down, some shouting, others cheering.

  Tiberius was watching Moswanee. He saw the Chieftain’s mouth moving again and so Tiberius acted to save his friend.

  “Scuti Incantatio,” he said, summoning the strong wall of magic and thrusting it forward.

  Whatever spell Moswanee had tried to use, it was greatly weakened. Tiberius guessed that it was the loss of his staff. The magic rebounded easily, like a pebble cast against a castle wall.

  Rafe raised the sword, then thrust it point down, into the turf beside Ummar’s head. Tiberius wasn’t sure how the tribesmen would take Rafe sparing the big warrior’s life. So he ran to his friend and shouted, “It’s over, it’s over!”

  The crowd grew silent and Tiberius spoke in a loud voice.

  “The Tuscogee is over. It is a Hallinsae, but it need not be. Does any man doubt that Ummar, the great warrior, is defeated?”

  No one spoke, but every eye was on Tiberius.

  “I am now chief of the Hoskali, and I am a man of mercy. Ummar shall live and in so doing he shall strengthen our tribe.”

  The men around the circle nodded in approval.

  “Then shall I live too?” Moswanee asked.

  His ornate headpiece had shifted and flopped to one side. His face was desperate as he crawled forward on his hands and knees, the grotesque spikes rising from his back swaying side to side as he inched forward.

  “I shall not kill you,” Tiberius said, not sure how solid his command of the tribe actually was. “Put him out of the camp!” he ordered.

  Instantly a dozen tribesmen sprang into action. They ran forward, grabbing Moswanee by his arms and legs, and carrying the former chief away from the circle and into the darkness beyond the camp. Moswanee struggled and cried out, but he was no match for the tribesmen who carried him away.

  “Tonight we celebrate!” Tiberius shouted.

  “Shoneewan!” the men shouted. “Shoneewan!”

  They began to jump about and dance. The drums sounded again, pounding out a rhythm that the Hoskali loved. They danced, the women and children rushed to the circle and joined the celebration. Food and drinks were brought, many were set at Tiberius’ feet, but he was busy helping Rafe.

  The young warrior’s hand was covered with terrible blisters, the skin on his palm and fingers was burnt away.

  “It’s ruined,” Rafe said. “I’ll probably lose the arm.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” Tiberius said.

  He closed his eyes and began to chant the spell for healing burns.

  “Acies Sano Cuticula Acies Penetralis Resarcio Viscus,” he said quietly over and over, letting the rhythm of the spell move him into a state of deep concentration. He knew what his book of magic said:

  But larger burns, and especially deeper burns, require not only Sana Magus, but in most cases Immutatio Magus. Because burning ruins flesh and organs, it must be more than repaired, but magically recreated. This spell should only be attempted by wizards of the Third Order.

  Tiberius didn’t let his lack of magical knowledge deter him. The flow of magic around him was like a storm, blocking out all other distractions. His mind focused on his friend’s hand, his perception shrinking down and delving deep into the burned limb. The muscle of Rafe’s hand was exposed and burned, but not ruined. The skin up his forearm was burned too. Slowly, Tiberius channeled the magic into the palm of Rafe’s hand, but not the entire flow. When he’d healed Rafe’s back after his friend fell from the wall in Avondale, he had let his magic rush into Rafe’s body and work all on its own. But this time, he moved slowly, bending the powerful magic to his own purposes.

  He sent the magic into the exposed and burned muscles. Immediately it began to change. The Corporeus Adfectus sent searing pain into Tiberius’ mind. It felt as if his own hand were being burned. Sweat popped out on Tiberius’ forehead. The crowd of tribesmen grew quiet. As Ummar came to, his leg was secured with a splint and a group of men carried him away. Women brought woven mats and set them around Rafe and Tiberius. They sat quietly, eating and drinking, but also watching their new chief.

  It took all of Tiberius’ determination not to pull away from his friend. The pain from the magical link was terrible, making the work harder. Tiberius had trouble concentrating, but he didn’t give up. The muscles and tendons in Rafe’s hand weren’t ruined, and his body directed the magic’s work. Slowly the deep sense of pain eased slightly, but Tiberius still had to heal the burned skin, much of which was ruined, and even burned away in places.

  Tiberius let his mind explore Rafe’s skin. Mentally he moved up the ruined arm, and then down into Rafe’s good arm. He found the way the skin grew, the myriad design of tiny blood vessels and nerves, right down to the ridges on Rafe’s good palm and fingertips. Then he came back to the burned hand, and slowly, inch by inch, willed the magic to rebuild the skin. Rafe’s body hinted at the placement of nerves and capillaries. It took almost two hours, but eventually the pain eased, new skin formed, burned skin smoothed out, the blisters disappearing completely. Finally, Rafe’s hand felt whole again.

  Tiberius sat back, exhausted. The raging torrent of magic slipped away and he was aware of the entire tribe watching him. Rafe raised his hand and there were oohs and aahs from the people all around. Rafe flexed his hand, then rubbed both hands together. He was smiling and Tiberius felt a huge sense of relief.

  Food was offered, but all Tiberius took was
a cup of strong-smelling milky spirit. He drank it, ignoring the astringent taste and laid back on one of the grassy mats. The tribe started drumming and dancing again. Rafe went to check on Lady Olyva and it crossed Tiberius’ mind that he needed to find Lexi, but before he could several of the tribes sick were brought to him. Some with fevers, others with injuries from infected cuts, to broken bones. Tiberius did his best to help each person and the tribe was ecstatic. Their old chief had been a cruel, selfish man, but Tiberius was a healer. Moswanee had wielded dark magic, but Tiberius’ power was a healing magic and they loved him for it. Finally, once the sick had been helped, several men from the tribe lifted Tiberius’ mat.

  “What are you doing?” Tiberius asked, but the men just laughed.

  They carried him to a low built shelter and urged him inside. Tiberius guessed that this was the chief’s domicile and he crawled in. The crowd who had followed the men carrying Tiberius cheered. There was hooting and shouts. Tiberius’ head was foggy from fatigue and strong drink. He knew he needed to do something, but he couldn’t remember what it was.

  The shelter was wide, but the ceiling was low. He had to stay on his hands and knees. It was dark inside and he could feel thick mats under him, and soft pillows. Then tender hands began to stroke his hair and massage his back.

  “No, don’t do that,” he said, but there was no conviction in his words.

  The hands plucked at his tunic and his boots. He sank into a soft bed of cushions and before he knew it, he was asleep.

  Epilogue

  Lexi

  Making her way through the darkness felt more than familiar, it felt like home. No one had tried to stop her as she slipped away from the camp, now she circled it in the shadows beyond the firelight. She knew she had to get supplies. She let her mind focus on what she was doing, and what she had to get, rather than what was happening with Tiberius. She couldn’t help but resent him a little. She had warned him not to ask for her heart unless he could give her his forever. Now, he was facing almost certain death. She knew Rafe’s reputation as a warrior, but in her experience, no one fought fair. The chief had too much to lose not to rig the game somehow. Once again, like so many times in her life, she was alone. Her parents had left her so often as a child. She had cried herself to sleep so many times in the dark that it had become a familiar friend. Then they had died, or so she guessed. It was easier to think that something foul had happened to them than to admit that they had simply abandoned her.