The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  After several day's travel inland from the coast, he missed the twilight noises of the gulls and the sea and the bustling night markets. The country had its own eerie croaking, screeching, howling cacophony after the sun sank below the hills. Sleep came in fits or not at all.

  The group camped that evening within a large knoll the road cut through, taking shelter from the wind between the stone retaining walls which held the sides of the hill at bay. Devin picked at the wall with his fingernails and the mortar crumbled in his hand. The youth smacked his peg against the stones, ejecting the mud and silt clinging to every crevice. He wrung the icy water from his pants and massaged both frozen legs with his red, woolen cloak. The wet, iron peg leeched the heat from his muscles.

  The closer they got to Corel, the worse the roads had become and some past spring flood had apparently washed out the bridge over the creek. Nobody bothered to replace the bridge. The icy water they had waded across to reach the hill sapped his body's warmth. At least, I won't need to waste any salve tonight. My damn stump is already numb.

  The Silent Guard took one of the flounders and broke it across his knee into smaller pieces. The dried flesh and bones snapping reminded Devin of a laminate pressed board breaking in half. He hoped that the fish tasted better than it sounded.

  Singing a little song, the Loud Guard took a small hatchet and started chopping and collecting dead wood from a nearby copse of trees. “Fish and salt today. Hey! Bit of salt with fish, tommorer. Oh, the horror.”

  The Silent Guard smirked and kept a close eye on Devin. The Loud Guard continued his work and the lyrics grew more bawdy as the sun set and the moon rose.

  Catchy song. Devin felt his eyelids droop as he laid his head in his hands and relaxed. Maybe this trip won't be so horrible after all.

  The Loud Guard let out a cry and smiled down at his small pile of split logs and twigs like a proud parent. “Whoo-ah.” The man stretched his arms and flung the small hatchet into an open pack. “A more thankless job there never was. Hey, Fiskar, let's get the water going, hey?”

  The other guard nudged Devin with his foot and gestured towards the creek with his helmet, holding the thing like a bucket, for the youth to go fetch some water.

  The youth grunted as he pulled himself upright and grabbed the damn bucket. Already, I'm reduced from a master of steel to a mere drudge, Devin thought, hobbling back towards the bank of the creek. The edges still had a thin crust of ice that neither currents nor their passage had dislodged. The youth broke the ice with his metal foot and bend down to dip the helmet into the chilly water. He tried to make a little flame to thaw his fingertips, but once again his magic failed. Devin rubbed his hands together and bit his lip to keep from screaming as the warmth returned like hot, little spikes in his fingers.

  “Where's that water, kid?” the Loud Guard called.

  Devin glared. The fading sun on the frozen chunks swirling in the eddy looked too much like the glistening city rooftops, but he tried to find some beauty in the ice. What does a frozen creek compare next to the ebb and flow of the city by the sea? Nothing but cold, muddy creeks in my future, now. Best get used to it.

  A fitful little spark inside his soul sputtered at the thought. Devin approached the Loud Guard. The man was kneeling over a growing tower of sticks and stacking the next layer with intense concentration.

  “Your water, sir,” Devin sighed.

  “Sir. Feh,” the Loud Guard snorted, tapping a stick against the white, faded stripe on his shoulder. Some of the paint flaked off. “You think the old man would send a pair of officers on a babysitting mission? Just to dump you in the hinterlands? Even the foulest criminal mage doesn't rate a pair of officers for that.”

  Devin propped the sloshing helmet of water against a tree. The youth bit his lip to keep from laughing as a teetering tower of sticks and split logs collapsed and the Loud Guard got louder. The Silent Guard demanded with emphatic gestures that Devin surrender his iron peg into their custody. The Loud Guard tried to stack a tower of logs as Devin unbuckled his leg and tossed it to the other guard. The Silent Guard took the proffered leg and stepped out into the moonlight to examine it, kicking the logs over as he passed.

  “What am I, some kind of artificer?” the Loud Guard screamed. “This is hard enough without your shit!”

  The Silent Guard grunted a wordless apology, set the iron peg on the ground, and started gathering an armful of twigs from the edge of camp, depositing them beside his companion.

  “Hey Fiskar?” the Loud Guard asked, beckoning with one hand while he reassembled his wobbly tower with the other. “Toss me the igniter, hey? It's buried in my rucksack.”

  The Silent Guard grunted assent. A small flash of burnished steel spun through the air. The Loud Guard clapped as he caught the object in his hands.

  Devin followed the silver arc. Each little angle caught the moonlight and then vanished into those black, steel fists. The Loud Guard flicked the lid with his thumb. Devin squeezed his eyes shut as the man fumbled with the striker. He saw the mechanism function in his mind. He could feel the wick pull the fuel into the air. Felt the striker shudder against the flint. Saw the flame sputter to life and then flicker behind his eyelids. He squeezed his eyes tighter. Such mechanical grace clutched in the paws of a black, metal pig.

  The Loud Guard cursed again as the logs fell over. Devin let himself chuckle.

  “You think you can do better, kid?” the man asked, kicking the faggots aside with a wooden clatter. The ex artificer opened his eyes.

  “Make a round, reciprocal base with the longest, sturdiest branches.” Devin hopped on one foot and collapsed next to the fallen tower. The youth selected and then arranged six sticks into a radiating circle and braced them one against the other in an interlocking spiral with a hexagonal base. “Fire needs to breathe, but now you can stack whatever you like against or on top of that and it shall not fall. You could dance on top of it if you wanted and it's much, much harder to kick over.”

  The Loud Guard snorted and stamped on the spiral twigs. They held. The man stomped harder and fell over. The twigs never budged. “How did you do that?”

  “I am . . . I was an artificer,” Devin said, dry washing the bark and resin off his hands. “Designing things with our minds and then building them with our hands is what we do. Making tiny reciprocal arches is a training exercise they teach the first year apprentices at the guild hall using little match sticks.”

  “Match sticks, hey? Guess nobody uses those anymore.” The guard waved his igniter, watching the flame dance as Devin began to gather shavings and kindling.

  The youth shrugged in response. It felt good to work with his hands again. He made a small pile at the center of his spiral and then stacked larger pieces against the sides.

  “Say, do you know the artificer who built this thing?” The man smiled as he cupped the igniter in his hands flicked his metal finger through the quiet flame. “The guild just started selling them last year. Cost me two month's salary, but worth every bit. Most useful gadget I ever owned.”

  “A wretched person of no great importance,” Devin said, shrugging again. Not even an imperial citizen. “I heard they kicked him out of the guild.”

  “It's genius. Someday, I'm going to shake that man's hand,” the Loud Guard cried.

  By the five gods, you will not. Devin wedged his hands beneath his armpits and nodded to the pyramid of wood. “The logs are ready if you want to light them. You can put your . . . pot of water in the center of the spiral.”

  “Why'd you shove your fingers under your arms? Hiding something?” the man asked, armor clanking as he leaned over the fire holding the igniter, cheeks puffing as he blew the flame across the kindling.

  “My hands were cold,” Devin said, smiling as he mentally examined that statement. For a wonder, it was even true.

  “Hey Fiskar,” the man called, grinning as the fire roared to life. “Give the lad his foot back, eh? Mages might be dangerous lunatics, but an artificer
is right useful. So long as you keep the mage part bottled up. Give me your parole, kid? No running away?”

  “Reciprocal reciprocity?” Devin smiled. “The magistrate might have some arch words to say on the topic. Tell me, does the man jump up and down when he gets angry? We can set up some more . . . ”

  “He's not here and you're still our prisoner, so it's all right, hey?” the guard said. “You think the old man's going to come tromping through the countryside to check up on us? Not bloody likely!”

  The Silent Guard tossed the metal peg over the fire. Devin reached up and caught it. The youth nodded as he buckled the straps back into place.

  The Loud Guard lifted the flap of armor covering his hip and the hinge at its base squeaked. A hint of brass tucked against the man's waist flashed in the darkness. “It's not like you can cast any magic now, hey?”

  Devin reached for that curious, golden gleam as though the thing was pulling him forward, drawing a buried part of him out of hiding, exposing it in the light of the flickering fire. The youth jerked his hand away and cradled it. Ridiculous.

  The guard released the tasset and it snapped back. He rapped his steel knuckles against the armor. “Feh, magic. Can't trust it. But an artisan deserves some dignity. My pop used to be a leather worker for the imperial cavalry. Back when we had one. So I'll trust another craftsman to keep his parole and his metal foot, hey? Get some rest, kid. We've got another long day tomorrow.”

  Another long day stretched into several and the fields started undulating into foothills. The hazy mountain range on the horizon started coming more sharply into focus. The salve and food Jemmy provided were almost gone. Then the rain began.

  The cold, drizzling downpour continued as the ground climbed up towards the mountains. Every evening Devin nursed his stump and thanked the gods' fickle hearts for paved roads. Even if the pavement was starting to crack.

  The rain had finally stopped days later when the two guards nudged him across the border, turned around, and left. The Silent Guard maintained his silence, but the Loud Guard waved. Devin huddled under his red, wool cloak. He studied the mountain pass which marked the boundary between the Iron Empire and Kingdom of Corel. The paved road ended with knife edge precision, replaced by a dirt path winding deep into the mountains.

  Devin cautiously extended his metal peg. The frozen dirt held. He youth wrapped his cloak tighter as wind howled down the passage. Best keep walking and not think about spring, he thought. I'll sink like a metal block . . . like a pregnant wyvern . . . like a metal wyvern once the ground thaws. Oh, who am I kidding? I can't even master Corelian idioms.

  Despite the dirt roads and the odd idioms, this was the land of dragons! Devin hoped to see one. The powerful beasts had been reduced to symbols and foodstuffs in the empire. But Corel still had live, wild dragons. He dug into the satchel, emerging with a creased, dog-eared copy of Professor Cornelius's Guide to Fantastique Magick Creatures. The book fell open to the largest crease as Devin reread his favorite passage.

  Wyverns, or dragons in common imperial parlance, demonstrate ontogenous

  segregation among both habitat and prey. Young wyrms feast on small woodland

  creatures such as mice or stray felines before graduating from their sheltered, natal

  forests of their birth to stretch their wings and fly across high mountain plateaus to feed

  on goats, swine, and stray horses, some with riders still attached. Mankind has always

  maintained a fragile, tenuous balance with wyverns although in this author's humble

  opinion, the occasional pilfered livestock or knight snack is a paltry price to pay for

  dragons securing the kingdom's western border. Wyverns exhibit a rainbow of colors

  with fascinating hunting and sexual exploits. The animals seldom bother attacking

  small, unarmed groups and wyvern watching remains a popular sport across the realm.

  However, the beasts hibernate through the winter . . .

  Devin closed the book. Of course. They hibernate. I forgot. Devin glanced at the peaks towering in front of him. He wondered which snow-covered caves held an awesome slumbering creature nestled within. He flipped through the book aimlessly. None of the other beasts compared to the dragon.

  When all the other apprentices used to gather to test armor and new inventions by playing knights-and-dragon, Devin was always stuck playing the dragon. While the other apprentices feared the dragons, Devin admired the beasts. Their power was awe inspiring, their strength brutal, and their magic mysterious. So, while the others wasted their time crafting simple imitations of knightly mechanical armor, Devin crafted a mechanical dragon suit, combining his love of machinery with his love of dragons. He closed his eyes and mourned the loss of his steel horns, razor claws, and fire-breathing device. The igniter touted by the Loud Guard had merely been a single inspired component torn from the shredded remains of his most glorious device: a portable machine that spouted liquid flames.

  They used to call me Dragon Boy, Devin mused. Well, I showed them the true dragon in the end, didn't I? And they exiled me for it. No place in the empire for a Dragon Boy.

  Dragons had always represented power, strength, and magic. Devin was as familiar with the first two as any artificer, but magic was a fickle beast. Not understanding the mechanism or being able to explain his new powers preyed on his mind. There was something strange and alien about how these powers worked. But traveling on the road, one solid pattern had emerged.

  Something about the damn Black Guards drained my magic and kept it drained. But how and why? It was at the top of a long list of unanswered questions. Devin glanced at the mountains towards the land of wizards and dragons. Somewhere out there someone holds the answers I seek.

  Devin glanced over his shoulder before sitting by a tree next to his pack in a rock strewn field. The solitary tree had lost a battle to lightning long ago. A dark, puckered scar split the trunk and formed a partial hollow. It made a warm, cozy back rest which cradled around Devin's aching muscles. The youth tucked his knees and wrapped his arms around his legs, hugging himself as he tried to stretch his cloak. A stiff breeze blew down from the mountains and across the hills. His back half was warm. The front half was freezing. The tree's long, willowy branches curled down and draped over his head, tickling his nose as he reached for the satchel.

  The youth struggled pulling the hefty, locked Tools of the Trade: The Artificer's Handbook from the satchel. The wet leather binding clung to the satchel and the book popped out like an old bolt freed from a rust-bound nut and landed in a nearby puddle. Devin retrieved the book and picked the lock with his pinkie nail. He kept the nail slightly elongated because sometimes a screwdriver wasn't handy. Devin smiled grimly as he propped the book on his lap and pinched the unlocked latch.

  The Black Guards should have taken the title of this book more literally, he chuckled. Nestled inside, strapped to the cover and resting in hollows cut from the massive table of contents and figures, lay the delicate metal implements of an artificer.

  Devin removed his iron peg and soaked his throbbing stump in the cool, relaxing puddle. He removed his ball peen hammer from Artificer's Handbook and began dulling the little spikes. The familiar metal pinging soothed his nerves more than the icy water.

  He examined the crude peg as and started adjusting the fitting screws with his nail. Well, it's a start towards a proper, articulated foot at least. Damn, I just lost a screw.

  As he squinted at the ground and felt around the grass in the twilight, Devin missed the Loud Guard and his igniter. The youth breathed into his hands to warm them. Forget the screw. I'd settle for a fire. Devin felt around the bottom of his pack. Jemmy couldn't have slipped matches or a torch or something in with those rations? He stood and knocked a rotten branch off the tree. Devin flaked the end of the branch with his thumb. This looks dry enough that I could use the leftover oil in the can to make my own torch.

  The ex artificer fished around the satch
el for his own igniter before remembering and the memory curled his fingers into a fist. That's right. An agent of the guild destroyed my flame-spouting machine after they threw me out. Then they must have stolen my blueprints of the igniter component, made more igniters, and then sold them to Black Guards while I spent my days languishing in a dank cell. Did some of them feel guilty? Is that why the bastards saved my life?

  Can't blame the guild for this, the artificer said. Magic got you into this mess.

  Yes, the mage said with a contented sigh. It was glorious. What's this? No puny, metal machines around to light that fire? Well, here are other ways, better ways. He rolled up his sleeves. Let's get crackling.

  I suppose it's time to give magic another try. Devin silenced the voices as he flinched away from another memory: the last time he had unleashed those dangerous powers.

  As the moonless night rose, Devin grew more and more frustrated. He pushed his little fears and agonies into his fingertips and was rewarded by a small, fluttering flame. Now I am my own torch. He knelt down and waved his glowing, flickering fingers over the ground. The grass turned to ashes beneath the flames. The youth sifted a pile of ashes through his hand and flexed his burning fingers. It was eerie. Both hands were wreathed with magic fire, but the searing heat in the one hand was from the ashes and they cooled quickly. The fingers of his empty hand still felt like icicles. He waved his hands, and the flames waved back, but he felt nothing. He jabbed his fingers against the steaming ground. Ow. I felt that. But these flames? Shouldn't it hurt?

  If the flames felt like anything, it was like the delicate sensation of water trickling down his arms and dripping through his fingertips. But this fluid pulse had no temperature, no substance. The watery flames were neither hot nor cool. By the eagle eyes of the five gods, there's my missing screw. Devin pumped his fists and waved his arms in the air. So what if I can't explain how it works? This is fantastic.