The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  The youth set his tools on the workbench. “You never did tell me what happened between you and Cornelius when you built Styx.”

  “Back to work,” the blacksmith sighed, finishing the ale with a single gulp. “Go play with your new ankle designs with Styx. Don't worry about what Cornelius thinks, lad.”

  “We could use your help, Magnus,” Devin said, gesturing to the pile of sorted metal bits on the workbench.

  The man shook his head and wiped his beard with a blackened, rolled up shirt sleeve. “Got to get back to the forge. Besides, you don't need some bumbling smith looking over your shoulder.”

  Devin rolled up his own shirt sleeves and got to work. He spent many pleasant hours arranging metal pieces, testing different configurations, and examining Styx's own joints for inspiration. Magnus chimed in with a suggestion of his own from time to time, but largely left them to their own devices. When Devin waved goodbye to Magnus as Styx still huddled over their working prototype, the youth felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. When he merged back into the throng of tourists and townspeople, a different weight settled into its place.

  Magnus is right, the youth thought. I need to choose a side. Why should the imps deserve any loyalty from me just because I grew up in the empire? Devin nodded to a few familiar faces among the townspeople as he elbowed the tourists aside. Devin trudged towards the bakery, squirming his way inside through the packed mass of imps.

  “Hail, Abby.” Devin waved across the crowd of tourists.

  Abby nodded and waved back. Then she turned back to filling orders for her customers. Devin made himself comfortable at the far end of the counter and made a game of espying the most ridiculous imperial regalia until all the customers had left.

  “Devin, what brings you out into the throng?” Abigail laughed. “You hate the tourist season.”

  “I hate being caged with old Cornelius more,” Devin said. “He's obsessed with studying things. He wants to study the watch. He wants more time to study me. No action, just endless rounds of experiments and trials. I'm not learning anything and what knowledge he acquires, he either keeps to himself or feeds me the wyvern's morsel. I'm sick of it, Abby.”

  “That should be 'fed me the wyrm's morsel,' Devin. As in a tidbit of a tidbit. If he gave you a wyvern-sized meal, well,” she shrugged, “I doubt you'd be ranting about it. The Professor knows what he's doing. He's the magic expert, after all. He's the expert in a lot of things. You should trust him.”

  “Does he? Is he?” Devin asked. “He's given me scant reason to trust him, Abby. I think Cornelius pretends to know more than he really does. I should be the one teaching him.”

  “You're still as humble as the day I met you, Devin.” Abigail sighed and wiped the counter with a rag.

  “Forget that old wizard. I'm supposed to be unwinding. Why don't we teach these imps a lesson? Sanctimonious bastards. Coming into our town like foreign lords with their gold and their frippery.”

  “Yes, our town.” She rolled her eyes. “The bastards, indeed. How dare they come here and spend money and keep our economy afloat. The nerve of those people. Weren't you on the opposite end of this conversation once?”

  “Was I really so conceited?” Devin asked, looking at the floor to hide a smile.

  “You're not bad, for an ex-imp.” Abigail flipped the rag over her shoulder.

  “Ex-imp? Bite your tongue.” Devin scowled for a moment and then laughed. She's got a valid point.

  “Got a day old, burnt star loaf for you if you want it. When you scrape away the black bits, it's not so bad.”

  “A true scholar never turns down free food,” Devin said, reaching for the loaf. “Thank you, Abby.”

  A group of young imperials lounged outside the bakery. The sun was setting and their eyes seemed to glow in the rosy light. They had ripped a star loaf five ways and chewed the pieces.

  They chew so quickly, mechanically. They're grinding the bread between their teeth like rotating shredder hammers chewing scrap metal.

  No more metal metaphors. You're a local, now, the mage whispered inside his head, sounding oddly like Cornelius. A wizard. Magic holds the key to our survival, not machinery. Once you finish improving that silly, metal foot, the days of machines will be behind us forever. And really, isn't the current foot good enough? Why keep tinkering?

  You don't really believe that? You won't really settle for anything less than your best work? The artificer groused in Mangus's rumbling baritone. You've got metal in your blood. You'll always have metal in your blood and you'll never be happy without the feeling of grease on your fingertips.

  One of the imps growled. Devin's mind refocused.

  Wolves. They look like wolves gulping down a meal. Like a pack dividing the hunt. They're running in packs, now.

  “Look at the yokel with his stupid, yellow hair, Fergus. Clutching his crust.” The tallest imperial ran a hand through his thick, dark curls and sneered. He rotated the rings on his fingers, formed a bristling fist of gold and silver, and smacked his palm.

  One of the youth's hefted a cudgel. “Forget the townee. We're here for the baker's daughter, remember?”

  “By the five gods,” another imp said. “We'll teach that bitch to respect the empire.”

  Now is not the time for heroics, the artificer said, but Abby may actually need help. Fetch the smith. Rally his apprentices. Plan a strategy, don't just rush into a fight.

  No, the mage whispered. Fight them alone. Use this situation to your advantage. If you win, you are Abby's hero and her mother's watch is yours. If you lose, you will show Cornelius the folly of diminishing your powers. Engage them. Taunt them. Unleash your magic and give them everything they deserve.

  “Are you talking to me?” Devin sneered, brushing a speck of dirt off his yellow shirt. “I am but a local Ingeld lad walking home for the evening. Be about your business, imps.”

  Devin glanced to the left. His eyes edged to the right. The crowds had vanished. The streets were empty and the shops shuttered. Nothing but five sharp dressed wolves disturbed from their meal, licking the bones of the last prey and hungry for more. Nobody to disturb their fight.

  The imperial with hairy knuckles pushed Devin's chest. “That barb hair matches his stupid, yellow shirt, doesn't it? You going to fight us, townie?”

  “What did that townie just call us?” One of the imps swirled his black cloak as he turned to face Devin.

  “You don't belong here,” Devin shouted, waving his bread. The pack has caught a baby dragon. They're circling the wyrm, probing, going for the kill.

  Another imperial advanced from behind and kicked Devin's knees. The youth buckled to the ground, still clutching the bread.

  But dragons are magic creatures. Devin focused on the pebble in his pocket. Shielding his face with his hands as they struck, the youth levitated the pebble and hurled it. One of the wolves yipped. Cornelius was right. His aim was improving.

  “Just drop the bread, townie. You can go eat rocks, instead.”

  Devin curled around the star loaf and kept his face covered. The cobbles felt cold and the mud soaked his bones. Someone stomped on his leg. A fist grazed his lips. The dust choked his throat. Abby gave him that bread. A boot kicked his ribs.

  “You can't treat me like this,” Devin screamed with bloody lips. “I'm a local. I'm a scholar.”

  The beating stopped. Devin peeked through his fingers. The imperial with the brown boots waved his fellows away. “Let him up. A townie scholar. Like educated swine. Move along, townie.”

  Devin staggered to his feet. His left arm burned and dangled limp at his side. The youth ran, his aching legs protesting, arm flopping, and glanced over his shoulder.

  The shortest imperial waved his arms. “Your stupid tourist town would be nothing without us. Wow, look at him scamper. It's like chasing geese. Let's get him.”

  Two imperials ran after Devin. They tackled him to the ground. His left arm hit cobblestones and Devin scre
amed.

  Abigail emerged from the bakery swinging a large bread paddle. “What do you hooligans think you're doing?” She didn't wait for an answer and charged, apron strings and ponytail flying.

  Devin relished the sounds of strangled curses, shattered noses, and bruised pride even as he cringed. I'm supposed to be the mighty dragon. I'm supposed to be rescuing her and instead, she is saving me. Abigail devoted special attention to the two youths holding Devin against the ground. The youth could sense the blows shudder through their bodies as the imps laid over top of him. Devin felt the paddle connect with shins, skulls, arms, legs, bust faces, and break fingers. Their screams were so shrill Devin closed his eyes and covered his ears until the weight lifted. The screams died, replaced by soothing insect chatter. Someone squeezed his shoulder.

  “You can look now, hero,” Abigail said.

  The ragged imps had ripped their fine shirts into bandages. The broken gang gathered up their fallen comrades as best they could and dragged the loud, moaning duo backwards down the street. The moaning was the only urban sound to disturb the trilling insects in the fields. Nobody emerged from their houses or unlocked their doors to help citizens of kingdom or empire.

  “Why didn't you wait for me?” Abigail cradled Devin's head in her lap and stroked his brow. She used the corner of her apron to wipe his face. “You've been here long enough to know that imp gangs roam the streets at night.”

  They were waiting to ambush you, he thought, and who would have dared punish a group of imp nobles? “I don't need help.” Devin tried to wave off her assistance.

  She smacked his hand. “Apparently, you do.”

  Devin propped himself up, resting his elbows on Abigail's thighs. “You shouldn't have done that, Abby. Each of those fellows has powerful parents. Maybe even government officials. What if they come looking for you tomorrow?”

  “So what if they do? The flaming truth is those dragon butts need my goodwill more than I need theirs. Their parents may not use barter, but they understand it.”

  Devin blinked as she pushed him back down into her lap. “What do you mean, Abby?”

  “I'd like to see them get back to their precious empire without provisions. My father always says, 'Come what may, Abby, any society is one loaf away from anarchy.' Daddy's right.” She crossed her arms and huffed. “Their parents won't dare threaten a member of the Baker's Guild. The promise of bread is power.”

  They will do more than threaten if imp parents are as dumb as their children. They must be stopped. “I will threaten them for you, Abby, I promise,” Devin said, panting and clutching his ribs. It hurt to breathe. “I will overpower them and throw them into anarchy.”

  Abigail closed her hand around his fist and lowered it. “I'm not worried, Devin. You should go back to the professor. Let me check with my father and then I'll help you walk home.”

  “I will give them something to worry about. I will send them running home to the fatherland.”

  “You're scrambled.” Abigail shook her head. She placed him gently on the cobblestones. She stood and brushed off her apron. Then she reached down and smacked Devin's head. The ranting paused. “And I think your arm is broken. You're not even listening to me, are you?”

  “Nope.” Devin smiled, reaching out his arm and opening his fingers. “But my head feels so much clearer. Help me up, Abby?”

  The pair hobbled their way to Cornelius's house. Devin hugged Abigail and opened the door with renewed purpose. He patted the tiny rose plants. He winced as his arm protested.

  “Thank you, Abby. Don't worry about me. Go get some sleep. I'll explain the situation to the Professor.” Devin banged on the door as Abigail hugged him and left. “Cornelius, no more stalling. You need to open my spigot or uncap the well and release my magic. The imperial invasion has already begun while you ran tests and pored over your books. I can't drive them away by tossing pebbles at them.”

  Cornelius opened the door. “Devin, what happened to your face? And your arm? Who attacked you, lad?”

  “Spies from the empire. The vanguard is here, Cornelius. I must defend the town.”

  “How could they have slipped past my network of wizards?”

  “They're in disguise. They infiltrated the village. They're everywhere.”

  “I'll renew the wards around the house.” The wizard peered into the shadows. “Come inside, quickly. You need healing.”

  Wards? Healing? Two more magic tricks he's never taught me. “Wait.” Devin held up his hand as he searched the ground for another pebble. He needed to practice for tomorrow.

  At last, the mage whispered deep inside his mind. Freedom.

  15. DEVIN, YEAR 495

  Devin rose with the sun the next morning, stretching to test his freedom of movement. He grunted with satisfaction. The muscles were sore, but healed. It had been a long, torturous night as Cornelius worked to patch the youth's skin, knit all the broken bones, and set the ribs. Finally the old wizard reversed the spell dampening the youth's magic and his power once more flowed like a geyser building just beneath the surface. Devin could hardly contain himself. The old wizard was still sleeping after the strain, but the old man did good work when he had a mind.

  Cornelius had kept apologizing as he healed each of Devin's injuries. He ran a finger along the youth's skin, closing the wounds. The scars were rough and fibrous. “This is easier with trees,” the old wizard had sighed. “I am so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't think the empire would attack so soon.”

  Devin sat on the stoop between the rose seedlings, tracing a finger along the scar on his arm and watching people walk down the street. He waited until all the colorful townsfolk had opened their shops. Only dark, somber imps roamed the streets. He crooked his finger. One of the cobblestones wobbled.

  My magic is everything or nothing, eh? Time to show them everything. Where was that bald patch in the trees Cornelius mentioned? Devin scanned the mountain. And how did that confounded wizard dissolve the mortar when he was showing off with the cobblestones? He could lift three or four. Devin clenched his gut. How many can I lift?

  You can do anything. You could make the mountains dance and you're counting rocks? the mage whispered in his head as the artificer gibbered. The power is yours to command and you have an obligation to use it.

  Responsibly, the artificer mumbled. Use it responsibly, lest the power command you. This power uses and discards you. It is reckless to ignore that.

  And who is responsible for your grief? Who has used and discarded you? Who is to blame for your lost life, cut off and discarded . . . like a foot? Why blame yourself when they are here, happy and free, flinging their wealth and their status in your face: those feckless citizens of the empire. Oh wait, you lost that, too.

  Because he used his magic, the artificer growled. Lashed out with his magic and now he's repeating the same mistake. . .

  Devin reached forth his hand and his wobbling stone teetered into the air. He held his breath as four more cobbles thrust weakly to join the first and then exhaled in a violent gush of air as all the stones dropped to the ground. He glanced at the silk and satin swathed pedestrians, but nobody paid any attention to a young man tossing rocks.

  They're all looking down their noses at you, the mage said. Spying on you. How do you think the Butcher found you so quickly? Rich, noble snobs. They are all the emperor's spies. Give them a reason to respect you.

  Respect is earned through worthwhile labors, not trickery, the artificer argued. Magic only instills fear.

  You talk of fear, the mage scoffed. Haven't we been hiding in this backwater long enough, waiting for the sword to fall?

  We were supposed to be learning magic. How to be a proper mage? the artificer prompted. Finding some balance in a torn life?

  This partnership with Cornelius is a joke. We are naught but his experimental plaything. And what have we learned in exchange? the mage sneered. How to play with rocks? That mages on the eastern or western sides of the mou
ntains can live in poverty or live in fear, respectively. Is this all it means to be a mage? Hiding until the Black Guards come for you? Getting lashed every day by the thought of Captain Vice appearing over the horizon to finish what he started and butcher us properly? Cornelius will never give up his secrets. He will never teach you anything worth knowing.

  These are ordinary imperial citizens, the artificer said. Hardly Black Guards. Are we to cast all imps in the same mold as guards in disguise like they cast all mages as violent dragon spawn?

  Bah! Spies never look dangerous on the outside, the mage said. Besides, don't these snobbish imps deserve a taste of that mental lash? Did they not send their sons and nephews to attack a helpless, young mage?

  I fail to see the logic in harming innocent imperials to defend against bullies. How will turning him into a bully himself solve anything . . .

  When has your logic brought anything but misery? the mage scoffed. He must strike with his heart. Why defend when we can attack. They only thought they feared mages before. Let's give them a reason to fear us. Cleanse the imperial scum from this town.

  Devin flexed his fingers, but the magic taunted him, lingering just beyond his grasp. He still couldn't reach his powers frothing at the bottom of the well. Something was missing and the youth had a good idea what. Devin pressed his trigger finger to the cold cobbles, took one of the loose stones, raised it over his head, and smashed the finger. He curled his hand into a fist, feeling the pain pulse against his flesh as the wounded finger throbbed in protest. He glared at the pedestrians. Blood trickled through his fingers and splattered onto the cobblestones. Agony and anger siphoned the water up the well.

  Ignore me, will they? How long can they ignore the dragon in their midst? They need something impressive. Something to remind them of their true place. They look too clean, too wholesome. Those imps need to look as dirty on the outside as they are vile on the inside.

  A few people on the street turned to stare, but as one stares at a street performer. There wasn't enough fear and hardly any awe. This was a magic town. They expected to see tricks.