The Artifice Mage Saga Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  I'll show these imps a trick they'll never forget, Devin thought.

  Devin raised his fist, wincing. Where the youth once had to strain to pull his power up through the well, now his power gushed and spurted. Instead of dipping into that font of power, he had to cap it with his hands lest the rush of magic and pain overwhelm him and sweep him away.

  The youth strode into the middle of the street letting the black-clad people flow around him. He raised both his arms, envisioning a tornado a rubble. His fingers twitched as he remembered the curving pebble burying itself in Cornelius's wall.

  Curves. Always with the damn curves. Devin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Solve the problem like an artificer, not a mage. Think it through. In his mind, he superimposed a square within his circle of cobbles. Can't make a circle. He gestured between the four cardinal points. But I can move the rocks here to here to here to here. I can make a square. Four sides. Overlay a second square. Rotate ninety degrees. Eight sides. Make a cascading tower of interlocking squares. Sixteen . . . sixty-four. A vortex of polygons. A tornado of angles. I can reduce the magic to its base mathematical components. If magic rules truly mirror those of the natural world as Cornelius claims, I can use that. Apply my artificer training to enhance rather than hinder my magic.

  The ground erupted. Cobbles danced into the air. Mortar and pebbles rained from the sky. The flowing cobbles surrounded him with a hollow, spinning vortex of rubble. As the tornado grew, Devin could feel it straining and fighting him. More cobbles flew across town, converging over the youth in a large, loose spiral like grit suspended in shallow water slowly circling the drain. Devin stood in the center, soaking up the fear and the awe and the surprise. He clenched his fingers and blood dripped from his fist as the cobbles spun faster and control began slipping through his fingers.

  All that trouble making one rock spin around his head and now this. Devin smiled and looked at what he had created. It was so deceptively easy now with all this power flowing through his system.

  You may have created that monstrosity, the artificer sniffed, but don't deceive yourself.

  Imperials squawked and screamed and dove into the shops. Devin watched them flee through his screen of dust and rubble. His feet tingled as the ground vibrated under the weight of the pounding vortex. He walked slowly through town collecting cobbles. As the tornado of debris grew bigger and angrier, Devon's control grew weaker.

  “Please stop,” a woman screamed, crawling through the muck and clenching at Devin's trousers as the world spun around them. Her elaborate coiffed hair had fallen around her ears. Her black silk garments were stained. “Why are you doing this? What have I ever done to you?”

  “Wretched imp. You are getting everything you deserve.” But something about that scream, the haunted look in her eyes, and the black silk triggered a memory. This was the woman who Vice accosted in the bakery. Who he was accosting now. The power faltered as his gut clenched. He stepped back and the tornado stepped with him.

  A loose cobble swung low towards the woman's head and for a moment, Devin flicked the rock aside. No! She doesn't deserve death. Instead of moving one rock as he had intended, Devin's motion made the face of the tornado flicker.

  The woman watched as the undulating wall of rocks shuddered around her. She fell to the ground and wept.

  “This might be getting beyond my control,” Devin muttered, more to himself than to the woman.

  What do you mean, beyond? the artificer asked. It was never in your control. The real magic here is your illusion that you ever controlled this wicked, wild power. Cornelius was right to liken magic to a ferocious beast. The old man just takes his own allegory too literally.

  “Get inside,” Devin said, giving the woman a gentle push. “Better yet, run back to the Iron Empire. You don't belong here. None of you belong here.”

  The have as much right to be here as you do . . . the artificer sighed.

  But they have no magic. The sacred dragon power does not flow through their veins, the mage screeched as though this was the sole criterion of judging one worthy.

  Devin pondered his world turning upside down as the woman stared, her face blank. She gathered the tattered remains of her garments, but did not move a muscle as the rocks pulsed around her.

  The artificer gestured to the swirling maelstrom of chaos above Devin. Because most mages do awful things like this. The artificer shook his head, sounding like old Master Huron. Power is just a tool, the artificer said. What matters is how you use it.

  “This is a land of dragons and magic. You don't belong here.” Devin gestured to the swirling vortex over their heads as he widened the quiet center of the tornado to include his . . . ahem, guest. “You've been lulled by funny-shaped breads and glowing, toy swords. Those things are safe. They're fake. This is real magic. Can't you see the difference? Can't you sense the danger?” In his mind, he saw Vice treating the woman like a hat rack. What was meant to be a ringing condemnation of the people who embodied the place which mutilated and exiled him was starting to sounded petty and hollow.

  Real magic. Real magic, the mage exulted. Real magic is not controlled. Real magic is unleashed. You tore up the streets and made a tornado from the rubble. They would be blind and deaf not to acknowledge your awesome power. Let go! Let the magic run wild.

  You're no better than the Butcher, the artificer spat. I expected better of you, lad. Stop brutalizing that poor woman. Uncontrolled power is just chaos. Remember the consequences the first time you lost control?

  The youth stood transfixed as mental images of fire and screaming apprentices flashed through his head. Then the walls began to crumble.

  And the time after that? the artificer sighed.

  The sound of crumbling walls carried over from one vision to the next as a dark cloud of bricks descended over Devin's head. A pitiful, little arm reached out from the pile of bricks and the youth repressed the image. The memory was too raw. Devin screamed.

  You've already put a face to your alleged tormentors, the artificer said. Here lies the cream of the empire quivering before you in a ravaged, silk dress. Ask for her name.

  “You wanted to know why I'm doing this? Because you punished me. You attacked me,” he said. “The imperial you, not you the individual. I guess you're just my scapegoat for the whole damn country. Does the weight of the Iron Empire ruffle that pretty, silk dress? But I'm being rude.” Devin reached down and extended his arm. After a brief hesitation, the woman stood without taking his hand. “What is your name?”

  “Linda,” the woman murmured, “of House Felis. There wasn't supposed to be real magic here. It was just a fairytale kingdom. It wasn't supposed to be real.”

  Of course, the magic is real. The danger is real. But you know all about dangerous magic: you grew up in the empire. And you thought this magic fairytale kingdom was safe? All the wizards kindly old men? All the dragons cute, little lizards? Did Captain Vice shake your world, too? Did you think all Black Guards were thief catchers and protectors of the innocent? You are too naïve, as I once was, and now I've pulled you into a tornado.

  “I'm sorry if I hurt you,” Devin said, reaching towards the woman's bruised face. She flinched and pulled away and he dropped his hand. “I promise that I'm not the violent, psychotic mage with little horns and dragon scales from all the propaganda posters. I mean, I've never met another mage from the empire. Ha! I don't think they have horns. But I have met a psychotic who isn't a mage and who didn't have horns and I know I'm nothing like him. So I'm a powerful mage, but I'm the safe kind of powerful mage. I know we don't have the best reputation in the empire.”

  “No, you don't,” she whispered. Her eyes widened as Devin waved his arms and the tornado grew.

  “We're not all like that. Magic is accepted here. Mages are respected here. They have important roles in society. I once met a Corelian mage who dedicated his life growing crops for the poor and healing sick children.”

  The woman's face had a wary, c
arefully blank expression. It was the face of someone afraid to express any disagreement while trapped with a maniac.

  “And that sounds like just another fantasy to you, doesn't it?” Devin sighed. His shoulders slumped and the tornado started to ebb. I'm not the person she thinks I am. Every mage isn't a monster. We're not all monsters.

  The woman, Linda, bit her lip and nodded. Devin opened a breach in the stone vortex and gently pushed the her towards one of the adjacent buildings. “Go home. Run away from the fantasy. Go back to the Iron Empire and huddle in fear of the real mages until the Black Guards exterminate them all.”

  See? the mage whispered. You couldn't sway her. She will never believe you nor believe in you. She would report every last wizard in Corel to the Black Guards if she could. She's a spy for the enemy. Don't waste your pity on a spy.

  The woman sobbed and fled. Devin ran through the town, pushing the tornado blindly ahead of him. Buildings and fleeing people were replaced by grass and bushes and squeaking animals racing through the fields. One mouse, more curious, stupid, or lame than the others lingered behind. The rodent perched on its furry hind legs and wriggled its nose at the vortex and the curious human running behind it.

  Nobody else approached him and soon Devin reached the edge of the forest outside town. The youth strained to bring the tornado to heel, but the storm exploded and heaved from his grasp, expanding and growing wilder.

  This needs to end, Devin thought, grappling with the elemental force he had unleashed, but the storm refused to be tamed. It felt like trying to tighten the world's largest screw from inside the hole. Devin had envisioned slicing a tight, narrow trail through the forest. What he got was a scything, horizontal rain of spiraling stones pummeling through the trees.

  The storm chewed through the forest in a ravenous blizzard of destruction as Devin stood horrified in its wake, coating him with a flurry of charred dust and twigs. The air smelled of toasted oak shavings. It made the youth think of Magnus's ale barrels until he smelled the blood and intestines coating the wood dust. A hail of dead animal pieces dropped from the trees and splattered.

  Devin stared into the forest. The storm had created a tangled maze of uprooted trees, splintered trunks, shredded animal carcasses, and scattered cobbles winding up the mountain. The youth checked the storm's wandering path by watching the cloud of debris and shrieking birds rising above the trees. He kept watching for the glint of golden leather wings among the birds. After all his searching, not a single dragon.

  Were there no baby Golden Dragons in these woods after all? Was Cornelius wrong again? Devin thought, raising his arms as he felt the storm weaken. Halfway up the mountain, the tornado had spent much of its mass and fury and the youth wrestled and nudged the remaining debris towards Cornelius's forest bald spot with his last drop of magic. He relaxed his arms. A distant rumble sounded as the rocks descended and settled on the ground.

  Devin brushed some of the red-tinged sawdust off his shoulder. What just happened? The youth asked himself.

  Glorious vengeance, the mage gloated. Respect is yours.

  Wanton destruction, the artificer said. They will merely fear you, not respect you, and then what have you gained? Fear is common. Respect is a different animal and rare . . . as a dragon.

  A piteous cry came from the edge of the woods. Devin hefted the cobble, but dropped it when he saw a small, golden shape crawl from the forest into the light. At last, a baby dragon. A tear formed even as he made plans to hide the baby from Cornelius and old man's tea fetish. The perfect, tiny scales shimmered like a living rainbow as the delicate skin over its shoulders rippled and its long neck strained, front claws pulling the creature forward.

  Devin made a blind grab for the stone even has he reached for the baby with his magic, eyes never leaving his precious, little dragon. He could sense his powers recharging, feel the well slowly filling, but he was drained and could only watch. The dragon's magnificent, translucent wings fluttered in the wind like crumpled papers. The tear traced along Devin's cheeks. The baby dragged its body through the mud, one halting moment at a time, hind legs crushed and useless. Its tail twitched.

  Devin swore to never let Dragon Blend touch his lips again, swore to never touch magic again as the creature squinted in the sunlight, raised its tiny, golden head, and cried to the heavens. A circling hawk answered the prayer, the bird's screeching shadow passing overhead. The tear fell. The raptor dove. All that remained of the delicate, baby dragon was a red smear and a wingtip.

  The stone landed on Devin's toes.

  16. STYX, YEAR 495

  Years and wisdom healed me, like a tree trunk scarring after a limb has fallen dead on the ground, smoothing my rough perception that I played any role in the estrangement between my father and my grandfather. Back when the wound was fresh and ragged, I blamed myself for the break between my young sapling father (who was in truth more of a sap) and my ancient oaken grandfather (whose majestic stature concealed a fragile, hollow core). I was such a foolish, callow youth. Every attack and doubt would penetrate my bark and pierce me to the pith. My bark is thicker and rougher now and my scar tissue has its own scar tissue: another legacy of age.

  The Day the Trees Died, which my sour, solemn father remembers as The Day I Killed the Baby Dragons, when he pains himself to recall the events of that day at all, I should say I awoke to the sounds of screaming and chaos, but I do not sleep and was checking the morning breads in the baker's ovens, say my eardrums were destroyed, but I have none, and say the glass windows in the bakery shattered. They did. When father destroyed the roads and tunneled through the trees and blanketed the land with such thick magic that he must have smothered and choked what baby dragons he did not crush, the evil brass watch launched off the wall like a frog and trilled as though the world would end. The noise made every customer bleed from their ears and fall down.

  If these poor people collapsed, what happened to Grandfather? I thought. After checking that everyone was still breathing, I made my excuses to Abby's prostrate form and ran home. Nobody was outside. All the windows were gone. All the cobbles were gone. I walked through the mud and opened the door to our house. There he was, motionless on the ground. Why wasn't I here to help? The memory of the leaping watch came to mind as I dabbed the blood from his ears. I cradled Grandfather's head in my lap, stroking his hair and reminiscing about the little pond behind my copse of trees.

  Every spring, the rain would fill the little pond and all the frogs would gather and sing every night. The boy frogs would gather in groups and serenade the girl frogs. The male groups who sung the sweetest, or the most complex, or maybe just the loudest, according to the lady's tastes won first mating rites and thus new baby frogs were born. Those warm nights were filled with a cacophony of frogs. The trilling of the watch was much louder. If only the watch were a frog, he would have his pick of the lady watches and thus new baby watches would be born.

  Sometime later, Grandfather awoke and grabbed my hand. “What do you think you're doing?” he asked, shaking his head with a puzzled frown and repeating the words, mouthing them slowly. My grandfather began touching his ears and uttering a soft incantation under his breath. Then the yelling began.

  “Contemplating the nature of baby watches,” I replied. “I wonder how old they get before they start tocking?”

  Had I known the import of such loud phrases as, “I'm going to kill that boy,” and “what has the fool done now,” I would have sat on my grandfather and regaled him with tales of happy, fornicating frogs until he calmed himself rather than helping the old man to his feet and venturing into the chaos outside.

  People trundled through filth like mud bugs, their ragged clothing flapping, their faces dabbed with blood and dirt. Grandfather followed the path of destruction, and I followed him, until we met Father kneeling at the edge of the woods beside a tiny pile of rocks and cobbles. This would not be the last time my father left a cairn behind him, though this first one was the smallest.

&nbs
p; “What did you do, Devin? Abigail's damn watch shattered all the window panes. Not to mention my ears. Thank the tiger for quick healing spells. What happened to these people? To the street? To the deep forest?”

  “I protected the town.”

  “This town can't survive your protection.”

  My father is the gallant defender of Ingeld. I pulled water up through my toes to swell my chest with pride. Why is Grandfather not cheering? Where are the jubilant townspeople? Where are my father's accolades?

  “I thought you would be grateful.” Father set his jaw. “The imperial swine were plotting to attack a local youth, Cornelius. Now they're floundering in the mud where they belong. Just look at all their torn, splattered finery. They're dirty inside and out. Nothing but spies for the empire. Spies for the Black Guards. Let's see the rest of the guards march through town without any roads. Ha! I even dropped the cobbles at your cottage site and blasted a path through the forest for you.” He patted the pile of rocks. “But my triumph came at a terrible cost. I killed a baby dragon.”

  “You killed several brace of baby dragons,” I said, champion of my father's accomplishments. “I can see their golden, fleshy chunks dangling like squashed fruit smeared up the mountain side. The trees are jammed with them.”

  My father gazed at the mountain with wide, sparkling eyes. Then he turned his head and puked.

  Grandfather just gaped. He reached out absently to steady himself as he swayed and I rushed to his side to offer my support. “What spies, you ass? They're tourists in a tourist town. You just nailed the entire economy of Ingeld to the wall to satisfy your ego.”

  “They were spies for the enemy, Cornelius, and we welcomed them into our town. How else did Vice find me so quickly? They were spies.” Father swiped away the mayhem surrounding us. “Forget the spies. Now you can build that peaceful retreat you've always wanted. While you were idle, I took action.”