Stand Your Ground Hero

by Paul Duffau

  “I asked,” said Harold, handing her a mug of sweetly pungent tea, “if you had any potions that you would like to try today?”

  Kenzie shook her head to clear it. “I don’t know much about potions.”

  Harold sighed. “My dear, you don’t know much about anything. That is why you are here. Now, potions, as I was explaining just a moment ago, apparently to myself, are a special variety of magic, and widely misunderstood. The majority of wizards slap together the ingredients with all the skill of a bad chef, wave their arms around a bit, and consider it a job well done if the concoction performs as intended.”

  As he warmed to the subject, Kenzie took a tentative sip of her tea, then a heartier one when the flavor of the leaves popped with hints of lemon and ginger, smoothed by the honey. The heat of the mug between her hands comforted her, bringing a distant recollection of hot chocolate with her father when a night turned stormy and scary.

  “Are you still training in martial arts?”

  Dang it. Caught drifting again. “Na-uh.”

  “Shame,” said the old wizard, “your concentration was better then. Go back.”

  Surprised, Kenzie gave Harold an apologetic smile. “Sorry . . . just a lot going on.”

  His hand described a graceful pattern in the air, a compulsion spell, except he put no magic into it. “Pay attention.”

  Kenzie nodded and stared into his eyes.

  “So, most potions are done quite badly. I used cooking as an example for a reason. A great chef can take an ordinary recipe with boring ingredients and turn it into a sumptuous meal that leaves us craving more. Potions are like that, too. It takes more than the right ingredients, all the eye of newt and hair of cat nonsense, to create a good potion. It takes Art to blend it into both a powerful form of magic and a palatable presentation, which is important. After all, forcing someone to drink a goblet of hoar-hair libations—” He broke off with the pinched expression of man sucking a sour candy. “How is your tea?”

  “It’s . . .” Kenzie stiffened before she got to the word “good.” A nasty suspicion blossomed inside her where the tea had warmed. “What did you put in it?”

  “Nothing other than what I put in mine,” said Harold, sipping as a demonstration. “This blend is a favorite, very relaxing. But, I can make three potions with this same tea, one special ingredient, a splash of magic,” he emphasized, ticking off the points on fingertips, “and no one can tell, not by taste nor appearance.”

  She let her gaze drift back to the ferns. Potions were for sneaky people. She reestablished eye contact. “So when do we use potions?”

  “Ah, a wise question. Most young wizards ask for a potion to secure a lover or wealth or to deform an enemy. Not directly, mind you, because they aren’t all that courageous, but that’s their meaning.” He peered at her. “You don’t like potions, do you?”

  She turned her head to the side, examining Harold’s face. The angry tightness of her skin gave away her answer, and it took effort to relax the facial muscles that had pulled her features into a contemptuous scowl. When she answered, her low voice blistered with intensity. “Potions are a part of magic, and I love magic, the way that the energy will dance and create, the oneness that builds between me and the whole earth sometimes. . . .”

  Harold wagged a finger, and Kenzie battled her features again, but shut up.

  “I did not ask you about magic, I asked of potions. They are very different. One is an elemental part of nature, the other a wizardly application of it. Lightning and the electric chair, as it were. Answer the question. Do you like potions?”

  Jaw clenched, Kenzie shook her head. “They’re for cowards.”

  “And cheaters,” agreed Harold.

  “Then why are you teaching me them?”

  “Because I was tasked with teaching you the defensive uses of magic. You cannot defend against something you know nothing about.”

  Blindingly obvious now, thought Kenzie. “So what do I need to know?”

  “For today, nothing else.” Harold beamed at her, the candlelight framing a glow about his mane of silver-gray hair. “Enjoy your tea.”

  They sat in a companionable silence. She knew enough of the old wizard to know that he was done teaching. Everyone considered Harold relatively harmless, a wizard of modest power. In the last year, Kenzie had begun to appreciate that Harold may have lacked power, but he was unmatched in his skill at the Art.

  “How did you learn so much about potions?” she asked.

  A smile crossed the wizard’s face and his eyes danced with lively amusement. “We were more foolish in those days and tried anything that the Incantaraus offered: decoctions, elixirs for strength, philters for . . . pleasure.”

  Kenzie tried to picture Harold being adventurous or foolish, but the notion wouldn’t stick. Playful, yes; foolish, no. “What if something went wrong?”

  Harold cast a nostalgic glance at her. “Oh, it did. We had more than a few bad trips, but the whole process of discovery, having the Incantaraus show us the secrets, that made it all worthwhile.”

  Solitary Harold, nearly a hermit, kept saying “we.”

  “Harold, how long have you lived here? In the Glade, I mean,” asked Kenzie.

  “Since the Splintering,” he said, referring to the cataclysmic rupture between the Families of magic, “before you were born.” The powerful sense of nostalgia begat an ineffable sadness. It was his turn to stare at the ferns.

  “Alone?”

  “It’s a pretty prison, is it not?”

  Confusion roiled Kenzie’s brain. “Prison?” she repeated numbly, looking around at the homey space.

  “Of my choosing,” said Harold. “It was this or banishment. I hadn’t the courage to leave.”

  “The Splintering?” whispered Kenzie. “You were a part?”

  “We all were. Every wizard had to choose a side, and many died for their stand.” He shook his head. “Too many, too many good wizards, too many who wouldn’t accept truth.”

  Kenzie summoned up her courage. “Will you tell me about it? No one else will, none of the old people, and none of the younger ones know anything.”

  Crinkles of amusement at the “old people” comment quickly flattened. “I will,” he said, “but not today.”

  Her jaw tightened. Blown off again.

  Harold’s eyes flickered at the reaction. He sighed.

  “I promise. This much I’ll tell now—it’s a story of love and villainy. A great wizard defended our Family and for his reward was banished. An even greater wizard, and the kindest, died for us all.”

  A tear fell down his cheek.

  “Green was her color, too.”

  Chapter 3

  Senses alert, Mitch wound his way through the darkness to the hole-in-the-wall shop with a crooked sign announcing the Museum of Magical Arts. He scanned the street from the doorway, ears pricked for the faintest hint of being followed, nose vainly trying to pick up a trace of the animal amidst the competing smells from the Arab kebab shop and the Indian eatery.

  The mongrel moved with impossible silence, but Mitch could feel the baleful eyes on his back. At infrequent intervals, maybe once a week, he would catch sight of it, a wolf-like creature that stood as tall as his chest, lanky. The way the glowing red orbs of the creature stared at him creeped him out. Why it stalked him, he didn’t know. And tonight, he had seen the spooky glare, the dagger-sized teeth, three times—a new record.

  Just my luck, he thought grimly. Bad luck he was used to, but supernatural beasts seemed to be a little over the top.

  He reached the wooden door with the dirty glass panes and twisted the knob. Soundlessly, the door swung open. Mitch breathed a sigh of relief when it snapped shut behind him. He patted a pocket to make sure he still had the “artifact.”

  Amber light from the sodium streetlamps filtered through the glass of the storefront. They lent enough illumination for him to weave his way past the oaken shelves and bins to the sturdy door at the rear of the
shop. He rapped three times before barging in.

  Mercury folded his book. “Hello, Mitch.” The gray-haired man bent forward and levered his body out of his deep leather armchair with a groan. He stood straight with his right hand pushing into the small of his back to relieve the kinks. “We need to find a better time for your training, boyo.” His shoulders popped as he rolled them.

  Mitch shrugged. “Who asked who for help?” He walked to the windows opposite the door, on the long side of the rectangular room, framed by floor-to-ceiling bookcases built from heavy oak. Mercury liked his dark and natural materials, Mitch had decided. Other elements of the room might change—hell, even the view out the window could change—but the bookcases and the chairs were immutable.

  The scene before him was moonlit, but not by any moon Mitch had seen before. Full and lustrous, it obscured half the stars in the sky. The landscape, bright as a storm-clouded afternoon, seemed like a scene out of an Irish folktale, minus the faerie rings and pixies. Broad-leafed trees towered to the stars with grassy glades twining around the groves. Instinctually, he patted his pocket, where he could feel the hard edges of the artifact through his jeans.

  “What is this place?” Mitch watched Mercury’s reflection, busy arranging a cup for tea. The figure bent and pulled a condensation-studded bottle of soda from under the cabinet. A pop and the clatter of the cap sounded large in the stillness of the room.

  “Just a memory,” replied Mercury, voice light. A burr of wistfulness underlay the words.

  Mitch turned. “Pretty. Why don’t you go back?”

  “Burned bridges.” Mercury crossed and handed the ice-cold drink to Mitch. “Never mind that now. Work to do.”

  “Yeah, about that.” Mitch’s gaze shifted down, then back to Mercury. “I’m getting a little frazzled trying to handle the gig at 3rdGen, training with Jackson, and this stuff.” Without thinking, he ran his middle finger along the white scar high on his forehead and yawned. “Not sleeping well, either, with the schematics piling up in my head. My brain isn’t shutting down, just page after page of wiring diagrams and linkages all night long. Except when Jackson has me checking particularly grisly crap. Some of that gives me nightmares, and the robots join in.” A head shake, eyes aimed down. “I’m frying.”

  Mercury tipped his head sideways a half inch. “You want to quit?”

  “Hell, no, I don’t want to quit.” He turned to find Mercury inspecting his face. “Not because of you. Someone needs to help Kenzie. This whole thing is a cluster. I feel like a redshirt on Star Trek. It would be a damn sight easier if you would tell me why I need to learn to spot wizards.” He signaled an air spell with his hand. “It’s not like I’ll ever use it. I’m not one of you,” he said, pacing away with a frown, “and I’m not sure I’d want to be. You all seem pretty screwed up.”

  Mercury gave him a grim smile. “We might be. As for why you should learn the casting movements, there are limitations to magic. Wizards can only invoke spells to that which they can see. The magic, or energy, however you want to think of it, travels in straight lines, just like light. If you can see it coming, you can figure out how not to be there when it arrives.”

  Mitch halted in his tracks, pivoted to face the wizard. “You can’t see the inside of a lock.”

  Puzzlement lit in Mercury’s eyes, the vibrant green going cloudy. “True.”

  A chill seized Mitch, galloped down his spine and back up, putting the small hairs at the nape of his neck upright. “That can’t be right,” he whispered. He walked away from Mercury, to the windows.

  When he and Hunter broke into the school and stole the makings of thermite, Hunter had “picked” the locks using magic. Mentally, Mitch drifted back two months, saw the sweat on Hunter’s face as he manipulated the tumblers while Mitch supplied steady pressure to turn the cylinder once the puzzle of the pins was solved.

  A stealthy movement under the shadow of the trees diverted his attention and for a moment he thought he saw red eyes. He blinked and peered more closely. Nada. He rubbed his face with a hand.

  “Let’s get started,” said Mercury.

  Mitch glanced over his shoulder. The wizard’s right hand was already in motion, inscribing a figure in the air. Mitch let out a deep breath. “Air spell. Anemosa. Useful for throwing things, up to and including people.”

  “Good. Now—”

  Mitch interrupted. “What’s the max output of a spell?”

  Mercury raised his eyebrows. “Who knows? The more powerful the wizard, the greater the effect. The touch can be as delicate as a baby’s breath, or, in my case, generate enough power to collapse a building. Now pay attention.”

  One by one, the man carved his magic signs into the air, while Mitch responded with the name of the spell, which type—air, water, fire, or earth—and the effect.

  “Pretty good. You need to work on getting faster on identification. Wizard battles are like any other in that the speed with which you react impacts the outcome. Too slow and you’re dead.” He nodded to reinforce the point. “Let’s try something a bit different.”

  Mercury began an unfamiliar motion. Halfway through, Mitch recognized the air spell, done in reverse.

  “Got it, but you never named it for me. Same spell backwards.” Mitch analyzed the possibilities. “Does it reverse the air flow or create a vacuum?”

  Mercury smiled. “Vacuum. Very disconcerting when you get hit with it.”

  Mitch rolled the idea around, trying to imagine the effect of a vacuum. “Hard vacuum, like space, or only like being at high altitude with low air pressure? And does it reduce the oxygen content of the air around the victim?”

  “It’s just like all the other spells in regards to power, and they’re not victims, they’re targets.”

  Privately, Mitch disagreed, figuring the difference was a matter of who was on the receiving end of the spell, but he kept his mouth glued shut about it. Still, curiosity goosed him. “We kept practicing recognition. What about knowing what the spell feels like? Can you hit me with that, I dunno, reverse Anemosa?”

  “The spell name is Kevos.” He gave consideration to Mitch’s suggestion and, with a wry smile, said, “Might as well. That’s how we learned. Go stand over there.” He pointed to an open space away from the sparse furnishings.

  Mitch did as directed.

  Mercury lifted his hand, and a knot of anticipation squeezed Mitch’s stomach. He watched the spell intently while gauging the effect. Mercury completed the spell, muttering, “Kevos.” His finger and thumb spread an inch apart.

  Mitch’s skin pulled away from his body in every direction, flesh following, as though attempting to fill a growing void. His eyeballs seemed to protrude from their sockets. He opened his mouth to speak and started to panic as the spell sucked the air from his lungs.

  “More?”

  Mitch, lacking the wind to speak, bobbed his head.

  Mercury widened the gap between his thumb and finger.

  Simultaneously, a blinding blue flash erupted and a sting like getting hit with a stun gun bit Mitch’s thigh. In front of him, a bolt hit Mercury in the chest, lifted him, and flung him across the room. The wizard crashed into the bookcases and crumpled slowly to the floor, eyes locked accusingly on Mitch’s.

  Chapter 4

  A blaze of electric emerald green lightning startled Kenzie awake and left an afterimage dancing on her retinas. She sat upright in her bed, the coverlet making a rustle as it fell away from her cotton nightie.

  What the heck?

  She blinked rapidly to dispel the effect and peered into the dark of her bedroom. The comfortably cool night air from the open window touched her skin, pleasingly scented of lilac. The blinking worked, and the aftereffects faded. She glanced around the room again—and stopped on her closet. She sucked in a stunned breath and goose bumps sprang forth. A residual glow outlined the door. Like in a bad Hollywood movie, a spray of scintillating green rays shone from around the door, triggering a dawning awareness in her
sleep-addled brain.

  The necklace.

  Secreted at the back of the closet, the necklace, a piece of jewelry delivered to her by a naiad in the Glade, had come back to life. Only once before had the thing reacted, and that had been to protect her from her rage, when she wanted to pull down the house around her. Somehow it had interceded and blocked her from her ability. She still didn’t know how it worked.

  With a sinking sensation, Kenzie shimmied from the bed and landed her feet on the floor. The thick pile of the carpet absorbed her footfalls as she padded to the door. As she came closer, the beams of light faded. As a precaution, Kenzie reached for energy to build some defensive spells, and found herself isolated.

  I ought to take the thing back to the Glade, she thought, then instinctively rejected the notion. Gingerly she laid fingers on the closet doorknob, half expecting it to shock her. Nothing, so she pulled, a creepy feeling crawling along the nape of her neck.

  At the back, low and to the right, the closet was lit with luminescence like liquid jade that retreated as Kenzie threw the door wide open. She dropped to her knees. Unstacking shoeboxes, most marked with athletic logos, she uncovered the velvety bag.

  Kenzie untied the string that cinched the pouch closed and poured the necklace out into her hand. The gemstone was warm in contrast to the cool air on her bare legs. Rosy pulses tracked the filigreed heart-shaped leaves. The emerald at the bottom of the choker retained a hint of the recent burst of power, a sparkling glitter at the center of the emerald.

  Why now, in the middle of the night?

  She unhooked the clasp. Hesitantly, she put it on. She closed her eyes and probed with magic to access the power of the gem. Unbidden, tears appeared at the corners of her eyes. The last time I wore this was with Mitch, she thought, and knew that solving the mysteries of the amulet was a convenient lie to tell herself. Rationally, she should have ditched it back at the Glade.