by Chris Fox
Tech Mage
Magitech Chronicles Book 1
Chris Fox
Chris Fox Writes LLC.
Copyright © 2017 Chris Fox
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1976382831
ISBN-13: 978-1976382833
For Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman.
You inspired so many of us.
Contents
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Prologue
1. Tech Demons
2. Used
3. Allies
4. Enlightenment
5. Betrayal
6. Ship
7. Voria
8. Worse
9. Complications
10. Told You So
11. Nebiat
12. Kez and Bord
13. Going Dark
14. Mark V
15. The Umbral Depths
16. Not My War
17. Side Quest
18. Drifter Rock
19. Beer
20. It Begins
21. The Krox
22. Job Half Done
23. Kheftut
24. A Plan
25. Kazon
26. Roll The Dice
27. Closing Fast
28. Surprise
29. Battered
30. Enforcers
31. Make Every Spell Count
32. Fodder
33. Three. Two. One
34. Breathe
35. Consequences
36. One More Condition
37. The Penalty is Death
38. A High Cost
39. Tell Me
40. Mark XI
41. Totally Not A Trap
42. Sacrifice
43. Payback
44. A Hunch
45. The Power Of Beer
46. Confrontation
47. Didn't I Mention That?
48. The Circle
49. Debriefing
50. Into The Mist
51. Olive Branch
52. Splash
53. Trust
54. Scout
55. Now
56. Creative Solutions
57. Fear
58. Running On Empty
59. Pretty Well Fooked
60. Not On My Watch
61. Finish The Spell
62. Flee
63. Marid
64. Answers
65. Consequences
Epilogue
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Prologue
Voria hopped from the ramp before the transport had completed its landing. She clung tightly to her jacket as the sudden wind buffeted her. Voria didn’t let it deter her, leaning into the gale as she crossed the landing pad. Like everything in the Tender’s palace, the landing pad was cut from shayawood, taken from the corpse of the goddess herself.
That wood shone in the sun, whorls of brown and red, drinking in the sunlight. Voria had never been this close to the palace, and had never seen so much shayawood. It had been designed to awe, and it succeeded.
The view only reinforced that awe. The palace floated in the sky over the world of Shaya and afforded a magnificent view of the goddess herself. Her body stabbed into the sky, the immense redwood branches scraping the upper atmosphere. A multitude of tiny starships flitted back and forth between them like flocks of tiny birds.
Were a single limb to break, it would doom the cities clustered at the base of the mighty tree. That was the dilemma of Shaya. The goddess’s lingering energies created a breathable atmosphere around her body, but if you left that radius the rest of the moon was barren and inhospitable. They needed her body to survive, but that body could also destroy them.
Voria wove a path through the wind, snaking her way to a pair of wide palace doors. They were flanked by a pair of war mages, each encased in golden Mark VIII spellarmor. They cradled menacing black spellrifles, the barrels lined with spell amplification sigils. Voria could make out nothing of their faces behind the mirrored faceplates.
To her surprise, both war mages snapped to attention when she approached.
“Major,” boomed a male voice from the mage on the right. “The Tender is expecting you. She’s made the…unusual request that you be allowed to carry your weapons, and that you not be searched.”
“What is it you think I’d be hiding, exactly? All I’m carrying is a spellpistol. If the Tender wants to wipe me from existence, no spell I’m going to cast will make any difference,” Voria countered. She waved at the doors. “Let’s get this over with. I have a war to fight, and I don’t have time for politics.”
The guards stepped aside, snapping back to attention. Voria eyed them suspiciously as she passed, trying to understand the reason for their respectful behavior. The Confederate Military was a joke to Shayan nobility. War mages did not salute officers, rank non-withstanding. Even her training as a true mage wouldn’t warrant that kind of respect.
She entered a spacious greeting room lined with hover-couches. A blue one floated in her direction, nudging her hip in invitation. Voria shoved it away, and continued toward the room’s only occupant. The Tender stood next to a golden railing, shayawood vines snaking around it. Shaya’s branches were visible behind her, though the woman herself commanded attention.
Her hair shone in the sun, capturing all the colors of autumn. Reds and yellows and golds all danced through her hair, changing as the light shifted. It poured down her back in a molten river, contrasting beautifully with the Tender’s golden ceremonial armor.
Voria had often been called pretty, but she knew she was a frumpy matron next to the Tender. Though, in Voria’s defense, she didn’t have the blood of a goddess to magically enhance her beauty.
“Welcome, daughter,” the Tender said, beaming a smile as she strode gracefully from the railing. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Just because you slept with my father doesn’t make you my mother,” Voria countered flatly. She schooled her features, attempting to hide the pleasure she took from needling this woman.
The Tender raised a delicate eyebrow, stopping a meter away. She frowned disapprovingly, and even that was done beautifully. “I meant figuratively, daughter.”
“Why did you call me here?” Voria demanded. She’d fluster this woman if it killed her.
“Because this, all of this, will be wiped away unless you prevent it.” The Tender stretched an arm to indicate Shaya and the cities below her. She smiled warmly, as if she’d just related a bit of political gossip. “Would you like some lifewine? Or an infused apple?”
The Tender crooked a finger, and a crystal ewer floated over to Voria. Golden liquid swirled within, and Voria could feel the power pulsing from it. It was, for her people at least, literal life. But drinking it would cause her eyes to glow, revealing her true nature for hours.
“No, thank you.” Voria stepped away from the ewer and frowned at the Tender. “Certainly your time must be valuable. You’ve dropped a melodramatic statement about Shaya being destroyed. Please tell me that’s just hyperbole.”
“I am being quite literal, I’m afraid. If you do not fulfill your role in the struggle against Krox, then all of this will be wiped away,” the Tender explained. She sighed…prettily. “Please, come with me.”
“Fine.” Voria crossed her arms, eyeing the Tender as the woman led her from the railing.
The chamber curved around the outside of the palace for nearly a hundred meters, finally ending at a pair of
tall double doors. Unlike most of the palace, these were not shayawood. They were covered in a multicolored mural depicting Shaya herself.
Voria leaned closer, realizing that the door was covered in thousands of tiny scales. Dragon scales, each of incalculable worth. They glowed with their own inner fire and their combined magic brought the mural to life. Branches swayed as an invisible wind rippled over the doors.
The Tender placed a palm on each door, then pushed gently inward. The doors opened of their own accord, sliding away to reveal a dark chamber. Voria followed the Tender inside and waited impatiently for her eyes to adjust.
The doors slammed shut behind them, and a bonfire sprang into existence near the center of the room. The flames were pure blue, edged in white. Their sudden light illuminated sigils emblazoned on the floor in a circle around the flame. A ritual circle, possibly the most powerful that Voria had ever witnessed.
“What am I seeing?” Voria asked, abandoning all attempts to fluster the Tender. She’d fought in the Confederate Marines for four decades, and had never seen magic on this scale before. The immensity of the power humbled her.
“This is the Mirror of Shaya. It is an eldimagus for finding and interpreting auguries. You are familiar with auguries?” the Tender asked, walking gracefully to stand just outside the magical circle. The flame brightened at her approach, like a pet preening for an owner.
“Conceptually. They’re visions of a possible future, dreamed by a dead god,” Voria ventured. Divination wasn’t one of her strong suits, though she was proficient enough with the basics.
“Some auguries are,” the Tender corrected gently. “Some were created by living gods, before the moment of their death. These auguries are of immense power, designed to shape the future for hundreds or even thousands of millennia. I’ve spent the last several years studying just such an augury.”
“And you feel that has something to do with me?” Voria raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll allow you to judge for yourself.” The Tender smiled mischievously, then turned to the ritual circle. She sketched the scarlet sigil for fire, and a pinkish one for dream.
The mirror flared and immense magical strength gathered within the light. It resolved into an image, so lifelike that Voria recoiled. A vast force hovered in the void, its body comprised of stars, its eyes supernovas. The creature was a living galaxy, a god that made every god or goddess Voria had encountered seem a tiny speck.
“What is that thing?” she whispered, unable to drag her gaze from the vision.
“That is Krox,” the Tender answered. She rested a hand on Voria’s arm, and warmth pulsed into her. It eased the fear the image had evoked, though not the horror that something so alien could exist. “The forces you fight, what you call ‘the Krox’, are his children. And they are united in a singular purpose, the resurrection of their dark father. This augury is a desperate cry from the past. It’s meant to give us the tools necessary to stop his return. If we fail in this, the cost is incalculable.”
Voria studied the flames, silently digesting what the Tender had just said. After several moments another image flickered into view. An enormous skull floated in orbit over a barren world. Long, dark horns spiraled from the temples, and purplish flames danced in the eye sockets and mouth.
“That’s the Skull of Xal,” Voria ventured, recognizing the Catalyst.
The face of a young man superimposed itself over the the flames, covering the image of the skull. The hard eyes and strong jaw made him look older than he probably was. He held a sword loosely in one hand and dark lightning crackled from his hand into the blade.
“What am I seeing?” Voria asked. She recognized the spell, basic void lightning. But she had no idea why she was seeing it.
“This man will be instrumental in helping you triumph in your impending struggle,” the Tender offered. The light of the flames reflected off her eyes as she studied the images still appearing. “He can be found at the Skull of Xal, along with something else vital to the coming battle.”
“You mentioned a coming battle twice. That makes me think you’ve got the wrong person.” Voria eyed the double doors, but didn’t attempt to leave. “The Wyrm Hunter is low on munitions. We’re down to a handful of tech mages, and no other true mage besides myself. We have no potions, and the Marines sent from Ternus have no battle experience. The worst part? We’re down to six support crew. Six people, to keep an entire battleship flying. Trust me. Whatever battle this augury thinks I’m a part of, it’s got the wrong person. Hunter should be in space dock, not leading a charge.”
“I understand your reluctance, but I assure you that you are the person this augury is meant for.” The Tender’s rebuke was gentle, but still a rebuke.
Voria licked her lips, forcing herself to be silent as she watched the augury. It now showed a familiar man, one of her tech mages. “That’s Specialist Bord.”
The Tender said nothing, watching intently as the images continued. The view zoomed out to show Bord’s surroundings. He stood next to a golden urn the size of a tank. The surface was covered in sigils, and a sickly grey glow came from the top.
“I do not know how, but this ‘Bord’ will be instrumental as well, in a different way. You will need both the men displayed in order to stop her,” the Tender’s voice whispered.
“Her?” Voria asked, blinking.
The augury shifted again. This time the flames showed a gargantuan dragon, floating in orbit over a blue-white world. Its leathery wings stretched out to either side and its head reared back. The dragon breathed a cone of white mist that billowed out around a Ternus space station.
“Nebiat,” Voria snarled. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the ancient dragon, a full Void Wyrm. The dark scales and spiked tail were unmistakable. She ground her teeth, acid rising in her stomach. She’d do anything to kill that Wyrm. Anything.
“I thought you’d recognize her. Whoever created this augury believes you are the one person strong enough to stop her.” The Tender stretched out a hand and rested it on Voria’s jacket. Pleasant warmth flowed into her. Voria wished she’d stop doing that. “I know that you lack the resources you need. But I also know that you are needed. If you will not do this, then the Krox will burn another world. You can stop that, Voria, though the personal cost will be high.”
“Isn’t it always?” Voria straightened her jacket, already turning to the door. “I’ll find a way to stop Nebiat, but that will be a whole lot easier with Inuran weaponry. They’re hunting for Kazon. If I can find him before anyone else, the Consortium will provide me with enough material to pursue your augury. Help me find him, and I’ll help you fulfill it.”
“I already have.” The Tender turned back to the flames as the augury began to repeat. “Study the augury carefully, Major. There are many layers to be delved, including Kazon’s whereabouts. Pursuing the augury will lead you to him.”
1
Tech Demons
Aran lurched awake as the transport entered free fall. Gravity pulled him upward, jerking him to the limits allowed by his restraints. The ship shook violently, the thin lights flickering for several moments before returning to a steady illumination.
“Wake up,” a female voice bellowed. The speaker moved to stand in front of Aran, and he realized groggily that he was surrounded by other men and women in restraints.
The chrome harnesses pinned their wrists between their legs, preventing them from standing or defending themselves. Glowing blue manacles attached his wrists to the harness, and he could feel their heat even through the armored gauntlets. He wore some sort of environmental armor, the metal scarred and pitted from long use.
“Good, the sleep spell is wearing off.” The speaker wore a suit of form-fitting body armor, much higher quality than Aran’s. Her helmet was tucked under one arm and the other hand wrested on a pistol belted at her side. A river of dark hair spilled down both shoulders. “You’re probably feeling some grogginess. That’s the after effects of the mind-wipe. Each of
you have been imprinted with a name. That will be the only thing you can remember. We’ve given it to you, because otherwise slaves tend to have psychotic breaks.”
Aran probed mentally, reaching for anything. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here, or what he’d had for breakfast. Or where he’d been born. There was a…haze over the part of his mind where those things should be. His name was, quite literally, the only thing he could remember.
A beefy man on Aran’s right struggled violently against his bonds. “Listen little girl, you’d better let me out of this chair, or I’ll fu—.”
The woman withdrew her pistol and aimed it at the beefy man. White sigils flared to life up and down the barrel, and dark energy built inside the weapon.
The weapon hummed, discharging a bolt of white-hot flame toward his chest. It cored him through the heart, filling the chamber with the scent of cooked meat. His body twitched once and then he died silently.
