by Kel Kade
“Why would I tell you?” said Aaslo as he tried to remember the last symbol for the spell he was forming. He had no idea what it would do, but it was one ritual Magdelay had hesitated to teach Mathias in Aaslo’s presence. In an attempt to stall, Aaslo hollered, “Are your people descended of the original fifteen magi?”
“Of course,” said Verus as a red light began to surround him. “Did you think none of their descendants left to explore the world?”
Aaslo finally released his mysterious attack. A swarm of black vines rushed toward Verus. The enemy magus responded by flinging the red light toward the vines, forcing them to wrap around themselves and reverse course. Aaslo suddenly felt a burst of strength well up inside him from the other thing that squirmed to be released. The scales on his arm, neck, and torso rippled with excitement. His shadowy interloper was pleased to deliver such violence and desired to unleash more. Aaslo shoved the unbridled power at the tangle of vines, launching them back toward Verus. The giant ball struck the foreign magus’s shield, causing it to shatter and knocking Verus’s young companion off his feet.
Verus hunkered behind a rotting stump and a hastily erected shield, somehow unaffected by the blight. The younger man didn’t rise, and Aaslo wondered if he had been killed. Verus said, “You’re awfully powerful for a man who says he has no power.”
“Today’s sapling is tomorrow’s mother tree,” yelled Aaslo.
“What does that mean?” said Verus. “Your foreign phrase escapes me.”
“It escapes us all,” yelled Greylan as he jabbed his sword through the tangle of tree limbs to push back one of the grey monster people.
“It means things change,” said Aaslo as he tried to think of another spell. He couldn’t keep lobbing the same ones, considering none of them had succeeded in vanquishing his enemy. He had to stall. He called, “Where exactly is your home?”
Verus growled at him. “Let’s not pretend you’ll ever see it, Forester. You’re going to die here today.”
“I don’t plan on it,” said Aaslo. “Don’t you know of the prophecy? Don’t you know that your leader plans to destroy all life in this world? That includes you and your people, Verus.”
Verus said, “I know who the leader is, and I know what he intends. The Deliverer of Grace, His Mighty Light Pithor is blessed by the gods. For our devotion and service, he has promised us a grand luxury in the Realm of the Afterlife.”
“How can he promise such a thing?” said Aaslo.
The ground beneath Aaslo began to shake, and the horses squealed as they started to sink. Aaslo thrust his hands into the mud, sucking up the blight in the immediate area. He imagined all of the blight he had absorbed forming a sphere within his core. It built, in his mind, into a massive orb of darkness as large as a wagon. He raised his arms and executed the projectile spell he had used earlier. The massive sphere of blight struck the foreign magus’s shield, causing it to disintegrate, then collided with Verus.
The foreign magus was smashed into the ground, and the blight finally began to consume him. Aaslo, Teza, and Ijen ran from their cover toward the downed magus, while Greylan, Rostus, and Peck fended off the remaining grey men.
When Aaslo reached Verus’s side, the man was almost finished. Aaslo could see a bright, shining bluish thread linking the magus to Myropa, who lingered behind them. Verus met Aaslo’s gaze. His breath wheezing between his bloody teeth, Verus grumbled, “You think you have won, Forester? My death is insignificant. We do not serve a leader of men. We serve the gods, and it is their will that the world be cleansed. Axus, God of Death, is our patron. He and his brother, God of War, have blessed this cause. You cannot win. You never could.”
“Plant one seed at a time,” said Aaslo. “I’ve defeated you, and this blight will be cured.”
Verus’s pained laughter was disrupted by a wheezing gurgle. “You think I am responsible for the blight? Something much worse awaits you. It’s ironic, don’t you think? The filth of this plague will rid the world of the true taint.”
“What taint is that?” said Aaslo.
Verus grinned as his face turned black, and his lips and nose began to shrivel. “The corruption of life.” The man finally succumbed to the plague brought on by his own people and shriveled into a desiccated black corpse before sinking into the bog.
“There is something else?” said Teza. “Whatever is causing the blight has to be worse. He said so.”
“He’s the enemy,” said Aaslo. “He lies.”
“At least you have some sense,” said Greylan as he approached. Aaslo looked around to see that the grey creatures were all dead, and the three foreign magi had shared the same fate.
“We must get to the epicenter,” said Aaslo. “That’s where we’ll find whoever, or whatever, is spreading this plague.”
Teza’s gaze was far in the distance behind Aaslo. She said, “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I think it’s coming to us.”
Aaslo turned to see something on the horizon. It was a shiny black mass that looked a bit like a tree but with tentacles that slapped the ground and squirmed in the air as it moved. With it came a haunting wail, like the noise that death might make if it were a sound. “What is it?” said Aaslo, glancing at Myra.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen such a thing. But I need to tell you something. You’re not fighting human enemies, Aaslo. I mean, some of them are, but they’re just the foot soldiers. Verus wasn’t lying. This war really is being waged by the gods. Axus and Trostili want you to fail. I-I’m not really sure what Arayallen, Goddess of the Wilderness, wants. She seems to be helping you at the moment, but the gods are fickle.”
Aaslo couldn’t believe that the gods—actual gods—were involved. “Why are they doing this?” he said. “How can we convince them to stop?”
Myropa shook her head. “Axus gains power through death, and Trostili through war. That’s all it is. Axus decided to kill everything on Aldrea to gain more power. I don’t think you can change his mind.”
“How do we stop it?” said Aaslo.
“I don’t know. I don’t think you can,” said Myropa. “Even the gods’ hands are tied by the prophecy. The chosen one, the one Axus and his ilk call the Lightbane, is dead.” She nodded toward Ijen. “All of the prophets agree that all other lines lead to death. Axus will win, Aaslo. I’m sorry.”
Aaslo grabbed his hair, scratching his scalp with his scales and claws in the process. He said, “You’re a reaper. You take people’s souls. Can you bring him back? Can you bring Mathias back?”
“No, Aaslo. I would if I could, but he’s already been delivered to the Sea of Transcendence. I took him there myself. It’s impossible to retrieve a soul once it’s in the Sea.”
“It’s not so bad, brother. We’ll be together.”
A million thoughts surged through Aaslo’s mind as he watched the black creature draw closer. Finally, he said, “It doesn’t matter. Worrying over a future fire shouldn’t prevent us from tending trees now. They might burn, but they might not. Prophecy or not, gods or no gods, I will tend my forest.”
“You’re going back to Goldenwood?”
“My forest is Aldrea.”
“Are you done?” said Teza.
Aaslo turned to her. Her appearance was hostile, with her crossed arms and angry scowl. “Done what?” he said.
“Talking to phantoms,” she said. “I want to know how you already know how to cast spells. It takes years at the academy to learn such things.”
Aaslo glanced at Ijen, who looked at him curiously. “Magdelay taught Mathias. I was his study partner. We thought they were just weird poems and cultural traditions. I didn’t know what they would do.”
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “The high sorceress taught you master-level spells that you’ve been casting without even knowing what they’ll do?”
“Uh, yeah,” he said.
“You could have killed us all!”
“Since when do you care abou
t the rules?” snapped Aaslo.
“That’s not fair,” she shouted. “This is completely different. Our lives are on the line.”
“Our lives are on the line, regardless,” said Aaslo. “I told you to go to safety. I’ll take care of this.”
“Wouldn’t that be so convenient,” Teza said facetiously. “We fall back to safety while you go fight an impossible monster and get yourself killed so that we can die after you with no hope.”
Aaslo said, “If I do die, Teza, that doesn’t mean you have to stop fighting.”
Teza thrust her nose in his face. “Yes, it does, Aaslo. You’re the reason we’re fighting. You are our hope.” Her eyes welled with tears as she said, “If you die, I won’t have any left.”
Aaslo glanced at Peck and Mory, who looked at him sadly. Rostus nodded once, and Greylan scowled at him but didn’t disagree. He turned to Ijen, who simply pursed his lips and tapped his book. Then he looked at Myra. She held up a cluster of shining spheres hanging from tethers on her belt. She said, “I lost my hope a long time ago. I am only glad to know you now. That was something I thought to be impossible.”
Aaslo looked at the monster in the distance that was slowly flailing its way toward them. He looked back at Teza, who was still only inches from his face. “Okay,” he said. “What do you suggest?”
She stood back, seeming more relaxed. She said, “You need to figure out what your power is.”
“What do you mean? I’ve been casting spells,” he said.
Teza glanced toward the creature on the horizon, and Aaslo followed her gaze. It was still far but closing. She then looked to Ijen expectantly. The prophet sighed and said, “Fine, I will tell you something that might help, but for the record, I really wanted nothing to do with this line of the prophecy.
“A long time ago, there were others who made a deal with the fae. Sixteen people, in fact, asked the fae for power so that they could win a different war. The fae would not give it, but they offered to lend it for a price. Each person’s price was different, but they all received immense power. Those sixteen people became the first magi, the First Order. One died before he produced any offspring, so his power was never passed on. Most people forget about him. Two of the bloodlines were eventually killed off in the Power War that led to the formation of the council. One line ended a few decades ago from a failure to produce offspring. Only twelve were left—the twelve with which you are familiar. Your power will be as great as the first magi, greater than all of the present-day magi combined. You, Aaslo, are the seventeenth magus of the First Order—the seventeenth bloodline.”
“Me? I’m a magus?” said Aaslo.
“Technically, you are what we call an ancient magus,” said Ijen. “The term was coined for the first magi because, well, they were ancient. Even though you’re young, your power is quite possibly equivalent to theirs.”
“But, it’s just temporary, right?” said Aaslo. “The power was only lent to me.”
Ijen shook his head. “The fae are pseudo-immortal. They can be killed, in a way, but they otherwise live forever. They live for thousands, perhaps millions, of years. Their concept of time is different from ours. They don’t think like us or reproduce like us. They think our offspring, our bloodline, is an extension of each of us as an individual.”
“So, to them, I’m just a piece of my father?”
Ijen nodded. “Essentially. That is why the power is passed down the bloodline and why it gets watered down when we breed with seculars. It stays with us until our bloodline dies out. Then, presumably, the power returns to the original fae being. It’s no time at all to them. It’s just a loan.”
Aaslo spied the black monster that had already closed half the distance. He said, “Okay, what does this have to do with fighting this thing that’s coming toward us?”
Ijen said, “You can use the spells, although you probably don’t need to. It’s said the ancients could cast magic without spells. The spells were created to focus our power as each successive generation grew weaker. Anyway, even though you can cast other magic, your strongest magic would be the magic of the fae creature you encountered. Each of the fae creatures possesses a different power. So, what was the power of your benefactor?”
“I don’t know,” said Aaslo. “She didn’t say. She just told me that it’ll come to me.”
Ijen tapped his book. “Interesting. Perhaps she endowed you with some intrinsic knowledge of how to use it. To the fae, it may be instinctual, like breathing or seeking food or whatever they consume.”
“I’m pretty sure this one consumed meat. She seemed awfully eager to eat me,” said Aaslo. “Okay, how do I access this instinctual knowledge of my new power?”
“That, I cannot say,” said Ijen.
“Can’t or won’t?” replied Aaslo.
“Can’t,” said Ijen. “Believe it or not, I don’t have all the answers. I never saw your encounter with the fae creature. I only saw where it happened … and the aftermath.” The man’s face paled, and he shivered.
“But you know what the power is,” said Aaslo.
“Well, I know what’s in the story, but in real life, I haven’t discovered that yet. You will definitely be the first to figure that out.”
Aaslo felt a gust of hot, moist wind and turned to see that the monster was nearly upon them. He said, “But will I figure it out in time to defeat this thing?”
“In truth,” said Ijen, “I wish we had never taken this line of prophecy.”
The towering monolith of oily black tendrils had finally reached them. It was less than thirty yards away, and Aaslo had learned nothing useful about his power. “Myra!” he said, distracting her from whatever it was she was doing near one of the bodies. He really didn’t want to think about it. He started to call her again, then realized she was suddenly standing right in front of him. He said, “Can you tell me anything about this monstrosity or how to defeat it?”
Myra looked up at the beastly treelike mass of ick and scrunched her face in disgust. Its tendrils spewed a powdery blackness over the land. “I don’t know,” she said, “but it seems to be spreading this thing you call the blight.” She paused and then said, “Your friends will die the moment that black powder touches them.”
“That’s good enough for me,” said Mory. “Come on, Peck, let’s go.”
“What are you talking about?” said Peck as Aaslo turned toward them. “We’re going to help Aaslo.”
Aaslo said, “The reaper says you’ll all die if you stay. I think that, somehow, I am unaffected by the blight—”
“That’s not true,” said Ijen, for once speaking without being prompted. “It seems to be absorbing into you. That is not unaffected. That is infected. We have no idea what it will do to you.”
“Well, I’m not dying from it right now, so we’ll just have to worry about that later. In the meantime, you all need to move back.”
“I’m not leaving you,” said Teza.
Aaslo took her by the arms and met her concerned gaze. “I can’t figure out my powers and worry about you at the same time. Please, go back—for my sake.”
She set her jaw stubbornly, but he saw fear in her dark gaze. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m going to be right over there at the edge of the marshland. You’d best be careful. I’ll attach your head to that thing’s body if I must.”
Aaslo cringed at the thought, and Teza joined Peck and Mory on the walk to the edge of the marsh in the distance. Aaslo then turned to the marquess’s guards. Rostus looked anxiously toward Greylan, who just crossed his arms and made it clear he wouldn’t budge. As soon as he did so, silvery-blue ropes of light zipped from the guardsmen toward Myra’s center. She stared at them and then looked up at Aaslo apologetically.
“What are those?” he said.
She was surprised he’d seen them, since he hadn’t said anything about those from earlier. She wondered if he was beginning to connect with his power. She said, “I think you know.”
He started to
warn Greylan but didn’t have time. A massive ball of sooty blight collided with the muddy ground between them, casting debris and blight everywhere. Aaslo was showered with muck, and he could no longer see Greylan or Rostus. He picked himself up from the muddy pool and gazed up at the monstrosity before him. It looked like the largest tree he had ever seen except that it was dead and oozing with syrupy pestilence. Its dripping, rubbery branches and roots were the tendrils he had seen in the distance. As he gazed up at the bestial plant, it began to launch seed bombs into the surrounding mire. The giant balls, each larger than a horse, burst apart to sprout hundreds of blight-infested saplings. The saplings moved on tendril-like roots and also spewed black ash from their limbs.
The saplings from the bomb that struck nearest Aaslo surged toward him, lashing out with stinging limbs. Aaslo slashed at the limbs with his sword in one hand and hacked at their trunks with his axe held by his dragon hand. As soon as he felled one sapling, another would sprout from the next seed bomb. He knew there were thousands by that time, and he couldn’t possibly fight them all. The oozing mother tree groaned as if it were laughing at him. A decaying root flew at him from the side. Aaslo didn’t have time to move out of the way, nor did he have time to think of one of Magdelay’s mysterious spells. He didn’t have time to consider anything except that he was about to die.
Aaslo was slammed into the murky water. He felt like he was drowning once again, the same sensation he had had after his meeting with the fae creature that had blessed him with seemingly useless power. Unsure which way was up, he opened his eyes. Everywhere looked the same, a vague, ambient light casting shadows over murky rocks coated in slimy algae and moss. Branches clawed at him, and the massive tree root held him pinned to the thick mud of the bottom. He had managed to hold on to his sword and axe, so he hacked at the root with every last ounce of his breath.
When the last bubbles erupted from between his lips, he stopped. He glanced around and saw a shimmering light. It was a sinuous rope, and at the end of it was Myra, watching him sadly. The rope wasn’t attached to him, though. It was tied to Greylan, who floated with sightless eyes in the murky water. Rostus wasn’t far, and between and around them were others. Corpses, some well-preserved from the anoxic conditions of the bog and others turned to skeletons bearing only wisps of hair. He wondered if these were the wayward travelers or fallen battalions of whom Greylan had spoken.
