The spell was finished, and Isidor released his connection to the source. Running to the front of the wagon, he found Tartum still weeping. His sobs weren’t as strong now, and he seemed to be passing out again. That was fine. He had done enough for tonight, and in his current condition, it was best if he just slept this nightmare away.
Whipping the horses into a gallop, Isidor guided them towards the road. The horses were strong and used to moving heavy burdens like the wagon. It seemed to Isidor, that the animals were thrilled at the new challenge the wagon provided and threw themselves into the effort. The wagon was enchanted to give a smooth ride and make it as little of a burden as possible to whatever beast was towing it. It still had alot of mass, however, and so the going wasn’t as fast as Isidor would have liked.
They made their way down the unlit streets, trying to get to the northwestern road. Isidor’s plan was to get to Saroth, the main city on this contenent. It had been his original destination, years ago when he first stopped at this town, to ply his trade and earn some coins. Before he had begun his third, and supposedly last, show for this flea-bitten town. Before he had met the young boy that reminded him so much of his own son. The son that he had loved more than anything. The son that he had buried only months before his arrival here. Tartum was Isidor’s second chance, his new lease on fatherhood and responsibility. Tartum had been his reason for not taking his own life when the grief of his past was too much. And now, Tartum was as he was, broken, grieving, and miserable. Isidor would make things right for him again. He would not fail him again, he would not bury this one. Not his second son.
Isidor found the road he was looking for, just as the mob found them. They blocked the path for their escape with their mass. Isidor didn’t have any spell components, didn’t have any scrolls, didn’t even have his staff to fight his way through this mass of at least thirty people. He thought about charging through them, but already the horses were slowing down. These beasts weren’t bred for combat, and the scent of the mob’s anger and the fire from their torches was enough to slow them down. Whip and scream as he might, Isidor could not get the horses to speed back up.
Tartum had stopped crying and was numb to the world. He saw Isidor kill the man that was about to snuff out his life. He had seen the wonderful magic he had used to mend the wagon. He saw the fear in his friend’s eyes and the intensity of it all eased his self pity. Tartum needed to find something to fill the void in his heart that the death of Hilary had left. It was an accident, he was trying to help her and instead, he killed her. Her and many others. He hadn’t meant to do it. He was just trying to help, just trying to be useful, isn’t that why he had dedicated his whole life to the study of magic? To be useful? To be powerful? To be there when needed? He had failed, he was so sorry he had failed, but he couldn’t turn back time and change that. Now the towsfolk were blocking their route and calling for his blood. It was just a mistake! Why couldn’t these people understand that? Why did they think that hurting him or Isidor would make it better? Couldn’t they understand he had just made a mistake?
In the middle of his internal questioning, Tartum felt the wagon slow down. Looking up, he saw the mob, he saw the murderous look in the men and women’s eyes. He saw Isidor stand up and say something to the mob. They jeered at him, while throwing insults and threats back. He saw fear gripping Isidor, he saw how much he looked like the last time he saw Hilary. The last look she had given him before the awful blast. It was the look of fear, the fear of not knowing how to get away from something that terrified you.
Looking up at the mob, he saw that they had noticed Isidor’s fear too and were advancing on them. Tartum didn’t care much about himself and decided that he would let the mob have him, as long as it saved Isidor. He saw a man in the middle of the mob hurl something at them. It sailed through the torch-lit night and caught Isidor a glancing blow to the side of his head. Isidor fell, screaming with pain. Blood seeped through his fingers as he held them to his head. Tartum saw Isidor’s fear overwhelm him, and the sight disgusted him.
Tartum realized this mob was coming to kill both of them. He realized that most of the members of the mob probably didn’t even know why they wanted to kill them, just that they were going to. Judging by their clothes and weapons, most of them were simple farmers and shop owners, that had never known anyone in the brothel or done anything to help anyone but themselves. They all knew Isidor, had been to one of his shows over the decades, and now, without knowing or caring why, they were going to tear him apart. These weren’t people to Tartum anymore, these were animals! Animals that must be culled...
Raw, white hot fury boiled up inside of him, Tartum did not try to fight it. In fact he encouraged it to take hold of him. The audacity of their attack on an innocent man. On his master, on his FRIEND! Opening himself to the magic, Tartum allowed it to flow inside him, completely filling him with power. The fury he felt before was in him, intensified a hundred-fold. His vision turned blood red as he stood up from his seat and turned his attention to the mob of towns people before him.
“YOU FILTHY WHORESONS! YOU WRETCHED EXCUSE FOR ANIMALS! HOW DARE YOU ATTACK US! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM!?! DO YOU KNOW WHAT I’M CAPABLE OF!?! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!?! HUH!?! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!?!” Tartum screamed at the crowd, his magically enhanced voice roaring over the noise of the mob.
They were stunned. None of them had seen anything like this before, nor did they expect this kind of response. The mob faltered in their advance. Tartum’s voice reverberated through their bones and shook them to their core. They looked subdued, they looked uncomfortable, and it seemed like they were going to disperse. The sound in his voice was inhuman, and it took away their resolve. Having to think on their own, they were a confused mass. They mulled around the street, no one sure what to do. They reminded Tartum of a flock of sheep with no shepherd around to guide them. They made him sick, with their ineptitude.
“YOU SHEEP WANT JUSTICE, DO YOU!?!? HERE’S THE ONLY JUSTICE YOU DESERVE!” Tartum shouted, in his rage.
He had no components, he had no scrolls, he had no words to any spell that could cause harm to people in his head. All he had was his instinct and his fury. Those would have to do. Reaching out with his magic, he channeled massive amounts of raw force into the bodies of those opposing him and his master. The sudden influx of magic on their untrained and unready bodies proved instantly to be too much. Their bodies were overwhelmed by the sudden infusion of magic,and just like a balloon inflated with too much air, they burst. The air was filled with a thick, red mist. There was no gore, there were no body parts, there were no survivors. There was only blood soaked clothing and discared torches and weapons, to mark where the thirty or so people had once stood together to kill Tartum and Isidor.
With his rage sated and his anger dissipating, Tartum released his hold on the magic and helped Isidor get up. His vison cleared.
“Let’s get out of here, my friend. I think I hear more people coming.” Tartum said, softly.
Without a word, Isidor nodded. He had never been so terrified of anyone in his life.
...
Isidor guided the horses down the street. He was silent. His mind was still trying to grasp what had just happened. He couldn’t believe what Tartum had done. His eyes had been glowing red! He had channeled magic into those people, with such force, it had destroyed them. Not just destroyed them, pulverized them. There was nothing left but fluid. He had to stop thinking about the scene; it made his stomach lurch. He was afraid that if he allowed his body to purge, it would unsettle Tartum and he would attack him! He had no idea how to defend against such a raw attack. He had no idea how such an attack was even possible!
The attack alone should have been impossible! Magic did not heed the demands of the caster. The caster had to work with the magic, like a partner. Coax it into the shape or design the caster desired. Tartum had wielded the magic, like a soldier wielded his sword. It was as amazing as it was devastating. Magic couldn’t be used
the way Tartum was using it. You could no more channel magic into another person, anymore than a you could transmit your thoughts to another person. It defied the laws of magic, like sending your thoughts to another person defied the laws of physics. Yet, Isidor had seen Tartum do just that. He had changed the way magic was supposed to work, with nothing more than raw emotion and desire. AGAIN! Not only that, but he had channeled more energy that even Isidor could contain and keep his soul unscorched. The craziest part about it was Tartum didn’t look even slighty exhausted by the effort. He sat there, just staring ahead. Looking like what he had just done was as natural as pissing. There was another look in his eyes now, pride. Was it possible that Tartum felt incredible remorse for killing Hilary, yet disintegrating thirty people didn’t phase him in the slightest? Isidor felt like he didn’t know the man next to him at all.
...
Tartum stared straight ahead. He saw the buildings of the town whipping past. Isidor was guiding the wagon to the Northwest Road, Tartum knew. He must have been planning to take them to Saroth. It was the only thing that made sense. They had to flee the town, the mobs of people had been proof enough of that. If there had been any chance of forgiveness before, he had destroyed that with his massacre. He was thinking about what he had just done. It had felt...right. He was incredibly proud of himself. He had saved his master and got rid of the pathetic sheep that were trying to interfere with his escape. He had no idea how he had done it. He didn’t use any spell or component. He had just wanted the magic inside him to punish those sheep for hurting Isidor. He wanted them to pay, to be erased from his sight. Somehow, the magic knew that and responded to his desires, to wonderful effect! Now, all he wanted to figure out was how he had done it. If he could do that with magic by accident, he could barely imagine the power he could wield if he learned how to do it on command. An evil grin spread across his lips. He had found how to fill the void, the loss of Hilary had left. He filled the void with his passion for magic.
He was pulled from his thoughts by a sign. It was a simple piece of wood that had been painted with a greeting for those entering the town. One of the idiot shop keepers must have done it as a way to improve business. It simply said, “Welcome to Zerous.” It occured to Tartum that he had never been outside his town. The oppurtunity had never presented itself. Everything he had ever needed was either provided by himself, his father, or Isidor. There was no need to go outside the town’s boundries, and until tonight, he never put any thought into leaving.
“Zerous...” Tartum said to himself. Such a stupid name for a town. His father had told him the town was named after the family that had founded it over eighty years ago. They were fleeing the war ravaged capital cities and fled into the wilderness to try and make their way in the world. After some time, they found the land here to be fertile and the water fresh. There was no war or strife. After they built their farm, more and more refugees appeared, and the town grew from there. It was a town created by cowards, for cowards and now he was leaving. He was the decendant of cowards. He would not live that legacy anylonger.
The town of Zerous might have been his home town, but the people here had better hope he never came back.
CHAPTER 8
Isidor’s gamble had paid off. Whether that was because the villagers didn’t want to chase them once they escaped the town, or because of the carnage Tartum had caused at the Northwest Exit, he didn’t know. He guessed it was likely the latter. The memory still haunted his thoughts, the fact that he had no idea how Tartum had done it, haunted his soul.
Isidor looked at Tartum and thought he seemed to be back to normal. He was acting just like he had always acted. He was concentrating his full attention on his spell book, trying to open up new spells. He was always trying to increase his library of spells. Isidor was beginning to wonder if there would ever be a point in his life when he had enough. If he would ever reach his goal and move on to something else. Isidor wished he knew the answer so he could feel hope for his friend again.
Tartum was enjoying the trip so far. He was very content with the way things had worked out with leaving his home town. The memory of Hilary was still sore in his heart, but she was quickly being replaced with his love of magic. Zerous seemed so mundane to him now that he was away from it. Isidor had said to watch for any sign of pursuit. Tartum had laughed at him. What could they possibly do to them? Tartum had no qualms with killing the sheep of his old village. He no longer saw them as human.
The journey had been one of discovery for Tartum. Not of himself, but of his world. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. In the distance, he saw huge towering mountains that reached so far into the sky, their peaks disappearing into the clouds. Isidor said the mountains were the realm of the dwarves, and that they hollowed out the mountains to contain their society. The entire race lived underground, the only reasons they came outside their heavily fortified mountain home was to defend it from invaders, trade caravans, gather above ground resources, like wood or plants requiring sun light, or to send one of their members into exile.
To dwarves, there is no worse punishment than to be sent out into the open world. With no walls surrounding them, most dwarves left to this fate, were overwhelmed by their agoraphobia. It would be like suddenly finding oneself naked and surrounded by vipers. After spending so many years underground, coming to the surface world was like being stranded on an alien planet. Most exiled dwarves either went insane, with the constant terror of feeling so exposed in this new environment or simply killed themselves. Isidor told him that if he ever found himself travelling near the mountains and encountered a lone dwarf that seemed skittish, it was better to simply kill them off, than try to speak with them. When dwarves leave their mountain homes, they did so in large stone wagons that they spent most of their time in. To find a dwarf alone, exposed to the surface was a bad omen. They were either insane and dangerous, or criminals, and even more dangerous.
Dwarves lived in the mountains because of their lust for mining ores and precious stones. They lived for masonry and gem-smithing. There was no other race in the world better with stone or gem than the dwarves, and even the least talented could craft a masterpiece out of any ore. It was just something bred into them after thousands of generations. It wasn’t uncommon for the rich and powerful to bring wagon’s full of gold, silver, steel, and gems to the doors of the dwarven strongholds in order to commission a masterpiece. The dwarves were as greedy as humans for these materials and almost always agreed.
A little known fact, Isidor told him, about the crafting skill of the dwarves was their form of magic. It was said no other race in the world could use magic the way the dwarves did. They used runes, much in the same way Tartum used words to write scrolls. Instead of parchment though, the dwarves used their malleable metals, stones, and gems as a medium to etch their runes. The result was a form of enchantment that caused incredible changes to the properties of the runed material or bestowed some sort of magical effect upon it. For example, they could make platemail as light as leather armor, or a statue could create a calming effect on anyone that gazed upon it. Runic magic was as diverse as it was powerful.
It was incredibly interesting magic and casters of all races would give up half their spell book for the oppurtunity to study rune magic. Unfortunately, dwarves weren’t keen on the idea of revealing the secrets of their craft and, to date, no other race has ever been allowed access to their secrets.
Dwarves, Isidor explained, were a stout race. Usually around four or five feet tall and very stocky. They were incredibly strong, and competitions of strength were common in their gambling halls. The strongest was said to be able to compress coal into a diamond with his bare hands! This has never been confirmed of course, and is considered to be an old wives tale amongst other races. However, with arms like tree trunks, and bodies to match, it was rare anyone disputed such claims. While they were a gentle race of craftsmen and artists it was a mistake for anyone to be foolish enough to think they were cowards.
There was a story about how an army of four thousand minotaurs got it into their heads to take over a dwarven outpost many years ago. The minotaurs gathered up their mightiest warriors and made their way to the outpost, killing anything that they encountered along the way. The dwarves had no idea they were in any danger, until the minotaur army was trying to beat down their gate with huge battering rams, and pummeling their walls with crude but effective war machines. The runic magic on the doors held firm, and the stone of the mountain deflected even the most dense projectile the minotaurs threw at it. The imposing battering rams of the minotaur army were smashed to splinters by the defenses of the outpost. and that was when the true battle began.
Angering the dwarves was alot like waking a sleeping giant. The minotaurs didn’t realize how much danger they posed, until they were roused for battle...they learned that lesson the hard way that day. While the dwarves are a civilized race in peacetime, they were the polar opposite when war was upon them. They made great suits of armor, that were riddled with sharp blades and jagged spikes. The metal of the armor was enchanted with runes so powerful it was said to make the metal harder than steel! While the dwarves didn’t make weapons for their own use, they did make some for an extrodinary price or for someone they owed a great debt. No longer did they differentiate weapons from armor for themselves. Their fighting style didn’t call for such. When enough dwarves were suited up in this armor, they ran out of their holds screaming, punching, kicking, and jumping as furociously as they could. The shock of such rush, through an army of ranked up warriors, was a sobering sight.
The minotaurs learned this, and after a third of their numbers were dead or dying in less than an hour, they fled in a chaotic mass back to their forests. Many say the minotaurs didn’t stop running until they reached their homes over eighty miles away. No minotaur clan has formally challenged the dwarven empire since.
The Jade Mage: The Becoming: Volume 1 Page 11
