Stone Dragon (The First Realm)

by Testamark, Klay

  Every Great House has a few on the payroll because they offer the best firepower for weight. At the same time, the job doesn’t attract the sanest types, and it certainly does nothing for their emotional stability. They often fight among themselves while everyone else runs for cover. Two combat mages will face each other across the street and stare each other down. The first one to blink gets a fireball in the eyes.

  They like to do this at noon, but this doesn’t discourage the lunch crowd at all. Say what you will about Drystone, but their gourmets are hardcore.

  Now and again I saw a red robe. The black and gray robes avoided them, and with good reason—you don’t get reach the third and highest rank of combat mage without spilling lots of blood. Each red mage was a master of at least two schools of magic, either of which could turn a stronghold into a crater.

  The most unnerving thing about them is their utter calm. They’ve bluffed down entire armies with nothing but a steely gaze.

  The Citadel stood apart from the other buildings, in the center of its own park. There were decorative trees here and there, but I knew they would be razed to the ground as soon as there was trouble. The Citadel may be a school, but first it was a fortress.

  The guards let me in and I found my way up to one of the lecture halls. I was fifteen minutes early but the Lord Governor was already waiting.

  Findecano Elanesse wore red robes trimmed in gold. Oh, shit.

  “You must be Angrod. I’ve heard good things about you from the various professors. And from your mentor, of course.”

  “They are too kind,” I said, and bowed.

  Findecano smiled and returned the bow. It looked like he was genuinely pleased to see me. Like Valandil he was old enough that even a human could tell he was no longer young. Also like Valandil, Findecano was one of the few elves who could grow a beard worth a damn. I liked him instantly.

  “You were expecting an interview, weren’t you?” he asked. In addition to his red mage’s robes (holy hell!) he wore a red peaked cap and sported blue tattoos on his cheeks.

  “Of course,” I said. “Although I wasn’t expecting… well, you, sir.”

  He laughed. “I don’t often do this, but as a senior mage I am well enough qualified. I was going over a list of incoming guild members and your name sounded familiar. I hear you’ve met my daughter.”

  “It was an accident, sir.”

  “You wouldn’t have gone out of your way to speak to her?”

  “That is, uh, a happy accident.”

  Findecano laughed again. “I’m joking. Old Telerunya doesn’t take on many apprentices—he wouldn’t have me, back in the day—so it’s noteworthy when he does. Do you see yourself as a builder like him?”

  I thought about it. “It’s challenging work, and worthwhile… but my heart’s not in it.”

  Findecano nodded. “Walk with me.”

  We left the lecture hall and climbed to the battlements. The Citadel had a commanding view of Drystone, naturally enough. Build partially on the sea, the city had an octagonal plan. We were in the Merchant Quarter, with its schools and stores, but I could see the other districts as well. There was the Manufacturing Quarter, where artisans had their shops, and there was the Old Quarter, where everyone else lived. Directly opposite the Merchant Quarter was the Palace Quarter, full of mansions and parks.

  All the districts were connected by wide thoroughfares, which were canals in some places and roads in others.

  “Like what you see?” asked the Lord Governor. “It’s a devil to run, but it does look good from a distance.”

  I had to agree. Under the early morning sun even the Old Quarter was clean and bright.

  “Do you know why apprentices are interviewed before they are released from their masters?” Findecano asked. “And why the interviewer is always a combat mage of at least the Second rank?”

  I thought about it. “Apprentices are tested four times, by four different masters, to confirm that they are ready to become journeymen.” I thought some more. “There is one final test to determine whether they are worthy of guild membership, but nobody told me what it was about. Will you test my battle magic? I’m afraid I haven’t prepared any spells.”

  He shook his head. “It’s more of a morals test than a magic test. The exit interview is to find out whether you’re the sort of person who should be walking around with a wizardly education. Of course, we try to catch the bad ones before the training starts, but you’d be surprised how many would-be evil overlords manage to reach journeyman level.”

  “What happens to them?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  Findecano grinned. “The interviewer… takes care of them.”

  Eep.

  “But no pressure,” he continued. “So, have you read the Necronomicon, or are you familiar with it?”

  “What?”

  He laughed and slapped my shoulder. “Just kidding, boy! I’m still joking.”

  I sagged in relief.

  “But if you turn out bad I’ll kill you.”

  * * *

  When I’d calmed down enough, we actually had a pleasant chat about magical theory. I’d written a paper on it, and Valandil had read it.

  “So you don’t believe we’re native to this world?” he asked.

  “No, sir. The natural philosophers and taxonomists keep digging up evidence.”

  There were fossils. Strange fossils. The remains of animals that no longer existed, so different from anything today we can only call them alien. They didn’t just lack modern-day descendants—they were completely unrelated to anything alive.

  “It’s like a desert island. Plants wash up on shore and birds deposit seeds in their droppings. Animals arrive by flying, swimming, or clinging onto driftwood. The island develops a complete ecosystem, which in time becomes highly specialized. And then the volcano erupts, wipes the slate clean, and the process starts over.”

  Findecano scratched his beard. “It makes sense. There are things in the deepest oceans with too many arms and eyes. An elven destroyer once managed to catch one, but it was so foul the sailors couldn’t even sell it for dog food.”

  “That’s right, sir. And the dragons must have been survivors from an earlier wave, because apart from wyverns they had no relatives.”

  “Should we be worried about a volcano?”

  “I think we should worry more about invasive species. A monk once experimented with peas. When raised in an amplified magic field, each successive generation grew more magical. They started extracting water from the air, making their own fertilizer, and walking.”

  “I remember those. They’d follow you around until you gave them a drink. But they didn’t last long—something about low pollen counts.”

  “The pea plants grew longer-lived,” I said. “And also less fertile. Does that sound familiar?”

  “Are you saying elves are turning into pea-plants?”

  “Er, more like turning into dragons. Awesomely powerful, tremendously long-lived, but increasingly rare. It’s one reason we haven’t been as active in the world.”

  “What the hell was a monk doing with pea plants?”

  “I understand that between poverty and chastity there wasn’t much else to do.”

  “What about the dwarves, the humans, and all the other humanoid species? How is it they can, er, interbreed with elves?”

  “Different waves, sir. We share a common ancestor, but presumably we arrived first and the others followed later.”

  Findecano shivered. “I’d prefer the volcano.”

  Chapter 7

  I cut low, following through with my other stick, but Meerwen leaped clear and swung a kick at my head. I bobbed, then stepped away as she kicked at my face. Damn she was fast. She took the offensive and started jabbing and I had to bring up the sticks to keep her away.

  I’d gotten through the interview well enough—I was still alive, which meant I’d passed, according to Findecano. He saluted me, then teleported away (in the Citade
l!) so I collected the shreds of my dignity and left. Valandil didn’t need me for the rest of the day. He had released me from my duties, in any case, so I decided to head to the nearest training hall. Beating on a practice dummy seemed a good way to spend the rest of the morning.

  I had just stepped onto the mat when Meerwen appeared. Like me, she wore a sleeveless shirt, loose shorts, and light shoes, elves preferring to train in as little armor as possible. She had wrapped her hands and forearms in bandages. I asked about them.

  “I’m not hurt,” she said. “This is just what my order wears when sparring.”

  “So you really fight without weapons?” I said. “Isn’t that handicapping yourself?”

  “The body is a more versatile weapon than any implement.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Why don’t I show you? No magic enhancement, of course.”

  “I just met your father, and I doubt he’d be happy if I beat you up.”

  She laughed. “I promise you that won’t happen. Now grab your little sticks.”

  I reached behind me and pulled the sticks from hammerspace. “I should warn you, these aren’t for sparring. They’re solid ironwood.”

  “Get into the ring, pussy.”

  We stepped into the ring.

  Elves train to fight from a young age. We shy from high-risk activities, but we make an exception with the martial arts. Although accidents happen, it’s more dangerous not to learn. After all, if you don’t know how to handle yourself in a fight, someone will always be too happy to force you into one.

  Our fighting arts are entirely weapon-based. What’s the point of barehanded fighting, when in real combat at least one person will be armed? If you’re the unlucky one, your goal should be to disarm the other guy, then punish him for being so stupid.

  I knew plenty of ways to take away someone’s weapon, but the fact that Meerwen didn’t have one was a confusing. Still, I live to improvise. I stepped forward and swung, my off hand ready for an overhead cut. The plan was to use my superior reach to batter her from a distance.

  She responded by parrying my first blow, then chopping at my main hand.

  “Ow!” I said, almost dropping the stick. I followed up with the other one, but she leaned away and planted a punch on my cheek.

  “Hah!”

  I cut low, trying to sweep her legs out, but she jumped and hooked a kick to my face. I dodged that, but she kept at me with the punches, just going bam-bam-bam, and I had to whirl my sticks to keep her away.

  “I’m surprised you’re still using training weapons,” Meerwen said.

  “Hey, I like these sticks.”

  Elves train in the Nine Weapons. The training hall was full of examples and my peripheral vision noted at least one of each. There was a blue-skinned elf practicing with double sticks. His opponent wielded a wooden sword and knife. To their right was a burly elf doing solo drills with a waster and shield. That took care of the paired weapons.

  A brother and sister—both blonde—sparred with spear and staff. The boy wielded the spear aggressively, while his sister took the defensive. It looked like they’d practiced for decades. Across the practice space an older elf hacked at a t-shaped post with a longsword. So went the two-handed weapons.

  A whirling three-way fight had developed between a saber, a rapier, and a knife: the one-handed weapons.

  Meerwen batted my sticks aside, then came in with elbows. One caught me in the chest and I stumbled. Damn, the Elanesses were giving me a hard time. She took a running leap and buried me under punches and kicks. She followed hard rights with harder elbows—palm strikes with backhands. She tore the sticks from my hands and threw them into hammerspace.

  “Now I have the advantage,” she said.

  I covered up, but her hardened limbs found openings. I blocked low and she struck high. I blocked high—she shattered my guard with an axe kick. I kicked and she hit my leg with a bone-cracking hammerfist. Then she grabbed the back of my neck and butted me in the head.

  The hall had gone silent. Nobody had seen fighting like this. Most of us knew a little boxing and grappling, but this was something else entirely.

  I charged, but she just picked me up and slammed me onto the mat.

  Need a little help? someone asked. What?

  If you want to win this fight (and reclaim some self-respect) follow my lead.

  Who are you?

  Enough talk!

  I felt myself rise to my feet. Not get up, or stand up, but rise up. I was hauled to my feet as though by invisible hands. My arms lifted as if on strings and my hands became claws.

  Meerwen raised an eyebrow. “Never seen that before.”

  I turned one hand and beckoned her closer. “Come on if you think you’re hard enough.”

  She darted forward, but my arms lashed out like snakes, catching, blocking, striking. My feet flashed under me, the stance wide but fluid. I danced around her, my hands a blur. A flurry of claws to the face to disorient her, then a double body blow with palm-heel strikes. My hands wove in and out, finding the smallest of openings and hitting with hardened fingers. In the distance I heard kettledrums.

  She kicked and clubbed me with her forearms, but my hands were there to hook and catch. I pushed her away with a front kick and she froze in a fighting stance.

  “What’s happened to you?” she said. “You’re radiating power—you’re cheating!”

  “I’m not!”

  I leaped, covering most of the circle, and Meerwen got her hands in front of her, took a deep breath, and went “HDAAH!” The sound hit me like a blow and I staggered.

  “Wind magic?” I said.

  She grinned. “Well, you started it.”

  She came in hard, the magic adding speed to her punches. Time slowed. My hands went out lazily to intercept, to deflect. To trap and to catch. I saw my hand whip around and slap her on the cheek.”

  “Ooh, that is it!” she said. She pounded the floor and rose up, the ground shuddering as she gathered power from it. Her skin took on a shell-like quality as the earth magic reinforced her skin. She brought her hands up and her knuckles cracked as she made them into fists.

  Crap.

  I ran out of the hall and Meerwen flew after. We headed for the thicket of poles where elves trained in forest combat. I got there first and turned to face her. I dodged and her fist brushed past, smashing into one of the heavy posts.

  “Ugh,” she said.

  I smiled and wove among the poles. I ducked her side kick and retreated deeper into cover. It was like a bamboo forest. It was easy to slip or block her attacks. My hands darted this way and that, catching her around the eyes and face.

  “Ow!”

  A nearby post exploded into splinters. She’d grabbed it and crushed it with her bare hand. She raged, not holding back anymore. Her flailing arms smashed left and right, shattering the poles and bringing them down around us.

  Still I fought. Time slowed again. I slapped aside a falling tree trunk, sidestepped another. I got both eyes on Meerwen and waggled my head in a circle, triangulating. I waited for her to jerk her head just so, and then my head shot forward and vomited fire.

  As in literally vomited. Everything I’d had for breakfast (soss and egg!) came back up, changing all the way. Part of me was ran a transmutation spell, turning the half-digested contents into napalm. I spat sticky fire at Meerwen’s face.

  Her eyes grew wide. She got her hands up, took a breath, and yelled “HDAAH!” The blast hurled burning droplets in all directions. I dove behind a tree as the whole thicket turned into a forest fire.

  The training hall’s supervising mage ran out, saw the inferno, and teleported a ton of seawater over our heads. It splattered like a gigantic egg, ending our sparring session.

  Meerwen stared at me, her short hair plastered all over her face. “What the holy blazing fuck was that?”

  I picked myself up. The entire mock forest was a charred mess, with many of the posts broken and fallen. There was s
omething—I put a hand down my pants. Her eyes grew wider.

  “Sorry,” I said, taking out a confused fish. Absently I put it into my pocket. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  I shrugged. “Here and there.” Actually, I didn’t have a clue. “I’m just full of surprises.”

  “How are you two idiots going to pay for this?” demanded the combat mage. I sighed. I was getting a headache again.

  * * *

  “I heard you demolished a training hall,” Valandil said, “and that your opponent was the daughter of Elanesse.”

  “It started out as a friendly match, believe it or not.”

  We were having dinner at Biggo’s Bar and Grill. You know the place: wood paneling, comfortable wicker chairs, and home cooking, if you shared your home with barbecue-loving bachelors.

  “They say you fought her unarmed, and in a most unusual way.”

  “I don’t know how. It’s like I suddenly remembered how to fight without weapons.”

  “Those of royal blood can call upon the skills and the wisdom of their ancestors. Could this be another bit of evidence? Interesting, that this happened when you fought a member of that upstart House.”

  I rolled my eyes. “She gave as much as she got. Like she said, there are advantages to being the daughter of one of the greatest mages alive—she learned spells with her bedtime stories.”

  Valandil sniffed. “I suppose it’s commendable, that she should work hard to make up for her shortcomings.”

  “I don’t know if she had any shortcomings—she took it all and just kept coming.” I saw the waiter with our orders. “Why don’t we just enjoy our meal?”

  We fell to eating, and for a while nobody talked. The air was thick with savory smells (even the salads were fattening) and a halfling band was playing thumping good music. Elves are supposed to be the best musicians, if you like day-long instrumental solos, but nothing beat halfling music for immediacy. The quartet was inspiring more than a little foot-tapping.