by Andy Adams
“A dragon,” Brenner called out.
Sage Erlynda pointed a mircon at Kendra, checking for herself. “Very good, Brenner.”
Kendra scowled at him once more before breaking eye contact.
Brenner made a note to add to his journal: Mental magic hinged on knowing character.
Next to him, Finnegan was focusing his attention on Maureen, trying to find her animal. Beads of sweat formed on Finnegan’s forehead. He heard other students calling out animals—“Owl!” “Hydra!” “Coati!”
Sage Erlynda circled the group a few more times, before calling out, “Conjurers, you may stop.” Finnegan let out an exasperated sigh, while across from him Maureen smiled in triumph to her friends.
Erlynda didn’t offer the thorough explanations behind magic that Sage Shastrel had given yesterday; she spent the next hour asking the students to think about crafting their mindwalls, and hinting that the next level of mental magic would be to look into another’s thoughts, motives, and memories.
After Sage Erlynda adjourned the morning session for lunch, Finnegan was quiet. But when Brenner offered to bring him a chocolate éclair that the cooks had just placed on the buffet table, he reverted back to his usual self.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a bite. “Ready to play some Zabrani?”
“Hopefully,” said Brenner. “We’ll see how well you taught me.”
The two hustled through the corridors of Valoria, past the courtyard where a group of level six conjurers were practicing mental magic, up to the northern part of the castle.
When they walked through the grand archway to the west entrance of the field, Brenner saw a rocky terrain so vast he thought it must have been a trick of the eye.
It was like the stadium had swallowed a dozen football fields, or was built to be a holding dock for a convoy of supertankers. Although it seemed impossible, it was even larger than the Agilis stadium.
Around the giant oval field, tens of thousands of seats rose up in tiers so high they blurred together. Finnegan and Brenner walked from the archway to the large, buzzing crowd of students congregating on the field at one end of the oval.
More than just his level four conjurers, but not the entire academy, there must have been around a hundred teenagers in different shades of green, the younger with brighter colors, and the older with darker hues.
Just then a middle-aged man with matted brown hair, a body the size of a stuffed recliner and neck strewn with golden necklaces, walked up to the spellcasters, and casually floated ten feet in the air. Like the other sages, he wore a silver tunic.
“Fair noon, spellcasters,” he spoke in an amplified voice, “You’ve probably noticed it is not just your squad here today for Zabrani.” He gestured to the large crowd with fingers the size of plump sausages. “We are trying a new method of training. You will play in blended ability groups, so that we can see if new leaders emerge, and observe how you handle unexpected situations.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“Who is he?” Brenner said, leaning to Finnegan.
“Sage Vicksman.”
“As always,” Vicksman continued, pointing to the small crowd of adults in silver robes in the stands, “your instructors and I are watching how you integrate your education into the arena; your performance shows us who is ready to advance to the next level.”
Brenner looked up and down the sideline. His hands fidgeted, poking the ends of his mircon. The other students looked much more confident than he felt.
“You may test your mircon on those targets,” Vicksman waved toward three stone statues in the distance, “and then select a shield for yourself.” Behind Vicksman, back against the rampart, stood a large rack that held a couple hundred glimmering, silver shields.
Brenner joined the throng of students walking up to the edge of the field. They immediately started shooting bursts of spells at the targets. With the barrage of sounds bouncing off the arena walls, Brenner felt as though he had entered a firing range.
He pointed his mircon at the first chipped, marble statue of an archer about a hundred yards away, recalling the spell that Finnegan had taught him last night, as he had explained rules while they practiced by the forest before dark.
“Arcyndo!”
His amulet warmed against his chest, and a bolt of red shot out of his mircon, streaked downfield, and kicked up a clod of dirt five feet from the archer. He steadied his aim at the next statue, this one a centaur made of dark obsidian; Brenner guessed it to be double the distance of the first target.
“Arcyndo!”
Again the red energy burst from his mircon, flew like a phoenix across the field, and this time it just nicked the tail of the centaur: the whole statue shimmered from black to pewter gray. Other shots pelted the ground all around the statue, making faint sizzles. Brenner glanced at the higher ranked spellcasters, and realized that they weren’t saying anything at all as they cast their stunning spells. Only his cohort was saying the spell trigger.
Brenner squinted to make out the last distant target: a warrior statue made of red sandstone, standing halfway across the field—at least three hundred yards away. Colored zaps of spells hit the grass all around the statue; a few wild shots hit the far walls. Brenner calmed his thoughts and pointed his mircon, then, louder than he intended to, he said, “Arcyndo!”
His mircon shot a current of red light, which soared downfield past the other statues, and found its mark in the chest of the warrior. Its whole body rippled dark then light red. Brenner smiled; his confidence ticked up a bit, even though his next several shots missed.
“Looks like you’re ready to go,” said Finnegan.
“I think so,” said Brenner, “just trying to refresh myself on the rules: fire at opponents to stun them, use my shield to block, and if possible, try to stun their king or grab one of their three glowbes, right?”
“Right,” said Finnegan. “Score points for hits, partial points for shielded blows, and twenty points per glowbe captured. Once all three of the opponent’s glowbes are captured, or one team is immobilized, the game is over, and the team with the most points wins.”
“Are those the best ways to win?”
“Those are the tried and true methods. Unless you’re feeling lucky, then there are a couple of gambits.”
“Gambits?” Brenner said, turning from the firing range with Finnegan, and following the other players walking to the wall of silver shields.
“Yeah,” said Finnegan, “you don’t really need to know them yet. They’re different types of offense, and there’s one that can technically earn points, but it’s probably the stupidest thing you can do.”
The two walked over to the shields and Brenner asked, “What’s that?”
“A Wizard’s Gambit,” said Finnegan, “It’s when you gather all three glowbes from your side, take them across the entire field, and deposit them in the opponent’s tower. If you do, you gain 120 points. But if you don’t get all three in the tower—most of the time the player won’t even reach the tower—it adds to your opponents’ score and you’re done for. Once opponents see you running with three glowbes, you’re guaranteed to be spell-bombed. So, no sensible player tries it.”
“I can see why,” Brenner said, picking up a shield, which was about as large as his torso. He slid his left forearm into it, and his first thought was how surprisingly light it was. It weighed even less than his amulet, like a sheet of air had thickened and bonded together. He rapped it with his knuckles. It was quite solid.
When the students walked back to the field with their shields, Vicksman turned and called out, “Scindo.”
Immediately the sound of an earthquake filled the arena, and a large wall of rock erupted from the ground on one end of the stadium. Like a train speeding from a tunnel, it grew across the arena, neatly cutting the field into two extremely long corridors. Vicksman pointed his mircon at the three statues, and they rose into the air and soared off the field into an open tunnel entrance, wh
ich swiftly closed. Then he turned to the players.
“Aperio.”
The shields all around Brenner flickered and the silver colors changed to new ones: goldenrod yellow, brilliant blue, zest orange, and royal violet. Brenner looked at his own: it had morphed into orange. Beside him, Finnegan’s shield shone bright blue.
“Darn,” Finnegan said, looking in disappointment from his to Brenner’s. “I was hoping we could team up.”
“Yellow shields will play blues,” said Vicksman, “while oranges will battle against violets. Yellow and orange, your territory is at the far end of the field.”
“Good luck then!” said Finnegan, turning to join the blue shields.
“Thanks,” said Brenner, hustling the opposite way; he had to hurry if he’d get there in decent time, as it was going to be a very long run to the other end of the field. But when he and a group of younger players were about fifty yards out, Vicksman’s voice called out with impatience: “Spellcasters, make use of the launch.”
Brenner stopped, looked around, and then saw students with yellow shields filing towards the left edge of the stadium, while those with orange shields jogged to the other side, up to some sort of black square behind two green poles.
Spellcasters strode to the back of the launch, jumped lightly onto it, and were catapulted the entire length of the field. Brenner made sure to put plenty of teammates between himself and the magic transporter, watching tensely as one by one they sling-shotted across the field.
Am I missing something? Did they recite a spell to do that?
Too soon, it was his turn. He gripped his mircon and shield, and walked to the edge of the black surface, wondering what in the world he was supposed to say.
“Hurry up then,” an annoyed voice called from behind.
“Who’s holding up the line?”
Brenner forced himself to jump nervously onto the magic mat. The good news was that he wasn’t given any more time to guess what to do.
Like being hurled from the hand of an angry giant down the length of a par-5 hole, Brenner flew some six hundred yards in the air gripping his mircon and shield—wind whipped against his face—the entire field blurred past him—and then hard ground rushed toward him, and he braced for a painful landing.
At the very last second, he passed between two poles, and some magnetic force slowed him: it felt like falling through thick, invisible gelatin, and then he was deposited gently on the black square. Relieved, he jumped off the mat, and looked back to the device. The poles—ohhh, they must have been responsible for my stop.
“Who’s captain then?” someone asked.
The last students landed on the launch pad, trotting to join a large cluster of new teammates holding orange shields. Vicksman’s voice emanated throughout the vast arena: “The most senior spellcaster in each group is captain, and they choose the team’s three healers and king. Since the field is split, we won’t be using the spiral towers, therefore winning is through total team stunning or glowbe capture only. No Wizard’s Gambits. In five minutes, I will ring the brass bell to make your landforms, so quickly decide your formation and plan of attack.”
Brenner looked to the students, trying to find one with the darkest shade of green robes. An older boy with short hair, bottle green robes and steel blue eyes stepped to the front.
“Looks like I’m the only level twelve sorcerer. Am I missing anyone?”
The spellcasters remained silent, so the older boy continued.
“My name’s Maverick. I’ll be your captain, and I’ll choose the healers based on rank as well. Is anyone level eleven?”
Again, no one spoke.
“Level ten?”
Three teenage boys and one girl who looked about Brenner’s age raised their hands and stepped forward through the small crowd. They all wore jade robes.
Maverick looked at each of them, sizing them up. “What are your names and game strengths?”
“I’m Juma, and I am the fastest in my squad,” said the first youth, tall with a dark complexion. With his strong calves showing below the hems of his jade robes, Brenner believed him.
“I’m Berlin,” said the next boy who sported a blond crew cut, “And for the last five games, I’ve only missed my target once.” He crossed his arms and looked smugly at Maverick.
Maverick nodded, then looked to the third youth, a hulking figure with a shock of black hair, standing a head taller than Juma. “And you?”
“The name’s Hector,” he said, “and if you couldn’t tell—” he turned unexpectedly and grabbed a younger spellcaster from the group and in one swift motion lifted him over his head. “I’m strong.”
Maverick chuckled, and motioned for Hector to put down the boy, who looked uncertain whether he should struggle to get down, or prepare to be thrown over their heads. Brenner looked at the other level ten spellcaster: a girl with long, chocolate-truffle hair pulled back into a ponytail, with a slender nose above cherry lips, who met Maverick’s gaze with confident, green eyes.
“And you?” he asked.
“I’m Gemry,” she said coolly, “and I know when knights should push ahead for an advantage, and where we should set traps.”
This seemed to satisfy Maverick, who said, “I need swift, precise, and strategic healers; so Juma, Berlin and Gemry, these are for you,” he said, handing them three white cloaks and specially marked mircons with white tips. “And Hector,” he added, noticing that Hector’s lip was curling in resentment, “I need you to help lead on offense.”
“All spellcasters who can fly—the knights—over here,” Maverick continued, pointing to his right.
Three quarters of the group joined him on the right. Only Brenner and five other students remained. Brenner’s hands clenched when he saw that Sorian was one of them. Sorian glared back.
Maverick turned to the group of six. “So, you’re my groundlings, eh? Well, make yourself useful and stun at least one opponent before you get zapped. I’m adding five knights to your group to cover your flightless limitations.” Maverick turned, divided the group of knights into three groups of five, assigned a healer to each, and gave them territory to cover.
Brenner was relieved that five skilled flyers were with his group, since he wasn’t sure how he’d fare against a swarm of opponents.
“Juma, Berlin, Gemry—take a glowbe and place it in the rear of your group. You are responsible for directing sub-teams. Since I’m the highest level, I’ll be the king.”
Then Maverick turned toward a pedestal in the back of their territory, grabbed something from the top of it, and wordlessly flew up in the sky, hovering above their half of the field. Next came the part Finnegan explained to Brenner multiple times, yet he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.
In the distance, Brenner could see the violet shields of his opponents and three purple glowbes shooting faint columns into the air. If it weren’t for what Maverick would do next, Zabrani would be too simple: just shoot across open terrain until the other team was stunned.
A deep, brass bell rang, and Brenner felt the sound reverberate in his feet. Maverick threw a handful of pebbles on either side of him, but when the stones hit the ground, something strange happened.
Where the pebbles hit, giant hills, as big as Egyptian pyramids, grew out of the ground, forming a rocky ridge between the two teams. Maverick then soared over the tops of the miniature mountains, scattering more seeds as he went. Seconds after he flew over the ridge, tangles of trees and bushes sprouted forth, accomplishing more growth in a few seconds than what a forest often achieves in a century. He circled back towards the team, forming pockets of trees on the two sides of the field right up to the dividing wall that Vicksman had created. Then he tossed three blue stones onto the open plain in the center, and when they hit ground, it was like a gushing artesian well burst forth, creating an enormous lake in the middle of the field.
A moment ago, what had been a rocky and flat land was now a rugged, multi-featured landscape with
forests, hills, and a wide lake before the rocky midpoint ridge. Brenner’s eyes felt dry; he realized he hadn’t blinked in some time.
“Center formation, follow me,” Gemry called out to her group of eleven spellcasters, and Brenner had to sprint to keep her in sight as she flew towards the back of the lake. Only he and the five other flightless students had to run and navigate the trees, the five knights simply flew over them.
“Watch where you’re going, Wahlridge,” Sorian said, brusquely shoving past Brenner as the group raced toward the meeting spot in the distance.
By the time the six students reached Gemry, she had already given assignments to the flying knights. Scanning the field, Brenner noticed them hovering by treetops on all sides of the lake.
