by Andy Adams
“Right you are.” “So, Zabrani, Agilis, and the mircons are for…”
“Contendir.”
Since his squad hadn’t practiced it yet, he concluded that the sages must think them unprepared for that game.
“What are the seven colors for? On the edges?”
“Those are the different biomes of Ganthrea.”
“Ahh…right.” He looked at the pattern of colors, starting with green. “Green for Silvalo…and the rest?”
Another banner came to view, and Finnegan gave him a look that said even-though-I’m-incredulous-I’ll-still-humor-you.
“Blue for the ocean clans of Aquaperni…” he said between breaths as they ran, “Indigo for the cold tundra civilization of Gelemensus…violet for the marshland people of Vispaludem…”
They passed under a tunnel formed by interlocking branches of two monster mahogany trees.
“…Red for the rocky empire of Montadaux…orange for the desert palaces of Arenaterro…yellow for the savannah society of Safronius…and green you thankfully picked up on.”
“I’m getting there,” Brenner said, sparking a connection between the elixir colors he read about and the biomes. Hadn’t Windelm mentioned Montadaux producing the fiercest dragons? And he remembered the strawberry tang of the moltifrute balls at the boulevard of Vale Adorna…didn’t Windelm’s friend, Rimpley, say they were from an island? They must be part of the blue biome, Aquaperni.
“Like all young citizens of Arborio,” Finnegan cut in, “I knew Ganthrean geography before starting at Valoria. Biomes are basic—didn’t your parents teach you anything?”
“They taught me the essentials—farming and jungle life. Enough to be useful.”
“Pretty low standards of usefulness if you ask me.”
The heavy wings of a Pegasus mail carrier beat above them, making Brenner wonder how long it would be before he could join the spellcasters flitting above them in the canopy.
“Just what is the errand we’re off to this morning?” Brenner asked.
“Remember when I nearly stunned you point blank?”
“How could I forget?”
“Right. I need some Lumarlin Oil to fix that.”
“Good call. And where do we get that?”
“Follow me.”
Finnegan threaded them past inviting fruit stands, jewelry booths with dazzling metal arm bands, and intricately carved storefronts that reminded Brenner of Vale Adorna’s bustling boulevard, the only difference was here—past every corner—lay yet another cobblestone street packed with more shops, more merchants, larger trees, and occasionally, dark alleys. Unlike his old home of grid streets, where nature was excavated to make way for perfectly crisscrossed intersections, the roads in the forested city of Arborio were purposely built around living trees, twisting and forking pell-mell as the trees dictated. Finally, Finnegan stopped in front of an ancient store that felt like a rustic timber lodge.
“Welcome to Corsmith’s,” said Finnegan. They pushed open heavy maple doors, and walked past a burly man with folded arms and a mircon. He nodded curtly at them.
The store smelled of pine and earthen minerals, and for its expansive size it was surprisingly tidy; a moment later and Brenner could see why: wooden brooms swept dirt into neat piles as if guided by invisible custodians, then, after brushing the piles into animated dustpans, the pairs flew off and out of sight.
Brenner was drawn to a large display case at the front of the store. Behind thick glass, ancient-looking silver and gold amulets held swirling colors—mostly various shades of green, but a few held different colors: maroon, indigo, and shimmering violet. Brenner noticed nearly all of the amulets held only one swirling color. Only a few in a special section behind the counter had more than one color swirling around inside, and of those, only one had three. The numerals below the solo colored amulets seemed foreign for a second, but then his brain made sense of the puzzling runes, and he understood the amounts. He gaped.
“Finnegan,” he said in a hush, not wanting to draw attention. “These amulets cost over seven hundred golders!”
“What do you expect?” Finnegan said, walking up to his side. “Elixir is power, and power isn’t cheap.”
Brenner gazed at the dual colored amulets in the case behind the counter. His eyes bulged. A green and amber amulet in the crystal glass display cost twelve hundred golders. He brought his hand to his necklace, making sure that the amulet was hidden safely under his tunic. It was. Windelm’s trusted me with a great treasure. While he had obviously never planned to lose the amulet, his protective instincts now magnified.
“Over here,” Finnegan said, pointing to a wall filled with colored stone rods, animal horns, and carved wooden wands, most around the size of a hammer. Brenner approached the wall, lingering at each section of mircons as energy pulsed from their collective magic like waves washing around him.
What intrigued him was that the mircons were fashioned from all types of natural substances: aspen, cherry, yew and mahogany woods, followed by a section devoted to all colors of molten metals…then antlers, ivory and horns…conch and spiral seashells…bones?—Brenner cocked an eyebrow, and his spine tingled—that’s different…even long rocks and stalactites had been carved into intricate, spiraled mircons.
The prices for the magic-conducting mircons, while less than amulets, were also not cheap. He found himself drawn to two types of mircons: jagged quartz wands that looked like solidified lightning, and a type of wood mircon that reminded him of the forests back in Colorado—thick evergreen wood that was polished smooth. He sighed—each was anywhere from thirty to over a hundred golders. How was he going to earn that? Maybe Valoria allowed summer break after the Games of Ganthrea for students to work…
“Ah, those are fine mircons,” said an elderly voice behind Brenner.
He turned around to see a bespectacled lady with silvery hair flowing past her shoulders, approaching him with a quiet air of confidence.
“The quartz mircon works particularly well with red or orange elixirs,” she continued, “and the oakbrawn mircon works well with all colors, but amplifies green spells, naturally.”
“Interesting,” said Brenner, “Where did they come from?”
“From our travels. My husband and I find and collect elixir-rich objects in their raw state, then come back to our workshop here to construct and refine them into premiere mircons.”
“You own this place?”
“I do.”
“Wow,” Brenner said, his eyebrows rising appreciatively. “How do you know the objects contain elixir?”
“You want me to give away all of our secrets?” she said, chuckling. “Well, when you elixir-hunt for fifty years, you start noticing where it is likely to cluster. From there, it’s just a matter of identifying the object with the most magic soaked into it.”
Brenner noticed the amulet around her neck; it contained a triumvirate of green, indigo, and violet colors that were so dazzling, they seemed to put a spell on him. Only her voice brought him back to reality.
“Are you buying today, or just browsing?”
“I wish I was buying…” he began.
She nodded. “Save up then. We have what you need when you’re ready.”
The owner smiled and turned to help other spellcasters. Soon Finnegan bustled over to join Brenner, holding a jar filled with a clear jelly.
“Found some that I like,” Finnegan said, pointing at the substance within that glowed like pale moonlight. After Brenner stared blankly at him, he added, “Remember? Lumarlin oil.”
“Oh, right.”
“It’s exported from Aquaperni islands, and gives mircons a protective coating that prevents spell-leaks, and seals cracks.” He held his mircon straight up, where Brenner could see a gash on it, and poured some of the blue oil on the tip, where it ran like honey around the edge of the wand until it covered the cut. “You have expensive taste,” Finnegan said, looking at the mircons next to Brenner. “Don’t suppose yo
u have one hundred and thirty golders on you to pay Sorceress Corsmith?”
“No,” Brenner said forlornly. “Any tips?”
“Hmm, no use trying to steal it—the door magician will incinerate you without a second thought. If I were you, I’d try to get adopted by a rich magnate family…or if that fails, just work without sleeping for three or four years, then you’d have enough golders.”
Brenner laughed. “I’ll see you after four years in the metal mines.”
“Yeah, good luck with that,” Finnegan said, holding up a wooden receipt token to the door magician, and then opening the door for Brenner, “After four years you’ll have your golders—and you’ll be a hunchback, so you can earn money in a traveling circus.”
“And you can be my stage manager,” Brenner retorted.
“You know it!” Finnegan said. “Come on, let’s see how busy my Pop’s place is.”
They left Corsmith’s, and began winding away from the center of the city, where foot-traffic thinned, and the monstrous trees were spaced further apart. Before, Brenner had seen the city guard patrolling once or twice an hour, but in the outer ring of the city he didn’t see any. They passed a pub called Tallegrim’s, with glowing letters on the restaurant sign that grew and contracted above patrons sipping beers.
“My Pop’s friend runs Tallegrim’s,” said Finnegan, “he always says it’s the only place that makes a spicier stew than his. If you want to burn your tongue off later, we could—“
Angry shouts from ahead cut him off. Someone from a gang of men dressed in orange had thrown a rock across the street into a group of tanned, blue-caped spellcasters, causing one to cry out, “So, that’s your idea of honor then, you sand brutes?!”
“Go back to your islands,” a man in the orange crowd mocked. “You stinking fishermen don’t belong in the Games.”
A flash of blue light slammed into the orange men. Someone shouted in pain and the man next to him shouted, “We’ll have you arrested for that!”
“Cause you’re too weak to fight!”
Each of the groups advanced to the middle of the via, and voices shouted from all sides.
“You can’t battle here—” a fruit seller warbled from his stall.
“Like hell we can’t!”
“—gonna smash your face in—”
“Enough!”
A tall man with a crooked nose, leather vest and a black cape held up his mircon and strode between the groups, which seemed to Brenner about as smart as walking between two broods of vipers. The stranger cast an Aura spell about himself, and just in time, as an orange spell crashed into the Aura and quickly fizzled.
“You spellcasters have two options,” said the man, “you can either have a fair fight of Contendir that I’ll be master over, or, I can report your brawling and spell-firing to the city guard and you’ll lose the right to play in the Games.”
“Hang on,” said Finnegan to Brenner, pausing at the edge of the street, “This could be fun.”
“You don’t even know who we are,” said one of the blue-caped men.
“Oh really, DiMarco?” said the tall man, “I saw you last year playing in Safronius.”
There were murmurs among each group.
“I’ll do it your way,” said one of the orange-caped fighters of Arenaterro, stepping forward. He had long black hair tied in a tail behind his head, and a thin black beard tracing his jaw. “And you are…?”
“Silverman. And a silver from each man is what I charge. You?”
“Silverman…huh…I’m Majir. Do you even have the glowbes?”
“Of course.” Silverman tucked a hand inside his leather vest and pulled out two glowbes. He animated them with a forked-wood mircon, and they levitated obediently above him. Next, he pointed his mircon to the far side of the dusty road, and a dark line appeared, running down one side of the street some hundred yards, then rounding and going back up the other side, forming a large oval. “Arenaterro has courage, what about you Aquaperni?” Silverman asked, looking at the blue group of islanders.
“I’ll put the sand-rat in his place,” said the biggest of the blue spellcasters, flipping Silverman a coin and advancing to the middle.
“Very good,” said Silverman, who had caught the coin and now opened his palm to accept Majir’s payment. “What are you spellcasters playing for? Golders? Mircons? Amulets?”
“Golders,” said the island brute.
“Mircons actually,” said Majir, smoothing his orange cape and looking over at his opponent’s quartz crystal mircon.
“You may back out for the price of a golder,” said Silverman to the man in blue, “or accept Arenaterro’s higher wager for mircons.”
“Get his mircon, Ranoa!” one of the blue men shouted.
“Mircons then,” muttered the blue man, Ranoa, scowling at Majir.
“Spellcasters to their sides,” Silverman said, as the two men paced to opposite sides of the oval.
“Brenner,” Finnegan said, “you’ll want to give them some space.” He tugged Brenner back from the circle.
Silverman spun his mircon above his head, and around the ring a hazy dome materialized up from the oval around the two men and sealed shut in the middle some forty feet above them. Then Silverman directed a glowbe to both sides of the ring, behind each fighter.
“First to grab the other’s glowbe, or otherwise incapacitate him, wins,” said Silverman, creating a hole in the side of the dome and stepping out. Then he muttered something and closed the exit, sealing the men inside. “Contendir…begin!”
The blue spellcaster, Ranoa, wasted no time in firing Arcyndo spells, hoping to paralyze his opponent, but Majir had quickly conjured an Aura and the spells deflected harmlessly. Ranoa, seeing his spells did little to affect his opponent, began charging across the dusty road—Brenner sensed his strategy: brawn over brains.
Majir waited until the blue spellcaster was halfway across the ring, and then lapsed his Aura briefly to shoot a brown spell at the dirt in front of Ranoa—and quickly a trench formed, digging up the raw dirt and forming a ten-foot wall blocking his rush.
Majir then darted to the side of the field, as Ranoa called out, “Persplodo!” and immediately a small explosion ripped apart the dirt wall, flinging debris against the dome that Silverman had erected. It rained down the inside of the wall.
Through the cloud of dust and dirt, Ranoa pivoted his head quickly side to side, searching in vain for Majir, until he saw him sprinting twenty yards away from his undefended glowbe.
Ranoa squinted his eyes and yelled something, causing a strong gush of water to burst from the end of his mircon and block Majir’s path, the force of which was too strong for the dome to withstand, and it ripped through the magical shield, flooding the storefront of a silk seller and causing shouts of surprise.
“Fix the wall!”
Silverman shot a spell to patch the dome, and at the same time Majir shot a flame spell back at Ranoa—who ducked as a streak of orange fire raced over his head into the dome above, which rippled like plexiglass.
Majir then shot a gust of wind at Ranoa’s feet, causing the ground to spit dust into his face. Blinded, Ranoa cast Arcyndo spells in haphazard directions. He brought his other hand to wipe the grime out of his eyes, but as he did, Majir cast another flame spell—right into Ranoa’s face.
“Arghhhhh!!” Ranoa called out, falling to the ground, using his hands and whatever dirt he could find to smother the flames out.
Majir calmly walked to edge of the ring and grabbed Ranoa’s glowbe.
“Match over!” shouted Silverman, evaporating the dome-spell around the fighters. He shot a water-spell into Ranoa, dousing the flames from his face and shoulders. The blue spellcasters jumped into the oval, racing over to help their man.
Silverman sent one final spell that stretched across the ring like a long, wispy hand, lifted Ranoa’s mircon from the ground, then zipped it across the street to Majir, who grabbed it with a grin.
The orange
Arenaterro men clapped Majir on the back, who held up the mircon triumphantly. The blue fighters huddling around Ranoa looked mutinous.
“Come on,” Finnegan said, tugging at Brenner’s sleeve, “Ranoa was supposed to be a favorite at the Games this year, and his face looks beyond healing. This could get out of control quickly.”
As Brenner followed Finnegan away from the oval, he saw Silverman disappear into the onlookers, and the charred cheekbones of Ranoa’s face.
After twenty minutes of running through the streets, Finnegan paused to catch his breath. “You doing okay?”
“I’m alright,” Brenner said, trying to think of something other than the ghastly black on Ranoa’s face.
