by Liam Lawson
“We’ll be right over,” Trorm said, earning odd looks from everyone in the car. A brief explanation and directions later and they were parking in front of Professor Hunt’s lawn.
He met them at the front door.
“You saw, Mom?” Abigail asked as soon as she saw him. Trorm didn’t need the HOPE that flashed across his lenses to hear it in her voice.
That earned a startled blink. SURPRISE. “I don’t think so. This was a young lady around your age,” Professor Hunt said, appraising their group. “Good to see you’ve been making friends, Trorm.”
Trorm grunted. “It is.”
They were invited into the living room. Trorm, Nymal, and Professor Hunt sat down. Abigail and Lilian did not. Lilian began pacing. “A young lady…you said she called herself Trixiel?”
“Indeed she did.” Professor Ismael Hunt steepled his fingers and leaned back in his seat.
He wasn’t a slight man, but he looked enough like his more muscular son to seem so by comparison. His head was shaved, and he had a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, which coupled with his spectacles, helped to further set him apart from Arlen, which for Abigail’s sake, Trorm was grateful for.
“We had a brief chat after she devoured the living spell trying to kill me,” he went on. “That thing, really didn’t like you, Trorm.”
“That’s definitely our mother,” Lilian said.
Abigail fell into the seat beside Trorm and curled into his side. Trorm put an arm around her. Was there some significance to Trisha changing her name? Perhaps it was something akin to a war name.
Professor Hunt furrowed his brow. “I’m afraid I’m somewhat confused.”
“Get in line,” Nymal muttered loudly.
“You said that you were attacked by a living spell,” Trorm said. “What exactly is that?”
The professor gave him a pointed look over his spectacles. “I’m going to tell you that with the understanding that you will make this whole affair make sense very shortly thereafter. Are we understood?”
Trorm looked to Lilian. “I don’t care about the living spell. I care about our mother.”
Trorm wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that. “You’d rather I not divulge any information?”
“Don’t be stupid, Lilian,” Abigail said, earning a glare from her sister.
Lilian blew out a breath and dropped her face into her palm. “Fine. If you think this will help, Trorm.”
He nodded. “I do.” He looked to Professor Hunt. “Your terms are acceptable.”
“Terms?” The Professor shook his head. “I’m not some spirit conjured up to make a dark bargain, Mr. Coldstorm.”
“With our luck that’s exactly what this would turn into,” Abigail said, earning an agreement from Nymal.
The Professor raised his eyebrows. “That statement will be clarified with your story?”
“Pretty much,” Trorm agreed.
“Very well,” Professor Hunt said, leaning back in his seat. “A living spell is what happens when someone with more power than sense tries to cast a spell that is beyond them by blending arcane and divine magics.”
“You’re saying a god did this?” Lilian said, jerking upright, hand falling away from her face and going to the collapsed sword on her belt. Trorm didn’t think she was conscious of doing so. He approved.
“No,” Professor Hunt said. “Or probably not…there is power in prayer. A lot of power.” He sighed. “I’m not an expert in divine magic, but it is very different from arcane magic. It’s powered by belief. Faith, if you will. Divine spells and powers are granted by the gods to reward that faith and give it purpose. Casting isn’t easy though. It requires just as much training as working with arcane magic.
“Living spells are accidents. What happens when a non-believer tries to cast faith-based magic is usually nothing. When a wizard with insufficient skill tries to cast a spell while invoking faith-based and arcane-based magic…what happens usually depends on the spell and the wizard.”
“The spell comes to life?” Nymal asked. “I’ve heard of prayer granting life. Restoring the dead or transforming a construct into a flesh and blood being with a soul.”
“That’s about the gist of it,” Hunt replied. “But the men and women capable of those kind of feats…they wouldn’t be responsible for something like this. They’d have both the faith and the training. A living spell…well, there’s some speculation as to how they occur.”
“The short version, please,” Lilian said, trying to be polite. She managed remarkably well for someone who seemed incapable of unclenching her teeth.
“Short version. The unfocussed energy that was intended to be directed by the caster’s faith and deity interacted with the spell he or she was attempting to cast and gave it sentience.” The professor adjusted his spectacles. “That or a dark god took advantage and used the open connection to do so in an act of spite. One of the two.”
“She was convinced she could make it work,” Nymal said dejectedly.
“Divine intervention…” Lilian said quietly. “Xosione isn’t known for letting her followers go.”
“You think Xosione deliberately interfered in an effort to reclaim your mother as her loyal servant?” Trorm asked.
“I think it’s possible,” Lilian said.
“That still doesn’t explain what a living spell is?” Nymal said, shaking her head.
“It doesn’t really matter if Mom killed it,” Abigail said. “I mean, you said she ate it, right?”
“Indeed,” the professor said. “Living spells can die and clerics of Xosione are infamous for eating magic. It…well, I don’t really know what it does for them. That’s one secret Xosione’s clergy have kept well-guarded. But the living spell is dead, yes.” He gave Trorm another pointed look. “It really didn’t like you.”
“No,” Trorm admitted, remembering the angry face in the mist. “It did not.”
Was the thing really dead? That was hard to believe. He thought back to how Trisha—Trixiel—had used that purple lighting to trap the thing and bitten off a piece of it. The scream the living spell had made would be difficult to forget. Perhaps it was easier to believe than he’d thought.
Trixiel was clearly someone to be feared.
Trorm explained to Professor Hunt, and to Lilian, who hadn’t heard the full story yet, what had happened since Soliana arrived. How she’d wanted help with illegal temporal magic and both he and Nymal had firmly rejected her offer. Then he told them about the attack on the football team.
“And you said nothing about this?” Lilian demanded.
Trorm shrugged. “It was resolved. The campus police were investigating.” And it had never occurred to him to share it with Lilian. Perhaps that had been a mistake.
“Gods above,” Nymal swore. “Trorm, I am so sorry. Why didn’t you say anything to me? I mean, time magic right after Soliana showed up…you had to know.”
“I suspected,” Trorm clarified. “I did not know. And that would have put you in a very awkward position.”
Nymal’s face burned crimson and a multitude of emotions flashed over the lenses of his sunglasses so that he had to stop looking at them or else get a headache.
“I don’t know that there was much else you could have done,” Professor Hunt said. “Putting as much distance between yourself and the castor was the wisest course of action available to you.”
“So, what do we do now?” Abigail asked, looking around expectantly.
“Nothing,” Professor Hunt said at the same time Lilian said. “Not a damn thing.”
The pair exchanged glances. Professor Hunt gestured for her to take the lead.
She sighed, then pointed at herself. “Me. Paladin of Thodos. Trained by and working with local authorities.” She pointed at Nymal. “Relative of the instigator.” She pointed at Abigail. “Relative of victim turned potential criminal.” She pointed at Trorm. “Non-Aflana citizen whose status here as a
transfer student is now in extreme danger.”
She sighed again. “Trorm, Abigail, you both are being watched closely right now.” Trorm understood. Though he frequently thought of the kill as his, Abigail had been the one to shoot Arlen Hunt in the head.
As for him, Trisha, now Trixiel, could revoke his stay with a single phone call. It seemed unlikely to happen, if only because he didn’t think she remembered that she could. That said, if it was discovered that his host family was unable to host him and that he was involved in yet another questionably legal situation he may as well pack his bags.
It sucked, but what else could he do?
“Let the paladin do her job,” Professor Hunt said. “Go about your lives as best you can. That’s the best thing you can do right now.”
Trorm’s mouth was dry and he wanted to protest. He didn’t. Instead, he nodded. “Understood.”
Chapter Sixteen
They did their best to go about their lives.
Abigail and Nymal went to their LGBTQ rally, which it turned out, was only a block east from the stadium. Which was where Trorm was, warming the bench, watching the Scrolwerd Stallions steadily lose yards to the Huldream Hippogriffs, and grinding his teeth.
More than anything else, Trorm decided, he hated being useless. Somewhere out there, Lilian was tracking down her mother. A block over, Abigail and Nymal were proclaiming their beliefs to the world in a show of support. And Trorm? Trorm sat on a sun warmed metal bench, waiting for an opportunity to play a game.
He tried to stow his resentment away. He loved football. Enjoyed it. It was a combat sport, a simulation of territory disputes that proved superior physicality, tactical prowess, and team work. Maybe he would have felt differently if this hadn’t been a pre-season game that held no real stakes. Maybe he would have felt differently if he’d actually been allowed to play and make a difference. Either way, he couldn’t choke the resentment down. There was real work to do, lives potentially at stake, and he, Trorm Coldstorm, the aspiring arcane advisor to the warchief of the Glorious Horde, could do nothing but sit on his ass and watch his team slowly lose a game that didn’t count for anything while everyone around him did something that mattered.
The first quarter ended with Scrolwerd trailing Huldream 1 to 14. The single field goal that they’d managed to score early on had been a fluke. There was still time to turn the game around. Except that the team wasn’t pulling together. They were falling apart.
A single player couldn’t carry a whole team to victory, but they could make a drastic difference. Especially when they motivated their fellow players with their performance. Arlen Hunt had been that for them. He’d scored more touch downs than any other player on the team and had known how to make his successes feel like everyone else’s as well.
It was part of how he’d so readily gotten Trorm to go along with his plans. The psychotic bastard had been exceptionally charismatic and coupled with his abilities, however ill-gotten, he had been able to elevate the team’s performance.
Trorm didn’t know of anyone on the team who could step in to fill those shoes. The second quarter started. Huldream scored another touchdown.
Trorm could feel the spirits of everyone around him sinking as they watched the teams pull away from the field. One figure didn’t move.
Coach swore loudly and hurried onto the field. Medics joined him a moment later. Trorm didn’t know Neil Hart, the starting quarterback, very well. He was a big guy, for a human, and more quiet than the rest of the team. They hadn’t spent a lot of time around each other and Trorm hadn’t made an effort to change that.
He wished he had now as stretchers were brought out and Neil was carried off the green. Whatever was wrong with him, a cleric would put it right, but he’d be out for the rest of the game. Trorm cursed. The game didn’t matter but his team did. What had been a sink in their spirits before became a plummet, clinging to all of them like a toxic fungus.
“Coldstorm,” the coach called. “You’re up.”
Trorm started. “I am?”
“You don’t want to be?” Coach sneered. “Your balls fall off after that lightshow the other day?”
Understanding dawned. He’d been the one to protect the team the other day when the living spell had attacked them. He’d been the one they’d recently celebrated and rallied behind. All of which was what Coach was hoping to cash in on now. Trorm wasn’t the next up to take the quarterback position on the field, he was still new, and if this hadn’t been a pre-season game Coach probably wouldn’t have put him. But it was preseason, and if the team’s spirit was crushed any further, they might never recover.
“No, Sir,” Trorm said, and hurried to obey.
The world seemed to fall away as he took the field. Distantly he heard the sound of the announcer, “…Torm “Shield-wall” Coldstorm takes the field. The only orc on either school’s roster….” He pushed that aside to. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. It was just a game.
The huddle came together, and the faces of his teammates pressed in on him. Each of them looked to him, hope in their eyes. This game mattered to them. They’d hailed him as their war-brother and celebrated him. His attitude brought dishonor to them and their efforts. He grunted and gave them the play. Maybe it was a just a game, but Trorm Coldstorm played to win.
They took to the line of scrimmage and hiked the ball. Trorm danced back, ready to pass. They’d sent out both their receivers and both were covered. The play had been predicted. Why wouldn’t it be, he realized too late. Long passes were what the team had always done because Arlen was so fast no one could cover him. It was what everyone expected of them and what they defaulted to.
And it was too late to change it now. An opposing player crashed through the line and came at Trorm. Another player broke through an instant later. If he threw now the ball would be intercepted. If he held onto the ball, he risked losing it when not one, but two players sacked him.
Beyond the players, the Scrolwerd Stallion cheerleaders performed a move that sent one of their members spiraling up into the air. For a brief moment Trorm thought that it was Winnie and his heart soared. Then he remembered. Winnie couldn’t be there, supporting the game she loved, because Winnie was in a coma in the hospital wracked by nightmares.
She’d want to be here. The realization struck Trorm like a lightning bolt. It was followed by the opposition’s defense.
He braced himself and didn’t drop when the opposing player tackled him. Astroturf tore beneath his cleats as Trorm push off the field and into his opposition. He buckled but didn’t drop.
The cheerleader he’d seen rise up fell. His gaze went from her to the end of the field. Both wide receivers were covered. The receiver on the right, Scott, was slightly less covered. Trorm had to take the chance.
The second defensive linesman hit him. Trorm went low, crouching to keep his center of balance low as the two players tried to take him off his feet.
With a bellow he shoved back into them, pushing forward with all he had. One hand closed around his arm with the ball as he pulled back to throw. He pushed forward anyways, heedless of the silent screaming protest of his muscles as they fought to go through the motions despite the hundreds of pounds of football player flesh trying to take him to the ground.
His arm broke free of the grip and he let fly the ball. A bullet. It zoomed straight through the players parallel to the ground like a rocket. Scott’s cover was looking up, expecting the ball to come from above.
Scott saw it, dove, and caught it. He fell to the ground barely a yard outside the end zone.
Trorm went down.
The crowd erupted with cheers.
The stadium rocked and the sky flashed with red light.
The Huldream players pulled away from Trorm, looking around in confusion. The sky flashed red overhead again, then stayed that way.
“What the…?” One of them gaped, then swore as energy crackled over the stadium, arcing and bo
uncing through the air as if trying to find a way inside but unable to do so.
As an evoker, Trorm recognized the raw unformed magic of his favored offensive tool. It was like what Soliana had thrown at him, only about a thousand times that scale. Only the wards shielding the stadium kept the energy at bay and Trorm found himself supremely grateful that his fight with the living spell had restored them. There was no telling how many of them would be dead by now otherwise.
He followed the energy’s tail over the edge of the stadium and froze in horrific realization. It had come from the east. Where the rally was being held. Where Abigail and Nymal both were.
Trorm shoved himself to his feet. People screamed. Security made itself known, appearing at all the exits and entrances. A new voice took over for the announcer, asking everyone to “Please remain calm.”
The two football teams were corralled back into the locker rooms with their coaches where pandemonium ensued. Everyone shouted and demanded answers, including the coach, who cursed out the security guard who’d taken up position outside the locker room door to keep anything from getting to them. Or to keep the game from being rigged. Nobody could tell anyone what was going on.
Trorm ignored the chaos and the press of bodies, tearing free his helmet and making his way over to his locker. He’d had to get creative with the arrangement, but eventually he’d managed to make his staff fit inside. He took it out and put on his sunglasses—the light overhead was bright enough that combined with the noise and commotion it was giving him a headache.
He started to draw upon his magic and encountered the familiar molasses block of the stadium’s wards. Casting now would be all but impossible and he needed to know what was going on. Only, it wasn’t impossible. Arlen had been able to figure out not only how to circumvent the wards, but to use them to power his magic.
Trorm thought. Maybe it was similar to how he’d adapted his spells to overcome the innate resistance to magic in Arlen’s summoned horrors? Or was it closer to the way he’d modified his shield spell to absorb energy thrown at it?
