The Mage Trials

by Charles Cackler

  “Bid me… whatever you like… but only one trial remains before I become a mage, whether you like it or not,” Rian glared back at him, one good turn deserving another, “and you… you’ll still just be a miserable little bastard.”

  Dalmarn ground his teeth together, the fire in his eyes doubling and redoubling until he spat, “You think you’re so clever, blasting through the moss to win. A strong mage would have defeated all the golems and a clever mage would have avoided all the runes from the beginning, quickly reaching their goal. You?” he sneered. “You were weak and stupid, running around like a child afraid of the dark. You just happened to have the right spell for the situation. Lucky, that’s all you were, but luck won’t last forever.”

  Those words… they burned like fire in his ears. He glared back at the vile man, but had no retort to counter the stinging indictment - the very reason it stung so was the truth within Dalmarn’s insults. He had panicked, nearly costing him everything, and if his spell hadn’t been able to clear the moss, there would have been no way to win.

  “As for the last trial,” Dalmarn said, that damn smirk back upon his face, “that will be three days from now inside my chamber. Perhaps luck will bless you once more. You’ll need it.”

  Rian would have to be better, that was certain, but he wouldn’t give Dalmarn the pleasure of watching him squirm. Instead, he focused on what else the man had said. Three days. That would give him enough time to recover at least. A trip to the academy’s healing ward was in order if he wasn’t mistaken, then he would prepare for the final trial.

  “Very well,” he said, his stomach throbbing in time with his shoulder. “Are we done here?”

  “Mostly. There is one matter left to resolve. His arm, Sachiel?”

  “It looks to be merely bruised,” She spoke from right behind Rian and it was all he could do to keep from jumping - he hadn’t even noticed her approach!

  Paying no heed to his nervousness, she continued, “A bit of rest and he should be fine.”

  His eyes whirled from Dalmarn to Sachiel and he suspected the sweat on his brow wasn’t just from the recent battle. “As you can see… there is no need... to concern yourself. I will be fine.”

  “Oh, no, no,” Dalmarn’s eyes glinted and his smirk widened into a nasty little smile, “it wouldn’t do for us to let you leave unaided in your weak and helpless state.”

  The room seemed to shake. Dalmarn and Sachiel’s faces were swaying and blurry, and Rian’s gut threatened to crawl into his throat. Taking a deep breath, he tried to steady himself, bracing against the aches that went up and down his body. “I need… no aid. I will be… fine.”

  “Hmmph, I hardly think -”

  “Dalmarn, he’s been through enough. Quit riling him up!” Sachiel said. Turning to Rian, she held up her arms in a placating manner and continued more softly, “Now, don’t be foolish. You look like you’re about to - Shit!” She reached for him.

  It was too late, as that was the moment that his body, already pushed to the brink, finally gave out and he collapsed at their feet.

  Chapter Eight

  The downside of draining oneself so thoroughly, as Rian discovered, was that a post-victory collapse was far less impressive than it was described in the courtly tales he’d read. After the remains of his breakfast painted the floor, he was unable to walk and needed to be taken to the healing ward. As Dalmarn refused, claiming other trials to attend to, that left Sachiel to help him along. She’d done so by hoisting him over her shoulder like the proverbial sack of grain as they made their way through the shadowy corridors.

  The gloom matched his thoughts. It shouldn’t have. He should have been smiling. This should have been a moment of absolute joy, yet in spite of having passed the Second Trial, a sense of unease crawled over him. Dalmarn’s words whispered in his mind, reminding him of just how close he had come to defeat. Only one trial remained but it would be the most difficult of them. For all his hard work and preparation, was he truly ready? He wasn’t sure.

  “Don't worry,” Sachiel said, “I’ve got you.”

  It was true, but the reminder of her presence only served to bring his mood down further. It had been years since he’d needed someone to carry him and he wasn’t too keen on reliving this part of his past; no matter how he moved about though, the choices were to be hoisted over the shoulder or get carried like a child needing a nap.

  “You can quit your squirming any time now,” Sachiel said lightly. To his mild surprise, she sounded unaffected by having to heft his full bulk. He wasn’t portly by any means - really, his father said he was too skinny - but he had to be well over a hundred pounds and she didn’t even sound like she was out of breath.

  His face heated up further. “I apologize. I did not expect, well, this after the Second Trial.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “There has been many a time that I’ve seen grown soldiers need a hand after a rough battle - why, I’ve even needed to help Dalmarn a couple of times.”

  The image of that bastard draped over Sachiel’s shoulders, looking as pathetic as Rian did now, brought a smile to his face. Dalmarn would probably be growling at his own helplessness. Still… “I wish you had not needed to take time out of your duties to aid me. Surely, you must have other matters to attend to. If I had not been...”

  She snorted. “If you hadn’t won, you mean? The only reason you’re so tired is that you did everything you could to pass the trial. Because of that, you succeeded. There’s nothing for you to be ashamed about.”

  The corridors were still dark and gloomy, and he was still getting carried around, but her words soothed his bruised ego a little. She was right. For the second time, he had come down here and he conquered what Dalmarn put in his way. “I suppose I did pass, didn’t I?”

  “Exactly! And not everyone gets to say that. The trials are challenging, from what Dalmarn told me… well, when he wasn’t trying to mock your skills anyway.” She shook her head. “I see what you meant earlier. He really doesn’t think much of you.”

  Rian’s smile faded at the reminder. Dalmarn might despise him and treat him unfairly, but he couldn’t deny that the man had a point. He’d spent ten years working toward this day. Surely, he should have been able to pass more easily than getting lucky at the end. ‘Weak and helpless…’ Dalmarn’s voice seemed to whisper in the depths of his mind. Was he right? He’d panicked, but even before that, he’d had a lot of trouble for only the Second Trial.

  Sachiel must have noticed his disquiet as she sighed before patting his back clumsily. “You’re letting what he said bother you, aren’t you? Don’t. Victory is victory. Regardless of the method, you succeeded and should be proud of that.”

  Her words were kind but did not soothe him. “If that were the final trial, I would agree with you, but it was not and I still have one more to go. My margin of victory was so thin that even a wayward pebble could have condemned me to defeat. If I had such trouble with this, then the final trial will be incredibly challenging, perhaps impossible.”

  For several moments, all that could be heard was her whisper-soft footsteps against the floor.

  He’d begun to think she wasn’t going to reply when she said, “It is easy to look back after the battle and condemn yourself for the mistakes you made, but you are not weak or stupid. You panicked and panic can ruin the chances of anyone, warrior or mage. Avoid that in the future and you’ll do fine.”

  Rian nodded, starting to feel a little better. Even if she was wrong, he wanted to believe otherwise. “I suppose. I did win and even if it was not the cleanest of victories, I need but one more to become a mage.” He decided to change the subject. “Thank you as well, I might add. Although I might not enjoy the method, I appreciate you taking the time to get me to my quarters.”

  “Eh, it’s nothing. Had I left you to Dalmarn’s tender mercies, you would be waking up in the corridor outside his chamber. Come on now, we’re almost there.” Sachiel grinned over her shoulder at hi
m.

  This close, Rian could see the freckles on her cheeks and a small pimple in the corner of her chin. She was young, he realized, not just young in comparison to Dalmarn but young - still older than him, but he doubted more than a few summers separated them, yet she had a veteran’s bearing.

  For all Sachiel’s strength though, she could only carry him so quickly without jostling him and risking further injury, so they were still in the darkened catacombs of the academy’s depths. Save for their own conversation, everything was silent and it was hard to make out much of anything.

  “Have you ever gone through spell-exhaustion before?” she asked over her shoulder.

  Rian was thrown briefly by the question before he shook his head. “No, this was the first time I pushed myself so hard. The tutors I had were careful to avoid me using up too much of my strength.”

  “‘Careful to avoid using too much of your strength?’” she said, her voice going up several octaves, “That is ridiculous! How are you going to learn to fight if you don’t know your own limits?”

  “Well, although I am prepared for combat, I was always more interested in other fields, like -”

  Sachiel stumbled and suddenly he was falling, only having enough time for a wordless cry before his nose crunched into the wall.

  Pain radiated through his face and it was all he could do to try to get to his knees, Sachiel not helping at all. “Could you try to be a little more careful? You nearly brained me! And -” He opened his eyes and his voice stopped working.

  The crossbow bolt laying mere inches from him saw to that. Wickedly barbed, it dripped with a clear fluid.

  Poison. If she hadn’t dropped him, it might be buried in his gut right now. Hands trembling, he looked up.

  Through the shadows, a black-cloaked man loomed before him like a wraith; he was thin with nothing of his face visible in the darkness, but the crossbow pointed straight for them made his profession clear: an assassin.

  Sachiel stood between them, sword drawn. It was a cruel weapon, thick with violence and death, its blade a solid black with a blood channel running down its length that looked to have been crafted from molten lava. Its edges shimmered with sharpness, their eagerness to cut and maim almost visible to the naked eye.

  Under any other circumstances, he would have recoiled at the sight of it, but here and now… a cruel weapon was desperately needed.

  The assassin discarded his crossbow in favor of a pair of knives that might have been forged from the shadows themselves, before closing in to strike, his form almost invisible in the darkness.

  Sachiel made no effort to counterattack, instead focusing on repelling his knives. Yet, when she took a step back, she stood tall. “Surrender now,” she said. “Your ambush failed. You cannot win.”

  Rian could hardly believe she dared such a bluff. How could she possibly defeat a foe they could barely see?

  She whispered a phrase that sounded like a prayer. “I am the sword of my people... I am the servant of my king... Renara, Scourge of Wrath, grant me the might of an inferno.”

  Crimson light poured from her blade, coalescing around her and forming full plate armor black as sin. Thin rivulets of molten fire spiderwebbed about it like veins, from the clawed boots to the shoulder plates. At the top was a helm, demonic in appearance with backswept horns, yet it had no face. Tiny pinpricks of brown were the only evidence of the woman who had been replaced by this metallic monster. The darkness shrank from her burning form and, with a final flare, her sword burst into flame.

  With the shadows driven back, more of the assassin was revealed. A lean man, he wore armor made out of a thick black hide that soaked up the light. His face was hidden behind a winged mask, only revealing his chin and a thin scar running up the middle of it.

  Deciding that the time for subtlety and stealth had passed, the assassin let out a snarl and his draggers crackled with a sickly purple light as the two circled around each other.

  Fear trickled down Rian’s spine. Either the assassin’s blades were enchanted or they were Sacreliths themselves. This was no mere five-coin cutpurse. This was a warrior and he was bent upon their deaths.

  Rian pulled a Spellstone from within his pocket. His body was still ravaged from the Second Trial but he might be able to squeeze one spell out.

  With a battle cry, the assassin charged for Sachiel, both blades aimed for the joints in her armor.

  She stood firm, using her weapon’s greater reach to keep him at bay while counter-attacking with quick little slashes, forcing him to protect himself as much as attack her.

  While Rian’s only familiarity with swordplay came from the few times he’d had the misfortune to be beaten down by his sister, Sachiel seemed to be winning. Her sword seared through the air, once, twice, then a third time, each time barely dodged or parried as the sounds of clashing steel rang through the corridor.

  The assassin’s movements grew more frenzied. He bobbed and weaved in an attempt to try to get near enough for his daggers to do what they did best, but Sachiel’s armored form was never close enough unless he wanted to impale himself upon that burning blade.

  She didn’t have that same difficulty. With a sudden flash of steel, blood sprayed out from the assassin’s side and he cried out in pain.

  She closed in upon her foe, looking for all the world like a monster of steel and flame that had been dragged from the blackest depths of the underworld to torment the man before her.

  The assassin crouched low, his chest heaving with each breath. He glared at her and darkness seethed around his daggers, pulsing darkness that burst in a stream of knives and daggers; dozens strong, each was crafted of shadowstuff and they whistled toward her in a storm.

  Before Rian could so much as cry out, the flames around Sachiel’s sword flared further until it seemed a pillar of flame was grasped in her hands. She drove back the assassin’s spell with one mighty slash, fire bursting against darkness and sending the blades impacting upon the walls and floor before dissipating into nothingness.

  “Try that again and the result will be the same,” Sachiel said coldly. “Surrender or I’ll cut you down where you stand.”

  The assassin didn’t respond, instead turning in Rian’s direction.

  No!

  Darkness pulsed once more but this time the storm of blades hurtled toward him, as high as he was tall and several times as wide.

  Sachiel cried out, but the words were indistinct as time slowed to a crawl.

  There was no time to dodge, so gripping his Spellstone, Rian threw everything he had left into it and unleashed the spell blindly. He’d finally found his limit, he realized as his vision swam. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even stand and the silver wave he summoned was pathetic, knocking aside perhaps a third of the blades before the rest tore it through it a moment later.

  As the daggers closed in and the growing darkness took him, his final thought was a simple hope that his last moments would be free of pain.

  Interlude One

  The shadows engulfed him, bringing agony with them. He’d failed and surrounding him was a scene out of his nightmares.

  A castle shattered, every bit broken and ravaged. Pieces of the fallen covered everything and blood spilled across the landscape like a jar of red paint.

  “Please, no…”

  The sky was blotted out by thick black clouds and the scent of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. Everything was silent, no cries for help coming, leaving him alone amidst the carnage.

  But even through the madness, he knew the truth.

  It was his fault.

  Chapter Nine

  Rian’s hands scrabbled against his face in a desperate attempt to clean himself, but there was no blood, only a quiet breeze blowing against his cheeks.

  Blinking his eyes open, he had to shade them as the light of the morning sun poured in through wide-open windows, casting everything in shades of gold. It illuminated a room furnished in pastels. He laid tucked in silken sheets, a woolen bl
anket weighing him down with its warmth. His Spellstones rested on the nightstand beside the bed while his now-clean clothes hung across from him. The scent of lavender wafted gently in the air.

  Every ache was gone and his arm was unhurt. The fear and danger that terrorized him now felt like nothing more than a bad dream. Only peace and tranquility remained… but where was the assassin? What happened?

  A cough from his side revealed that he wasn’t alone. Sachiel was seated beside his bed, relief on her face. Her armor was gone in favor of a combination of shirt and breeches. She was unharmed, at least.

  He swallowed. “How did - where am I? Where is the assassin and how did you get in here?” He realized how his words might be received and hastily added, “Not that I mind your presence, of course. I am quite glad to see you well, very glad.”

  In spite of his accidental rudeness, Sachiel’s smile was all amusement. “Likewise, your lordship, particularly since you’re alive to see me. You’re in the Royal Academy’s healing ward now and, as for what happened,” Her expression darkened, “it was close. Your spell held our foe’s attack off for just long enough that I managed to block it with my own, but even a moment’s delay would have cost you your life.”

  That was close indeed, though he noticed she made no mention of the possibility that she might have died, only him. “Were you able to defeat him then?”

  She shook her head. “No, he retreated and I didn’t dare follow. It would have required leaving you defenseless and after casting a spell in your already injured state... Capturing him wasn’t worth risking your life.”

  Rian’s heart sunk. The assassin had come within inches of killing him and it was his own weakness that prevented her from capturing the man. If he hadn’t exhausted himself so foolishly against the golems, she could have captured the man. Weak and helpless… Perhaps Dalmarn was right. “I am sorry.”