A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1) (2 page)

2

Excerpt from
The Astute Scholar’s Abridged Companion to the Known
Energumen
, Fifth Edition,
edited by Enri Marbahn, Onyx Publishing Guild

With but a whisper and a flutter of his fingers, Anese’s bindings fell to the ash. She drifted toward him, stopping only inches away. Uhniethi studied her face, a twisted portrait of agony frozen in flesh once as soft as petals but now roasted to a thick rind. No trace of her eyes remained, once bright brown like fine brandy. Instead, hollow smoldering sockets stared back in an empty plea.

“Sorcerer!”
echoed a shout through the deserted plaza.

Uhniethi glared over his shoulder in the direction from which the epithet had come, toward the triple rows of banner-draped balconies lining the castle’s inner curtain. Guards, ministers, and others had gathered above, below, and to either side of Lord Juleon, himself hunched forward and gripping the stone ledge at his waist. At Juleon’s right stood none other than Herahm, Lord Magistrate from the College’s Ministry of Law.

“You seal your fate by coming to fetch your whore,” Lord Juleon growled.

Uhniethi knelt, easing Anese’s rigid body to the stone tiles. With a wave of his hand, the blackened husk of her remains vanished.

For a moment, silence.

Uhniethi then let loose a savage bellow that filled the air like thunder, launched into the sky as if shot from a bow, and hurtled toward the castle wall where he stopped midair before the balcony’s wide-eyed occupants.

“No, my Lord,” he seethed, aiming a trembling finger first at Juleon, then at Herahm. “I seal
your
fate, and that of
your
whore.”

Herahm cried hasty syllables, but Uhniethi jutted his arm out to a ghastly length and stabbed his fingers through the Lord Magistrate’s teeth. Herahm choked out a muffled, bloody retch as Uhniethi ripped away his tongue.

“I may require your help shortly,” Uhniethi said to Herahm with new, cold calm, “but for now I wish no distractions.”

“Archers!”
Juleon screamed.

Uhniethi tsked, then reached out with both hands, seized Herahm and Juleon each by the throat and lifted them from the balcony.

“Ladies and gentlefolk!”
he called as he brought the writhing pair to him. “I fear your Lord Juleon has done you all a great disservice this day!” He pressed his mouth to Juleon’s ear. “You seem to enjoy a good fire, my Lord. I believe I can accommodate you.”

Uhniethi closed his eyes, ignoring the fearful shouts and the hail of arrows now flying in his direction. He drew a long, deep breath, not simply filling his chest but expanding it to an inhuman size. Bones cracked and muscles tore, but Uhniethi continued drawing air. The sound of his inhalation became like a gale wind.

Flame vomited from Uhniethi’s mouth; a buffeting torrent that slammed into the massive wall surrounding the castle, incinerating those on the balconies. The wall buckled, crashed down, and a merciless surge of magical fire flooded the inner ward.

Uhniethi cackled as the ravenous blaze swelled to a colossal size, cascaded down the hillside toward the villages and farms below, and devoured all it touched. Wave after wave of flame spilled from the castle like a giant cauldron boiling over, and soon everything from horizon to horizon glowed a hellish orange-red.

“Alas, my Lord,” Uhniethi sang through the rush of heated air, “had I any sense for the dramatic I’d offer a clever, parting remark. I trust you’ll take my meaning anyway.”

He let go of the still-struggling Lord Juleon, whose screams lasted well beyond his plunge to the devastation below.

Herahm finally went limp in Uhniethi’s grasp.

“Yes, Lord Magistrate, sleep,” Uhniethi laughed. “For you will have much to do when you awaken.”

3

Niel stood, blissful amongst the squawks of gulls overhead and the rumble of the surf below. Before him stretched a shimmering prairie of sapphire whose sharp, salty fragrance delighted his senses every bit as much as its enormity confounded them.

At last
,
he thought.
The Nilfranian
.

He’d never seen the ocean before, if one didn’t count picture books; the tiny house he’d shared with his teacher, Biddleby, had been tucked deep in the golden folds of the rural Lyrrian midlands, isolated by thick woods and rolling pastures. After traveling so long and scarcely believing he’d finally arrived, Niel found it just hard to believe that in a matter of days he’d be trudging right back the way he came, back toward Lyrria to take his long-overdue place at the College.

He sighed. In strict fairness to Biddleby, no age requirement dictated when an apprentice should attend the College of Magic and Conjuring Arts. As in most things affecting a pupil’s life, one’s sponsor held sole discretion. Still, the typical age for a freshman was fifteen. As best as Niel could tell, that had passed four long summers ago.

He shrugged, dismissing his umbrage as best he could. He’d lived with Biddleby his entire life and knew that while the old fellow rarely gave reasons for his decisions he did always have them, so he bore Biddleby no great ill will. If anything, it underscored the irony of his arrival at the coast: When it came right down to it, he had no real reason for being there. At one time Niel had nurtured an honest, simple yearning to see the ocean from the deck of a ship; experiencing something so much larger than himself had held a fascination since childhood. Yet despite the grand view before him, he couldn’t deny the disappointment creeping in, tainting the triumph of having made it so far on his own.

That was not to say the journey had been anything of a waste—far from it. He’d seen more countryside than he once had thought possible; given the time and effort invested in training, teachers rarely allowed students out of their sight. Then again, conservative leanings aside, Biddleby often prided himself on his eccentricities. Indeed, the old fellow showed surprising enthusiasm for postponing Niel’s enrollment until winter, confessing a sympathy for the wanderlust intrinsic to youth. “Maybe boots with thinner soles will let you focus on your work,” Biddleby had said, “instead of brushing from your ear the pests of things left undone.”

From the bluff Niel spied several ships rocking gently in the cradle of the sea. Sailors swarmed over each like ants on an apple.

The weeks that had passed with no one other than himself for company had been no hardship. The idea of being among people again made Niel uneasy, especially since Southerners had no real love for magicians. But the tiny community huddled against the cliffs looked harmless enough, and the novelty of sleeping on the ground had dissipated so long ago that a good night’s rest enticed him far more than the idea of company and conversation troubled him—not that common folk could be relied upon for either. He would head into town, inquire about passage for the morning, find an inn, have supper, then crawl into bed—a bed all to himself, if he could afford it. Not even sitting down for a few hands of Stash held any appeal.

As he smiled at the thought of a real bed, a fat grey gull flopped down near his feet, waddled over, then gazed up at him questioningly.

Taking it as a hint, Niel gathered his things and started down.

***

An hour later Niel emerged from the foothills to find himself within a stone’s throw of the shore. The new vantage let him appreciate the enormity and grace of the nearby ships all the better—the rich colors and craftsmanship of their elaborate prows, the geometric intricacies of riggings running from mast to deck then off again in a dozen directions, and the stark brilliance of the sails as they flapped and swelled in the breeze. He’d read of the devotion ship captains often had for the condition of their crafts, of how the whiteness of a sail spoke to the caliber of the person commanding her. While likely nothing more than vanity among seamen, the result was indeed spectacular.

Sounds of civilization grew as Niel neared town. Faint snippets of conversation mingled with the continuous screech of sea gulls and the pleasant crunch of the pebbly beach beneath his boots. Goosebumps crept up his arms from a sudden, chilly gust. The warmer southern weather made it easy to forget that winter fast drew near.

He found the dock master’s booth on the side of the docks nearest to him. More shack than booth, the tiny structure looked cobbled together from the same worn, weather-greyed planks as the pier. Niel approached and stepped into line behind several scruffy men he presumed were sailors wanting work. Above the booth’s counter a rough, chiseled sign stated all business was to be concluded by sundown.

The sun slipped closer to the horizon, pulling long shadows from the hilly coastline, smearing once-concealed purples across the evening sky.

Niel hoped it wouldn’t be too long a wait.

***

“I said,
Next!
”

Niel’s eyes snapped open to reveal the angry dock master leaning half-way out of his booth. He must have drifted off while standing in line; the six or seven men ahead of Niel a few moments ago were nowhere to be seen. Embarrassed, he stepped to the counter.

The dock master—a muscular man with a shaved head and a bushy black mustache drooping to either side of his chin—withdrew into his hovel with a reproachful snort. The gold hoop in his left earlobe identified him as a veteran seaman. Calluses scabbed thick fingers clearly better suited for hoisting and rowing. Niel wondered how he’d ended up a clerk.

“State yer business,” the dock master croaked.

“Yes, please,” Niel replied. “I’d like to know if any vessels in port are headed for Aithiq.”

The man shook his head and looked down at the papers scattered over the uneven shelf that served as his desk. “Another fool gonna start a whole new life, eh? Maybe have a peep at the savages while you’re at it? What’s yer name?”

Reluctantly, Niel told him. Apprentices never gave their names happily. Such knowledge, used properly, could yield great power over an individual. Once confirmed by the College, tradition granted magicians the right to change their names; apprentices and novices were expected to do without such protection. The practice had always seemed backward to Niel, but it supposedly helped weed out those not clever or resourceful enough to avoid such perils.

To chase back the encroaching darkness the dock master picked up a candle flickering near a pile of wooden stamps and with it lit a dented oil lamp hanging overhead. He then searched the manifests occupying his desktop and finally held up a greasy-looking sheet of vellum. Despite the obvious necessity given the man’s job, actually seeing someone like the dock master being able to read took Niel aback.

The man grumbled. “Only one I got leavin’ any time soon is the
Alodis
.
Jorgan’s ship.”

“Would you not normally recommend Captain Jorgan?”

The dock master crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Well, the
Alodis
herself is a fine craft. Good crew. Jorgan’s kinda peculiar, is all.” He held out his slab of hand. “A copper.”

Niel dug two fingers into his belt pouch and produced the coin. “I suppose he’ll have to do. When does he get underway?”

The dock master accepted the coin and plunked it through the slot of a small metal box behind him. “Right now.”

Niel’s eyes widened. “Now? At night?”

The man gave a shrug and jotted Niel’s name down on the sheet in a clumsy script. “As I said—peculiar.” He pointed his quill toward the ships. “Best hurry.”

Stories abounded about the crags and reefs of Lyrria’s southern coast. In the black of night a less-than-master pilot could easily gut his vessel on the rocks lurking just below the water and lose his ship only a short distance from shore. In the bargain, anyone finding themselves overboard would likely be pulled down by the undertow and shredded.

Not seeing any choice if he hoped to keep his schedule, Niel slung his pack over his shoulder and ran.

***

In the glare of sunset the
Alodis
proved a daunting sight. Her twin masts loomed black, her half-furled sails blazed, soaked through with the fiery blood of the dying day. She seemed to brood at the dock, tugging at her moorings rather than floating contentedly like the other vessels berthed nearby. Her riggings showed no signs of grime and frays, though, and toward the bridge a polished brass compass gleamed.

The sailor at the bottom of the gangway had only grunted and jabbed his thumb up toward the ship when Niel asked to speak to the captain. Doubting he’d get much accomplished standing about the deck, Niel weaved his way astern through a forest of sweaty, tattooed torsos until he came to a smallish man dressed in black atop a high wooden crate.

The man wore a slouching cloth cap that lent him an air of menace not unlike the
Alodis
herself. At his waist hung a gentleman’s blade with an ornate silver handle, while into the other side of his belt were tucked several small scrolls. The man’s hand clutched a much larger scroll with which he pointed to other crates as they came aboard, shouting directions on where to place them.

Given how the sailors moved without question as the man orchestrated, Niel assumed he’d found the captain. He approached and waited patiently for Captain Jorgan to finish his instructions. And he waited. And he waited. Until finally, at the end of a particularly colorful string of orders that included a theory on how each and every one of the sailors’ mothers must have mated with Belavian slugs to have birthed such lazy creatures, the man snapped his head around to Niel and screamed, “WHAT?”

Niel jumped, then stammered. “Captain Jorgan? I wondered if… Might I—”

“No. No room. Get off.” And with that, Jorgan returned to his work.

Niel stood flustered by the brevity of the conversation. Likely the captain had thought he wanted to load cargo. Sailors weren’t exactly the cleverest of specimens, after all.

Niel cleared his throat and started again, with a smile. “Excuse me, Captain, I think—”

All activity came to a halt as the tip of a sword whipped into place not two thumbwidths from the end of Niel’s nose. He hadn’t seen Jorgan draw the weapon, but nonetheless the captain stood poised with his arm extended, aiming his blade squarely at Niel’s head. It flashed red and gold in the waning sunlight, long and needle-like, as most gentlemen’s blades were meant more for piercing than slashing. Examining the wicked point so closely for himself, though he had to cross his eyes to do so, Niel had no trouble imagining how efficient it would be at such a task.

“Either remove yourself as a whole,” the captain snarled, “or I will do so a piece at a time.”

From behind, a large hand clamped down on Niel’s shoulder. Niel’s eyes followed the arm upward until they arrived at the stubbly face of a hulking sailor—fair hair, narrow eyes, and a wide grin lacking two front teeth. Niel returned the smile with considerably less enthusiasm, just before the sailor lifted him by his shirt collar and started for the railing.

“There
you are!” someone called out. “What took you so long?”

The captain lowered his sword and squinted in the direction of the new voice. The sailor holding Niel turned, thereby swinging him around as well.

A handsome young man moved briskly to the forefront, arms open, eyes intently on Niel, a relieved expression on his lightly-bearded face. His clothes were worn but well-fitting—dark suede breeches, a loose white shirt laced up the front with black cord, and a long leather vest. His coal black hair ran shoulder-length, with a few locks tousled in front of brilliant blue eyes. Like the captain he wore a blade, though a broader one.

The young man placed his hands on Niel’s shoulders. “I didn’t think you’d make it!”

Niel managed another weak smile. “That makes two of us.”

“You know this lubber, Arwin?” Jorgan asked.

Arwin faced Jorgan with unabashed sincerity. “I do indeed, Captain. This is the person I mentioned when I came aboard.”

Jorgan sheathed his sword. “You said nothing of a companion this trip.”

Arwin looked confused. “I’m certain I did, sir. Most certain.” As the captain opened his mouth to counter, Arwin hastily added, “Oh yes, you’re right.” His tone became instantly, deeply remorseful. “Captain Jorgan, I do apologize for my oversight. I was unforgivably stupid for not telling you about my friend here.” For emphasis, he added a slight bow.

Jorgan looked hard at Arwin, then at Niel, and then back at Arwin with a stern frown. “You’re lying.”

Arwin took a half-step backward and placed a hand over his heart. “How could you say such a thing?”

The frown became a smirk. “Because you’re a liar?”

Laughter erupted from the crew, and everyone collectively resumed their preparations to get underway. Jorgan signaled for the sailor to set Niel back on his own feet, then turned to mind the last pieces of cargo being lowered into the hold.