A Touch of Magic (17 page)

 “If that’s how you want to play it,” Bobby growled out, tightening up his fighting stance, his lips a thin line. He was as angry with himself for falling for such a dirty trick as he was at Randall for pulling it.

Bobby stalked in again, while Randall resolutely stood his ground. The sounds of wooden swords slapping each other rang out twice in quick succession. And then the two combatants backed apart at arm’s length, neither having scored a good blow. The crowd grew quiet, as they realized that the competition was taking on a grim seriousness.

Again, they came together, landing light blows, but neither really scoring. Twice more they came together, both scoring minor hits to the body. Randall should have gotten the worse of those exchanges, if not for his secret armor, but it was Bobby that was breathing hard. Randall was barely winded, which puzzled him at first until he realized the talisman was doing its job, keeping him energized and wiping away his fatigue.

The next time they came together, it was slower, and more cautious. Bobby was getting tired, and it showed. He was starting to move more slowly, conserving energy rather than just rushing in to attack. It was clear that he wasn’t used to a fight dragging out.

He’s making mistakes again, Randall thought as the two fighters squared off again. His foot’s too far forward. I don’t think he’s been training as hard as I have.

The next time Bobby crept forward, Randall lashed out before his opponent was really close enough to be in range of a good blow to the head or body. But as before, he wasn’t aiming for those vital targets. As Bobby raised his sword instinctively to ward off the blow to his fingers, Randall’s swept down instead, clipping his outstretched foot at the ankle.

Bobby cursed and stumbled backward. “Damn it, Randall! That was a dirty trick!” Several people in the crowd also muttered their disapproval, though a few of the elder guardsmen looked impressed.

“So what if it was?” Randall shot back hotly. “If these were real swords, you’d be without a foot, and unable to hold a sword. Some fine soldier you’d make then!”

For the first time in his life, Randall felt like he was in control. He felt strong…big. He was going to win this fight, and he knew it.

Bobby kept his eye on Randall’s shoulders, trying to anticipate where the next blow would land. Randall’s eyes, on the other hand, kept drifting to look at Bobby’s sword hand. Normally, this would be the fatal error of a beginner, leaving Randall vulnerable to a feint. But he wasn’t watching the sword so much as he was watching the blood slowly drip from Bobby’s rapped knuckles, coating his sword hilt.

Right about now,
Randall thought, as he feinted to Bobby’s head, and quickly reversed his swing to strike the last inch of Bobby’s sword instead. Between the leverage of the blow and Bobby’s slippery grip, the sword tumbled to the ground. To Bobby’s credit, he rolled after it reflexively, snatched it up, and was able to land a desperate slash to Randall’s ribs as Randall brought his sword edge down onto Bobby’s protected head. Randall stumbled back, while Bobby struggled back to his feet.

“Had enough?” Bobby gasped between breaths. A blow like the one he had just landed could easily have broken ribs, even through light armor. Randall was only wearing a tunic. Bobby had won, and he knew it.

“Hah! Did your sister teach you to hit like that?” Randall gasped with derision as Bobby’s eyes widened. “I didn’t feel a thing.”

“Of course he didn’t,” a voice called out from the crowd. “The devil touched bastard is cheating!”

Randall whirled to face the speaker. A tall, lanky man that Randall didn’t recognize stood on the edge of the circle, close to them both. He had medium length dark hair, and wore an expression on his face that was just as haughty as the bright red herald’s tabard with the crest of King Priess on his chest.

Before Randall could say anything, the man strode toward him in two long steps and swung his staff right at Randall, hard. Surprised by the sudden move, Randall stood there stupidly as the staff struck him square in the chest, and snapped in two. Randall barely felt the blow.

“Mage armor,” the herald announced with a sneer. “Arrest him.”

The crowd erupted in confusion. Many people pulled back in horror or began to run away. A few reached to pick up stones to throw, the words “devil touched” and “magicker” coming from snarling mouths. The militiamen pulled swords out of scabbards and advanced raggedly from all sides. Panic gripped Randall, as he spun around, trying to face them all. It was no use; there were too many of them, and things were happening too quickly. He did the first thing that came to mind.

“Tsan’laran!” he shouted, pointing at the closest soldier.

Power welled up within him in a painful pulse behind his forehead, and then it lashed out just as swiftly. It wove itself into the words, gave them purpose, and spread out in all directions, as far as Randall’s voice would carry.

And all within the sound of that voice were struck insensible. Soldiers dropped their swords and wandered off. One man sat down heavily and gnawed on the rock he was holding, as if it were an apple. One soldier hugged himself tightly, weeping. Two other men started shoving each other until it escalated into a fistfight. But one man never dropped his eyes from Randall at all. And slowly, he began clapping.

It was the herald. “Oh, that was very good!” he said with genuine relish. “At your age, I’m surprised you pulled off a word of power at all, much less affected all of these...” He waved his hand dismissively at the stunned and confused townspeople. “Who’d have expected to see a real show of power? Here of all places! That alone was worth the trip! And you’re still standing afterwards!” he giggled with glee. “Marvelous! I don’t know how Erliand has kept you hidden all of these years,” the herald concluded, his voice turning viscous. “But he should have kept you hidden longer.”

Randall was exhausted. He felt almost as drained as when he had changed the parchment into dwarven steel. The tip of his sword dug into the ground, and gravity threatened to pull it from his fingers.
All of these years?
Randall was confused. He’d only been apprenticed with Erliand since spring of last year.

“Shame it has to end right as it was getting good,” the herald continued, bringing his hand from beneath his tabard. It held thick ebony wand, nine inches long. Symbols were inlaid in silver around it, and a long splinter of ruby was lashed to the tip.

Randall cried out and threw his arms up instinctively as the herald pointed the wand at him and barked a short word. Randall felt very little power being summoned, but a huge column of flame roared out from the wand. It stopped inches away from Randall, as if the flames were lapping against an invisible wall. Unable to hold himself up without help, Randall toppled backward into the dirt.

“Aidan!” a voice cried out, and Randall saw Erliand weaving his way toward them among the confused townspeople. “Leave the boy alone! Your quarrel is with me!”

“I knew you had to be close by,” the herald spat toward Erliand. “Thanks for saving me the trouble of tracking you down. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

He turned the wand on Erliand and loosed another gout of flame. Erliand sung a soft word, drowned out by the roar of flame, and the flame again smashed against the same kind of invisible shield which had protected Randall moments before.

“I let you live once, Aidan, because I thought you could be redeemed. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Helplessly, Randall watched the scene unfold before him, as if in a dream. It was all he could do to keep himself from passing out as the two Mages battled, throwing and deflecting arcane energies back and forth.

Randall felt so insignificant compared to the power wielded by the two Mages that he fell to his knees and cowered, whimpering before it. He knew he was feeling the side effects of being in the presence of so much gathered magic, but that didn’t matter. His heart hammered just the same, and he sat there frozen.

He wasn’t the only one feeling the effects, either. All around the fighting Mages, those townsfolk that Randall had struck senseless were fleeing the area, their animal instincts taking over from their higher brain functions.

Randall was shocked out of his reverie when the herald was able to take advantage of a momentary opening in the battle to loose another column of flame in Randall’s direction. Erliand was unable to shield it, but Randall rolled out of the way at the last minute. His energy was coming back quickly, thanks to the talisman still tucked into his tunic.

“Run boy! What are you, stupid?” Erliand yelled. “Run!”

Randall turned and ran, cutting through fields. He didn’t look back, though he could still feel the other combatants drawing and loosing power at each other. The sensations faded the further he got from the battlefield, but Randall didn’t stop running though it felt as if his lungs would burst. It was only after the battle was far behind him that he realized that he was running home. Home!

The thought filled him with despair and apprehension. He wanted nothing more than to run home and crawl under his covers and pretend he had never met Erliand Kestorn. But that was impossible. A dozen townspeople had seen him use magic. Devil touched, he was. And in a small town like Geldorn, half the town will have heard of it by tonight. The other half would know of it by tomorrow.

And Randall had used magic against the militia! There was no getting out of that. He could be imprisoned for life for that! Or even hanged! The more he thought about it, the more he realized he couldn’t stay home. He would have to leave, and right away. He would stay just long enough to gather some food, and then make some excuse to get away.

He’d go to another village, and give a fake name, and start over. He’d seen runaway boys a couple of times in town. Sometimes they were of no account—lazy, thieving boys who wanted to lie and cause trouble. But sometimes, they were just boys trying to escape a hard life. If you were willing to work hard and stay out of trouble, there was usually a family that would give you a chance, and give you some odd-jobs and chores to do to earn a little food and a place to sleep in the barn.

He’d tell his parents that Erliand was at the inn, and that he sent Randall back to say hello to his family, and have dinner. But Randall would say he couldn’t stay long because of an important job that they were late for, and that if they could get there on time it would mean a bonus in the money John Miller received for Randall’s training. He knew his mother would pressure him into taking some food with him if he made some joke about how terrible travel rations were. It’s just the way she was.

That’d have to do, for now. Randall couldn’t think of any other options. It was a good plan. It wasn’t overly complicated, and it would play right into everyone’s expectations, just like Erliand had taught him. The miles fell behind him unnoticed as he went over his cover story in his mind the way he had been trained to do. Over and over again he played it out, memorizing little details to the point where they almost felt like the truth.

He was still deep in thought when he reached the edge of the Miller property. For all of his confidence in his plan, his heart leapt back up in his throat when he realized that he was home and that this was probably the last time he would ever see his family again. He nearly broke down crying, but living a year with Erliand had toughened him somewhat, and he fought back the tears.

As he made his way up the path to the house, he was surprised to see his mother come out of the house and rush toward him, with a bulging travel sack in her arms.

“Randall!” she called out. “We have to hurry!” She didn’t seem surprised to see him at all.

“Mama,” Randall said, beginning his memorized story as she got close to him. “Earl’s at the inn and sent me ahead to…”

“Never you mind that rubbish,” she snapped, interrupting him and fixing him with a piercing look. “I know all about it. The militia will be here by nightfall for sure, after they’ve managed to pour a little courage down their throats. You need to be gone by then. And so do we.”

“But Momma,” Randall started, completely confused as his mother pressed the sack and a cloak into his hands. “How do you know? What do you mean you have to be gone, too?” He had completely forgotten his cover story.

“Look, child, we don’t have time to waste. Aidan will kill us all if he finds us here!” his mother said. Her voice had that no-nonsense tone she often took on when the Miller boys were shirking their chores.

Randall did break down crying this time. Not only was his life over, but so were the lives of his family. He had ruined everything…again. He clung to his mother’s shoulders and wept, while she smoothed his hair and muttered soothing sounds. “I’m sorry” was all he could think to say, over and over.

When he finally calmed himself, she squared his shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes again. “Look, Randall, there’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I’m the one who asked Erliand to train you. I see such great things ahead for you. I just never saw this coming.”

“What?” was all Randall could think of to say. Things were moving too fast for him, and he was having a hard time putting the pieces together.

“Pay attention, Randall!” his mother snapped as she spun Randall around by the shoulder, and began walking briskly back out to the main road, forcing Randall to match her pace.

 “Erliand isn’t the only Mage on Tallia. Your gramma was right. I have the Sight. I could see the Talent within you, too. I knew that if you didn’t get trained, you’d end up using your power by accident out of ignorance, not even knowing what you were doing. When that happened, I knew there’d be no saving you. Or us. I’ve known Erliand for a long time, since before I married your father. I asked him to train you.”