Gathering of the Titans: The Tol Chronicles Book 2 (32 page)

After a minute or so there was an audible click. The water in the hole drained off to reveal a rectangular sandstone-encrusted protrusion that Halla grasped with both hands and lifted up onto the sand. Beneath it was a locked metal box about the size of an overnight bag. The half-ogre retrieved it and filled in the hole. The orc watched but said nothing.

“This is what I came to get. Thanks for letting me,” Halla said to the orc, brightly. The orc remained mute while escorting him back to the gate. Halla went through and turned to the guard as the gate was closing behind him.

“Why did you let me in, but not my friend?” he asked.

“You are half-orc,” the orc replied,“The Treaty of the Clans demands that I admit any of the noble bloodline. Goblins are
never
allowed on orc lands,” he sneered.

The guard walked away, leaving Halla frozen in place with his mouth hanging open.

“What did he mean about you being a half-orc?”

“I...I don’t know,” Halla replied as they sat in the dense underbrush twenty meters from the beach, counting their ill-gotten gain. “I never knew my dad. Mom wouldn’t talk about him. When she died I didn’t have any relatives around to tell me, neither.”

“Is it possible he was an
orc
?”

“That never occurred to me until now. That orc guard sure seemed convinced. I guess I always assumed he was a goblin or kobold or something. It explains some things about me, I suppose.”

“Like what?”

“Like my temper and my wanderlust. Orcs are known for both, which is why locking them in these enclaves is doubly hard on them. But the government says it don’t have a choice.”

“Why not?”

“Because orcs are maniacs. They seem perfectly fine and then one day they just murder everyone within reach. They’ve been that way for as long as we’ve known about their existence.”

“Why do you think they do that?”

“I dunno. Maybe they have something wrong with their brains. We don’t even know exactly where they came from.”

“Maybe they’re from some other planet.”

“We don’t have any evidence that life exists anywhere else, at least as far as I know. The mages talk about other dimensions and stuff like that, but I think there’s something wrong with
their
brains, also.”

“Yeah, I always thought that, too,” agreed Juvvy. “So, are they gonna lock you up for bein’ half orc?”

Halla laughed, “If they catch either one of us they’re gonna lock us up, half-orc or not. That’s why we gotta keep movin.’ This money will make that a lot easier. I figure we go to Azlymosh, or maybe Blostt in Tantatku. No cops gonna bother us there, long as we’re careful.”

“Azlymosh? Isn’t that a desert or something? I don’t like hot, dry places.”

“Neither does anyone else: that’s sort of the point. Besides, Juymiz isn’t that bad, they say. It’s on the coast so it’s not as hot as the interior.”

“What about Blostt?”

“Blostt is a little further south; across the strait from Uzplenq in Nerr. If we go there we’ll need to get some fake IDs made, ‘cause they have pretty strict immigration policies in Tantatku. Nobody in Azlymosh gives a smek who you are. That’s why a lot of guys like you and me end up in Juymiz or one of the little coastal villages.”

“If we go there and don’t like it, can we leave?”

“Sure thing.”

“Okay, I’m ready, then. Next stop: Juymiz!”

Half a kilometer away, in the Elders’ Sanctum of the Balom Orc Enclave, the elders were listening to the guard’s report.

“Half-orc came to the gate and dug something up just inside the fence. Buried in a Chieftain’s Casket.”

“Where is he now?”

“Gone.”

“Did you see what it was?”

“No. Bundle about this big.” The orc held his hands out in an approximation of the object’s dimensions.

The elders dismissed him and talked among themselves.

“Buried treasure?”

“Probably. Currency or jewels. It is the way.”

“But he did not share.”

“Diaspora sometimes forget the old ways.”

“Yet he knew about the Chieftain’s Casket.”

“He is only a half-breed. Not all of the engrams may be there.”

“What if he is the Uul? What if he has recovered the Valtir?”

“He would have declared were he the Uul. The Valtir has little intrinsic worth, except as a symbol for orcs.”

“But a half-breed may not know why he finds the Valtir important to him: just that it is.”

“Do we believe that this half-breed has, indeed, stolen the Valtir from us?”

“If he is not the Uul, why else would he have brazenly come onto our land and opened a Chieftain’s Casket? No outsider would dare to do such a thing, as they believe us to be indiscriminate, mad killers. He was not afraid; therefore he had foreknowledge that we would not interfere with him. No one without orc blood would think that way. No, our course is clear: we must retrieve the Valtir. It was prophesied that the Uul would take it as a test of our resolve.”

“If we try to go among the outsiders, they will think we are warring upon them.”

“We must take that chance. The honor of our ancestors demands that the Valtir be returned to Eithmorg. It is our duty; it is our purpose in being.”

“Agreed. It will be a difficult task; we do not even know where the half-breed is, or where he intends to take the Valtir.”

“The sooner we start, the easier his trail will be to follow.”

“We send a message to the Moreani first. We will require their assistance if the half-breed travels by sea. Employ Okung.”

One of the elders went to a window and blew three blasts on a horn made from shells and hollowed-out wooden tubing. After a moment he blew twice more, before returning to his elaborately carved chair. They sat without speaking for three full minutes before a shadow passed over the open window and an enormous sea avian landed on the external sill. The elder who ordered the horn be blown wrote a message on a small strip of parchment and sealed it in a capsule attached to the avian’s leg. The huge diomedean leapt off the sill and took gracefully to the skies, heading out to sea immediately.

“Now we must proceed with care. There are far too few of us to take direct action; we must be cautious and use the shadows instead of the light. It is not the orcish way, yet we will do what must be done. On this we must all agree. Any opposed say so.” There was no response. “Then, the die is cast. Let us recover the Valtir or perish in the attempt, as honor demands.”

in which a student mage is promoted and encounters an exceedingly odd curse

“Tomorrow we will begin the examination for Mage First Tier,” Ballop’ril announced as breakfast concluded. “Two other mages will be present to proctor besides myself: Magus Arcanis Hutreq and Magus Academicus Kjonza. They will be here just after daybreak; the exam will begin precisely at mid-morning. You should spend today in meditation and review.”

Prond dropped his fork in alarm. “I thought the MFT exam wasn’t supposed to be undertaken until I had been Second Tier for at least a full half-year,” he exclaimed, a little shaken.

“The mentoring mage has flexibility in the timing of all exams,” Ballop’ril explained, “You know that. Based on your progress in the practica and my estimation of your skills, I believe you to be ready. It is important to strike while the iron is hot, so to speak. The exam for Mage First Tier is taxing, both mentally and physically. You should get it out of the way as soon as you are prepared to do so, and I judge that time to be now. Go and meditate.”

Prond stood and bowed to the Archmage before making his way back to his cell, a little unsteadily. His mind was racing and his stomach turned flips like a circus acrobat. Was he really ready for this? The First Tier exam was infamous among students of magic as the most difficult of all exams other than the Archmage trial, because it was the first exam where macromolecular structural manipulation was required. Not only did examinees have to demonstrate spell proficiency, they also had to both create and modify solid objects using only manna. He wondered why Ballop’ril was so convinced he was ready. He didn’t
feel
ready.

He did not sleep that night, but this was normal for him before exams. Prond meditated most of the night, preparing mentally for the challenge ahead. About an hour before daybreak he started running through his warmup and agility rituals. By the time the other proctors had arrived, he was as ready as he was going to get.

The exam began with the traditional questions on the ethics and practice of magic, followed by a series of increasingly difficult spell-casting exercises to test Prond’s memory for the incantations he would need to be able to access to accomplish more complex magical tasks. The final and most lengthy phase was the creation and manipulation of simple objects, then more complex ones, using nothing but manna.

Prond stumbled a bit at first, but Ballop’ril’s insistence on constant drilling and repetitive practice, followed always by meditation for the lessons to gel, proved effective. Once he found his groove, he was unstoppable and finished the exam in a whirlwind of stellar performances. The final examination task complete, he bowed and left the room for the proctors to deliberate. They called him back in less than a minute.

Ballop’ril spoke: “Apprentice Prond, it is the judgment of this panel of proctors, all full Magi in good standing, that you be elevated to the rank of Mage of the First Tier, effective immediately. With this rank comes a golden baldric.” He unrolled from an embroidered silk wrapping the most beautiful baldric Prond had ever seen. It was made from real cloth of gold, with elaborate embroidery and gems set into it. He received it reverently and gaped.

“This baldric,” Ballop’ril continued, “Is a gift from His Majesty Tragacanth, in recognition of and appreciation for your help in rescuing the Royal Consort and Magineer Liaison from the assassin’s poison. Without you, the attached message reads, the vial containing the antidote might have been destroyed and with it any hope for saving her life. His Majesty asks that you accept this gift as a small token of his esteem and gratitude.”

It was just too much at once: passing the strenuous exam and now this unexpected and extravagant gift from the leader of his nation. Prond honestly felt he was going to faint. Ballop’ril sensed his state of mind and hurried through the rest of the ceremony so Prond could be excused back to his cell to lie down, though it was only mid-afternoon. He fell asleep almost instantly.

After a long nap, Prond awoke feeling slightly woozy and disoriented until he saw the king’s gift and the day’s events came flooding back. He removed his simple silver baldric and placed the golden one over his shoulder. It fit very well, with some sort of sticky fabric under the curve that caused it to adhere to his tunic, holding the entire garment in place properly at all times. He looked at himself in the mirror, admiring the beautiful work. He really felt like a mage now, more than ever. It was something of an emotional moment for him.

At the evening meal Ballop’ril was full of cheer and congratulations. He toasted Prond while the other apprentices and staff all cheered for him. He felt as though the blush would burst completely through his cheeks. As a Mage of the First Tier Prond would now be expected to assume more comprehensive training duties for the newer apprentices, as well as accomplish lesser contracts taken on by the archmage. All of this, of course, was in addition to rigorous training for the next advancement to Magus Incipius.

The step from Mage to Magus was more of a quantum leap, since it involved not just exercises and an examination, but a formal enquestation that must be solved in multiple steps, each dependent on the successful navigation of the previous. The real difference in the Magus-level exams was that wrong answers could have serious— even fatal—repercussions. He didn’t like to think about that, and he wouldn’t have to for some time. Prond knew he had a lot of work to do before he would be ready for advancement to Magus.

On the other side of the world, in the city of Barra Tingo on the tropical island of Grosyem, a local business owner named Ai’go’r sat in his office and fretted over a problem he was having, which was that the vegetables he stocked in his wholesale produce mart were spoiling much too rapidly. Hardly did he get them unpacked and distributed in the proper bins for his customers, mostly restaurateurs and retail grocers from throughout the four insular nations comprising the continent of Litria, before their ripe, brown or gray flesh began to turn lurid green and rot.

He’d tried everything. It wasn’t the air, or the water, or some weird microorganism resident in his premises; he’d had all of those exhaustively analyzed. The businesses flanking him in the industrial park weren’t having any issues. The very weirdest thing was that his ownership of the vegetables in question seemed to be the root cause of their accelerated demise. No matter where he took a vegetable, the same thing happened to it. Ai’go’r began to wonder if it was something his own body was giving off—some odor or aura or radiation.

The problem had started suddenly, about a fortnight previous. At first he blamed the shipper, but oddly no other end-users of that same shipping company’s services were experiencing the issue. He brought in various specialists, none of whom made any progress although they had no shortage of theories, from the plausible (residual vapors from extermination) to the outlandish (aliens sucking the life forces out).

Facing the very real possibility that he might have to go into some other line of work, Ai’go’r sat with his head in his hands, trying to understand what was happening. He was listening to a news report on one of the channels that specialized in off-the-wall occurrences when he heard a brief account from the Arcanical News Network about an apprentice mage in Tragacanth who had just advanced to Mage First Tier in record time. One small corner of his mind chewed on that tidbit in the background while the rest of the brain was preoccupied with feeling sorry for itself until at last it reached a conclusion. It took a bit of jumping up and down and shouting before the tidbit made itself heard, but eventually the conclusion wound its way up the protocol stack to his conscious mind: this could be a magically-induced problem. A curse, in other words.