Journeyman: The Force of the Gods: Part I (28 page)

The irony of ending up as a sort of teacher didn’t seem to be lost on Atlosreg. He made it clear to Peter that he didn’t have very much time for people who needed to be taught, considering he himself had made the effort to go and find information for himself – then again, he did understand that in this case, there wasn’t any other means by which Peter could gain the knowledge he needed to perform this task.

There wasn’t much other speaking needed. They communicated symbolically when they needed to, but when words were needed they were used sparingly. It was clear to each of them that the other had his own agenda, and that was fine – but they also each recognized the value of teamwork, especially in a venture like this. They didn't have to like one another, merely to respect one another and work together; a sort of professional courtesy.

Peter did, however, have more than a simple professional level of respect for Atlosreg. He was fascinated by him, and wanted to get to know him and develop some sort of friendship with him, however childish that might have been to admit to Atlosreg, or even to himself. He looked forward to working with him and learning from him, and to seeing if their shared goal could be realized.

As Peter had requested, Atlosreg began to tutor him in some simple flavours of Werosaian magic, and it instantly struck Peter how simple the Werosaian theories concerning magic actually were: it was almost as though they hadn’t ever grown out of their shamanistic roots. It also, however, struck Peter how far Atlosreg himself had developed magic on his own, having reasoned for himself quite a lot of the founding principles.

This meant that Peter and Atlosreg would have plenty to learn from each other, rather than it simply being a one-way student/mentor relationship.

With Atlosreg’s style being as highly developed as it was, and therefore similar to Peter’s in some subtle ways, it was far easier for Peter to assimilate what he didn’t already know than he had expected. Even so, the differences which were there were sufficiently great as to require the application of a certain measure of will, in order to actually wrap his head around them.

Atlosreg hadn’t ever used any of the civilian magic Peter had heard about; the farming and irrigation spells which had been detailed in some of the writings in the Steward’s secret library: only those who actually used it were ever trained in that kind of magic, much the same as the military spellwork.

Peter, on the other hand, was equally interested in both areas, and while he appreciated that Atlosreg didn’t know any civilian magic, he had a feeling that the broad style of the casting could be extrapolated from the broad style of the military work, in a similar way to how a linguist might infer how a dialect will treat certain subjects once one has a general feel for how other subjects are treated by that same dialect.

It wasn’t easy. The first week saw Peter being subjected to Atlosreg’s style not only as a magician but as a military commander: he was tough and rigid in his expectations, and if someone under his charge was not performing to the set standards – well, they could go away and come back when they were ready. During their lessons, Atlosreg had Peter cast shields and veils of types Peter hadn’t ever seen before, even during his own encounters with Werosaian agents. It was as though they were now only sending people with the most mundane skillsets to Earth, unless Atlosreg’s own skills really were
that
rare among his own kind. Own kind or not, Peter thought, these are some pretty impressive spells.

They were outside the first time Peter successfully got one of the shields Atlosreg had shown him – an hour’s gruelling work, at which Atlosreg laughed. The Sun had been setting, and through the shield, Peter could see the light of the Sun on the horizon being subtly split into its component spectra, as though the shield was made from a layer of fine prisms.

He was tired, and his hands ached from the work. It had taken a lot more brute force to get the spell off than anticipated, but he had done it, and with some more practice he could possibly have a hope of actually using it in a confrontation.

But again, Atlosreg just laughed.

‘What do you call that?’ His voice sounded slightly muffled to Peter, as though Peter was as the bottom of a swimming pool. There was something cruel and derisive in the laugh.

Peter started to respond, but before a word could form in his throat, Atlosreg’s finger – his
finger
– descended and made a long vertical slit in the shield. For a moment, Peter could see the shield shimmer, see the gap form, and then it punctured. The shield deflated and collapsed.

‘Unstable,’ said Atlosreg. ‘Unstable. Useless. Try again.’

Cunt, thought Peter. But he tried again, this time paying more attention to the parts of the spell from which the stability came, and realized immediately that he had made a mistake: in the spell, as Atlosreg had explained to him in the first place, it had seemed to Peter that the power was being drawn in greater bulk than necessary, which could have been a compensative move, considering there wasn’t as great a quantity of background energy available in Werosain as there was on Earth. He had un-compensated, thinking the immense power that would be drawn otherwise could become incredibly dangerous if he made any mistakes in the rest of the work.

But he knew it had worked as soon as he felt the magical film form around him. The bubble felt more cohesive, less like a bubble and more like an extra layer of skin. And it was heavy, almost like wearing a layer of physical armour.

Atlosreg laughed again, more heartily this time, and punched Peter in the face, putting as much weight into it as he could. Peter felt the old man’s fist make contact with his nose, but there was no pain. In fact, his nose didn’t depress as it normally would have done. Atlosreg went to punch him in the gut, but Peter expected it this time, and blocked hard, bringing his right arm up and brushing the incoming hand upwards and harmlessly into the air a few inches from his shoulder: the sum total of Peter’s knowledge of non-magical martial arts.

‘Good,’ said Atlosreg, examining the back of his hand. One of the knuckles was bleeding slightly. ‘Now, let’s see if it can withstand magic.’

Peter was ready, but he was also nervous when he saw how his shield was to be tested. Atlosreg was standing about ten feet away, having retreated there so as to be able to perform his spell from a safe distance, and had his arms stretch out straight in front of him, with his hands extended and angled so the fingers touched, palms facing out. He raised this gesture to point to the sky, and then let his left hand drop.

There was a flash and a bang which made Peter momentarily and detachedly wonder if his brain had exploded. It took a second for him to realize from the smell of ozone what had happened: Atlosreg had summoned a bolt of lightning to test the shield. Bloody hell, Peter thought, what if the shield hadn’t been as strong as it had looked?

But the shield had held: Atlosreg was nodding, looking satisfied.

Over the next few days, Atlosreg had Peter practicing that same shield spell over and over, drilling it into him so he could perform it without thinking, in a few seconds, at a moment’s notice. From what Peter could tell, he was being trained not only in military magic, but – to a degree – in military discipline as well. It was hard work, but as he performed the same spell over and over, he began to get a feel for it as an organic entity, rather than as a device to be used as and when required.

Peter was starting to feel that he hadn’t known as much about magic as he had previously thought, and the more readily he accepted that, the better he adapted to the new things he was learning. Once he had learned to perform the shield to a satisfactory degree of fluency and proficiency, Atlosreg started to don the same type of shield, and to teach Peter some more offensive magic.

They were outside, slowly circling each other. Between them was a torch, lit and driven into the grass by Atlosreg, and the object was for Peter to extinguish the torch with only magic, while at the same time fending off an attack by Atlosreg. If Atlosreg could prevent Peter from extinguishing the flame for long enough that the torch would burn out of its own accord, Peter would lose the match. Apparently, this was a standard training game among the Werosaian Militia.

As they moved, revolving clockwise about the torch, Atlosreg occasionally threw spells at Peter; to compromise his balance, expel his wand from his hand, or hit him with lightning – anything he could think of. Meanwhile, Peter was physically dodging and magically parrying the spells as they were being thrown at him, attempting to get a clear shot at the flame in between attempts to evade Atlosreg’s attacks. He was taking his time, attempting to identify a pattern to work between, but each time what appeared to be the pattern he was looking for began to gel, it shifted. The whole exercise felt like some sort of syncopated dance routine.

He was forgetting himself, using the spells he already knew to attempt to repel the spells Atlosreg was firing at him, and while it was working to a degree, the spells he was only just avoiding were getting closer each time, until finally he was hit square in the chest by what felt like a gyroscopic effect, which threw him back about fifteen feet, whereupon he skidded another six across the grass, all the while feeling a rapidly decaying and regenerating vibration across his ribs.

It was pinning him down; whenever he tried to get up, the effect would either throw him back again, or else up, forward, or off to the side. He struggled against it, bringing himself upright in something like a genuflexion, and roared as he fired his own lightning spell at Atlosreg, who jerked and then laughed as he noticed the torch. Peter looked too: it had gone out, having exhausted its fuel.

‘My game,’ said Atlosreg, scratching his head where the lightning had hit.

Peter’s chest came free, and he stood up, breathing in deeply. It annoyed him, how he always seemed to lose. He knew Atlosreg was better at all this than he was himself, but he had thought there may be a possibility that he might be able to at least pose something of a challenge to him while they were gaming or sparring. Maybe, he thought, it would be appropriate to take a step back, so as to allow himself to remember, each time, that he wasn’t to use the spells he was used to using, having used them for five or six years.

Atlosreg plucked the torch out of the ground and carried it over his shoulder, leading the way back into the Hovel. Peter sat down at the table in the centre of the main room, allowing the stiff wooden back of the chair, which he had made himself, to embrace his back. He was aching hither and yon, though not because of the physical exertion of moving around. Magic was tiring, especially when one was using it constantly. Living and working on Knifestone was vastly different to how it was at the Guild, because magic wasn’t used on an everyday basis. Over there, it was used only when necessary. The ones who used magic the most were the ones who were being tutored, and therefore had to practice every day. In fact, now he thought about it, it was the same position he was in again now. Wow, he thought, was it really that intensive, being a student?

He became aware that Atlosreg was talking.

‘…forgetting to use what I have shown you,’ he was saying, ‘and that is…’

‘I know,’ said Peter without opening his eyes. ‘I’m trying to remember what you’re showing me, but it just seems to get lost in the moment.’

‘Not good enough.’

Atlosreg was being an arsehole, which wasn’t likely to make Peter want to cooperate.

‘Five minutes,’ he continued. ‘Then we go out again.’ With that, he began to measure fuel with which to refill the torch.

Complete arsehole. Though, as he realized, sometimes the teacher being an arsehole like that was required in order to push one to perform at their best. It was just something which, at thirty, Peter had hoped would be far in the past. But no such luck.

He took his five minutes, and then went back outside to where Atlosreg was replacing the torch in the ground.

‘Ready?’ He said.

‘Nope,’ replied Peter.

‘Good.’ He lit the torch and stood back.

Right, Peter thought, only use what Atlosreg showed you. He donned his shield spell again and stepped forward toward the flame, locking eye contact with Atlosreg and slowly sidestepping, so that as Atlosreg moved in his steady circle around the torch, he was always directly ahead of Peter.

A spell came straight to mind, which Atlosreg had shown him. Its intended use was to squeeze the air out of a person’s lungs. But it would take a little longer to prepare than Atlosreg would give him time for, which meant that he couldn’t do it. Or did it?

There was a lot about how magic was used on Earth that Atlosreg wasn’t likely to know, and there were things about how Peter worked which Atlosreg simply hadn’t a chance to know, which placed Peter at a distinct advantage. He cast auxiliary kinetic shields while he thought, repelling the spells Atlosreg was firing at him, and after maybe a minute he knew how to do it.

He threw a bright flame at Atlosreg’s face, and then wove the foundation of the asphyxia spell in a fraction of a second, anchoring it temporarily to the little finger of his left hand: he would have to move quickly now, or else he would lose his finger. He lashed at Atlosreg with a whip made from ice, and then added the preliminary effects to the asphyxia spell. His finger was already starting to hurt as he threw himself out of the way of a shock wave Atlosreg had hurled at him, and as he rolled over he pulled the spell, whole, off his finger, completed it, and wrapped it around the torch. The flame struggled for a moment, and then vanished.