Unexpected Reality: Book 1: Gamer Girl (18 page)

Dragon Magic

Taro gasped as he cut the connection with the Essence. He winced as feeling returned to his body, working through the cramps from meditating in one position for so long. As the Essence retreated from his body, Taro felt tired and hungry as he was forced to rely on his own meager energy.

In front of him, Orefar looked up as Taro pulled out of his meditation. Taro’s master reached for a cup at his side, shuffling over and offering it to Taro.

“You’ve been in a trance for a long time,” Orefar said. “How was it?”

“I…I don’t know,” Taro said. “The Essence has become so confusing lately. It’s like I can see it, but I can’t touch it.”

“What do you mean? The Essence is everywhere. Constant and always moving like the oceans themselves.”

“I know, but it feels like it avoids me, goes around me, like a boulder in a stream,” Taro said.

Orefar frowned. “We all have our place in the Essence. Perhaps one day you will find it.” He glanced at the nearby, glowing diaphanous ball of light. It had shrunk considerably from when they first started, feeding itself on the Essence provided by Orefar. “It’s late. Perhaps you should go home and rejuvenate yourself before we attempt this again.”

Taro packed up his things and walked out onto the streets, feeling a little annoyed at himself. He glanced at the sky, the drab, gray clouds seeming to mimic his mood. Orefar thought it was mere inexperience, but Taro knew better—something was interfering with his ability to draw on the Essence.

What if…he wasn’t supposed to be a mage?

He shuddered at the thought. He had heard stories of children who displayed immense magic powers as younglings, only to have their power die out by adulthood. If he lost his magical abilities, what would happen to him? He had been separated from his family at the age of 3—Orefar and the clerics of the church were his family, but without the government’s payment to encourage his magical development, they wouldn’t be able to care for him. He turned 18 in less than a moon, and then he’d be on his own.

As he approached the monastery, he noticed a dying plant on the side of the road, its flowers wilted and leaves grayed. Taro reached out, closing his eyes and breathing in the Essence.

Waves of power surrounded him. He could see white light in the air, flowing through objects and plants like a current in a river. 

With his magical eyes, Taro looked down at the dying plant. Unsurprisingly, the flow of Essence directed towards the plant seemed weak and faded. It was dying.

A bright stream of Essence was flowing above, wandering aimlessly and lazily, twirling around light rays. The sun was an enormous source of power for Essence mages.

Taro reached out, attempting to pull the Essence from the sun and direct it towards the plant.

The Essence pulled away from him.

Grunting, Taro pushed harder, straining to grasp the tendrils of power.

His concentration snapped, and Taro grunted as he pulled his own energy back inside of him. Why did it do that? Why did the Essence shy away from him?

He realized that people were watching him, having realized he was a mage. He cursed, pulling his hood up and walking briskly down the street before the commoners started asking him to perform miracles or something stupid. He didn’t have much patience for anyone at that moment.

It started to rain as Taro approached the stone monastery. The monks that guarded the monasteries doors opened the entrance as Taro stomped past, ignoring their greetings.

He walked into the library, grabbed a book, and sat down on one of the palettes on the floor, content to ignore the world for a few hours.

Unfortunately, the monastery’s library had little more than dry political texts, and with the monotone, hypnotical sound of the rain outside, Taro quickly found himself nodding off, struggling to keep awake.

There was an enormous *
boom*
as the huge doorway opened. Taro and the other monks looked up as people started to shout, the sound of the falling rain constant in the background.

Two monks had a third man clutched between them, leaning heavily on their shoulders. He was unconscious, his eyes clenched tight. His long black hair fell in front of his rugged, unshaven face. His cloak drenched with water and-

Taro gasped. The man was covered in blood.

One of the monks looked around, his eyes falling on Taro. He beckoned for him to follow, and Taro fell in line behind them without a word. He had a bad feeling that he would need magic before the night was out.

Behind them, Taro could see the stranger more clearly. Long, thin scars covered his face and forearms, but that didn’t seem to be what was causing his pain. Taro could see a dark, deep gash, staining the stranger’s clothes a grisly, sticky purple. A knife wound, Taro supposed. He grimaced. Those wounds were almost always fatal.

They crashed through the halls, finally coming into the infirmary. They placed the stranger on the floor, using knives to cut open his clothes to get to his wound.

The monks started to work on dressing the wound. One of them turned to Taro. “He’s dwindling, fast. Can you sustain him?”

“I’ll try.”

They nodded, separating so he could get closer to the man.

Taro vision turned into light rays. The Essence surrounded him, filling the room and its potent herbs, as well as the two men that worked beside him.

He turned towards the stranger, and gasped.

The man was completely black. Nothing flowed through him. It didn’t make sense. Even dead things flowed with the Essence.

Still, he needed to try. Taro reached for the Essence—thankfully it responded this time—and reached out towards the man.

The blackness moved, curling around Taro’s power. Taro screamed as fire raged through his body.

Knowledge and secrets filled his head. The man…he was giving him power! Taro cringed away from the black inkiness, until he realized that he
wanted
to touch it. Gingerly, he reached out, absorbing the blackness into his body.

Taro touched the…
thing
inside of him. It moved, responding to his touch, but not much more than that. Taro frowned, the desperation within him growing. He had been experimenting with the strange magic for days, unable to get any reaction from it. He had tried to use it like the Essence, but he had gotten nothing, though, strangely enough, his regular meditation sessions had been going better.

The strange man had died almost instantly, and was gone by the time Taro had regained lucidity. Orefar had been worried obviously, but he had assumed that it was simply magical strain from meditating. Taro hesitated to tell Orefar, but he had searched through the old man’s tomes, reading anything he could on old, ancient forms of magic. Nothing seemed to fit. Some of the books warned of ill effects of using alien magic. Some of the effects had been so vivid, the scholars who had written the books had almost even persuaded Taro to simply forget about the strange black magic altogether and leave it alone.

Almost.

He was a mage. The urge to explore and to test the new source of potential power was intoxicating. And, more than that, part of him knew—a part he was afraid to admit, especially to himself—secretly,
desperately
wanted to use that power.

“Taro? Are you alright?” Orefar asked.

He blinked, looking up. “What? Oh, yes. I was just…thinking.”

Orefar frowned, but didn’t say anything, instead turning to focus on the precipitous flight of stairs that led to the top of the watchtower. Taro knew that Orefar could easily use the Essence to lift himself up, but the old man refused to do so. It just seemed like a waste to him.

A soldier approached them as they entered the tower. He glanced at Taro, and then turned towards Orefar, who nodded. “Master Mage. Our scouts inform us that the Makarians are close, within a few days march. They are escorting heavy siege weapons.”

“What?” Taro’s eyes widened. “The Makarians? I thought they were peaceful!”

“They were, until the dragons got a hold of them,” the soldier said. He spit on the ground. “Blasted things. They’re worse than monsters. They get inside your head, play tricks on your mind. Like
nightmares.”

Taro shuddered, but it was an instinctive reaction, one drilled into him after years of conditioning to hate the baleful creatures that lived in the mountains. For some reason, he didn’t feel the same disgust as he always did.

Orefar frowned, stepping closer to the edge of the tower to look out. “I would appreciate, soldier, if you were more careful about the superstitions you adhere to, especially around my student.”

The guard blushed. “Of course, Master Mage. I apologize, Master Mage.”

Taro glanced at Orefar. What was that supposed to mean? He was mature enough. He was about to argue with Orefar, but he caught himself. Why was he getting so angry all the sudden?

Orefar turned to look at Taro. “I’m going to be here awhile—I need to speak with some people. Go back and meditate. I have a feeling we won’t have much time for practice for very much longer.

Taro nodded and began the descent to the ground, though secretly he was annoyed that he wasn’t going to be allowed to stay.

As he climbed down, he suddenly felt restless thinking about the Makarians attacking his home. Would their army hold? He hated knowing that he had magic, and yet not being able to do anything. He couldn’t just wait around, twiddling his thumbs and meditating, but what else could he do?

As he got closer to the ground, the anxiety seemed to worsen, and suddenly Taro could feel where it was coming from. The power inside of him was moving, reacting to something, drawn to something.

Taro jumped to the ground, crashing through the streets. His head pounded as he scrambled through the marketplace. He could see the roads that led to the different sections of the city, and his heart beat quickened as he realized that the thumping was coming from the road that led towards the government buildings.

Suddenly, Taro knew what was happening.

Assassination.

Taro glanced around the marketplace, his eyes scanning the crowd for a city guard in the throng of people. He knew however, that he would never be able to find and convince a guard that the government was in trouble.

He had magic, and it would have to be enough.

Taro sprinted down the path, praying that he wasn’t too late. He reached out, drawing on the Essence to grant him strength as he approached the stone and wood building.

He felt them before he saw them. His senses were on overdrive. He could feel the stone on his feet, the burn of his muscle; smell the sweat on his skin.

Taro slammed through the door, snapping the wood off its frame. Two men dressed in black yelped as Taro clambered through the door.

One of them cursed, turning towards him and drawing a weapon from his robes. “You came here at the wrong time, boy.”

Taro’s eyes fell on the knife, and his eyes widened as he realized the situation he had just gotten himself into He looked frequently for magic to use

And then, something changed in his body. The magic inside of him He felt firm. His muscles hadn’t physically changed, but he could feel the fire inside of him.

He drew on the energy inside of him.

It was nothing like drawing on the Essence, where all the magic was outside.

The strength was from inside
.

And this magic made him feel
powerful
.

He slammed into the assassins. In his head, he could hear their screams, and he pushed harder, digging into their minds, their subconscious.

One of the assassin’s eyes widened. “You…you’re one of us!”

Taro grunted. “No…I’m not!”

His vision went white, and the screams suddenly vanished.

He gasped, blinking as his world spun. The assassins were gone. In their place, ash covered the ground.

He could still remember their screams, like…like he was inside of them.

They get inside your head, play tricks on your mind. Like
nightmares
.

Not nightmares, Taro realized.

Like dragons.

He had magic. And not just any magic.
Dragon
magic.

Taro stared at his food, unable to find the strength to lift the spoon to his mouth. His energy was gone, replaced by a shifting void of question and confusion.

Orefar had mentioned dragon magic just briefly, if only to stress just how dangerous and illegal it was. He condemned them, called them traitors to life and order. 

Taro stood, unable to stomach the twisting knots in his stomach. This wasn’t his fault—he hadn’t sought the magic, and he certainly didn’t want to use it. Surely Orefar would see that and try to help Taro if only he explained things.

But, as Taro walked outside the monastery and into the street, he realized that wasn’t true. He
did
want to use it. Even now, he could feel the power pushing out from inside him, eager to be released. It took all his willpower to stop himself from simply grabbing a thread of power from inside of him.

The air was chilly, a reminder of the storm only a few days prior. He could hardly remember the face of that man who came into his monastery, bleeding and half-dead—They never did figure out what had caused his wounds—but Taro could acutely remember the rush of power as the man’s life waned.

Orefar looked up as Taro entered the room. The man frowned, pulling off his spectacles and putting down a piece of paper he had in his hand. “Taro? What are you doing here? Our lesson isn’t for another hour.”

Taro opened his mouth, but then hesitated. Was he ready to just trust Orefar? Suddenly, the idea of having to be reliant on someone was repulsive. That was the Essence, weak and dependent. He was stronger than that, now.

Orefar gave him a strange look. “Are you alright, Master Taro?”

“What? Oh, yes, I’m fine.” He blinked, suddenly realizing how cold it was.

Orefar’s frown deepened, and his eyes glanced back towards the paper he had been inspecting.

“What’s wrong?” Taro asked.

“The Makarians are closing in, and the reports are much worse than we thought,” Orefar said.

“What do you mean?”

“I fear that the Makarians are already in the city. I-”

There was a crash as the glass window shattered. Orefar groaned as something white slammed into his body, throwing him backwards. He collapsed to the ground. A man stepped through, wielding a knife and an unnerving grin.

Taro glanced at Orefar. He put up his arm, reaching for his magic, but hesitated. If he used his magic, Orefar would know.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t his top concern at the moment, as the leader of the assassins stepped forward.

“You claim to be a magic-wielder? Pah, your people are so unrefined and pathetic.” His voice was heavily accented. Makarian. His body was covered in a black bodysuit, and his face was covered in thick, deep scars. Dragon claws, Taro realized, but he didn’t know why he knew that. Around him, ice clung to the ground.

“What do you want from us?” Taro asked.

“Want? What could I possibly want from you? Your master is a target. The only thing I want is his total destruction, but if you get in my way, I will not hesitate to dispose of you, too.”

“The city guards will be here soon.”

“In which case we will be long gone. And if not, they will be easily disposed of. Mortals don’t often bode well against dragon magic.”

A chill crawled down Taro’s spine.

The man glanced at Orefar, and then at Taro. “I do not like killing children. They scream too loudly. I’d much prefer if you’d scatter, and alert your friends. It would make this so much nicer.”

“You’ll have to go through me.”

The assassin sighed. “I was afraid you would say something like that.”

Something white slammed into Taro. His whole body tightened as if shocked, and then burned with pain as he was slammed back. He heard something cracked as he crashed into the wall.

A frozen, cold hand slammed into his chest, shoving him against the stone. “You would do well to learn, boy, that I don’t take well to threats.”

“I don’t make them unless I can keep them,” Taro hissed.

He drew on his power.

Magic flooded his body, healing his body in a matter of seconds. He pushed out, and his ears was met with the satisfying sound of the assassin screaming as his body burned.

Interesting,
Taro thought,
one freezes, while another burns.

He jumped forward, drawing on his power. He felt so alive with energy coursing through his veins unlike anything the Essence had ever given.
This
was the magic he was meant to use.

“You might have power, boy, but you’re no match for me!” The assassin charged, white energy emerging from his chest.

Taro responded with his own magic. Red energy flowed from his palms, a misty, buzzing ball of crimson. Red and blue slammed into each other, and Taro felt electricity run down his arms.

His vision changed. Suddenly, he wasn’t in Orefar’s study anymore. He was in a battlefield, surrounded by bodies, gored by arrows or axes. He tried to think what he was doing there, but he couldn’t quite remember why.

Something huge whipped out of the sky, spreading it’s massive wings and landing in front of him, a giant, lizard-like thing.

No. Not a lizard.

A dragon.

Taro gasped, pulling away. The assassin stood there, stunned. He looked at Taro. “What did you-”

His words cut off as crimson magic swirled from Taro’s hand and speared through the man’s chest. The man crumbled to the ground.

Taro groaned as the exertion took its toll. He stumbled, struggling to stay conscious

He froze. In his fight, he had forgotten about Orefar.

His master looked at him with a mixture of awe and fear, his fingers clenched tightly around his staff. “Taro…what did you do…”

Before he could answer, a deep, ominous sound boomed through the town.

The Makarians were here.