B.F.HUUPS
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Caster V Caster
🕑 Added 2023-09-18 05:48:28 +0000 UTCJealously gripping the smooth, metal wand covered by intricate markings, Dewan cut down another alley. The streets were narrow with barely a light, but that cursed moon sat high and full, illuminating all with its silvery haze.
The young mage had to get off the streets, or else the master's apprentices might catch up with him. There was no way he would wait a century for power, not when it could be gained as easily as stealing one of his master’s prized artifacts.
What use did he have for this wand anyway? Any spell it could cast, he could himself, a hundred times over. No, it wasn’t he who succumbed to greed by stealing it, it was his master who greedily hoarded away more magical items than he knew what to do with.
Torches, on horseback. Dewan swung around. They had already caught up to him, here, in Caedstad. Damnit. A half dozen. Had they only been apprentices, he might have fancied testing out his new wand. But the arrogant fool wore his mastery robes, even when subterfuge might have benefited them.
No, not mages, who had withered away mastering their art. Bound to life only by the threads of mana they weaved. Not when so much effort had been invested. It would be undignified. Even if death could be avoided, they would likely don their robes and meet it headfirst.
Dewan wanted to chuckle, to mock them. But escape came first, and he pulled up his cowl, disappearing into another cobbled alley.
*****
Spring was in full bloom and the first harvests of the year were being collected; creating a bustle throughout the narrow alleyed and thatch-roofed Ryewood.
Leadharvest celebrations had begun well and truly for most people, a sort of festival or festive season that carried over a couple of weeks, and one of the few times a Ryelander would ever invite a stranger to their kitchen table.
Several merchants had already ridden their carts through town, rambling up from Caedstad on their way to Ome, their caravans straddled by sell-swords. But not even this could sour the moods of ryemen and ladies alike, who spent as much of the day drunken on plum wine as they did harvesting their gardens.
No, nothing short of a disaster would ruin the moods of Ryelanders on Leadharvest. And that was no different for Earon, a smile creased across his face as he picked oversized beets, peppers, and leaks from the vibrant garden that surrounded the little thatched house he called home.
“C’mon boy, it's near noon. You ought to be cradling a stout pint or one of Miss Hedgie’s sweet wines by now. Tis not right for a boy ye age to be stuck in the garden all day, as if Leadharvest comes every year.” Bellowed a blushed and full-cheeked man, his hair and beard creating a ring of orange and white around his face, only broken by where he’d shaven his chin. He stood in the street, bent over the vine-covered fence that rose to his chest.
“What, it does, doesn’t it, Donald?” A younger man beside him perked, a perplexed look on his face as he lost himself in thought. “Wait, how long’s a year?”
“Oh, let the boy be. Ye old fart. And besides, you’re confusing the simple lad.” Ralli Tad chimed in, his bushy white head appearing on the other side of the fence with proper red cheeks filling his merry face. “How’s ye ma anyhow? Word is, she’s spent a good three months held up with something nasty. I don’t get into town nearly as often as I ought to and pray be, if she’s feeling up to it, we’ll get a chance for a bit of banter before I need to make my leave.”
“She’s far fairer now, Ralli. I’ll pass it on. I’m sure she’ll make time for an old friend.” Earon replied, raising his scruffy, brown head of hair from a bushel of beets, just as he got done pulling it from the ground and letting go of a torrent of black, luscious-looking dirt in the process.
“Caedstians.” Old Donald Gravelly growled as he pulled his mug close to his chest.
Sauntering down the narrow dirt path came three, dirty-looking sell-swords dressed in worn clothes, and hardened leather tunics. They carried simple-looking swords at their sides and wooden shields on their backs. They weren’t much to look at, but that wasn’t surprising. Anyone worth more than a couple of coppers wasn’t escorting wagons up from Caedstad, after all. That was a beggar's job, but luckily for the merchants, there were plenty of them around.
“Gents,” one of them men said with a short nod, whilst the other two shared stiff smiles.
Ralli Tad gave a polite nod whilst the boy, Sigwin shied away.
The moment they passed, a firm slap smacked the dim, sandy-haired boy across the back of his head. “Don’t be looking away, lad. They’re the intruders, not us.” Donald hissed.
“You didn’t have to hit me,” Sigwin whined, rubbing at his head.
“Alright, alright, enough's, enough.” Came Ralli’s lecturing tone. “Move on, why don’t you? You’re interrupting poor Earon’s work. I’m sure he’ll join ye’s soon enough.”
“Right,” Earon agreed, casting a thankful grin at Ralli.
“You’d better boy. There are some fine lasses about, and some be saying you’ve lost interest since that young, fiery las left. Old Donald Gravelly’s always willing to help but I can’t be putting in a good word for ye if you can’t even make it to Leadharvest celebrations.”
“Promise, I will.” Earon nodded.
He didn't need nor want reminding of Alyssia. Work, that's what Earon thought about these days, that and looking after his mother, of course. And it didn't particularly bother him that he was gaining the reputation of a recluse.
He had never been that close to the other lads in town, at least not the ones his age. And he fancied none of the girls. At least not romantically. A boy his age couldn't help but look, occasionally at least.
Letting out a somewhat satisfactory grunt, Donald clapped his hand against Sigwin’s back. “Let’s go, lad. Miss Hedgie’s got a new brew of mulled wine she’s been wanting somebody to try, and I'd hate to disappoint.”
Waiting until the two were out of sight, Earon rose and turned to Ralli. “I think I owe you one.”
“It’s nothing boy. You’ve got that mother of yours to look out for. Don’t let them drunkards get in the way of priorities. Besides, I think it best some of us keep a sober eye out.”
“What do mean?”
“Don’t ye feel it? The tensions those men carry. Things aren’t so good down in Caedstad, I hear. Crossing the Clain has been more dangerous in recent years. And with that, fewer wagons every year, and without Sanerese gold and silk, there ain’t a lot of reason to hang around a town like Caedstad, unless ye fancy yourself a hero. That’s why we’ve twice as many passing through here. They are trying to make it up by traveling to Ome. The problem is, besides wine and iron, there’s not a lot else Ome has, and neither are half as sought after this side of the Clain. A poor man can go through a lot, but an empty belly isn’t one.” Ralli said, narrowing his eyes on Earon before breaking out in a faux laugh and sporting a wide smile. “Oh, enough of the doom and gloom. If Old Donald knows one thing in that dull head of his, it's that Leadharvest is a time of celebration, not worry.”
“Hold on, Ralli.” Earon said, brow raised. “What about Rindle, and the shields, you don't trust them to look after us?”
“You think they know the first thing about swinging a weapon in battle? Actors, the lot of them, playing dress-up. Maybe they can man a wall-walk and shoot an arrow from it. But I wouldn’t rely on them for much else. Anyway, enough of an old man talking ye ear off. Pass ye ma me greetings, would ye.” Ralli Tad said as he began walking away with a wave of his hand.
The company was great, but there was still plenty of work to be done, and if Earon planned on attending the night festival, he’d need to get done with it.
Finishing up with the ripest root vegetables, Earon wiped the sweat from his brow and went inside.
“Ma,” Earon called as he entered the cozy, timber dwelling.
Draped by several blankets and sitting beside the only fire not being used cook in Ryewood that day, sat Maggie Valdora. Wrinkles threatened to fold away her eyes and mouth, and her skin had been a sickly pallor for months now. It was no secret Maggie was not Earon’s birth mother; she’d have had to have conceived him well into her fifties for that to be the case. But no one ever spoke a word of it.
Maggie was seen as a sort of motherly figure by just about everyone in the wood. She had lost her husband and two sons over three decades ago, and now the home she shared with Earon was all the reminder she had left of them. But Maggie was a strong woman, and the sorrow rarely showed on her face.
“Oh ma, you’re whiter than ever,” Earon said, his expression downcast as he placed the basket of vegetables on the kitchen table behind Maggie and made his way over to his mother. “You’ve got to see Derry, one of his brews might make you feel better."
“Phh,” Maggie scoffed with a weak wave of her hand. “Only fools drink the potions that man brews up.”
“Well, there’s plenty of merchants up from Caedstad. Might even be able to pick you up a potion, one brewed by a real mage alchemist.”
“No doubt, they’ll sell you whatever you want. Don’t mean it is what they say it is.” Maggie chuckled, bringing on a bout of coughing.
“Ma,” Earon called as he inched closer to his mother, placing a hand over her back.
“It’s fine.” She managed between coughs. “I’ll be fine.”
Earon’s eyes pierced into his mother's weary orbs. “You’re not. We both know you’re not. You’ve barely spoken a word to anybody in the last months. Ralli’s down from Ember’s Ridge, he’d love a word with you, as would half the town.”
‘I’m sure they would.” Maggie said, regretfully chuckling as it reinvigorated her cough.
“Enough of this, I’m going to Market Square, see what I can fetch you. The village won’t forgive me if they learn I let you whither in your own stubbornness.”
“Busybodies,” Maggie grumbled unconvincingly with a shake of her head – No one loved the people of Ryewood more than her.
"Yeah, busybodies, ones who'd rather see you alive than otherwise," Earon said, slipping on a thin flax coat as he swirled through the doorway.
With Leadharvest in full swing, many came down from Ember’s Ridge, Ryewort, and the other hamlets and small villages in the area – filling the streets. Ryefolk, as they’d call themselves, were as likely to share cousins as they were family names amongst the dozen or so settlements spread out across the Ryeland. It was those who came from further afield such as Caedstad that gained weary eyes following them.
Stalls were out, lined against fences that followed the intersecting dirt roads, cutting through Ryewood – often run by the families of the homes they sat in front of. The stores crammed beside one another were filled with colorful assortments of fresh produce, baked breads, cakes, sausages, and enough mead and wine to drunken a troupe of leprechauns.
The closer to Market Square, the more local vendors thinned out, replaced by foreign merchants. Spots were rented to the passing caravans and the locals were more than happy to see the town’s coffers filled by the pockets of strangers, rather than their own.
Earon kept a keen eye as he passed all kinds of goods – from masterfully crafted long swords and fine leather jerkins to bags of spices and fine pottery. But it wasn’t until he spotted a wagon set up with a shelf of various, ornate-looking vials that he stopped.
A sigh read, “The wonders of mage and master Janison Ryral!”
Intrigued, Earon approached, running a finger gently across the exotic vials – their colorful shapes twisting and twirling like the works of the most magnificent glass blowers.
“Anything take your fancy, lad?” Came the whining voice of a near-toothless and hairless man appearing from within the wagon.
“Perhaps.”
“They’re magnificent, aren’t they? Everything’s the work of the master mage Janison Ryral,” he added, gesturing to the sign. “Comes all the way from the Spiral Tower. Best mages this side of the Clain Scar!” He said nodding with wide eyes and mystifying finger movements – likely a well-practiced sales pitch.
“Do you have antidotes?”
“Depends on what for; giant spiders, wyverns, gargoyle intoxication, shadow plague?”
“Just a winter’s illness that refuses to subside.”
“Common ailment?” The store-man replied, contemplatively. “One moment.” The little man disappeared back into the wagon a moment, before returning with a far simpler vial than the ones he had on display. “This should do the trick. A little below the talents of the great master, but I guess a tad more fitting for the needs of simple village folk.”
“How much?” Earon said with urgency, his eyes stuck to the thin vial in the merchant’s grubby hands.
“Oh, well. It may be simple, but still. Nothing crafted by a master of magery comes cheaply.” The merchant replied, stroking his hairless chin. But before he could continue, a scream stole their attention.
A few dozen feet from them, a woman had been pushed to the ground, her male companion shouting angrily as the culprit pushed past two others, heedlessly charging through Market Square.
His face was dirtied, and wild eyes scanned the stalls. Dried blood soaked the man’s right arm, and several tears across his tunic showed signs of a fight.
“Get out of my way!” The man sneered at a couple of lightly armed sell-swords stood in his path.
“Make us.”
The man dipped a hand into his tunic and produced a sleek metal rod a second later. “Fine!” He shouted as he aimed it at the two sell-swords. The atmosphere around them seemed to be dragged into the metal rod as clothing and cloth banners sailed in its direction, and leaves picked up against the ground. But it only lasted a second, and in an instant, a tiny flame the size of a fingertip expanded into a fiery ball a dozen feet across and sprung toward the two men; incinerating them before they even had a chance to cry in pain.
Heat licked at the bystanders, who in a panic fled in all directions whilst a cacophony of screams filled the square.
“This way!” Shouted two men on horseback as they rounded the dirt road leading into Market Square. However, their pursuit was foiled by the fleeing marketgoers, who filled the road as they sought refuge.
“Move, damn it!” One of the mounted men shouted.
“In the name of the Spiral Tower, move!” The other shouted.
They weren’t mages, at least not real ones. Not at their age. But their hand-strapped crossbows and protective wards made them more than a match for another wayward apprentice, even with a stolen wand.
“Already?” The wand-wielding man hissed as he caught sight of the mounted men over his shoulder.
Almost passing through the market without further incident, the young would-be mage’s eyes caught sight of the merchant wagon Earon attended.
“Master Janison,” the man snickered as he approached, stomping past Earon who stood frozen. “Junk, junk, junk.” The man said as he ran his finger by the vials. “Is this the only trash that bastard mage sells you?” He growled at the store man, but before he could reply, noticed the vial held by Earon.
“Lesser potion of healing? Gimme that!”
“What?” Earon exclaimed, taking a step backward as the man’s eyes furiously glared down at him.
“The potion, gimme me. Less you want to end up a charred remains like those fools!”
“I can’t,” Earon pleaded, turning away from the crazed runaway, protectively gripping at the potion.
“I have no time for this!” The man raised his wand and pointed it toward Earon. “You can just die then!”
Earon opened his mouth to plead, realizing his error too late. What a fool he had been, Earon thought as the ball of fire expanded in a second.
Fire engulfed Earon, with agonizing pain. The heat was unbearable, a searing agony tearing at his skin. Was this how it felt to die? Earon tilted his head. The pain carried on, digging deeper, but a strange realization hit him a second later, it was longer than it should. He had seen those other men incinerated before his eyes, and for all his pain, he was still very much alive.
The flame flickered out, and Earon was still there, curled against the ground in Market Square, whilst the wagon had now been blown in half, one side ash, the other still burning.
Had he been left a ghost to haunt this place for all eternity?
Earon stood bare-chested; his flax shirt and coat having been burnt away, and marked across his chest was a glowing blue shield with a star-like splash across its center and a ring of ancient-looking runes marked around it.
New ability unlocked – Rune Crafting – Body Transmutation (Active) Grants the ability to craft magical runes upon body parts. Progression, 2.
What, what is rune crafting? I'm a farmer, not some crafter. Status!
***
Warlock – Level 1
Skills & Abilities – Rune Crafting (Body Transmutation) 2.
Spell upgraded – Magic resistance (Spell) Mastery of the magic resistance spell; 1 - 3.
***
No, no, no, what’s going on? Earon had seen his status screen maybe a million times, and he knew exactly what it said. Level 10 Farmer. Skills; harvest, plant, hoe, nurture, and so on. Essential farming skills. Things he needed. How could he have none of these skills all of a sudden? And level 1? Again? Earon didn’t even remember being level 1. He barely remembered level 3, and mostly only did because of how happy he’d been when he finally hit 4 as a child.
And then it hit, he felt weaker, uncoordinated, and dumb. Like he had instantly lost years' worth of knowledge.
“What? How? You should be charcoal!” Hissed the man, his wand still directed at Earon. “No, it doesn't matter!” He shouted, flicking the wand as he sent another ball of fire Earon’s way.
Earon barely registered the irate mageling as another ball of fire enveloped him, the stinging pain forcing a cry but ultimately fading against the feeling of overwhelming panic.
Breath, Earon told himself. I’m sure you can hoe a garden whether or not you're a farmer, right? I'll earn back my skills if I need to. It's not as if I'm in a hurry.
His logical bargaining had a claw though, if your class didn't allow you to unlock a certain skill or ability, it didn't matter how much time you spent practicing it, it would never progress past the foundling stage. Which meant a level 10 cap on all skills and abilities not recognized by your class.
“Nothing? Defective junk!... No wait, what sorcery is this? Not even one of the master’s wards would leave you unscathed after two fireballs! Tell me your secre-“ The man’s words were cut short, one bolt piercing into his back, followed shortly after by another.
Coughing, he expelled a mouthful of blood and dropped to his knees, the man’s eyes hatefully glaring into Earon’s before he fell face down.
Two young men draped in humble, blue robes approached, reloading the crossbows strapped to their wrists as they walked.
“Who are you, and more importantly, who is your master?” One asked, promptly approaching the corpse and taking the wand into his blue robe.
“Come on, we haven’t all day. Master Rudis will arrive soon. And he doesn’t like asking questions for himself.”
Snapping himself away from his lamentation, Earon’s eyes shot between the two. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve no master, I’m just a Ryelander, a farmer. I mean, I am, aren’t I?” Earon said, looking down at his palms.
“Huh?” The apprentice replied, casting a bemused look at his companion.
“No master? You expect us to believe you survived those fireballs on your own, with barely a scratch on you?”
“No, I mean, I don’t know. I should be dead, but I’m not. None of this makes any sense. I was just a farmer, a regular old farmer. Have you ever heard of somebody's class suddenly changing?”
The streets and the square were now entirely clear of bystanders, with only Earon and the apprentice mages remaining, them and corpses of course.
“Out with it!” The apprentice snapped but turned as clanking resounded from down the road.
Approaching at a slow trot atop a perfectly white horse, with matching mane and silver saddle came another. The man’s robes were grandiose, made of white silk and embroidered with dragons and griffins.
“What’s all this then?” The ancient-looking man said atop his steed, his long-beaded hair and beard as white as his mare’s.
“We’ve got the wand,” one of the apprentices replied, retrieving it from his robe and handing it over to the master.
“And this one, the peasant?”
“He’s nobody,” the other apprentice replied, sharply.
“He’s not nobody. Do you take me for a fool, apprentice? The great mage of the fourth circle, Master Rudis?”
“No, I apologize master.” The apprentice replied, dropping to his knees, and bowing his head. “He’s told us nothing. He claims to have no master and to be a simple farmer but survived a direct blast from the wand’s fireball. I just didn’t want to waste your time is all.”
“Interesting. I do wonder why you would believe this a waste of my time, but that can wait for another time.” Master Rudis replied, slowly trotting toward Earon. “BOY! What are you?”
“What do you mean, great mage? I am just another Ryeman, a farmer who has a little skill with a hammer.” Earon replied, a tremor creeping into his voice.
“No, you’re not. That much is plain to see. A wizard perhaps? No, I’d smell those cursed tethers of mana. It’s something else.” Came an inquisitive reply from Master Rudis as he sniffed the air. “Something unorthodox, something faint. Hmm…” Without warning the mage pointed a finger – its sharpened nail almost half the length of the finger itself at Earon.
Crackling erupted from the finger and in an instant blinding white light shot out and ran down the length of the finger and into the nail before shooting across to Earon and dosing him in a burst of magical electricity.
The white energy thundered and smacked into Earon’s chest, hurling him to the ground and taking the wind from his lungs.
Coughing, Earon spat blood as he struggled to sit upright, aches running throughout his body and a blackened mark across his chest.
“How, how could he withstand a lightning blast from the master?” One of the apprentices yelled with incomprehension.
“That was a level 40 bolt of white lightning at half charge. Quite remarkable. Only one born of magic could be capable of such a feat.” The Master Mage hummed, studying Earon. “Now, would you mind enlightening us, peasant, on what exactly you are?”
Earon wiped the blood from his reddened lips and snorted. A fire burnt in his emerald eyes and the dirt and stains almost made his soft, boyish features look rugged. “A Ryelander, a not particularly special one at that.”
“You expect me to believe that? To believe that some trash from this worthless town of farmers could survive one of my strongest spells? What little faith you have in the Mages of the Spiral Tower. Or is it that you wish to see our marvelous tower for yourself? Lying in the hope that you spur my interest.”
“You’ve got it all wrong, it’s just a misunderstanding, that is all. I’m a farmer, or at least I was!”
“Or at least you were? What exactly do you mean by that?” Master Rudis probed; his eyes narrowed on Earon.
“I don’t know, I swear! Something about a Warlock, but it doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Warlock, you say?... Let me be clear, boy. Does your class say Warlock?”
Sheepishly, Earon nodded.
“Interesting. You would might be useful for my experiments." The mage hummed, his thumb and index finger stroking his long white beard. "I think it's best you come with us to the Spiral Tower.” The mage grinned.
“What? No! I’ve matters to attend!” Earon shouted.
“None more important than those of mage!” Master Rudis shouted in reply, grey clouds forming overhead and crackling at the mage's anger. “If you would like, we can test just how many of my lightning bolts you’re able to survive.”
“No, please, I do not wish to anger you, master mage. But my mother, she needs this!” Earon groveled, showing the mage the potion.
Pausing for a moment, the master mage looked down at the simple vial. “Fine, Apprentice Tian.” Master Rudis said, turning to one of the two apprentices. “Take the potion to this man’s mother. Do not say Master Rudis is not one for empathy, but that is the limit of what I shall show. Now, we must make haste. For too long have I been absent from the tower. And I have no interest in spending even a single moment longer amongst the riff-raff.”
The apprentice nodded and turned to approach Earon, reaching for the vial.
“And I’m supposed to just leave? Without seeing my sickly mother?”
“I can do far more than make your mother sickly, I promise, peasant boy. Now give him the potion and be glad I show restraint. Remember this, a single minute of the white-lightning mage’s time is measured in the entire lifespans of peasants.”
Earon hesitated, but relented, handing over the potion with a grimace.
“Come on, then. Apprentice Sidos, show him to your horse; the two of you ride together.” Said Master Rudis.
“And the traitor?” Sidos asked as he waved Earon over.
“He is dead, and we have the wand. What further interest could he possess?”
“The corpse?”
Rudis looked around the empty Market Square. “Let the peasants deal with it.”
Mounting up, the group galloped down the fenced road away from Ryewood, slowing to a canter as they entered the road to Caedstad. The other four apprentices joined as they saw their master leaving.
