Dark apprentice, p.8
Dark Apprentice, page 8
“Greetings, friends. Let’s get started, shall we? Ronan and Catherine, why don’t you go first?”
He’d taught his club members several dueling spells, including Shield, Puncture, and Pummel, while keeping more powerful magic to himself. Allies or opponents, no point in letting them know all you could do.
Participants were encouraged to bring spells from within their homes, ostensibly to share with the group. Did their grandparents know of anything that would be Useful? Had they checked old letters or journals? Much of what they’d brought back was worthless for combat and therefore of little use to Nikolai. A few spells didn’t even work. Perhaps they’d been written down incorrectly or required some long-forgotten ingredient.
Ronan and Catherine stood and drew their wands. Less skilled contestants always went first, and this pair was particularly terrible. Neither of them could even cast a shield spell. Ronan cast Fulgor, intending to blind Catherine with a flash of light. He put too much power into the spell and blinded not only himself but a good portion of the audience. Catherine used Gust. It was unclear if she was trying to blow dust into Ronan’s eyes or move him backward. Either way, her wand only generated a sad puff of air. Nikolai stalked the outskirts, offering encouragement and pointers. Fat lot of good it did.
Catherine tried to conjure something, and a burst of static electricity erupted from her wand. Was she trying to make lightning? Pitiful. Ronan somehow succeeded in igniting his own pant leg. The audience howled with laughter as Ronan frantically slapped at his pants. His girlfriend, seated on the sidelines, helpfully suggested he throw himself in a nearby water trough, advice that he took. When Ronan emerged drenched, Nikolai awarded the match to Catherine. She might be a weak caster but at least she wasn’t a complete menace.
“Nice work, you two.” He kept his voice measured and kind. “Ronan, I like that you’re trying new spells. A bit more practice at home and I’m sure you’ll have it.”
A flash of red drew Nikolai’s eye. Medea entered the barn, looking bored and vaguely irritated as always. She peered around for a moment, then took a seat in one of the chairs and pulled out her book. Why the hell did she come if she was just going to read? She’d better put down the damn book when it was his turn.
Nikolai called the next contestants, two brothers. Like Ronan and Catherine, shields were beyond their capabilities. He couldn’t have asked for a worse performance in front of Medea. Their match rapidly devolved into telekinetically flinging cow pies at each other until they dissolved in a fit of giggles and he dismissed them.
Thankfully, they were on to better members. Sean and Briana approached the middle of the barn and conjured their shields. An oblong disk appeared in front of each duelist, yellowish but transparent. The disks moved with them, always hovering about four inches in front of their bodies. Shields protected from head to ankle but weren’t so wide one couldn’t shoot spells around the sides. Their strength varied from caster to caster. Some only blocked physical attacks or weak spells, but a powerful Magi could push enough power into their shield to make it virtually impenetrable, or so he’d read.
Sean and Briana danced around, shooting Pummel at each other from behind the safety of their shields. Spells like Lightning and Fireball were easy to see, erupting from the tip of a wand and shooting toward wherever the caster aimed. Other projectile spells might be no more than a minor tint in color moving through the air. Those with a lot of force built in, like Pummel, created a ripple effect you could track if you knew what to look for.
After a minute, the combatants’ shields began to deteriorate for lack of mana, until both casters were once again unprotected. Neither of them had mana left for Pummel, and they resorted to Puncture—harder to spot and dodge, but also less dangerous. The battle ended when Sean caught Briana’s hand with a well-placed Punctum, causing her to cry out and drop her wand. The audience broke into steady applause and Nikolai took the floor again.
“Excellent disarm, Sean. Kate, would you mind coming up here?”
Nikolai presented the holster to Kate, adjusting the straps to fit her slender forearm and demonstrating how to conceal it up her sleeve. He taught her two spells. The first was Gust, a standard from the Academy. While not harmful, with practice one could increase the power enough to make conversing extremely difficult without shouting. The second was Vomito, the nauseating spell—not exactly pleasant if you were standing in the crossfire, but it would be enough to halt most people in their tracks. Both were perfect for Kate, given that she wasn’t one for confrontation. The audience laughed and cheered when he insisted Kate test the spells on him. Thankfully, she wasn’t yet strong enough to give him more than a minor stomachache.
During the performance he kept an eye on Medea. She hunched over her book, elbows on her knees, legs spread wide like a man. Not once had he seen her look up. Well, this would get her attention. He spread his arms and grinned broadly at the audience.
“Alright, who wants a go at me? How about four of you this time? Mary, Yasar, Grace, I know you’re up for it. Who else?”
“I’ll take those odds!” Well-muscled and tall, Darby stood with his wand raised.
Nikolai moved to one side of the barn, careful to keep Medea in his peripheral vision, while his challengers lined up opposite. Grace conjured her shield with ease. Darby and Mary, being witches, had a more involved process.
Witches were an odd subset of Magi. Like the Mundane, they were born without the gift of magic. Instead, they relied on the power of a deity to fuel their spells. Had Nikolai been born thus, he probably would have chosen patronage too, no matter how distasteful the idea of being forever shackled to another creature. A man should be free to make his own way.
Darby and Mary chanted softly to themselves, begging the Morrígan, a trio of Irish goddesses, to grant them power for battle. While their gods might not mind granting power for small everyday spells, something this mana-intensive required permission. Nikolai tapped his wand against his leg. Finally, their request was complete and their shields sprang up. About time.
Everyone glanced at Yasar, who remained unprotected.
“No shield?” Nikolai asked.
Yasar grinned. “Thought I’d try something new today. Courtesy of my grandmother.” He spun his wand and chanted in Arabic. Dust and debris swirled into a small tornado that encased his body. Impressive.
Nikolai began the countdown. “Everybody ready? Three . . . two—”
“It seems to me that it would be far more challenging if two of your opponents were behind you.” Medea’s voice carried, though she hadn’t looked up from her book. There was a murmur of assent from the audience, and then a few people shouted directions at the other duelists, telling them to spread out, move around him.
“Sure, why not make it interesting?” If that’s what they wanted, he’d make do. “Mary and Yasar, you up front. Grace and Darby in the back.” Nikolai positioned himself as well as he could, facing the audience, back to a wall. His flanks were exposed on either side. He’d have to pivot his shield to block incoming attacks.
“Three . . .”
Darby was overzealous. He would be the first to attack, hard and quick, without any thought. Grace was slower to cast, with far weaker spells.
“Two . . .”
Mary would pull no punches, regardless of recent events—Competition indeed. Yasar’s dust shield begged for testing. Impressive did not mean effective.
“One!”
“Collido!” shouted Darby. Nikolai pivoted to block the pummel spell, then shot his own at Yasar. It hit the swirling dust with a puff. Yasar stumbled, but the dust absorbed most of the impact, which meant spells of force were out. Piercing or elemental might work.
Mary was conjuring a bright ball of light at the tip of her wand. He turned to Darby and Grace. Grace conjured an ethereal serpent around her waist like a belt. Not a good choice, considering she’d have to get right next to Nikolai for it to do anything. Typical of her to go defensive first.
Darby shot another Pummel at Nikolai, easily blocked. Nikolai followed up with three of his own, grinning as he sent the last winging not toward Darby, but at an angle toward Grace. As he expected, Darby thought all three were intended for him and faced his shield accordingly. The pummel spell hit the right side of Grace’s shield, sending her lurching into Darby. They fell in a heap of limbs. Darby screamed as the snake’s fangs found his flesh.
Medea had to be impressed with that move. But no, she slouched back in her chair, legs tucked under her with the book resting on her lap. Nikolai’s grip tightened on his wand.
Pain seared his arm, wrenching his thoughts back to the battle. Yasar and Mary fired on him, Mary with balls of white light, Yasar with painful green bolts. Time to see what Yasar’s dust cloud was worth.
“Fulmen!” Lightning arched toward Yasar. The dust lit up as bits of hay ignited. Yasar sprawled backward.
Nikolai itched to cast Lance or something equally damaging, but this was a sparring session, not a real duel. He would quickly lose practice partners if he got a reputation for bloodying people. A Pummel to Yasar’s unprotected belly was good enough to be considered a “kill” shot. Nikolai sent several more at Mary, but she dodged them.
He aimed blindly over his shoulder, hoping to hit Darby or Grace. Darby wouldn’t give up easily, but Grace was another matter. Soon enough she was calling out, “Yield!” He sent another Pummel at Mary and chanced a look behind him. Darby was lying motionless on the floor, eyes glassy. Grace’s snake belt was better than he thought. He’d have to ask her for the spell.
Nikolai turned his full attention to Mary. They danced, trading spells, unable to penetrate each other’s shields. She was good for a witch, but not as good as him. Not here and certainly not in the bedroom.
“Lancea!” An ethereal spear erupted from his wand. Unblocked, the spell had enough force to punch through bone. CRACK. Her shield held, barely. Fissures radiated across the surface. Mary stopped attacking, focused on repairing her shield.
His eyes found Medea. The bitch still hadn’t looked up.
Nikolai stalked the barn, gradually maneuvering Mary between himself and Medea. When they were lined up just right, he aimed low and shouted “Lancea!” Mary dodged, clearing the way for his true target—Medea’s chair legs. The spell splintered its way through wood, knocking both front and back legs clean off.
The chair should have fallen over. Instead, it hung in space as if supported by invisible pillars. Medea gave no outward sign that anything unusual had happened. After a moment she locked eyes with him, casually licked her finger, and turned the page in her book. The feigned apology he’d planned died on his lips.
Mary continued to assail him with spells, but his heart was no longer in it. He cast Fear at her exposed hand.
The spell’s effect was different for everyone, catering to the target’s specific anxieties. The few times he’d experienced it at the Academy, he’d begun to atrophy, flesh growing sunken until his hands and arms were skeletal claws. Sores developed on his skin and the air grew thick with flies and the scent of decay. The sores broke open with a splatter of pus to reveal wriggling maggots. What flesh was not consumed by the white worms sloughed off and hit the ground with wet slaps.
An exceptionally realistic hallucination, but a hallucination nonetheless. He’d ignored it. The gasps from his fellow students and his instructor’s look of horrified fascination told him his response was unusual. Perhaps they thought he’d seen nothing. He didn’t bother to enlighten them but paid close attention to its effects on others, noting each of their insecurities.
He had no such luck with Mary. A shot to the hand wasn’t nearly as potent as one to the head. If he’d gotten her head, she would have given him something truly worthwhile, perhaps even betraying herself. Instead, she jerked her hand around and brushed at it frantically while shrieking something about spiders.
“Get them off! Get them off me!”
Pathetic. He never understood how Fear made people so unhinged. Mary’s shield vanished with her concentration. A quick Pummel to the chest, harder than it needed to be, brought her down. He thought he heard a rib crack. Good.
The audience stood and cheered. People rushed to clap him on the back and shake his hand. Four opponents! They’d never seen anything like it. Would he be fighting four from now on?
Nikolai smiled absently and assured them he would. Where was Medea? Was she upset with what he’d done? Had he ruined his chances? He caught the back of a blonde head exiting the barn. She turned the corner and vanished from sight.
7
MANIPULATION
Medea stepped into darkness and inhaled the cool night air. The landscape was blanketed in fog. She conjured a ball of light and walked away from the revelry in the barn.
Relief washed over her with each step. Bad enough to be stuck in there with the crowd, the noise, the smells, but to see how far magic had fallen was truly disturbing. True, Haven wasn’t a bastion of magical talent, but in the old days there would have been far more duelists. It had taken all her will not to run into the ring and show them how it was done.
That the crowd lauded the boy as some sort of paragon said a lot about the state of things. It was clear he’d been holding back for fear of injuring his opponents, a struggle she knew all too well. The decline in magic didn’t account for all she’d seen, though it explained much. Something else was going on.
She’d heard that the Collective had outlawed dueling, but surely that wouldn’t make everyone give up combat spells. Didn’t they want to defend their homes? The children seemed eager enough to learn, flocking to the boy’s teachings like he was a damned prophet.
Again, she’d been struck by how dim they felt. She could have been in a crowd of Mundanes for all the magic she sensed. The boy alone stood out. Not that his magical energy was incredibly strong, but it was certainly on par with mages of old. With training, it could blossom into something great. He might even be able to reach peer status. With training.
Medea sighed. She’d been down this road too many times. If she trained him, he’d die. That much was certain. His personality wouldn’t let him be anything less than the best, and that meant turning on her, which was a death sentence. His magical potential was too precious to waste.
Best to let him continue on his own. He might flounder a bit, but he had Petrov, did he not? Petrov was . . . well, he was acceptable. The man knew his way around a curse, and the boy’s own drive should be enough to carry him the rest of the way. He’d be fine. Maybe not as powerful as he could be, but alive.
Nikolai tried in vain to make his way to the exit. Adoring faces pressed in from every side. Any other night he would have basked in the attention—getting drunk with the rest, telling jokes and reveling in his victory, culminating with his head buried between a pair of willing legs. Tonight, he only saw his future slipping through his fingers.
“Excuse me. I do apologize, but I must be going.”
Shailyn, one of his regulars, was making a beeline for his position. He had to get out of here. She’d want to know why he hadn’t been to see her all week, and then he’d be stuck talking to her for twenty minutes. He backed his way through the crowd. Shailyn’s eyes sought his. He pretended not to notice. The edge of the crowd was close. He stepped free and grabbed his coat, tugging it on as he bolted out the barn door.
The nightly fog had rolled in, shrouding the landscape in blurry darkness. He set out at a brisk jog. When Medea did not come into sight, he broke into a run. He was nearly back to town when he finally spotted her on the road ahead.
“Medea!”
Fog wreathed her as she paused and turned to face him. Her hand clutched a pale blue orb, illuminating the mist with unearthly light. A Mundane would have thought her a will-o’-the-wisp bent on leading him to his doom.
His breath came fast and heavy as he halted. Was he sweating? He raked a hand through his hair in case it had fallen out of place. It was unseemly to approach her so, but he couldn’t let her leave angry, not with so little time left. Tomorrow was Monday. Tuesday she would be gone.
“May I”—he took a gulp of air and tried to calm his breathing—“walk with you?”
“I suppose.”
“About tonight—”
“Do you always use a wand for sparring?”
“Yes. I—”
“Do the others?”
“Yeah. It’s considered the standard.”
“Is it?” There was a note of concern in her voice.
“Not for all spells, of course. Potions don’t need a wand, or spells that require physical ingredients, but other than that . . .” He shrugged.
“I see.” Medea focused on the road ahead and they walked for a time in silence, her face unreadable. What he wouldn’t give to be able to see Magi thoughts without being detected.
“Your opponents, they seem rather . . . Is that the standard level of talent around here?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Same for the Academy. Dueling was discouraged, not that many kids in Haven attend the Academy. Most stay at home and learn their family’s trade spells. None of it’s offensive though—potions, charms, that kind of thing. Some of them didn’t even have wands or had hand-me-downs. I had to show them how to craft one, bind it, all that. Otherwise they would have been useless as sparring partners.”
Her frown deepened.
“Look, I wanted to apologize—”
“I can’t teach you.” She seemed to say it to herself as much as him. “You have potential and ambition. You’ll do fine on your own. If you trained with me, it would not end well for you. It would be a shame to see you die. Best put the whole thing out of your mind.”
She was wavering, he could taste it. The sparring match had worked despite his outburst. He had to press his advantage now.
