Fury of the Magi

By: Zimona Posted on: March 31, 2016

“Slave, it’s time.”

The Exemplar’s clipped tones startled the Siren from the conversation she had been having with Araval, the Illuminatrix. Bent as she was over a broad, ink stained table, she hadn’t heard her Exemplar’s familiar step. Being as the hallways were all marble, she should have heard him approaching, been more aware, instead of lost in the feel of the black vulture feather quill clutched betwixt her fingers, and the words Araval had been muttering into her ear. That is until his voice pierced her concentration, causing her to snap closed her mhun-skin journal in surprise. Drat, the words would be near illegible now, and she cringed as she looked towards Araval.

The Cathedral’s librarian was busy scowling at the Exemplar as she turned towards the disruption, her green eyes glowing from the voluminous hood shrouding her face. “Now, Dynamis? You are taking her now?”

“Indeed, Illuminatrix,” the Exemplar said with a perfunctory incline of his head. “The Dreadlord has suggested we see if she is ready and able to be useful to the Lord’s city.”

Zimona tried not to quake as she rose stiffly from the black wooden chair that had become her second home. Her test had been a long time coming, ever since she decided to follow in the Exemplar’s footsteps and study the ways of the Magi. Surrounded by the numerous tomes detailing the acts and beliefs of Evil, Suffering, and Oppression, the young slave had begun a friendship with the fierce scholar. This was despite both women knowing that time was slipping through the hourglass and would eventually run out.

No, not friendship. Friendship is a weakness. Mutual respect, Zimona mused.

Araval wasn’t uncouth enough to snort, Zimona knew, but after long months spent bent over musty tomes side-by-side, she could pick up the Illuminatrix’s displeasure readily enough; the thinning of blood-red lips, a stiffness to the woman’s slim shoulders, and the annoyed tapping of sanguine nails. Though it wasn’t worry or concern that the librarian revealed, Zimona knew, only annoyance.

Zimona swallowed thickly, her mouth as dry as the desert she’d been born in. The odds were Zimona would not return, and the Illuminatrix would have to start anew with another unworthy slave. Teaching him, or her, the methodology of transcription, and sharing the wealth of Mhaldor’s library and hoping they were intelligent enough to grasp her tutelage.

Casting one last look around the oppressive gloom of the Scriptorium, Zimona said a mental goodbye to the wooden bookshelves and cast iron podiums. No matter what happened now, her path was altered. While she enjoyed being a scholar, her attention was, and always had been, in other directions. If she succeeded, she would begin training to be a warrior; another warm body for the Master’s dominion over Creation.

Nerveless fingers clutched the midsection of her rune-etched staff she had left leaning against the chair opposite her, pulling it towards her as power and magic waved up her arm, her skin becoming hard as stone. A twitch of her fingers summoned her crystalline golem to her side, the hulking creature pulsing with untapped power as it towered over them both. Then she turned and faced the Holocaust King. He had been preparing her for the better part of a year, educating her in the art of crystalism, artificing, and elementalism. Now the time for study was over, and practical application was at hand. She would either sink or swim; live or die based on the skills she had practised, and the information he had crammed into her brain.

“I’m ready,” Zimona said, her voice a wisp of smoke. Though her words were a lie. How does one ever prepare for death? It would be hubris, she believed, to always expect that Lord Thoth would grant her life once again. She treated each new chance as a gift, and this one was no different. If she were stronger a visit to the bone throne wouldn’t be so certain, but physical weakness was something she had yet to eradicate. In her current state it was nearly certain she would die a horrible, gory death upon the tip of some heathen’s blade.

The Exemplar nodded curtly, sweeping out of the Scriptorium at a steady pace. The short-limbed Siren trotted in his wake, trying not to trip over the long black robes that swaddled her. By the time they arrived at Mhaldor’s thoroughfare, sweat had pooled between her shoulder blades and turned the already itchy wool into a maddening distraction. A distraction she could ill afford when her success hinged on her ability to concentrate and focus.

“Hurry up, Slave,” the elder Magi hissed, ushering her into the growing throng of citizens converging on the cobblestone square. It never ceased to amaze her that nearly all citizens mustered arms when the call to combat went out. She had watched from afar for many months, too weak, too uneducated to be anything but a nuisance and hindrance. Hearing the sounds of battle chime in her head, feeling the death of the Lord’s enemies as their dying screams swept through the realm, but unable to join in the fray.

Until now.

A strange ambiance of unspoken excitement swept through the street, at odds with the calm, polite conversations around her.

“Do you have a fist sigil?” a white haired Apostate asked.

“I have extra potash if anyone needs it,” a Gypsy Siren said.

“Be sure you have meteor arrows,” a serpent hissed.

“Hold still while I ink this starburst on you,” a black-winged Atavian ordered.

Even Mhaldorus, the Colossal Daemon was caught in the energy as he stamped his red-and-black cloven hooves upon the stone, causing the Siren to cast a wary eye upon the towering obsidian monolith dominating the centre of the square, wondering if it would hold beneath the daemon’s attention.

“Pay attention, Slave,” the Exemplar muttered in her ear.

Zimona focused upon what the Lord Marshal was saying, the telepathic link which connected all of Mhaldor humming through her head. At times it was difficult to pick out the various voices, but she had begun to learn the individual nuances and quirks of their mental voices.

“It is time test how well your Magic will meld with that of the Dynamis and Insid’atori, Slave.” A stern glint reflected in the Dreadlord’s gaze as the Xorani turned his head briefly towards her, his lizard-like face sculpted in the profile of a hooded cloak. “Do not fail the Lord or his army.”

Trepidation scoured Zimona as she stared up at her superior, hearing the unspoken threat barbing his voice. She knew her fate, and had embraced it since she accepted the brand adorning her wrist. The escarbuncle burned in memory beneath the cuffs of the uncomfortable robe. A curt bob of her head was the only thing she could manage in response.

Around her, the preparation for battle kicked into high gear. The hiss of weaponry slipping free of scabbards and the snap of a whip provided the acoustic accompaniment for the guttural lyrics of the demon choir practising in the Cathedral. Energy pulsed around her, the drumbeat of war battered her like waves upon an unprotected harbour. Her heart throbbed a frantic rhythm in her chest as the lines of the army began to form. The Infernals, Blademasters, Apostates with their baalzadeen demons, and Dragons took the lead, donned in their malevolent armour and scales, encircling the physically fragile core of the three mages. A few serpents slipped away with bows strapped to their back, quivers bristling with venom-tipped arrows as they vanished into shadows, scouting ahead. A jester bobbled on the periphery of the troops, juggling bombs with madcap glee, while a bard strummed her lute and began a battle hymn from behind. On the outskirts, a robe-attired alchemist sat astride a phantom seal harp, potent stopper-topped phials bulging from every visible pocket. Mhaldor when marshaling was a simmering pot of many different races and interests that Zimona at times felt wholly overwhelmed by the knowledge at her fingertips.

The Exemplar and Insid’atori moved in front of Zimona as they cleared a small space among the magic wielders.

“Come.” Impatience seeped in the Exemplar’s voice as he snapped his fingers her way.

This was it. She would either help or hinder the Lord’s army, the latter surely earning her head a place beneath Theoren’s guillotine.

Zimona was certain she was about to pass out from fright, but she faked confidence as she stepped forward, the third point of the triangle of mages.

Crystals gleamed and sparkled like milky diamonds as the Exemplar took a handful of oddly-shaped stones from a small leather pouch attached at his hip, and then tossed them into the air. The crimson fog which saturated Mhaldor made the crystals douse the square with a red glow, as if blood rained down upon them. For a second the voices in her head quieted, and a strange calm swept through her. This was what she had been training so very hard to do these past months.

The crystals hummed and spun, gaining momentum as they churned at the Exemplar’s behest. The Insid’atori gathered her own handful of crystals, sending them flying into the air in a whirlwind of gyrating shapes. Through the spinning crystals Zimona locked eyes on the Exemplar, and saw rather than heard him say “spin”.

Time slowed for the Siren as she reached into the oxblood leather pouch hooked at her hip, her fingers sliding through the nebulous rift until she had her own crystals. She had studied crystalism for what seemed like such a short time, and this was the pinnacle of her education. Her graduation from novice to full-ranking Magi. To spin a cataclysm was something only the most powerful could do. It would unleash the fury of a team of Magi upon ones enemies, and she would be an integral part of that core. If she succeeded.

Excitement burnt through Zimona’s veins, igniting a fervour inside of her. She whipped her hand out, and sent eleven oddly-shaped crystals soaring through the air. They hung, suspended above her, joining the others in a cloud of thirty-three crystals showering a prism of crimson light upon her head.

Zimona had never seen such a sight before, and her breath stuttered as she gawked. She had done it. She had spun a cataclysm!

The Exemplar slashed his arm violently downwards, sending the crystals slicing towards the ground in a powerful motion, embedding them into the earth without shattering them. The vibration of the humming crystals ripped through the square and Zimona staggered, almost falling. The shuddering sensation of impending doom contorted her surroundings. She had been prepared for the oppression of the magical vibrations, but still unease writhed through her. Magic of this nature was volatile and dangerous, and one wrong move could send the whole thing blowing up in their faces.

Zimona thought the Exemplar seemed nonplussed by the power building around them as he held the vibration. Though there was a slight wrinkle of strain upon his forehead as he nodded towards her and the Insid’atori.

The final step, she had nearly forgotten

Clutching her weapon, Zimona struggled to tap into her own power, funnelling it through the towering wooden stave and into the earth. She felt the vibration ripple beneath her soles as the cataclysm activated, a shrill note piercing the air before it fell into a latent hum that only few could sense.

The Exemplar straightened, a slight hint of malicious glee visible in his eyes. He turned towards the Lord Marshal and Dreadlord, and Zimona saw faint approval flick her way from the three before it was washed away with a curt nod.

“Let the battle begin.”

***

The rustle of leafy canopies shook underneath her as Zimona dashed through the Village behind the Exemplar, her air elemental keeping her afloat as the arrows from the Eleusian archers flew past them. Leaping across a gap between branches, the two Magi landed within a grove, narrowly missing an enormous beehive, and breathing heavily.

A crystal pyramid sparked like fire before the Exemplar flung it to the ground. “Now!”

Without hesitating, Zimona pointed her staff towards their pursuer quickly closing in on their location. A pulse of magic vibrated through her arm as lightning shot from the tip of her staff. Excitement burst through her as the golden dragon caught in the sizzling bolt convulsed, roaring with unmitigated fury as her scales began to blacken and char. The dragon had been chasing after the two of them for what felt like hours, a relentless pursuit through the village and surrounding forest. No matter how much magic the Siren had thrown at the dragon, she kept coming and coming in dogged pursuit.

Surprise swept through Zimona as the dragon finally staggered, and then fell, momentum carrying the wyrm until she slid to a stop at the novice Siren’s feet. Elation coursed through her, and Zimona laughed in shock. Her first kill! She couldn’t believe it. Though she hadn’t accomplished it alone, she had slain a dragon. Zimona pivoted towards her Exemplar, nearly vibrating with glee, though knowing not to express it. At least not now.

“Well done, Minion,” the Exemplar said with a hint of amusement in his voice, bestowing upon her a new place in Mhaldor. Still a slave, but one that could be useful.

Summoning another air elemental, the two Magi took flight again, Zimona’s heart as light as the ephemeral creation supporting her. Running together across the canopies of the Eastern Ithmia, the two Magi joined the raiding party once more, sending complex patterns of fire and air weaving into the air.