Chapter 7: Crusade
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
12:59
It was busy in Koahl. There had not been a dual white out and simultaneous moonless event in decades. It was more than just rare, as one would only happen once or twice over a lifetime, so preparation for it was deemed redundant in a railroad town with a profitable coal industry. They had the railroads to pay for, the connecting roads to clear, and the walls and general infrastructure to uphold. Being out here in this frozen wasteland, even as the biggest settlement in a 15 mastance radius, there was little traffic through Koahl. Not to mention Luna herself bringing trouble in times like these. One needed grit to live out here, and courage to venture out. Visitors were rare, trade caravans once in a in a moonless, and the trains being the only respite. One must solve everything by themselves in places like this.
Another pile of snow fell from the surrounding town walls and the nearest railway. The wall was a mastance and half in length for all sides, five paces tall, and three paces wide of pure masoned stone for people to stand on, with cloak-wearing men in steel eye-framed round helms and cloth face wraps, supported by a ladder that grinded into the snow-covered ground. They poked at the top of the walls with brooms and picks to clear off the snow and other accumulated junk. The wall was not built equal, some places were more well-made with roofed areas to keep the elements at bay, while others were decrepit and in desperate need for improvement. But the people of Koahl had other concerns, not to mention limited budget. The wall was important, but to varying degrees for different segments.
Somewhere in the West-bound fringes of the great structure, two men dressed in the same uniforms as the wall workers moved an old wooden ladder to each section of the wall untouched and snow-covered. They poked at the snow with their brooms, trading bits by bits of bristles for cleared sections of snow. Despite the eerie quietness and the sense of danger, the men continued with huffs that left puffy steam breaths in the air.
Their routine was simple: set the ladder down, one climbed up and cleared the snow, moved five spaces, repeated. One man did not climb the ladder but stayed back to hold it in place. He had thick arms and bored eyes behind his helm, slumped slightly as he watched the other working. He avoided snow falling onto his cloak, or worse under it, where the gleam of something metallic was reflecting the moonlight. Suddenly, his wraps shifted.
“Eirik?”
On the ladder, the other man, taller and slightly less well-built than the man below, a healthy and strong individual still, kept on working with his broom. He answered, but clearly not interested.
“Save it Frode, you had your chance.”
“Tch, I was just going to ask how much of the wall we have left.”
Eirik paused and looked at the line of thick walls that went on and on and on… He acknowledged that looking at it more would just make him feel worse, from the dread of more labor and the awe of such a grand structure that he so often took for granted. Instead, he looked beyond the walls, into the white expanse of plains, hills and sparse forests.
“A lot.” He pushed the last bit of snow off the wall, “We’ll probably pass our shift until then.”
“Yeah, right, as if anyone on Gaia’s white earth is going to take the wall sitting duty.”
“I said you had your chance. And it’s not the worst assignment.”
“It’s marginally better than latrine duty.”
“We drew straws, and got the second shortest ones. Can’t you just shut up and at least be glad you’re not Magnus of all people?”
The man at the bottom of the ladder leaned against the wall, still holding onto the wooden sides of the steps carefully.
“I’m going to complain because it’s trash! I’d rather be patrolling outside the walls, because that’s actually, I don’t know, exciting? If we don’t do anything, we’ll be seen as tax suckers! I got into this job to kill monsters and achieve honor! Not to… scrub snow off walls and complain about it.”
“Okay, look, I’m not really the person you should tell this to.” Eirik dropped his broom. “Do you want to actually clean it? Because from where I’m standing, once you start, you stop caring about all that shit and start caring about getting things done!”
“That kind of mindset is exactly why we’re rotting away doing this! Don’t even get me started on how little those sun worshippers care about us! They just… waltzed right into our town with a couple guys and demanded a situational report?”
Frode let go of the ladder, his hand stretched out wide as he walked away.
“When did we start playing second fiddle to foreign clergymen? I’m telling you, the Lord is making a mistake.”
“Will you hold the Heldamned ladder and stop complaining… Huh?”
Something distant stopped Eirik’s words, floating against the dark unlit sky, only illuminated by the star it covered. Once the man on the ladder noticed, it was too late to do anything but cover himself with his arms. Something sharp pierced into his sleeve, stopping just short of the leather which bounded it. It hit him with enough force to push him back, giving him the sensation of floating
“Sol!– Get me down before I get ripped apart!”
Frode grabbed a javelin, aimed and threw it. It whizzed across the cold air, spinning as it passed. The sharp end pierced through the creature’s body, snapping something off and making it fall, taking Eirik down with it. He landed in the snow with a soft thud, and left as a groaning mess.
“Are you okay!?” Frode rush over.
Eirik pulled the creature off his sleeve, revealing it to be a bird the size of his torso with hooked beak, sharp claws, eyes that seemed focused and vicious, warm feathers. He pushed it off, blood from the javelin amputated wing marred its plumage, then stomped on its body.
“Bloody hawk got me! There’s a lot of them around lately! They’re probably… Crap.”
He was about to say “swarming”, when the sound of clapping wings filled the air. The workers looked up, and saw a flock of five flying above their heads. Their wings beat fast and powerful. Eirik sighed, drawing his short sword. Frode looked around for reinforcement and took in the situation.
“Okay… You distract them while I try to get as many–”
Whizzzzz…
Something about the size of a toy ball yet so bright it covered the air, distracting them men and even the hawks. Wings stopped flapping aggressively for a moment, the fireball came careening at the hawks, gliding in the air and making a harsh whistling sound.
Bang!
In a single moment, the fireball expanded, brightened, and combusted into an explosion that made the workers wince and turn away. By the time they looked back, three of the hawks were plucked out of the sky, their scorched black carcasses landed at the men’s feet. They heard someone outside the wall.
“Darn, that was such a dud.”
“…Miss Schwee–“
“Oh don’t get your nerves up! Just give me a second and I’ll–”
“Hah…“
By the next second, something made a thud against the wall, then another, and another… Thud thud thud, the sound signaled it ascension by climbing the wall, before showing itself to the workers. It was black, large and heavy. It crouched, aimed, and launched at the rest of the hawk. It reached the birds with marked ease, surprising even the avians themselves. The option of getting away came up to the creatures, but a blur streaked across their eyes. The dark figure cleaved with his weapon, unnaturally elegantly, and dispatched the rest of the avian menaces.
He landed before the workers, followed by the wet plops of hawk body parts. His armor creaked as he reached his full height, towering over the mortal workers. Not a mere man, something larger and more imposing. He was dressed in a crimson cloak colored in the hue of dried blood, swaying in the wind, revealing a pointed helmet of black that was rimmed with golden lines. A symbol of the sun with its many rays carved on the cheeks revealed the affiliation of the figure.
Solstinian.
“Greetings.“
His voice was deep, but calm. He moved closer to the two workers and smoothly sheathed its blade, black for the materials and glowing with some sort of orange-colored power, with a clink. He towered over the workers, eyes gauging them from behind the helmet slits.
“Could we take some of your time?“
Eirik and Frode looked at each other.
They turned and nodded.
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
13:03
In a busy city like Koahl, people were generally not in the mood for anticipating visitors. But when said visitors were a band of soldiers of a foreign empire they knew well of, their complaints were met with mute.
Seven “horses” neighed softly just out of the gate, tied to a lamp post illuminating the wall, digging their noses into the snow. The word “horse” was used tentatively by the few helmeted men that made the town’s second layer of defenses outside of the walls, acting as its law and order. They were accustomed to many a-types of equine creature, but these were no horses at all. Horses didn’t have legs sturdier than the wooden bars which made their winch-up gates, thicker than the pillar of houses, so tall that a man could stand straight underneath one. Horses were temperamental, and an effort to control, but these “horses” stood and stared without a single sign of a waning gallop. Whatever these things were, with their giant gait and their subtly intelligent gazes, they were no horses, but some better imitation of them.
Upon five of these creatures’ backs were men with helmets unlike those of the guards of Koahl. Rounded at the top, an angled sheet of metal protecting the nape. A visor with decently sized eye slits, two had their mouths covered in steel, the rest was opened. Through the eye slits, their eyes were burning orange balls of flame, as intense as a forest fire. Their exposed skins were tanned, as if they were baked in fire, unlike the pale citizens around them. Their spears had basalt black tips with glowing orange lines flaking off embers when they moved or the wind picked them up. On their backs were capes or cloaks colored in a light yellow, shielding their entire body from the elements, yet they shivered as if unaccustomed to the weather. Still, their posture was calm, disciplined, even slightly intimidating. It was a sight that left no amount of nervousness in the eyes of a frontier town’s guards.
The guards weren’t supposed to be afraid, they thought to themselves. Some remembered these visitors from the past, introduced as Solstinians, people of the ancient Empire of the Sun, where this land and its lord belonged to. Their influence was so vast and wide that they managed to convince the land’s Baron to cede them a small plot to create a garrison that would safeguard the railways and its surrounding areas from the mountains to the north and its creatures for no reason other than charity. Obviously, no one believed it to be as simple as mere good faith, and true to that suspicion, missionaries of Sol started flooding into town, while the garrison became their jailors in all but name. To say the more traditionalist members of the settlement were peeved by this development would be masking its true scale.
The Solstinians were always annoying in many ways – Cold fearing, full of complaints, weak in more ways than one to the harshness of the cold wasteland. Before today, however, they never showed themselves to be terrifying.
Except for that man.
Eirik and Frode stood just outside of the small tower near the walls, with a small barracks that doubled as an office for travel papers or, in this case, a liaison between the town’s military and the Solstinians. They were too quiet, glancing back and forth at those horse-like creatures outside of the gates and sweating their hands below their fingerless leather gloves. For the Havians of Havnfest, courage in battle and in the face of danger was what made a man. Yet they cowered and shivered at mere Solstinians.
“…Hey.”
Frode started, with no response from Eirik.
“I’m literally talking to you–”
“I’m trying to think, Frode. What do they possibly want from us?”
“I was about to tell you! Maybe it’s related to the explosion that only stopped an hour ago.”
“When did they ever show interest in our problems?”
“I’m just trying to make an educated guess! How about you ask the hulking tin man? Maybe he’ll give you an answer–”
The door slammed open. Both guardsmen shrieked and recoiled away. Frode jammed his finger, sucking the throbbing digit. The armored man reappeared, followed by a woman in orange. The man noticed the fearful guardsmen, paused and showed… an apologetic look. He quickly pulled up his helmet, readied to converse but was cut short. The dispatcher inside called out, clearly annoyed.
“And take someone with you, priest. Sej forbid ya’ll get lost… Frode, Eirik, you’re on tour guide duty!”
“WHAT?” The command broke the guardsmen’s stun, and they screeched in unison.
“I said lead them to where they need to be! Get them to the old lake!”
Eirik shouted back.
“Kapten, it’s the middle of the night! We can’t–”
“It’s barely twenty damn minutes from here! No complaints, just go!”
Before they could argue any further, the “priest” towered over them. He noted their shivers and nervousness, and walked away.
“We will be in your care. Prepare your horses.“
Both distracted men stared off-puttingly at the back of the priest in question, their eyes occasionally turning to each other as if asking if what just happened actually happened. Before they could come to a consensus, a woman’s laugh slapped them across the cheeks, snapping them back to reality.
“Ha, ha ha! Pfft–“
She smiled, stifling her laughter, before turning and moving stray locks of ashen hair out of the way. Her voice was half sarcastic, half soothing, but always tainted by whimsy laughter.
“I think he means that he’s delighted to have you on.”
“And uh… You are–”
Frode asked, and the woman stepped in front of them. Her hood was blown back and her hollow, bandaged eyes were shown. And yet, she put her face close to the guardsmen, as if scrutinizing them.
“I’m Schwee. A pyromancer from the Church”
She answered, as if mocking them. The two guards became on edge, trying to take in the situation and failing to hide the bewilderment behind their eyes. It must’ve been hilarious to the woman, as she laughed and laughed, even having to pat her chest to stop.
“Well, lighten up! You’re accompanying some very important people, it’s an honor– Should be an honor, really. Get ready before someone decides to bolt off.”
She followed the priest, leaving Frode and Eirik to gulp and stared. They wished for a normal day, and it was not to be.
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
13:07
Wyatt had no idea how he dragged himself back into Hubbs’ abode on injured legs, despite the many temptations to lay down and break down wherever possible. It was the only place guaranteed not to have a carcass or a drop of blood. It was, in other words, safe from the horrors he had to witness.
He looked inside as he limped in. Same as before, scavenged and stripped by him and Willem for funeral fuel, saved for a large chest full of trinkets. They weren’t ready to unload them, perhaps knowing they were in some way valuable for Hubbs and casting them into a fiery pit was a bad way to honor the old man’s life.
Freed of such restriction now with his mental state sinking, Wyatt crouched before the chest, his hand hovering before its wooden frame. It took a moment before he tested the lid, finding it unlocked. He found a lump in his throat formed by nervousness and despair that forced action instead of tears.
Creak, the old chest groaned. It had not been open for decades at least. When its contents were bare for Wyatt to see, he had a hard time reconciling his expectations with what was inside. Grand treasures were, of course, out of the picture immediately. There was not even a smidgen of sparkling gems or shining gold. To be exact, it was so dull inside that Wyatt could barely spot anything in the dim lighting. The emptiness was clear, however, as it was sparsely occupied by trinkets.
As if sensing his frustration, the black walls rumbled to life, as sections of it slowly shook off flakes of the material, passing it onto the ground as ash. Wyatt backed off and scrambled, landing his back on the floor. When the walls finally laid to rest, lines of glowing orange cracked from them, radiating heat intense enough to thaw the frozen air. Wyatt was dripping in sweat for the first time today. The little hut glowed like it was lit with torches.
Magic, he supposed. Pushing the lump down his throat, Wyatt stood up again and tentatively investigated the chest, its contents bare as day. As expected, there was not much to scavenge. Worse, nothing was immediately valuable. There was a small leather-bound book marred with wears and stains, two plain wooden oval-shaped transaction blocks, an orange cloak that seems to be the same as the one Hubbs had on his body almost religiously, and finally…
Wyatt’s hand gravitated towards the final object almost instinctually, his gloved fingers curling around the edges of it. Taking an educated guess, one could assume it to be twelve dimiters in length, a bit lighter than a knife of similar size. It was black all over, round and thick at the bottom where Wyatt instinctively grabbed, narrowing to a needlepoint on the other end. It felt warm to the touch, its surface humming with unknown motion. Further, below its surface, something was shifting, like it was alive and breathing.
Wyatt swallowed hard, putting the stick down. He reached for the two transaction blocks and bit into them with shaking teeth, the taste dull and earthy. He felt the beat of his heart quickening for a second with each, signifying that they worked, and when that thump slowed down, he threw them into the chest. The dead had no use for money or any valuables, right? Who would be here to judge him?
Without thinking, the man’s mouth went up, his expression turning into a smirk. Unconsciously, his breath started finding itself, he was making sounds that he did not know he could make right now. He collapsed on the floor, breathing and chuckling, before pulling down his hood. He couldn’t help it, nervousness had taken over and all he could do was laugh. What did he plan on doing here? In the most literal sense of the word, he had been abandoned. Worse, he cannot blame Willem for doing what he did. What exactly did Wyatt understand about loss that justified taking it out on his friend? His heart beat painfully in his chest, and he laid on the floor. When the laughter died, his momentary shock gone, his mouth curved downwards and his molars bit, his face turned into a quiet scowl, and he groaned… But he had to keep going.
Help was out there somewhere, and he needed all the help he can get right now. He could rely on no one, not even himself on account of his injured leg. He needed to get to that railroad town, otherwise… There was no guarantee of him surviving another day.
Wyatt stopped caring about fatigue a long time ago, now he had to move. He propped himself up by the elbow, shifting his weight on his one good leg. At first he fell, earning himself an “Unf!” as he was forced to lean against the glowing warm walls. They sparked when his fingers brushed past. He winced from the strain, collecting himself with shuddering breaths.
Now he saw the chest again, with the book and the long black rod. He huffed and grabbed them on the way to the entrance, out of the warmth and the light of the hut, aiming for the railroad town. Just as he thought nothing could ever distract him, the items in his hands shifted as he arrived at the entrance, exposing himself to the element for a single second.
Cunk.
The black rod shifted to reveal cracks that shared the same orange glow that the walls did, except instead of exuding an aura of warmth, it burnt in Wyatt’s hand like he was holding the handle of a boiling pot. He threw the rod to the ground, glaring at it and stumbling back. It shook, rolling by itself and let out a spark of flame from the tip. Then it stopped suddenly, humming carefully.
What in the world was that?
He took to the book, thinking he should get rid of it too, but saw the faintest line on the cover.
A COMPENDIUM OF LIFE AND PHENOMENAS BOTH ARCANE AND NATURAL
SIGNED: HUBBS MULLARCH
Wyatt swallowed hard. Despite himself, his curiosity got the better of him, and indeed forced him to open to a random page close to the beginning of the medium-sized journal. As fate would have it, he saw a topic that he had always been curious about.
CHAPTER II: OF MAGIC AND ITS INCEPTION
His breathing evened out. His eyes glued to the writings, Hubbs’ voice rang in his head.
In essence, magic is a skill. You need only master it.
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
13:16
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
A giant, four-legged metal machine was a lot of things. intimidating, impressive, introspective in a way, but it could not be quiet, despite its best efforts. Against the snow, the crashes of its legs were like stakes being pushed into the dirt. Thunk, thunk, thunk…
It was Willem’s one and only companion, though, and the only thing he could hear outside of the constant reminders of today. His eyes still saw the gore and blood around his house, even when he was far away from it. His nose still smelled the iron in the air; his skin felt the sudden coldness that came with despair. He could still hear Wyatt’s pleads. He was haunted by spirits unseen, malevolent and vengeful.
On the head of the construct, Willem rocked back and forth, but couldn’t cry or think. He came to resent the silence that came with his departure. He did not realize how reflective it was, and reflecting was the worst he could do right now. Regret screamed at him somewhere deep in his heart.
Thunk.
The sound of the final step roused Willem from his apprehension. Even he could tell it was resolute. Slowly, the machine bent its thin legs and bowed, dropping Willem off gently on the snow below. In front of him was that familiar marble gate, carved with the intricacies of a master artisan, and behind it, a place of books, warmth, and safety. He swallowed the bile in his throat and knocked.
The warmth hit his face immediately, close to searing his skin. It took him a few seconds to acclimate, but Willem took his face wraps off and took a breath. He didn’t need to reserve his breaths, else he’d burn his lungs from the cold, here. And that almost made him happy.
Creak.
The sound came from above Willem, drawing his attention. He could see glimpses of a large shadow between the lights, too fast to identify. He scrambled back, until the figure was clear to him.
“Hello…” He looked down, sighing, “…Librarian.”
Animalistically, the Librarian tilted its head, its body shifting slightly below its cloak. For a moment it seemed to regard Willem with critical eyes. It nodded at the spider-like construct, ordering it to close the door wordlessly. It then spoke calmly, but with a hint of reprimand.
“You seem fatigued. May I know the reason?”
“It’s… It’s… Complicated.”
Hunching over, the Librarian seemed curious. Nevertheless, it inquired no further, instead raising one of its spindly limbs and tapped on the four-legged machine.
“And the other? Wyatt?”
“He’s… Not here. I– I left him.”
The librarian’s claws dug slightly deeper into the spider-like machine
“Was it an argument?”
Willem walked further into the library, but couldn’t find the right answer still.
“I mean… it…”
The Librarian waited for five seconds without a satisfactory answer. His claw lowered to Willem’s level, guiding him inwards. It then touched the floor, which made the whole library rumble.
“Do not be ashamed. You sapiens are prone to arguments. It’s one of the things you were known for. Although, I suppose that could be outdated.”
He lifted his claws again, and books started to fly off the shelves, circling the machine. He scanned the vortex of literature, and plucked a single book out of the sky and thrusted it at Willem, making him stumble back. The young man could hardly lift the giant tome half as thick as his forearm was long, wondering how he could finish such a book.
“This… This is?”
“If I may be honest, I know what happened.” The librarian bowed slightly, “My apologies.”
“I– You really don’t need to–”
“My mission, as always, is the preservation of knowledge, but also the circulation.” The Librarian flipped through the pages. “While I cannot offer weapons, I can offer you an education, which could be considered substantial and could prevent this happening in the future. An education of magic, to be exact.”
He stopped at a specific page, gauging Willem’s reaction. The man was unsure, but the Librarian supposed that was better than apathy.
“I translated it in the time you were gone. If you are willing, I will guide you through it.”
Willem looked at the book again. It was heavy, as if the weight of everything written into it collapsed onto the arms of he who wielded it. The weight was a test, he thought, to make sure he had enough grit and determination to handle it. Swallowing, Willem nodded.
“…Please.”
“My pleasure.” The Librarian bowed.
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
13:28
Hooves crashed against the snowy ground with enough force to break the hardy paved path into potholes and dust. Lanterns hanging on posts swung with the wind, the speed of the creatures passing them breaking all the bounds of reason.
Seven “horses” and two stallions raced down the steps, with the normal creatures breathing heavily, their biology barely keeping up with their superior imitation. Their best effort seemed like a brisk jog to these creatures, and an unsettling feeling set into their animalistic instincts. They only ran for the respect of their riders, overcoming their fear.
Eirik and Frode, riding the stallions, found themselves even more astonished at the harsh difference between them. Horses and men felt like deadweights, only serving to slow this entourage down, and providing very little. Very few words were exchanged, saved for the occasional direction changes. Metal equipment clanked together, making a symphony for the marching squad.
Soon, their conventional steeds reached their limits, skidding to a halt and unable to gallop any further even at the spurs of their riders. Without a way to continue, Eirik anxiously called the Solstinians.
“Slow down! Hey! We can’t catch up!”
Like on cue, the equine creatures stopped, turning towards the two men. Their riders shared the same sentiment as them – quiet, stoic to a fault, completely faceless. The man in black armor twirled his hand, giving a silent order and the guardsmen dismounted. They lead their steeds to a tree nearby and tied them there. The battlepriest dismounted as well and approached, holding the reigns of his steed. Their sheer size made the mortal guardsmen jump, as with his unnaturally serene voice.
“How much of the way have we made?“
Eirik swallowed, his earlier nervousness gone. Frode, unafflicted by such an emotion, responded with a slow but heavily fatigued tone.
“We’re about two-thirds the way. This… usually took half an hour or more. I didn’t think we’d actually…”
“Good.“
Said the priest, handing the reigns to one of his soldiers. His eyes never left the two men.
“Get your riding stock under check, less we encounter trouble on the way.“
He turned away, eyeing the entourage. The guardsmen were perplexed by the briefness (and frankly, rudeness) of the conversation. They turned to themselves, asking again if that really just happened. Their bewilderment was cut short, however, by the unknown sounds coming out of the blue nearby.
Miss Schwee, cloaked and cheerful as always, hummed strange lullaby and whistled a tune as soon as she got their attention. She was holding a clock. It was rather large, about half the length of her torso, furbished from a frame of spruce. It was sparsely decorated, looking like a box with a rounded top except for the obvious clockface and the ticking from within. The numbers on the clockface only went from I to X, and the ticks were erratic yet sluggish. It showed no accurate time whatsoever, and seemed overdue for a repair.
There was a moment of trepidation from the two men. They turned their gazes at the five Solstinian soldiers, looking for explanation. They ignored them, though, so they were left to assume that this was normal. Eirik nudged at Frode.
“You go.”
Frode looked back with a raised eyebrow, tapping his friend’s back.
“I’m not going to question that. You go.”
“Bub, I’m not gonna risk my life for a question.”
“Then why should I!?”
“Can you just be a man and–!”
“Ask what?”
It was Schwee, smiling blankly as ever; her head tilted to the left.
“Uh, nevermind–” Frode stepped back, and Eirik followed.
The woman suddenly jabbed the clock at the bewildered soldiers, irritating them with the consistently off beat ticking. She started to whine, as insistently as the clock itself.
“It’s a solar clock. Open it! Open it up!”
The two men deliberated whether they should continue to engage with the woman or not. They decided to reach for the clock’s frame anyway, feeling the hinges that outlined an opening and finding the brass handle. Frode gulped while Eirik, who unfortunately had his hand on the handle, unlatched it and opened the clock.
Heat from within repelled them, a bright light flashed afterwards, making them almost drop the contraption. They held on, utilizing all their soldiery discipline and holding the clock as far away from them as possible. When their visions cleared, they saw a ball of a swirling orange-yellow liquid pulsated within it, stable in form yet uncertain in capabilities. It radiated heat and light at random, irritable and spiteful. The second burst light made the men stumble back.
A Solstinian soldier trotted to their side and hastily closed up the clock with his gloved hand. Frode jumped, turned to face him and was greeted by his hands snatching the clock away, hugging it protectively.
“What in Sol’s name are you northfolks doing!?”
It was only then, when they had regained their full cognitive function, that Eirik and Frode realized they had been surrounded by the spear-welding Solstinian soldiers. They realized the woman had goaded them into doing something extremely offensive, so they reached for the sky and yelped.
“Wasn’t us! It was…”
…Where had that woman gone?
The Empire soldiers advanced on the two, their backs pressed together in an anxious manner. They assumed raising their arms wasn’t going to cut it, and both went for their weapons. Eirik grunted.
“If I’m dying, I want to let you know. I…”
“I love you too, man!”
“…Uh, no. What I meant was I slipped and dropped the yogurt in the mess hall a few days back and told everyone you did it.”
“What?”
“I know. Bad move. Glad I got that off before the end though.”
“What!?”
The Solstinian soldiers closed in on them, and they were ready to brawl for their lives. But the tension was cut short by a feminine voice, a half yawn like a child bored with their current entertainment.
“Hey like… don’t kill them? That’s bad.”
The soldiers looked as confused as the guardsmen, but they stepped back and form a path for the woman. Schwee walked in with the reigns to their stallions in hand, giggling at both her men and the guardsmen’s reaction. She whispered.
“Did the both of you do something wrong? Tried to steal something or the like? It’s like a witch hunt in here!”
“…”
“What’s with the quiet?”
Schwee turned to find her clock, noticing that neither Eirik nor Frode had it. Finally, she found it in the arms of one of her soldiers, giggling like she had just accidentally forgotten something.
“Oh right. Should’ve told you to close it afterwards. Silly me! I was busy gathering your cute little ponies here and…”
She seemed to lavish in the stares from all those around her, hugging the clock to her chest like a toy and waving.
“You all can go now! Tis’ a simple false alarm. Sorry people!”
The crowd slowly dispersed, looking tired of the pyromancer and suspicious of the guardsmen. Schwee, oblivious or deliberately ignoring all that, coughed and smiled at Eirik and Frode.
“Where was I?”
“What in Sol’s name,” Frode jabbed his finger at the clock. “Is that thing?”
“It’s, hmm… It’s magic, of course.”
“No way is that magic.” Eirik shook his head. “Magic is supposed to be just stories where you can do rituals and shift rivers or heal wounds or… Something! That’s not magic. Magic doesn’t get locked in a box. Magic isn’t real–”
Schwee chuckled and tossed the clock onto her steed’s saddle, cutting off Eirik with her usual erratic and whimsical noises. She moved inhumanly around the giant steed. She patted its mane, leaving the men stupefied.
“You speak as if you understand the nature of “magic“. Not even magic, but the word “magic“. How do you think you get your mail delivered, and how were your message heard across great distances without delivery? How do you think the roads are maintained? How do you think the lights on these roads burn without maintenance? How do you think the tracks of the trains that lead into your town are laid, or even how those trains were made?”
“Those are just… Technology.” Frode started, his eyes narrowing at Schwee.
“Wrong!”
Schwee laughed, and curled her fingers around the frame of the clock, still sticking out of the saddle.
“This, along with the rest of your “technology“, falls under the same umbrella term the wider world recognizes as magic.” Slowly, her head tilted, “It’s only under mundanity – for example, with your trains and tracks – that you stop recognizing it as such. For example, we Solstinians made this object because the cold is unbearable for us. It runs by fueling itself with a magician’s essence. That is, people like me, who have an almost innate understanding of this magic you deny.”
She swirled the clock hand, making the air grow unbearably hot for a moment. The horses neighed uncomfortably, and the guardsmen felt like tearing off the clothes on their skin. They keeled over and groaned, while Schwee turned her hollow eye sockets at them. She looked rather bemused by their reactions.
“The eternal winter does not reach our lands. Which is why we made these as a necessity. We made them so long ago now that they’re no longer “magic“. For me, perhaps the strange black rocks that fuel your engines could be considered my version of magic. For you,” she tapped at the clock. “This is your magic: A device that seemingly brings heat without searing anything that touches it. For me, it’s just a traveling necessity.”
She dialed it back, and the guardsmen felt the heat lifted off of them, though their eyes were still dry under the helm. For the first time in their lives, they sweated outside. Schwee laughed and scratched the back of her head.
“It’s also a pretty big thing for us culturally to handle it with care, so that’s probably why everyone got so peeved, ha! Sorry sorry. I should’ve warned you two.”
“That’s…” Frode took off the helmet to wipe. “That’s not it.”
“Pardon?”
“The giant explosion.” Eirik shook his armor to dry the sweat. “We’ve seen what you people did when you arrived. We see exactly how that man in black armor moved like he wasn’t a man. We know that’s nothing like our trains or walls. So I ask you once again, what are those?”
Schwee turned her head, in the completely wrong direction to where Eirik had pointed and only offered them a smile as if mocking them.
“You ask loaded questions, and I’ll be frank with you. There is no one answer.”
A small flame danced between the tip of her fingers, and Scwhee began to twirl it around like playing with a toy.
“This, the thing you call different, is but an expression of magic. But what you’re looking for is what we call thaumaturgy.”
“…What is it?” Frode huffed.
“Well, if I remember the textbooks correctly, it starts with a basic fundamental.”
She breathed in, and…
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
13:29
Wyatt’s eyes locked onto one sentence.
All living creatures, so long as they have a mind, a will and a desire, create a form of life energy called “essence”.
He sighed, pausing his limping walk on the dirt path, his mind reeling to understand the implications.
The black stick with a pointed end – something he decided to carry only because he imagined it would have some value – acted on some level of intent, Wyatt realized. When he wanted it to open up, it did, and he can think the opposite for it to stay closed, and he reckoned that his stress made it open wildly in response. He could visualize opening some parts while keeping others closed, and make it a makeshift torch. The four-legged construct, his former source of light, was no longer here. So he would have to make do.
Wyatt used it to trudge down the village roads. He started reading once he noticed the first bodies stacking outside of their doorsteps, trying to escape what would have spelled the end of their lives. He was sure it was the black-gooped creatures that attacked him, and that they weren’t the only cause of this disaster. For now, he trusted they were scared away by Willem and the construct. But he didn’t fear them, just his meandering mind. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the carnage.
The book was a good distraction. Wyatt didn’t learn how to read properly, and so he never read very well, but at this point, going through this was better than acknowledging the stench and sight of decay around him. He regarded the next few lines after a second or two of silence
“Essence” has no definite form. Most might be familiar with the three basic forms of matter: Gasses, liquids, solids. For reasons yet known, essence exists in none of these forms in physical reality (most oft known as real space). We know of essence only from its effects and an instinctual idea of its existence. For the latter, there exists a layer of organs in the body that contains and flows essence. The most commonly accepted of these organs are: Leylines, the pathway of essence, and the soul (or the “core”), the source of all essence, seemingly placed within the abdomen. All creatures have an instinctual idea of their existence, whether they know about them or not. Then, of course, there is the manifestation of essence’s effects.
Manifesting the effects requires two things.
First, a tool capable of channeling magic. A normal body is incapable of such things, and requires outside assistance. In the world of formal thaumaturgy, we call these “casting mediums”. There are other names, though out of consideration of my limited knowledge, are not included.
A wand of any kind suffices, though a staff would make a better medium.
Wyatt paused. Did he have a wand or a staff with this black stick? He had no idea, of course, with his limited interaction with magic. If this thing could help him cast magic, then using it as a glorified torch might be a little insulting… Nevertheless, he shook his head and continued reading. Hubbs did not need anything to create massive explosions. How exactly did he–
In some societies, dedicated magicians may decide that portable casting mediums are too troublesome and make it almost seamless via a certain augmentation. This, usually called a graft, involves burning lines of precious metals into the body in tattoo-like shapes, allowing essence to be drawn straight from the body. I, as per my profession as a Church Pyromancer, have experienced this procedure.
Modern medicine and magic allow this to happen with minor discomfort, but I do not recommend this kind of surgery to any casual magician. Both the surgery and the graft itself take a toll on the body. I’m afraid men simply are not meant to channel magic by themselves.
“…Isn’t that painful?”
Wyatt whispered, shaking his head. His leg hurt again, so he stopped by a lamp post to rest and look around. The houses were starting to thin, and eventually he would reach the outskirts. It was only a matter of time. And then after that…
Well, what then? If he reported that library, who would even believe in him? He was but one person who might as well be mentally debilitated from surviving such a traumatic event. And even he wasn’t sure if himself was sane. What could he say to get people to help him, rather than assume that he was some poor old refugee that they needed to take care of? And then when that library was revealed, would he even be rewarded for it? Unconsciously, the stick on his hand started quivering with power. Wyatt breathed hard, then again, and again.
Calm.
…When the object stabilized, he started reading again.
Second, and more difficult than one can imagine, casting magic requires trust and visualization. Mictoris Kaith wrote in his 261 EC thesis “The workings behind modern magieology, thaumaturgy, and phantasology” that magic starts by drawing essence, which is then shaped by an unknown force, letting it become a phenomenon in real space, despite having no concrete form. He believed that essence is shaped by both the belief that it can be shaped into a certain form, and the visualization of that form. This is best seen in one of the more basic functions of magic: Spells. Portable, memorized magic used on the move.
As a pyromancer for the Church, my experience with magic, specifically spells, mirrors this idea. In mental duress, I would not be able to cast magic; it requires a clear mind and a certain confidence to conjure. Say, for example, you wanted to conjure a ball of fire. First, you would need the absolute belief that you could do it. Second, you would need to imagine how a ball of fire is made, what it looks like, and how it affects the world. If all goes perfectly, one could create miracles.
This is also where the limits of magic start, however.
If, for example, I were to believe I could burn down a nation, and I could visualize it, I could in technicality. However, things are not so simple. Even if I could visualize burning down every person, building, animal, fields and roads of a nation, I need enough mental power to draw out the essence required to do so. Failure to do that would leave me in an inebriated, near-death state as I try to will something impossible to reality. In professional spaces, we call this limit the mind’s heat, as it generates heat in the brain. If you overheat your mind, you could be cooked from the inside and death is inevitable.
A more mundane issue partially explained in the paragraph above is visualization. More specifically, if something is unable to be visualized, it cannot be manifested. The same goes for something that is unable to be believed in. Magicians spend years or even centuries trying to expand our visualization and make the impossible possible, but there are certain barriers one cannot mentally overcome in their lifetimes. I cannot, for example, imagine burning down a nation if I wanted to. Something like that is beyond me, reserved exclusively for the greatest magicians to have lived, if not divinity.
There are also differences in how magic is perceived, as the perception of magic also affects how you cast it. In general, most scholars expand the definition of magic into five types:
– Faith, the magic that originates from the belief of divinity.
– Sorcery, the magic that originates from the belief of discovery and science.
– Elemental, the magic that originates from manipulating the world.
– Depravity, the magic used by heretics, characterized by incoherent rules most closely associated with the ego.
– Esoteric, magic with no rules that do not conform to any characteristics of the previous types.
Wyatt paused his reading and looked at the sky. If he were to, say, visualize the power to heal himself, or the ability to get a thousand kegs of gold, would he be able to do so? Assuming this book is correct, and assuming he has what it takes to take the possible rebound of this magic, of course. If he could do that, then maybe a new life would not be impossible. If only he knew how to do magic, but…
Tried as he might, he did not believe the book. But if he could, then what would he do? Wyatt breathed in, he wanted something warm.
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
13:30
“–You got that?”
Schwee smiled brightly as she patted the two normal stallions on her side. They neighed in discontent, mirroring the sentiments of their riders. Of course, Frode and Eirik shared the same thought.
“That was absolute gibberish.“
They retreated, intimidated by Schwee and the way she talked. She could feel their discomfort, tilted her head, mouth stuck in a permanent smile but still exuded a sliver of disappointment.
“I suppose it’s in-part an aptitude only some have, not unlike craftsmanship or arts. People outside of our circle often find it hard to understand us. It’s in our nature as magicians to try to make them see it our way, though. For example…”
Schwee waved her hand, making her fingertips glow. It was a burning orange color that came off of her tanned skin, glowing from her palms to her backhand. It was in-part mesmerizing as it was mystic. She then continued, smug as ever.
“In civilized society, we use ES – that is, a transferable and storable form of essence primarily generated from experiences commonly associated with pursuits, physical or intellectual – as currency! Most people use it without thinking, but it’s a form of instinctual magic. Of course, the mechanics are–”
“ES?” Eirik asked.
Schwee smiled towards him. “…Yes, ES… Don’t you use–”
“Do you mean esst?” Frode continued.
“They’re essentially the same thing, with different spelling–”
“I mean, I don’t really get how this relates to blowing things up or magic…” Said Frode, closing and opening his hand as the veins in his body started glowing, though much fainter than Schwee’s, and with a dull white color, “It’s just how we trade, isn’t it?’
Schwee muttered into her palm.
“How much of my explanation did both of you get…?”
The guardsmen gulped and prepared an answer, but before they could, Schwee gently placed the solar clock onto Frode’s chest. He looked at it, then backed up at Schwee.
“Why did you–”
“I need my hands.” She stretched, using her boots to draw a deep circle around the horses, while patting their neck to keep them still, “A demonstration will be better, I bet.”
Schwee pulled four nuggets of silvery material from her belt. She placed them into the circle, two for each horse, putting them at opposite ends. It was meticulous and calculated, her mind working quickly to make sure everything was just right, makeshift as it was. Satisfied after a good bit of tinkering, she sat down in front of the circle, and muttered something to the wind.
Inferno surrounded the small circle for a second, searing hot yellow flame shot out from Shwee’s fingertips, pointing directly into the small circle in the ground. The horses were kept in place by fear, while the two men watched with no small amounts of awe at the sight of someone bending the element at will. They stepped back, almost seared by the fire.
When the flame cleared, those silvery nuggets melted and poured around the dug circle, cooled into a large ring. Schwee looked around.
“Hey, priest!”
From the distance, the armored man, currently occupied with the mundane work of checking on their steeds and inspecting his men and gear, cranked his neck towards the magician. Slowly, he made his way over and greeted quietly.
“Miss Schwee.“
“Help me get them to top shape quickly.” She pointed at the normal equines, their eyes nervously staring at Felrick.
The battlepriest sighed, hunkered down and kneeled, his hand on the silvery ring. In the instant he did so, it started glowing, its metallic sheen shimmering with power. His armor rumbled from nothing at all, an otherworldly glow started to appear below his plates. A warm yellow light shone upon them, easing their fatigue and put them at ease. It dimmed after three seconds, and the hulking Father stopped exerting himself. He stood up, dusting his hands.
“Mere fatigue. No injuries of note except for pulled muscles, which I had fixed.” Felrick noted them off as if he had a checklist, “Get on your ride. We are very nearly there.”
The mere mortal guardsmen were speechless. They looked into the eyes of the animals which brought them all the way out here, and saw that they were no longer dimming. Their stallions were no longer begging for air. Eirik couldn’t believe his eyes, rapidly swapping between the horses and the priest.
“…What… What did you–”
Schwee interjected, handing the horses’ reigns back to their riders.
“In more informal terms, we call that a miracle. It’s a class of magic that originates from religious belief– I told you that, didn’t I? In general, it’s more suited for hard to imagine things, like healing or curing diseases, something the nice friendly priest just did for your ponies.”
The duo stared at the priest, standing there and glaring at Schwee with a sense of palpable annoyance. He slightly dulled his personal thoughts of the pyromancer by professionalism and stoicism. Meanwhile, she leaned a bit closer to the guardsmen when she noticed the stare.
“Just between you two and me though… It’s a bit meatheaded.”
Frode hastily gave back the solar clock and mounted his horse. Just moments ago, the chestnut coated creature looked like it was about to collapse, but now it was responsive, even more so than before. It tracked his hand, pushed against it, inviting him to pet it. Somehow, its thighs felt firmer even.
“What in Sol’s… Why is it more jacked?”
“Reparation of muscle degradation caused by injury and lifelong scars. High grade healing miracles can restore a limb, though what I did was merely returning the body to a prime state. In short, I made them more suited for the journey. It costs nothing, do not worry.“
Eirik made his way over and examined his horse too, Same result. He chortled, marveling at the work.
“This isn’t “just nothing”. What is this!? Imagine what it can do to a person…”
He trailed off, looking back at Frode like they both struck the same eureka. Clasping their hands together, they slithered their way towards the priest, the black armored man stepping half a step back. Shamelessly, Eirik asked
“Mister Priest… Can you do that thing on us?”
“…What for?“
“Well, we were in a terrible fight last month you see, left with terrible gashes. So if you would be so kind as to, you know…”
The battlepriest looked down at the duo with his usual stoicism. He deliberated, looking for Schwee in the meantime and found her already standing on the side. The pyromancer was cheery as usual.
“By the way, that process is less effective on humans and can be really painful if messed up! I once saw a man contorted beyond recognition when a priest lost his concentration…”
The guardsmen immediately retreated and mounted their horses. Schwee laughed and flung herself onto Felrick, bawling herself down and leaning against his large frame, and he stood there without much in the way of reaction. Suddenly, he heard someone running to his right, and saw one of his soldiers approaching him. He settled the whimsical woman aside and turned to the man, who huffed when he stopped just a few steps away from the battlepriest.
“Father! We’ve detected a small fire in the distance. It’s faint, but it’s the only thing we can detect.”
Felrick nodded.
“Let us move.”
