A Touch of Magic (12 page)

Randall shuddered and shook his head. His village had the occasional case of gangrene during extremely hard winters, and Randall had seen it twice. “No, Master, it isn’t,” he said.

“Gangrene isn’t the half of it. If a rune is powerful enough, it draws from your entire life-force. A rune that powerful would kill you within a few days or a week and leave you nothing but a dried out husk,” Erliand asserted gravely as Randall shuddered again.

“All right, then. Don’t wear my rune out too much playing with that paper. Take some parchment and practice drawing until you can make a rune that will hold a charge.”

Randall grabbed a few sheets of parchment with an excited “Yes Master!” and hurried off to the kitchen table to practice drawing. After two hours of tedious repetition with no results, he was beginning to decide that working magic really wasn’t much more fun than picking broccoli.

Chapter 5

Over the next few weeks, Randall’s magical training consisted solely of sitting in his room, practicing the Buk rune, four hours a day. After each attempt at drawing the rune, he would fill himself with magic and attempt to empower his work. It was maddeningly dull work and it didn’t help that he was still struggling with touching Llandra when he wanted to. Still, Randall set himself to the task diligently, doing his best to ignore his growing frustration.

“
Proof’s in the pudding,”
Erliand had said. “Only way to know if you got it right is if it works.”

So far it hadn’t, and after two weeks of failure, Randall was just about ready to give up. He had studied Master Erliand’s meticulous rendition until the image was burned into the backs of his eyelids. Over the last few weeks, he had laboriously scribed the rune hundreds of times, going through several sheets of parchment. Every inch of each page was filled with tiny copies of the rune. Many times, his copy was so close to Master Erliand’s as to be virtually identical. Randall just couldn’t understand why his didn’t work. He had begun to dread the shameful walk to Master Erliand’s study to request a new sheet of parchment to work on.

Not that he spent every minute of study time scribbling the rune. Bored with writing the same symbol over and over, he often found himself staring into space while his mind wandered.

While he often thought of home, many times his flights of fancy were filled with magical adventures. He often imagined himself to be a more accomplished Mage, rescuing damsels and meeting elven princesses. Maybe one day he might even see a real life dwarf! It was then that he remembered something that Master Erliand had said.

Master said that Buk was a dwarven rune, he thought. I thought dwarves were already pretty strong. Wonder what they use it for?

Randall tried to remember everything his grandmother had ever told him about dwarves before the sickness took hold of her mind. His grandmother had been a different person when he was a young child. In those days, she was quick to laugh, and often spoiled the Miller children with clandestine sweets and fanciful stories. It was long ago, but Randall could still recall many of the tales she had told them about fairies and other magical beings hidden away in remote wildernesses far from where men made their homes.

According to her stories, dwarves were short—easily two hand spans smaller than an average man. Short though they may be, dwarves were reputed to be incredibly strong. Broad-standing and well muscled, they were well suited to the mining work that Randall’s grandmother had claimed they were famous for. Dwarven steel was supposedly the strongest to be found in all the lands.

In his mind, Randall could see hundreds of dwarves, digging earth and ore, carrying it out in large buckets. Smelted and purified, and hammered into shape, it would become shiny suits of armor and weapons. Surely the famous dwarven steel must have the Buk rune on it! Randall imagined himself as a dwarven rune master, dressed in ceremonial robes. As each weapon was forged, it would be brought before him for its final treatment. His eyes closed, Randall imagined his stick of charcoal was a chisel as he mimicked the rune master’s work in his mind. Each line of the rune would be one quick stroke, as the rune master struck the chisel with a small hammer. Each line would have to be perfectly placed, as there would be no way to erase the work and no room for second chances.

Ping!
First was the base line of the rune, instead of the ascending line as Master Erliand had drawn it. As dwarves worked with the earth, it made sense that the foundation line would be the first and most important stroke.
Ting!
Next came the ascending stroke. Randall’s imaginary rune master slowly built the Buk rune from the ground up, each stroke supporting the last, until at last the rune was complete. In his mind, the rune was perfect. Standing straight and tall, each line precisely drawn, the rune was like the framework of a building, each line perfectly placed so that it supported those around it. Randall opened his eyes and looked down at the rune he had “chiseled” on his paper.

Randall’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. His rune was nothing like the one he had imagined the rune master making. In fact, it barely even resembled the one Erliand had drawn. Sure, it was the same basic shape, and had the lines in roughly the same places. But while Erliand’s rune was tall, stately, and precisely drawn, Randall’s was rough-hewn. Jagged and angular, it had lines crossing over each other where they should only be touching, and the proportions and angles were all askew. Master Erliand’s copy of the rune looked noble, stately, and scholarly, while his own reminded him a child’s early attempts at learning to write. It was his worst copy of the rune yet. Randall blew out another frustrated sigh.

“Might as well go through the drill,” he muttered to himself. Randall was supposed to try and charge each and every rune he drew, no matter how badly it was drawn. It was supposed to help him with his energy work, Master Erliand had said. So, even though he knew it was pointless, Randall sat upright and opened himself to Llandra. The power came to him quickly this time, without any struggle at all. That happened sometimes, and he hadn’t yet been able to figure out why. But this was one of those rare times that the power came to him as naturally as breathing.

As the power filled him, Randall felt the now-familiar euphoria whispering to him, making him feel larger than life. He blocked his mind to its seductive promise of power. Focusing on the task at hand, he looked down at the badly scratched rune that was to receive his power.
What a waste
, he thought, and pushed the power downward.

Randall was well-accustomed to this part of his practice. The power would build up around the rune, and then…nothing. It would eventually fade, leaving Randall feeling impotent and dejected. And so, Randall was totally unprepared for what happened next.

As the power touched the rune, it passed into it without any resistance whatsoever. And the instant it passed into the rune, something pulled,
hard!
It was as if the magic was a fishing line, and a great big catfish had grabbed the bait on the end of it and was racing to the bottom of the lake. Faster and faster, the power tore out of Randall and into the rune, resisting his every effort to stop it or slow it down.

As the magic raced out of Randall into the rune, he could feel himself involuntarily drawing even more power from Llandra to keep up the flow. It was as if he were a siphon hose between the two worlds whose only purpose was to funnel energy into the rune. After what seemed like an eternity, the flow of magic cut off abruptly, leaving Randall panting and sweating, and as exhausted as if he had just pushed a plow through an entire field by himself without the help of an ox.

Randall fell backward onto his bed, drawing his breath in ragged gasps, feeling raw and abused inside his entire body. Seconds later, the curtain covering his doorway was ripped aside, and Erliand stood there, a dangerous and wild look on his face. In one hand was a short dagger, and in the other was a fist-sized red stone. He was carrying a charge every bit as large as the one he used to split the ash tree in the front yard. As his eyes darted around the room, he shot a question to Randall, sharp as a whip crack.

“Where are they?”

Randall rolled over and feebly waved his hand at the paper, still trying to catch his breath, too exhausted to be frightened at the murderous intent written on Erliand’s face or the menacing power levels he was carrying. Erliand’s eyes shot to the page, scanning it with that same intense look, searching for answers.

“I think it worked,” Randall finally managed to gasp out between breaths.

Then, as comprehension dawned on Erliand’s face, he broke into a huge smile as the power drained from him in an instant. “Oh! You had this place lit up like a lightning crack, boy! I thought we were under attack. You had me scared half to death! That’s a fine way to interrupt an old man’s soup!”

“Sorry,” was all Randall could muster. His eyes moved downward, and he noticed that Erliand’s tunic was soaking wet. There was even a tiny bit of carrot near one shoulder. He groaned and closed his eyes. “Sorry,” he croaked again.

“It’s all right, boy. Just took me by surprise is all. After throwing around that kind of power, I imagine you’ll be wanting to sleep. I’ll just take this, and we can talk about it in the morning.”

Erliand leaned over and plucked the parchment up from where Randall had let it lie. He exclaimed excitedly under his breath, and quickly tucked the sheet under his tunic.

 “Master,” Randall started as Erliand was leaving the room, but Erliand must not have heard him, as he closed the door without answering. Exhaustion overtook Randall, and he felt himself falling into sleep, his last thought still worrying him.

Why would Master Erliand think we were under attack? Who would want to attack us?

The next morning, Randall woke up at dawn, feeling wonderfully refreshed. His failures with the Buk rune over the last few weeks were the furthest thing from his mind and his depression and frustration were completely washed out of his system. All he could think about last night’s success. As exhausted as he had been the night before, he was pleasantly surprised at how awake and alert he had been upon rising. He felt excited and full of energy, and was even whistling as he went to the kitchen for breakfast. Erliand was there waiting for him, scrambling some eggs.

 “Good morning, boy!” he crowed every bit as cheerfully as Randall felt. “I hope you slept well! Sit down, sit down! Have some eggs!”

After scraping a large portion of eggs onto a plate in front of Randall, Master Erliand sat down across from him, an eager smile on his face. “We can talk about your rune while we eat.”

“Did I do it right, Master?” Randall asked around a mouthful of eggs. “I did, didn’t I?” he asked excitedly.

 “Oh yes! Quite a piece of work that was! And it takes a strong charge, too!” Erliand said. For once, he was all compliments. There was no trace of his mocking nature at all. The unaccustomed praise left Randall feeling embarrassed, uncomfortable and a little wary waiting for the other shoe to fall. It wouldn’t be the first time that Master Erliand had set him up only to pull the rug out from him later to satisfy his twisted sense of humor.

“But it didn’t look like your rune at all!” Randall complained.

“It sure didn’t,” Erliand replied. “Yours looks a lot more dwarvish, that’s for sure. I imagine you’ve gotten pretty close to the heart of the rune.”

“The heart of the rune? I don’t understand. How can it work if it doesn’t look the same? I thought you said runes had to be drawn exactly.” Randall protested, confused.

“I think you’ll remember that the word I used was
precisely
,” Erliand chuckled. Randall didn’t really see the distinction. “Think of runes like words. You can say something a lot of different ways. Same words, but depending on how you say it, it could mean a lot of different things. For example, you might ask me if I want turnips for dinner. Since I really like them, I say ‘Fine by me!’ and by the tone in my voice you can tell I just can’t wait to eat ‘em. Now when I hear
you
say ‘fine by me’, it usually means something totally different. Something along the lines of ‘I couldn’t really give a fart, but I’ll say whatever it is you want me to say so you shut up about it.’ See what I mean?” Earl smiled mischievously.

Randall blushed at the dig. That was the Master Erliand that Randall knew, and he felt himself relaxing in his chair.

“Don’t worry lad. You’re a teenager. Was one myself once. Now the point is a rune can be written in different ways. The different ways you can write runes are known as that rune’s
expressions.
Each runic expression has a slightly different meaning, related to that rune’s central idea.

“Learning different runic expressions is an art form in and of itself. But all of these shadings of meaning come from a central source, a central idea that the rune represents.

“Now I told you that Buk meant strength, but the dwarves also use it to mean ‘steel’ when writing in runic language. I’ve always taught that the principal meaning was strength; however, it appears you have proven me wrong.” Erliand’s broad smile turned down somewhat into a frown as the pronounced the last sentence.

Randall had allowed himself to daydream about his success as Erliand had begun his lecture, but he caught the tail end of Erliand’s statement and snapped into focus. “I proved you wrong? What do you mean?” he asked, feeling caught off guard as he had only been paying scant attention to the old Mage. “What about my rune Master?”

“Your rune. That’s the crux of it, now isn’t it?” Erliand muttered almost under his breath. Looking at Randall, he fixed him with a somber expression. “I’ve never seen one quite like it. When I say you may have found the heart of the rune, I’m not mouthing some empty praise because I think you did a good job. I think you’ve actually captured the heart of the rune, boy. And that’s something that’s only happened a double handful of times since Mages have begun keeping written history.”

“Really?” Randall asked, feeling self conscious and confused. “I’m not sure I understand, Master. What did I do last night?”

“See for yourself,” Erliand said as he reached under his tunic.

He tossed the stiffened parchment onto the kitchen table with a loud clang.
A clang? That wasn’t right,
Randall thought. Something about the paper looked funny, too. Randall reached to pick it up. It was
heavy
, and cold! In fact, it wasn’t parchment at all!