Wielder of the Flame (17 page)

 “How dare you! Unhand my son and his friend this instant
and I will spare the rest of you. Otherwise I will send you to the abyss with
your fallen comrade here.”

There was a moment of brief silence.

“GRAAAAH!”

Puck’s captor grabbed Puck by the hair and wrenched his head
backward, exposing his throat.

A life for a life, Puck had to die to make up for the loss
of their friend, the man thought, he must do it quickly and then continue on to
the boy’s father.

Any other boy would have been killed.

But Puck was a Shifter, specifically of the metallurgic
school, and he let the power come forth, enveloping his all.

With the releasing of his magic Puck instantly sensed all
the metal around him in the near vicinity. He still had much to learn about his
power, and he knew that his father’s ability was on a level much greater than
his, but he had it, and that is what mattered. He could
feel
metal, not
as his hands felt, but inside it, past the surface. He could sense its
structure, come to know it, and then he could change it according to his will.
He recognized several things in his mind’s eye: belt buckles and a bag of coins
at someone’s waste, and his father’s hammer and axes, and more, but at the
moment he concentrated only on one thing, the knife which was beginning to move
against his throat. He wished he could take the blade with his hand because
that was how far he had come in his training with his father. He had only
learned how to mold metal with the Sense by channeling the magic into the metal
with his hands. He had not yet learned the lessons of shaping metal with other
parts of the body, or, much more difficult, without touching the metal at all.
But if he did not try at the moment, he would die.

He.

Had.

To.

Act.

NOW!

He felt the blade with his throat instead, sensed its
structure, and commanded it to superheat in an instant and melt. Within that
same second he pushed away the liquefied metal so as not to burn himself. His
grey eyes shone and there was a flash of light as the magic worked its
wonderful way at the knife.

Puck’s captor grunted in stupefied surprise.

“To the ground son!”

He did so, practically kissing the earth at his fall.

The stranger lifted the now worthless hilt of his knife up
in defense. It did nothing to stop the powerful might of Marad’s great hammer,
the tool-now-weapon drove deep into his skull, the dead man’s body flew
crazily, like a limp wooden doll, crumpling to a heap off to the side.

Ranasa was scooting backwards away from the figure with an
axe through his face. One of the dark painted men dove for Ranasa thinking that
perhaps if he could recapture the boy he would have a bargaining chip for a way
out.

Marad swung his hammer again, driving it deep into the man’s
unprotected back. There was a sickening crunch of bones. The man’s arms and
legs shot upward crookedly, (the signals running through his body could not
quite correlate the correct movement of his joints in their proper form), in a
single last reaction of life, and then fell back to the ground to forever be
still.

The last man clutched something in his right hand underneath
his brown cloak, he withdrew it slowly, defensively. A strange two bladed
gauntlet-punching weapon was clasped tightly and firmly to his arm.

“You grey eyed whelpling,” his use of the common tongue was
better, “you will pay for these deaths.”

He dove for the blacksmith.

Marad raised his hand at the gauntlet and flicked his arm in
a horizontal motion. The gauntlet-weapon flashed orange, then white, and
transformed, twisting and molding impossibly. The wielder of the weapon flew
with the motion, changing direction in mid-air, to go flying hard into the
stone wall of the building making up the alley.

The man groaned on the impact, slumping to the ground for a
moment before struggling to stand.

Marad turned to the now fallen man. The blacksmith’s eyes
flared and glowed a bright silvery light. All the metal on the dead bodies on
the ground, belt buckles, coins, daggers and swords, all flared orange, and
then white with heat. In an instant the metal liquefied and was under Marad’s
control. He raised his hands and the now liquid metal rose, like small water
fountains, into the air, hovering impossibly there. He then redirected the
metal at the last enemy. The enchanted blacksmith encased the man’s arms and
feet in metal, snapping them together, before letting the metal immediately
harden.

The man fell to the ground, bound in the magically formed
shackles.

Marad jumped onto the man, putting his right knee on his
sternum and holding him down by the neck with his forearm.

Puck sat on the ground, dumbfounded. He never knew his
father capable of such quick, impressive, violence. He also had never seen his
father wield the Sense in any place other than the forge. He knew his father
did not need to touch metal with his hands to understand it and change it, but
he did not know his father could do what he had just seen him do. Ranasa sat nearby,
just as mesmerized, and also somewhat terrified, the tear trails stained his
otherwise dirty face.

The man struggled against his manacles and Marad. He was
surprised at the magic, but still defiant.

“Who sent you!?” The blacksmith said through gritted teeth.
He was intentionally choking the man, but also letting up enough if it looked
like the man was going to speak.

The man spit in defiance and grinned.

“Even after the impudence of you and your friends, I will
yet spare your life if you will but answer me this,
WHO—SENT—YOU!?
”

Marad’s eyes began to shine with a silver light again and
the metal touching the man’s skin began to glow hot. The man let out a cry of
pain.

“
Who—SENT—YOU!?
” Marad said again.

The man switched between moaning in pain and grinning.

Marad wiped a portion of dark paint from the man’s face with
his hand, revealing white skin beneath.

“You are far from your homeland, pale-one!” Marad said.

Puck wondered what an Alborcan was doing so far South, in
Independent Dominion.

“There are more to come,” His voice was scratchy and hoarse,
“And if they fail,” he coughed, “Well, that one has told us—”

He indicated Ranasa. Marad continued to choke him.

“—where your wife and daughter are,” he gasped, coughed, and
laughed all at once.

Marad pushed down harder. The man struggled to breathe.

“Spirits of your ancestors be damned!” The blacksmith cried.

“I think,” the man’s voice was just a hoarse whisper, “They
will make good prisoners,” he croaked, “surely they will warm the beds of many
of my kin at night, and they will grow to enjoy it.”

“And may your spirit be damned with them!” Marad said, his
voice filled with a righteous vehemence.

The blacksmith grabbed the man with both hands, throttling
him. The man struggled under the weight of the large blacksmith, but could not
wriggle free.

Finally the man’s eyes closed and he fell limp.

Marad let go and stood up.

“Is he—?” Puck began.

“No,” his father replied, “He still draws breath. I will ask
him more questions later, but not here, not now.”

A silence fell over the alley.

No one moved.

Then, Ranasa began to cry uncontrollably.

Marad then stood, and walked over to help his son up.

“Are you hurt?”

Puck shook his head and took his father’s arm to stand up.

He then walked over to Ranasa, who was still crying.

The boy put his arms up defensively as the large blacksmith
knelt down and put an arm on each of his shoulders.

“Your assailants are dead. You are safe. There is no cause
for your weeping!” The blacksmith commanded gently but sternly, shaking the boy
slightly.

“I am sorry, I am so sorry,” He muttered in-between sobs,
“Spare my life, I beg forgiveness, please do not hurt me!”

“Quiet boy, be calm, I have no thoughts to hurt you,” Marad
replied in his same tone.

Ranasa quieted to a whimper.

“Now, speak truth Ranasa, and be well, what did you tell
these people, and what did you learn from them in your telling?”

“I—” Ranasa was hesitant to speak.

He wiped the tears from his face.

“They surprised me on the path through the grove from my
house to the town. They told me they would kill my mother unless I told them
where to find the silver eyes.

“When did this happen?”

“Not but a fortnight past,” Ranasa replied, “They wanted to
take Puck hostage to lure you out and take you. They want
you
sir. I
wanted to say something but—my mother, please understand sir, my mother, I am
the only one left to protect her!”

“If they wanted me, then why also speak of my daughter and
wife?” Marad asked.

“One of them seemed to think Puck would be too much trouble
to take and wanted an easier way. After a few days I did not hear or see
anything of them and I thought that they gave up and left, or something! Sir,
they, they tortured me, almost broke my hand. I—I was afraid.”

“Any man who does not fear what they cannot control is a
fool, courage is not the absence of fear but the triumph over it. You must be
strong Ranasa, speak on.”

“Everyone in town knows that they left to visit Tristen,”
Ranasa tried to be evasive, holding back more tears.

“Yes boy,” Marad replied, “But no one in town knows that
Tristen has taken the Shyden Oath. No one knows that my wife and daughter are
visiting Tristen at the Shyden Monastery, except for myself, my son, and I
already know that Puck has told you. Did you tell
them
?”

Ranasa looked at the ground, and slowly nodded his head.

Marad released the boy.

Puck, finally finding his voice after all the commotion, “We
have to go to the monastery!”

Marad shook his head ‘
No
’.

“What? of course we do!”

“First we must bring this man back to our home.”

“And the other bodies?”

“Let the town guard find them, they will make of it what
they will.”

Puck nodded. If their secret got out, that they wielded
magic, then they would have to leave, find somewhere new to start over.

“And then?”

“To Ranasa’s abode, to make sure that his mother is alright,
then we will go.”

A treasure chest stood on a low
ornate dark wood table.

The trunk was elaborately ornamented, black in color outlaid
in gold. Complex and elaborate but beautiful symbols magically moved across its
surface, around and around, slowly but steadily marching in interweaving lines.

The large container and table were completely enclosed in a
somewhat large room made completely of wood. The space was furnished with
furniture designed for someone’s sleeping quarters, living room, and work area
wrapped up all in one. A scattering of equipment as well as food stuffs and
other supplies were stacked and roped off in boxes and barrels against one of
the wall. A bed stood in one corner, covered with soft furs, the bed was
securely fashioned to the wall. The wood floor was covered with heavy cloth and
large animal furs lay here and there. A second table stood by the bed. It was
covered with large books, scrolls, feather pens and ink and in the center of
the table was a large map, everything was somehow secured or fixed to the
table.

Bright sunlight filled the room through a long stained-glass
window that covered an entire wall.

Two ornate doors led into the room on the wall across from
the long window.

For all its grandeur, the room was fairly cramped and small.

Abruptly, a figure opened the two double doors, letting them
close behind him.

He was a man who appeared to have lived forty cycles or
more,  and was just above six heads tall.

The most striking things about his appearance were strange
black symbols painted all across his deep caramel sun touched skin. His dark
hair was short, standing up. A burgundy headband was tied around his forehead
and an equally deep burgundy cape adorned his shoulders, reaching almost past
his heels. He was thin in stature, but had clearly defined muscles, very
physically fit and healthy. His upper torso was naked, revealing his many black
markings, but his legs were covered with dark leather breeches. His dark red
leather boots came up to his mid calves.

The man held a glowing blue stone about twice the size of a
closed fist, in his palm. A strange rune was etched deep into the small rock’s
surface.

The black characters on his skin moved slowly and
methodically on his body.

He quickly crossed the room towards the chest. He paused
briefly, placing his free hand on the front of the box. All the symbols which
had been slowly dancing across its surface swiftly and suddenly raced towards
the hand on contact. There was a wooshing sound, then a click, and the chest
slowly opened.

The inside was lined in fine black velvet. The center was
slightly raised, like a pedestal, and on the small pedestal was a large glowing
red rock. It was roughly the size of a human head, but perfectly round. A
single symbol slowly floated across its face. Surrounding the large red stone
were dozens of rocks similar to the one in the young man’s hand, all with
different characters etched into their surfaces. Unlike the larger red rock
glowing on the small pedestal the rest of the rocks inside the chest were
lifeless, no light emanated from them.

He placed the blue glowing rock carefully with the others.
As he withdrew his hand the blue light disappeared. As the rock left his skin
his body runes became still.

He spent a time sorting through the rocks. He picked up a
few, examining the symbol on each closely, always shaking his head and
replacing the stone. Finally he came upon one he wanted. He clutched it tightly
and closed his eyes. The stone lit up brightly and the symbol on the stone
copied itself onto the skin of the man. He opened his eyes and stared at the
symbol. He smiled, satisfied, and carefully pocketed the stone in an inner coat
pocket.

He put his hands on the red sphere and closed his eyes as a
calming power flowed through him. The characters on his body flared to life,
swimming madly over his flesh.

After a brief moment he removed his hands and carefully shut
the chest. When he lifted his hands free of the sphere the runes on his body became
still. He put a palm on the front of the box, releasing a number of rune marks
to run freely across its surface once more, and once finished with the task
withdrew his hand and turned around at a knock on the door.

“Enter!”

The man spoke not in the common tongue, but in the smooth
and fluid speech of The Isles, of Kiohopi.

The two doors opened and a man bowed in the entryway and
called the other by his name and title.

“Hail, Demar, Runemaster!”

The man was his trusted advisor and keeper. He was dressed
in a suit of dark leather armor with shiny silver shoulder plates, forearm and
shin guards. His uniform underneath was a light cloth of deep burgundy.

“Thantor, you know you may speak freely with me, what is
it?”

“The commotion among the sailors is getting worse,” Thantor
replied, “The men are tired after so long upon the waters.”

Demar shook his head, “We have been gone a long time, it is
true, but we are almost at our destination. I will quickly nullify this
squabble. Gather everyone on deck, even the cook and his staff! I will show
them a grand display of the power of the runes. Wind like they have never
before seen! Return to me when all have been assembled!”

“Your will shall be accomplished,” Thantor replied and
disappeared, shutting the doors behind him.

The Runemaster looked at the symbol he had taken from the
rock that was on his palm. He focused on it, memorizing it. He imagined the
strokes that went into creating the symbol upon it. He practiced them a few
times in the air. A faint light followed his strokes. One. Two. Three, four,
five. Six. Seven. Seven strokes in all. He did them over and over again, the
light following the trail of his fingers. He did them faster, faster! The
afterimage of light became a blinding force in the room.

Sweat began to break out all over the man’s skin, dripping
down his face.

After over a hundred repetitions and drenched in sweat, he
was satisfied.

He walked over to the table and took a vessel of water and
poured it into a cup. He drained the cup thirstily. Runemagic was always so
draining, even after all his cycles practicing it.

His thirst quenched, he wiped the sweat from his brow and
returned to the center of the room. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes
for a moment. When he opened them, they were filled with determination.

He raised his hand in the air, poised to strike. With a
flurry of movements he wrote the seven strokes in the air, and then, he opened
his palm, where the symbol now was, and pressed the afterimage before him,
activating the magic.

There was a flash of light and power and he knew he had
succeeded with the invocation. The symbol on his palm glowed bright. He brought
up his hand, experimenting with the energy. He could feel the air, almost as if
it were tangible. He clutched at it, pulled it slightly. The papers on his desk
fluttered. Demar swept his hand in a quick arch. A number of papers flew from
his desk.

He smiled, this would be suitable to put some wind in the
ship’s sails.

He whipped his hand around and around, pulling at the air,
bending it to his will. All but the map had been blown from the table and now
sailed around the room in a whirlwind of papers. He laughed with glee at his
power.

A knock came at his door and he let the papers fall as he
released the air from his control.

“Thantor?”

“It is I, Runemaster.”

“They are ready?”

“Indeed.”

Demar pulled the door open. There stood Thantor, his trusted
advisor, and two of the Runemaster’s personal guards, Kunai and Maloi, his
loyal protectors.

Thantor motioned with his hand that the way was clear for
Demar to move forward. The Runemaster followed Thantor down the short hall to
another set of doors.

They opened the doors, standing on each side of the
entrance. Bright sunlight lit up the hallway. Demar smiled at his followers and
stepped out onto the ship’s large deck and to the crew which had been called to
gather there.

He would fill the sails of the massive ship with wind and
hurry them along to their destination, to Kolima.

It was time to get Sesuadra.

“Kimira is right, Laura,”

Kaelynn stood inside her tent with her daughter Kimira, and
the other girl in her charge, Laura. Both girls sat before her at a small
table, each dressed in their black, green, and gold robes. The rest of the tent
was simply furnished. It was neat and orderly. Besides the table there were
three wooden chairs, one of which was padded. Three beds stood in a line at the
far end of the tent. There was a large dark wood wardrobe filled with clothes,
by the beds, dividing the sleeping space from the rest of the tent. A number of
thick animal furs were laid out across the dirt floor. Carefully stacked
barrels and a few wood crates lined the other wall of the tent next to a wooden
chest.

Kaelynn had kind lips that could be stern when she needed
them to be. The many wrinkles in her face spoke wisdom of their own. Her long
dark brown hair streaked with gray was braided away from her face.

The old woman reached over and hugged the two girls close.

“Laura,” She spoke softly, gently, “I know this past cycle
has been difficult.”

She looked Laura in the eyes. She saw the young innocent
girl she had known before her father’s death, but she also saw a struggle there
that came with having to grow up all at once, of learning things that are hard
to accept.

“I would not have told you the truth if I did not think you
were ready, or responsible enough to deal with it.”

“Nana,” Laura said, hugging the old woman and looking into
her eyes again, “you do not know how hard it is. This magic, I have to use it,
I
must
or I will burst from the seams!”

Whenever Kaelynn spoke of that fateful night of her father’s
death she felt cold. She was just a child, but she could remember the rain, and
the chill it brought, down to the bone. Wrapped in a blanket.

She remembered nothing if not for the rain, and the cold.

“My child, you must not,” Kaelynn brought her voice down to
almost a whisper, “You must focus these energies towards the powers of healing.
Your father entrusted you to me because he thought you would be safe growing up
here with us.”

“But you do not understand, I cannot just change the power
in me to use it for healing, it does not work that way. I have tried, every day
I try and try until I feel I am absolutely going to come apart without
practicing the magic the way it wants to be used. I cannot explain it.”

Kaelynn sighed and stood back up. She returned to her chair.

“Moving grass dolls around without your hands is one thing,”
Her voice took a more serious tone, “but using your magic to move people, I
cannot allow it.”

“That was not me,” Laura said.

“It had to be!” Kimira finally spoke up, “He appeared out of
nowhere!”

“It was not
me!
” Laura insisted, “He was the boy from
my dream, I do not know how he came to us.”

Kaelynn raised both of her hands for silence and the two
girls quickly complied.

“He appeared to the both of you?”

The two girls nodded.

“Not just a dream, not just a conjuration of an image in
your head,” she continued, glancing at Laura, “He actually appeared to both of
you, in the flesh. And you say he said his name was Marcus?”

Laura nodded.

“I did not hear him say it to be so,” Kimira added.

“That is because he spoke softly so as you could not have
heard,” Laura defended.

 “Well, even if what she says is true” Kimira said, turning
to her mother, “We do not know if he really is like us, or just appeared so.
And if it was the Exalted Spirits, they can take many forms.”

Kaelynn nodded, the sternness was gone from her demeanor.
She was imagining the image the girls were describing.

“So it is child, so it is. If it were truly the Exalted— All
these cycles I have spent dedicated to the Order of the Leaf, to the healing
arts, in service to the Exalted, but never did I think that my own daughter
would be graced with such a vision, and Laura as well.”

Both girls nodded. Kaelynn reached over to the table and
took a glass and a pitcher of dark smooth liquid, orange and creamy. She poured
some and took a delicate sip.

“And you say he had a strange way about him, the way he
spoke?”

Kimira nodded.

“Not strange,” Laura replied defending the stranger, “There
did seem to be something different about him, but not in a dark way, he was
bright, and beautiful.”

Kimira elbowed her gently and Laura glared in return.
Kaelynn did not notice as she drank from her cup.

“I do not know if this thing is because of your father,”
Kaelynn said, “but I have a feeling it does. It is of the Exalted, it is
without a doubt. This is a grand thing of great importance, it is to be
contemplated with much prayer and fasting.”

“Should we tell the Circle?” Kimira asked.

“No!” Kaelynn said, too quickly.

“But mother, the Circle must know of such a vision!” Kimira
said, an almost horrified look crossed the girl’s face. She could not believe
that her Mother would want to hide anything from rest of the Order.

Kaelynn regretted the quickness of her tongue and calmed
herself. She went around the table and put her hands lovingly on each of the
girls’ shoulders.

“I do not mean that we shall hide truth from the Circle,”
She finally replied, “I only mean that it behooves us to understand this
Sending with more clarity before we address any of the other Doyennes, or
anyone for that matter.”