Joshua Cox-Steib's Blog, page 4

The Painting

 

Creaking floors, a sagging roof, and furniture coated with more dust than fabric. It was perfect! Lester plopped himself onto the ancient feather mattress, his joyous dive giving rise to a debris cloud from the bed and tortured shrieks from the rusted springs beneath it. In the far corner of the room hung a painting. Its oil surface shone faintly in the dim light cast by Lester’s electric lantern.

   The painting had a thick wooden frame, intricately carved with woodland animals of all variety posed in perpetual and futile chase. A small cabin, encircled by menacing forest and enshrouded by shadows, stared out from the center of the painting. The cabin was fronted with a slat-covered porch that sheltered the small glow of a lantern; the only bulwark against endless night. Lester squinted his eyes and could barely make out the blurred form of a man seated behind the lantern. The lantern’s light hid most of the figure, washing out the colors until he all but faded into the background.

   Lester could discern little of the man’s portrayal and yet he was overcome with surety that they knew each other intimately. The sense of connection sung so strong and personal within Lester that he couldn't refrain from rising and moving closer.

   Lester stepped across the creaking floor, kicking up dust. As he drew closer the man on the porch seemed to lean forward, his features growing more distinct and gaining color. Lester stood before the painting and slowly, reverently, ran his fingers along the frame; tracing the chase of animals. His eyes, though, were riveted on the man’s face. Shock of recognition rippled through Lester's body; a felt but unreachable knowledge deep within him, sheltered at the core of his being.

   With his mind lost in a haze of attempted recollection, Lester let his fingers drift from the frame and across the painting. His hand tingled as it drew closer to the seated man and his lantern. As the tingling increased the sense of recognition grew stronger. Lester's fingers shook with the anticipation of understanding as they closed the final distance and drifted onto the man's face.

   He awoke bleary headed, wiping a hand across his eyes to clear away the cobwebs of sleep. A look of sadness stole across the man’s features as he remembered the dream. Once again, he had dreamed of being more than just a painting.

The End.

Future Musings of a Progressive Alien

 

Not so far away and not long ago there were a people rife with division. They were a people who felt deeply. A people of convictions and beliefs. They lived in a world where this is what was fought for; not survival of self and species, but ideas. Ideas of such meaning to them that the lives of others were a small cost to pay for the survival of these ideas. That, in itself, is a huge problem; one whose truth threatens these warriors of ideas like the stalking of a shadowy monster that they dare not to turn to see, praying instead that what they don’t see won’t hurt them. By itself, this callous worldview might have been overcome. The people might have braved the courage needed to turn and face the monster within them.

   They were distracted though, in an unspoken collaboration of diversion these people split into many factions, each fighting for its own set of ideas, each pulling in different directions. Among these groups were some that fought for a belief that people should face their monsters, that lives should not be secondary to ideas. In this sad world, such groups were labeled with the word ‘progressive’; this is how cynically aware of their own failings the competing groups were. It wasn’t that they didn’t know they carried monsters within them, it was that they were absolutely devoted to fleeing from ever facing their own painful internal truths.

   This cowardice may not be acceptable but it is understandable. You see, these people had a difficult existence. They’d grown from an evolutionary system based on scarce resources and violent competition for survival. Their path to arrive at that point in their history when these elaborate social disputes of ideas became possible took millions of years of brutally unforgiving survival. The journey was so scarring, so damning, that even after destroying their competition and beginning to exert control over their environment they carried the pain of that journey in their every thought and action.

   These people developed tools and means so sophisticated that true resource scarcity became a thing of the past, yet they could not envision the world without such hardships of survival. Should it surprise us that they then created artificial resource scarcities and implemented social structures that would simulate the brutality of the evolutionary system that raised them? Does it seem strange that millions of years of violence didn’t end when the predators were neutralized and whole solar systems began to open up as potential territory? Did they fight over land and food and safety because they truly believed these things were absent or were they aware that these things had been withheld by their own social creations and by the war of ideas? When looking back on the era of humans it is hard to know, but there were certainly elements that displayed evidence of such an awareness. If these malignly labeled progressive groups had escaped villainization things might have turned out differently, but as it is, the era of humans is but one more curiosity of history.

The Inn of Adventurers: a Splash of Action

I thought it might be fun to share this short foray back into the world of the Adventurers while I'm working on edits and revisions for the next few Modern Magic stories (#6 will likely be up late next week, with #7 following shortly). Happy reading

  

CLANG! The Orc’s sword ricocheted off of the invisible sphere that surrounded and protected Tarly while he worked his magic. All around him battle raged as he and his companions sought to unseat the Orc camp from the recently deserted farmstead. It only became deserted once the Orcs had set their eyes on it as a new, and promptly run off and killed many of the locals. Tarly and the others, the Adventurers, had been hired to exact justice from the Orcs and return the farming lands to those that ruled over this land. None of the Adventurers were clear on just who that was, and they didn’t particularly care. They’d been approached by a brightly dressed messenger, and hired and paid by the same; as far as they were concerned the land now belonged to the messenger. As soon as they finished off these Orcs, of course.

   Randell, a four-foot tall dwarf, full of anger, clad in steel, and wielding a vicious battle axe, let out a loud roar as he charged a group of Orcs that had Drudge, the Adventurers’ cleric, backed against a thick stone wall. His axe bit into the back of one and was quickly withdrawn and slashed across the calves of another. Two Orcs fell to Randell’s axe, and the others turned to confront his sudden attack. Behind him, from where he had charged, lay three more Orcs twisted gruesomely in the aftermath of poisoned arrows. Ilye was responsible for those. She was lurking and stalking in swift silence around the edges of the battle, firing her poisoned arrows into the backs of enemies as they faced her more obvious companions.

   Drudge, given a little room to move, thanks to Randell’s intervention, switched his large club to one hand and grasped the other about a pendant hanging from his neck, and as he did so he shouted a divine prayer in the language of his Deity (the God of Doom and Gloom). Rock cracked underneath the cleric’s feet as his body swelled, tripling its muscle mass in seconds. Likewise, his equipment grew in scale with his body. The Orcs that had turned to face Randell were promptly smashed flat by the enlarge club of the divinely steroidal Doom Cleric.

   Swords continued to slam against Tarly’s magical shield, thin cracks appearing in the air around him as the sheer force of the blows hammered away at the fabric of the protective spell. The wizard hastily pulled a handful of powdered iron from within his robes and began chanting an arcane incantation. The swords continued to fall, and when they finally broke his shield, Tarly spoke the activating word and cast the dust upon his foes. Sparks danced amongst the particles of iron. Faster, and faster. By the time the powder had reached the attacking Orcs, clinging to their bodies and weapons, there was a full-blown electrical storm contained within the cloud of iron.

   In the shadowed distance, behind a crumbling well, Ilye released the tension on her bow, scanning the battlefield now that Tarly no longer appeared to be in immediate danger. She’d been sure the wizard was going to be finished, without help. Tarly had a tendency for performing the most lethally inconvenient mishaps with his magic. She was sure he’d even gotten them killed once, and then resurrected by Drudge, though neither the Cleric nor anyone else would speak of it. During the last couple of jobs, though, Tarly had been handling himself like a true battle mage, and not the squeamish, absent-minded, intellectual that he was. As Ilye set her sights on a new Orc back to puncture, she concluded that she’d found the old Tarly far more entertaining. 

   Randell was running toward a cluster of Orcs that stood blocking the farmhouse entrance, behind him drudge was Drudge; ten feet tall now, built like a mountain ogre, and smashing all about him with his giant club. Randell wasn’t sure if he was charging the Orcs, or if he was running from his friends laudable, but dangerous display of wanton destruction. Before he could come to any conclusion on the matter, and long before he could close with the Orcs, he heard the rush of air as Drudge’s club slammed into the ground next to him, throwing Randell from his feet and off to the side; out of the path between the huddled Orcs and the rampaging cleric. 

   The Orcs tried to make a stand, but the divinely infused Drudge threw both body and club into their ranks; demolishing their hopes, along with the entry hall to the farmhouse. Randell watched it all from his unexpectedly prone position. He was trying to be angry with the insolent cleric, but couldn’t get past his admiration for the sheer destruction that Drudge had wrought. The dwarf was completely oblivious to the darkly clad Orc that silently approached from behind him. At least, not until the Orc let out a sharp cough and staggered noisily for a few feet before collapsing. Randell instinctively rolled to his feet, swinging his axe as he did, but the Orc didn’t rise. As Randell carefully approached the fallen assailant, he saw the familiar markings of an arrow jutting out from its throat. Turning, Randell waved a thank you in the direction he figured the arrow had come from, knowing that Ilye was out there, though he certainly couldn’t spot her.

   Ilye smiled to herself at her dwarven companion’s nonchalant behavior, as she continued to survey their surroundings for more hidden threats. The farm was littered with corpses. Old one from the farmers, and many more new ones from the Orcs. Drudge had collapsed along with the front of the farmhouse. He didn’t look to be hurt, just stunned. The same couldn’t be said of the Orcs he’d collapsed upon. Ilye’s eyes scanned to the wizard, assuring herself that Tarly had restored his protective spells and was in no immediate danger. Everything looked well. As far as her eyes could see the battle was over. Unless, of course, there was a band of Orc warriors hiding in the depths of the farmhouse. Ilye suspected there was, and kept a careful eye on the edges of the building.

   Tarly and Randell both began approaching the stunned, and shrinking form of Drudge with increasing pace. The two hurried to their comrades’ side, arriving nearly in tandem. Randell turned the fallen cleric over as Tarly peered on worriedly. Drudge didn’t move, heading lolling back into Randell’s cradling hands. The cleric’s body suddenly jolted as he sucked in a deep breath, and let it out in an ear-splitting snore. Randell started at the sound and dropped drudge’s head onto the gore and debris ridden ground.

   Tarly and Randell shared an exasperated look, left their companion to his bizarre restorations, and cautiously made their way past the wreckage and into the farmhouse. Randell led with his axe poised, and Tarly followed with a quiet and readied incantation upon his lips. Behind them, Ilye quietly loped up to the side of the building and disappeared through a shadowed window. A crashing sound came from inside.

   Randell heard the crash, quickened his pace and headed towards the sound. Tarly followed suit, keeping a nervous eye on his footing in the poorly lit hallway. They burst through a wooden door, and into the waiting room. Randell’s axe was in flight, and Tarly was halfway through his spell’s command word when they realized it was Ilye that they faced. She was picking herself up from the broken remains of some piece of furniture that had sat beneath a small window. The Drow glowered at her two companions as they entered and attacked.

   Tarly tripped in horrified surprise and unleashed a shining dart of fire into the thatched ceiling. Randell through his weight forward and down, forcing his swing to cut short and bury his blade within the stone floor. Ilye’s grimace didn’t change. She shook off wood splinters and stilled managed a haughty glare of indignation that it made it clear this particularly incident was to cease at once and be immediately forgotten. Tarly and Randell didn’t waste time consulting their brains before silently complying.

   “Think there are any more holed up in here?” Randell casually, but quietly addressed Ilye.

   The drow responded in a smooth whisper. “I’d put my money on it. There’s always more. Hell, all they need is one good necromancer left, and we’ll be left with just as many foes as before; but stronger, and meaner. I’ve fought Undead Orcs, and it isn’t something that I’m eager to repeat.”

   Tarly and Randell both mulled this over for a moment. The dwarf nodded after a moment and spoke. “Right. We’ll check the rest of the house. After that, though, I say we call it finished. Other than what’s left of this house, there can’t be an Orc left within miles of here. Not after how many we’ve slain today.”

   Tarly nodded dark agreement. Ilye shook her head dismissively at Randell. “There’s always more. Trust me on this.”

   Ilye pushed past the others and made her way silently down the hallway. Randell and Tarly followed. Behind them, and above, a small bit of thatch was smoldering around a perfect circle that Tarly’s misfired spell had left in the roof. Thin wisps of smoke began seeping outward from the unnoticed hole.

   The three adventurers carefully made their way through the maze of a farmhouse, finding frequent signs of the recent Orc residency, but finding no hints of anything living. Ilye’s nose started to twitch. At first, she thought it was the smell of torches lit in some hidden area beneath the floor. Then she heard it. 

   “They’ve set fire to the roof! Out, now! Tarly blast us a way through this wall; I don’t care how you do it, just do it!” Ilye pointed to the wall on their right. She’d been keeping careful track, and was confident that this was an outer wall. Outside, the wind began to blow, and the smoldering roof erupted into brilliant, cheerful flame.

   Tarly desperately tried to ignore the lethal chaos surrounding him, and remember the workings to one of his most powerful spells. It was one he’d only recently learned and hadn’t yet field tested. The spell was designed to break apart everything it targeted, and turn the matter into harmless air. 

   The wizard spoke the words of power, inciting his mighty spell, and all hell broke loose. The wall evaporated into an exploding cloud of air, that rushed outwards in all directions. It blew the adventurers onto their backs and blasted into the roof; feeding the fire and weakening the ceiling into a quickly crumbling mass of flaming thatch. Tarly, Randell, and Ilye lay stunned from the burst of wind. They were unable to do anything but watch in horror as the ceiling collapsed onto them.

   Tarly closed his eyes tight. Randell and Ilye stared on defiantly. And so it was they who saw the glowing body of drudge come barreling through the falling debris, and scooping up his imperiled companions with unnaturally elongated arms. The cleric swept up all three and carried them through the falling wreckage at inhuman speed, and with unnatural ease. 

   Drudge stopped some eighty feet from the farmhouse and set his companions down. They slowly regained their feet and joined Drudge in watching the building burn.

   “Bastards set fire to it while we were inside, and took off. I’m sure of it.” Ilye spat the words and turned to drudge. “Did you see anything before you came in? Any torch-wielding Orcs fleeing into the distance?”

   Drudge grunted noncommittally and looked at Tarly pointedly. The others didn’t notice, and Tarly had no idea why the cleric was staring at him. After this continued for some time. With Randell and Ilye debating the merits of chasing the runaway Orcs, and Tarly ignored the cleric’s discomforting stare, Drudge finally spoke.

   “I don’t think it was Orcs. I think it was that fiery bolt that shot through the roof. Seemed like it came from the same area where all that crashing noise was.” 

   Tarly, Randell, and Ilye all stared at Drudge. The cleric rarely spoke, and then only sparingly. This was like a whole conversation for him. Then the implication of his words set in, and the stares changed places. Randell and Ilye glared at Tarly, who took a sudden interest in looking anywhere else.

   “We’ll talk about this later. Right now, I just want to collect the rest of our pay, and get back to the Inn.” 

   The others nodded agreement with Ilya's words, and the four walked in terse silence back to their waiting mounts. They’d stabled the beasts a goodly distance off, and it was a long and uncomfortable trek back.

Changing Generational Change

Times change, but will you?

Progress moves unrelentingly

Growth by generational decay

With each as stubborn as the last

Always vying for the present

The way it’s always been

Doesn’t have to be the way it always is

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks

But I’m betting you can

Flash Fiction Tuesday

Jack cursed as bullets flew over his head and slapped into the concrete pillar behind him. He was crouched behind a car in the southern edge of a covered parking lot. On the other side of the car from him, and about forty feet away, were two casually dressed women firing 9mm handguns at him. He didn’t know who they were, or why they were after him. It wasn’t often that people came after him with guns; magic and claws were the norm.

   Taking a deep breath, Jack focused his mind and pulled power into his body. The magic was a warm glow throughout his body; easy physical pain, and mental worry alike. After a few seconds, the sorcerer was ready. He placed both palms on the car, and let the magic flow out of him, giving it shape and purpose as it poured from his palms.

   The car groaned faintly, and it rocked slightly towards the gun-toting women. Four more bullets came flying, and slammed into the car; punching holes in metal and shattering glass. There was a deep BOOM, and then the car shot towards the women at near the speed of sound. They disappeared behind the sedan as it slammed into, and through, more parked vehicles. It moved across the lot like a snowball rolling downhill; gathering more and more damaged automobiles until it was eventually dragged to a halt by all the impacts.

   Jack let out a shuddering breath and tried to get his shaking limbs under control. Channeling that much energy took a toll on a person, but he’d seen a little of what those women could take and he wasn’t taking any chances. He didn’t know who they were, but he knew they weren’t just ordinary mortals looking put holes in him. They reeked of magic, and Jack suspected that the guns they wielded weren’t all mundane either.

   Once his limbs stopped trembling enough, Jack climbed to his feet and took off at a staggering run towards the parking lot exit. A small metal door was set in the far wall that would give him access to the stairs, then he just had to make it a few flights down and he’d be in the clear.

A Scifi Cityscape

Sun glints off the sleek cities of Multus Metallum in a thousand refracted rays. Like a constellation set into the landscape, these cities shine with all the brightness of the stars. Reflected light is but the excess; those photons that escape being consumed and converted. Within the cities structures are lined with a combination of reflective and light absorbent surfaces. These surfaces are mounted on plates of the most advanced alloys; designed for light weight without loss of strength. Each plate is attached to a robotic arm controlled by the City Central AI and used in coordination to capture the precious solar energy that streams down like mana from the heavens.

   Between towering skyscrapers opaque tubes crisscross the air across the cities. They connect the many buildings, looking like great rectangular octopi clasping tentacles, or like a thin cobweb of dark thread hung upon gleaming monoliths of metal. Within are the tubecars; large spherical structures that are controlled and propelled by clever manipulation of magnetics and are designed for quick and comfortable travel.

   Below the surface lie the great rails linking each city directly. Thermal energy harnessed by pillars sunk deep within the earth is gathered into the rails and used to power the vast cargo trains that traverse them. Only a fraction of this energy is used by the trains, the rest is transported as cargo; stored within large battery cars during the interim.

   Above ground, spanning between the cities, spread raised highways of darkened metal. Hover-vehicles cross these expanses, taking citizens between the cities and to lesser destinations across the land. Use of magnetics within the highways and the vehicles controls the flow of traffic and keeps the hover-craft afloat. AI systems within the active vehicles sync to the highway AI, which in turn coordinates with the collective of city AIs that organize and maintain the day-to-day functionality of civilization.  

Fear, Cognition, and responsibility

We've been taught to fear, and those who taught us have used that fear against us. They've used it as a lever to gain our support. They've used it to distract us from what they truly are. They've used it to divide us when unity is needed most. Fear is our enemy, but so too are those who would make of fear a tool to be used against us. Whether they be terrorists, politicians, businesspeople, or partners in a relationship.

   This is our challenge. To protect ourselves from the weapon that fear has become. To cure a society of its addiction to phobias. To alter that structural component of biology and sociology that encourages us to fear that which is different, and react to such fear with rapid and extreme emotional thinking and actions. This pattern may have served our species in the days when we roamed as prey, but in the modern world, the optimal reaction to fear is a cold and calculated analysis before engaging in any related action.

   Just because this is not easy, and does not come naturally to us, does not mean it should be avoided. If it did come naturally, and it was easy, then this cultural ailment would likely not exist. To act rationally while experiencing terror goes against millennia of evolution, but it is the fate of our species. This is the barrier line that denotes humanity achieving a state above its animal roots. Only when people do not act like other mammals in times of duress can they be considered to be above them.

   There are those who will say that it can’t be done, that it involves the impossibility of overriding involuntary biological functions. And there are those that have done it. The mind and body may be stubborn, but ultimately, they are malleable. The ability to change a human being is staggering in its potential, and it is a power that we all have.

   With that power comes responsibility. We do not live in a vacuum, and the way that we change ourselves impacts the ways in which others are able to change themselves. This is the heavy weight of cognition, but it is also the greatest honor. Whether through God or nature, human existence is an incredibly rare and valuable gift. We should treat it as such.

To the Frontier

To the Frontier

 

They set sail upstream

With open hearts

And big dreams

 

Of new exploration on the shrouded frontier

A place felt with terror

By many a mind

 

Where knowledge lost meaning

And all was in flux

The frontier is wild

With chaos a must

 

Some took raisins

And some took guns

Others took coins

And butter and rum

 

Anyone’s guess is as good as another’s

As to which explorer made better than others

No messages come back

No bodies return

The frontier is shrouded

Its secrets to earn

 

To those that make it

To whom the frontier is learned

The future is open

Its riches not spurned.

 

 

Ready for War

 Ready for war

 

Bring out your swords and put on your armor

We're going to war

We're going to slaughter

 

It's time to live bravely

Don't die tel it's over

And the war has been won

 

We need your warm bodies

To accomplish this deed

So look lively and ready for war

 

Forget your mothers and lovers and others

We need you now and our need is greater

So wave quick goodbye and ready for war

 

The war has been won and its cost was great

But it's profits were better and that's what matters

So your time was appreciated but no longer needed

 

For each who died or has not returned

We've sent our thanks in letters to mothers

So go to work now and forget about the war

Spell Wars (a short story)

Spell Wars

Smoke flitted upwards in concentric circles from Jarren’s pipe. The elegant piece stuck out from his down curved lips, and lit up his craggy face with the glow of embers as he drew on it. He was in a quandary, and he was enjoying it. Unraveling the traps of his rivals was one of his favorite pastimes. This one was particularly fascinating; it included a usage of spells that Jarren had never encountered before. In a world where the working of magic was the most closely guarded secret, and mages were in a perpetual state of deadly rivalry, it was rare to learn new spells outside of experimentation – which could be very dangerous for even the most cautious of mages.

   Jarren cast a spell of alertness that would warn him of any approaching threats, magic or mundane, and settled onto a tree stump to study the wards guarding the path before him. It was a channel through the canyons, the long-left remnant of coursing water. The spells looked to be anchored in the walls, but there was the faintest hint of magic buried deep within the earth beneath, as well.

   The spell weaves were tricky to disentangle – expertly crafted with obfuscation in mind to prevent other mages from the learning the caster’s secrets, as Jarren was doing now. Most of the spells were familiar to him, but there were a few that required cautious study, accompanied by probing magic, in order to discern their purposes. The true beauty of the work lay in the synergistic effect. Not a one of the many spells woven into these wards was particularly powerful, but when activated all at once they would trigger enough seismic activity to make that gorge a death trap.

   The wards would be triggered as soon as they sensed a mage, but their effect was set to be delayed, and in so doing the signature feel of magic that came with the casting of a spell would be dampened enough that only one looking for it would even know that anything had happened. A few minutes later the trap would close, with its prey trapped in a narrow ravine during an earthquake.

Jarren looked behind him as his own ward warned him of an approaching mage. Excellent timing. Now he would be able to see the spell-trap in effect. he had already been considering ways to safely trigger the trap when one of his many rivals decided to make himself useful. From the feel of the approaching arcane signature it was none other than Boisterous Boris; quite a powerful mage, and about as sophisticated as your average rock. The artistry of this trap would be wasted on him.

   With a cruel smile of satisfaction Jarren laid a spell-mantle of invisibility upon himself, fading from sight, both mundane and arcane. The tree stump he sat upon vanished as well, leaving an image of rocky terrain where it had been. Boris strode into view, carrying a bejeweled staff, and wearing poorly fitting robes of the most expensive quality. He didn’t slow as he saw the narrow opening; he veered straight for it, ostentatious staff striking sparks along the ground where he tapped it unnecessarily as he walked. Thankfully he didn’t notice the smoke rings off to the side, seeming to arise from thin air.

   Jarren watched the oblivious mage walk right into the trap, and onward down the doomed path. He wasn’t interested in Boris though – he had served his purpose – the magic was triggered. Jarren watched the activation of the spells with avid interest, making mental notes of all that was new to him, and of much that was old, but cast in a unique manner. The style of a mage’s work could reveal much about that mage’s strengths, and weaknesses.

   A few minutes after dear Boris passed through the warded path entrance there was a loud rumbling, and the ground began to shake. Chunks of stone rained down upon the path. Dust from the rock-fall filled the air, and obscured the destruction from sight. When it cleared there was nothing left of the path; now it was but a line of densely packed boulders, and the tomb of one less enemy.

   Jarren had learned much from the display, and he was feeling a positively glowing mood coming with the easy victories of the day. Pitting other mages against each other had always been a common practice of the more devious spell-casters. He couldn’t really claim responsibility for Boris though, that had been the result of dumb luck and sheer stupidity.

   The same wouldn’t be true of Zaerune, the creator of the perilous ward that had transformed a convenient path through the canyons into a nightmare of collapsing walls, horrendous sounds, and all around terror before a doubtlessly quick death. The vaunted tower of Zaerune would have to be approached from another direction now. Just as well, clearly. Jarren rose from his stump, and swapped his mantle of invisibility for a more general purpose attire of spells; enhancements to his reflexes, shields against danger, the usual scouting and battle assortment of magic.

   He had a decision to make, and it was made simple by his ignorance. Left, or right? He hadn’t been able to pierce through the spells of shrouding that hid this area from any mages attempts at scrying. With an indifferent shrug Jarren chose left. He walked along with the canyon walls brushing his right shoulder as he kept close to the shade provided there.

   This was the fourth day in these coulees - combing through them, finding traps, encountering other mages with the same goal as him, and learning more about his target with each moment. What he had discovered had given him a confidence much greater than he’d had upon entering. It had become apparent that Zaerune had a weakness. There was just the slightest trace of it, buried within the tiniest filaments of his spells.

   Arcane dystrophy – the slow degeneration of that which gave one the ability to control magic. It was rarely fatal, but would leave a mage with only a fraction of his power by the time it ran its course. Zaerune had had power to spare, in the beginning, but there was no telling how weakened he had become. Not until Jarren faced him, and took his measure in battle. Thoughts of destroying another mage, and stealing precious secrets in the process, had him smiling as he walked through the lifeless chasm.

   Tremors ran through the ground, throwing Jarren from his feet. With the aid of his spell mantle he turned the fall into a graceful roll, and came up crouched – magical senses extended to assess the danger. Immediately he was alerted to a cascade of boulders beginning a treacherous fall from the above. Only the swift casting of a potent shield saved him from a similar demise as that which had befallen Boris.

   Jarren held the spell, straining, until the trembling of the earth had subsided, and the boulders perched atop his magic had settled. Only then did he release it, ever so slowly. The shield released, and surrounded by a few tons of rock, the mage readied himself for a far more powerful casting. This had been the result of another spell-trap. This whole place was laced with them, not even Jarren could be expected to find and dismantle them all. No, it was time to go on the offensive. He had learned enough about his target that anything else would be indulgence, at this point.

   Out of the clear sky stabbed down a jagged flicker of red lightning – spearing into Jarren’s rock prison with explosive force. The bolt was followed by nine more in quick succession. When the flare of light cleared the wizard was revealed at the center of it, standing in a bed of arcing, dancing electricity that swam up his feet, and covered his body. He ran towards the canyon wall.

   Lightning flared upwards when Jarren struck the cliff base, climbing in bounding arcs to land at the top - where it reformed into the electric-red mage. Jarren gazed across the plateaus, looking for the one that held his destination. In the endless view of rock formations only one stood out. It was perfectly round, with spell-sheared sides. In the center of it stood a tall, elegant tower of architectural impossibilities.

   Jarren collapsed into a mass of violent static. With a surge of light, the flickering energy constricted into a bolt, and shot forward – landing with an earth-shattering blast, and re-launching with the same; leaving a trail craters across the plateaus and into the tower of Zaerune. The collision was heralded by a thunderous boom, lit by a shower of falling sparks. The red lightning coalesced from scattered power and smashed back into the dome of magic protecting the tower, causing it to shimmer into visibility again and again.

   At the peak of the dome came a crack, and with it the unraveling of spells. When the shield collapsed it released a devastating shockwave of arcane energies. Jarren’s elemental transmutation spell was torn to shreds by the blast. His body took its original form, and unwillingly surfed the destructive wave into the ground, and off of the edge into vacuous air.

   From the base of the tower strode a man in practical robes. He paused, surveying the damage. Zaerune, poised with the tension of irritation and amusement at war, couldn’t quite suppress a chuckle. It had been a long time since anyone had made it all the way to his tower. Only one before had brought the shield down, and triggered its underlying trap. It had ended the same for that intruder as this one.

   The aging mage looked across the land; using his arcane sight to survey his domain, checking on various intruders, and spell-traps throughout. He started on the outreaches, working his way inward, nearly missing the signature of a living mage streaking towards him through the earthen floor beneath.

   Jarren erupted from the stone beneath Zaerune in a molten form of fire. Reaching forth with lava-dripping arms he grabbed the other mage in a full-body hug, and threw them both backwards into the earth. They sank within the stone as it melted before their passage – leaving glowing, bubbling rock in their wake.

   The lava spread, and was soon lapping at the foot of the tower. Slowly, at first, the structure began to lilt sideways as it sunk unevenly into the molten earth. The building was half-buried when the heat had dissipated enough for the ground harden. When the structural descent halted Jarren, clad in torn robes and covered in burns, stepped out from a shattered window. He blankly gazed out across the canyons until well after sunset. The ground continued to cool. When it was safe the exhausted mage took a handful of stumbling, halting steps. Swaying to a stop Jarren sank to the ground. He clawed his way forward a few more feet before the deep sleep of arcane exhaustion overtook him.

   Light shimmered nearby, and out of it came a shrewd looking man – poorly dressed in expensive clothes, and holding a jewel encrusted staff. He was gazing upon the vulnerable form of Jarren with the smug satisfaction of victory.

 

The End.