Sorcerer's Shadow

I scrutinized this door for a significant amount of time. No enchantments, no latches, no alerts. Just as a precaution, I lubricated the hinges, then swung it open. I found myself in a slightly more compact room, less messy. The only item of interest appeared to be a glowing orange cube, about six feet on each side, stationed in the room's center. Inside the radiant cube was a five-foot-long white staff. I could just about discern the rusty star at one end, the one I'd been advised to find. However, that wasn't the only presence in the room.

A towering Imperion stood next to the light cube, facing it, and we locked eyes. The image of him was frozen in my mind—a formidable figure standing a towering seven and a half feet tall, thick brows crowning a flushed face, with long, knotted reddish hair sprouting wildly. Despite an apparent old age, he was far from feeble. He stood erect, reminding me of Drevolan just before his near-assault on me. His musculature was evident beneath his tight, white shirt, and the crimson cloak held by a ruby clasp similar to Alyssra's added to his impressive stature. His brown eyes, clear and unwavering, expressed mild curiosity without fear or anger.

Only his hands appeared aged—elongated fingers, gnarled and bent, with what looked like minute scars dotting the back of his hands. The cause of these remained a mystery to me. He held a dark, slender rod, about four feet long, aimed at the staff within the orange cube.

The bastard was working late tonight.

I would likely have beaten him in reaction time, had he not detected my entry. With a vague gesture in my direction, I suddenly found myself unable to move. A dark fog clouded my vision. I muttered, "Apologies, Alyssra, not this time." Then, an engulfing darkness swept me into its embrace.

I was out for roughly twenty seconds, as far as I could estimate. The side of my face throbbed from the impact with the floor, as did my right hand.

As I came around, black spirals faded before my eyes. I knew better than to shake my head in such situations; my vision gradually cleared.

Anatole was propped against the distant wall, gazing past me, his arms held aloft. I turned my head and saw Drevolan, who appeared to be wrestling with an unseen adversary entangling him. Sparks flickered in the air between them—directly over me.

I was being saved. Wonderful.

Just as I was about to coax my body into action—at least enough to remove myself from between them—Anatole let out a cry, hit the wall behind him, rebounded, and came hurtling towards me. I would have stabbed him right then and there but he collapsed on me before I could act.

This could be classified as "not operating at peak performance."

Anatole, however, was rather nimble, especially for a Sorcerer. After crash landing on me, he kept rolling until he ended up in the room with Drevolan, alongside the table, the sword, the staves, and all sorts of other stuff. He rose fluidly to his feet and squared up against Drevolan.

A chaotic interplay followed, lasting perhaps ten seconds, involving smoke, sparks, fire, and booming sounds. When the dust settled, Drevolan had his back turned to me and Anatole was too far away for my tricks to be effective.

Opal, who had been so silent I'd nearly forgotten about him, chimed in, "Should we retrieve the staff now?"

Oh, right. The staff. Our objective.

With slight surprise, I found my legs still functional as I stood and moved towards the glowing orange cube. I started to analyze the magic surrounding it, muttering curses under my breath. I was uncertain of its nature or how it was put in place, but it was clear that it would be unsafe to plunge my hand in there. Likewise, dispelling it was beyond my abilities. I pondered whether Drevolan might consider a commission. I turned back towards the skirmish to inquire.

* * * *

I was nearing sixteen when I deemed myself mature enough to disregard my grandfather's counsel and began carrying my rapier. It wasn't top-notch, but it was pointy, sharp, and had a guard.

Less than a week after I started carrying it, I learned that my grandfather's wisdom was sound. At the time, I was heading back to the Inn from the market. Looking back, a Terran with a sword on his hip and a basket full of fish, meat, and vegetables must have presented quite the comical sight, although I didn't consider it then.

As I neared the door, laughter echoed behind me, and I spotted two boys about my age (accounting for growth rate differences), sporting the uniform of the House of the Falcon, obviously laughing at me. I shot them a scowl.

One of them laughed even harder, taunting, "Think you're some kind of tough guy, huh?" I noticed he too bore a blade.

I retorted, "Perhaps."

He challenged, "Care to show me how tough?"

I set down the basket, ventured into the alley, drew my sword, heart pounding. The two approached, the armed one shaking his head in feigned dismay. He towered over me, and his confidence seemed warranted.

He gripped his sword with his right hand and a long combat knife with his left. I figured he wasn't likely to use magic, or his left-hand weapon would be different. My grandfather's words echoed in my mind, and I mentally stressed the term "likely."

He faced me head-on, both arms stretched out, right arm and right leg slightly forward. I adopted a defensive posture, presenting only my side, which seemed to confuse him.

I urged, "Get on with it."

He took a step and launched his assault. I had no inkling then of the significant advantage in speed and technique offered by the Terran style of fencing. I was puzzled by his wide movements and failed to exploit his exposed forearm. Still, I had enough time to step back, causing his swipe to miss.

He attacked again in the same sluggish, inept manner, and this time, I managed to slice his arm before retreating. He grunted and his knife faltered.

His chest was entirely exposed, devoid of any protection. How could I resist such an opportunity? I struck him. He howled, dropped his weapons, toppled over, and began writhing on the ground. Before he even hit the ground, my sword was pointed at his comrade, who was gaping at me.

I then closed in on the unhurt one, and as he stood frozen, I wiped my blade clean on his clothes, never breaking eye contact. Then, I sheathed my rapier, exited the alley, retrieved my basket, and resumed my journey home.

En route, I realized that my grandfather was indeed right: Sporting a weapon does invite trouble.

I continued to carry it anyway.

* * * *