Chapter 7: Galvanizing in the Crisis

  ++The constant bickering of Garamon’s various magicians is one of the two largest factors that majorly held the Empire back and stifled the true potential of those living within it. The other, of course, being its damned Gods.++

  - From the writings of Isabel Vornholt, ‘The Great Lich’. 1,891 A.E

  I had a lot to consider as my kidnappers took me from the mansion. The first thing, obviously, was calling out to try and bring attention to my and Agrian’s plight, but I knew that would not work. I saw a spell matrix hovering around us, perhaps twenty yards ahead and behind. A persistent force effect, like Doctor Brown’s defensive wall but smaller in scale, surrounding us on all sides and exponentially more precise. I heard nothing from outside that wall, and would wager that nothing beyond it could hear me. A muting effect, clever.

  That made studying this matrix to use myself later into the second consideration. The third was gathering as much information on these strange men as was possible. The warriors, those who had survived their fight, numbered three and dressed in what I gauged, based on numerous weekly visits to church, was rather common attire for men of the lower classes. Thickly made fabric of rough make, but functional and tough.

  They were shorter than most of the gentry, which I was unsurprised by, and of course wielded weapons. And they were also not my major concern.

  It was the magician who enjoyed that distinction. A short man with greying hair, wearing what looked to be some sort of gown. It was not quite the flowing robes of my own time, but I appreciated the chunk of history all the same. Perhaps I would have him obliterated somewhat less painfully as a show of appreciation, when the time came.

  Agrian the Younger was trembling like a half-drowned rat, which I promptly tuned out as the men began hissing and bickering amongst themselves. Despite the display of their actual attack on the mansion, their escape plan appeared largely to consist of simply jogging away. I understood why soon enough. These men were not the physical equals of my father, but were still potent enough that a mere jog for them approached the sprinting speed of most men.

  They were sustaining this speed for miles. Around corners, leaping short walls, navigating the city without dropping in pace at all. A horse would certainly have outraced them on open ground, but even with Agrian and myself weighing them down, these men were making their way through Lachfel many times faster than any cumbersome mount could.

  “Why did we have to go and fight a magician?” One of them hissed.

  “It was our only opportunity,” growled the magician. He was the sole man here not running as his fellows did, instead being carried by his own subordinates, who were periodically exchanging the burden to keep from slowing down.

  “Bob lost a fucking eye!” the first man snapped. I found my gaze flitting to the newly-made cyclops, apparently named Bob, who still whimpered and sniffed. Ocular fluid had long since finished running down his face, and was now congealing against the skin of his cheek. It almost looked like he had been crying, though it was rather bloodier.

  I noted it down as a mixed success. I had been trying to boil the man’s brain matter, apparently my magic missile went off prematurely before it could burrow deep enough.

  Other things like this caught and kept my attention, but the most long-standing distraction for me was memorising the way we went. Neither Agrian nor myself was actually blindfolded as our captors ran, which I found amusing. They seemed to not even consider it a possibility that we might be able to escape, so certain we were helpless that they need not bother to even keep us from knowing the way back home.

  In Agrian’s case, they were perhaps not mistaken. He was almost catatonic with fear and I suspected would not be of any use to me. Children. I had three younger siblings, by now, and had quickly learned that people on their path to adulthood are among the most intolerable creatures alive. No, I was essentially on my own.

  When at last we came to our apparent destination, I was actually surprised. I had been expecting a warehouse somewhere, or perhaps some long-abandoned house on the edge of town. Even a cave—caves had been popular haunts for the outlaws of my own time.

  Instead, we were taken to a mansion.

  The place was not nearly as large as the Vornholt estate, and not even half as old, but it had an undeniable expense put into it that assured me no common man lived here. The interior was warm in a way only those with excess wealth could afford, even with all the world’s advances of technology, and it was unsurprisingly spacious.

  It clearly needed that space, too. There were many more men within, some dressed as the fighters had been and others, the rarer number fortunately, aged and gowned men whose auras thrummed with power. To my arcane vision, most were no more powerful than Doctor Brown, but all still boasted several times the magical strength of myself or Agrian.

  And all stared at me in much the same way they might have done if I were a large brick of solid gold.

  “You have them, then,” said one, stepping forwards ahead of the rest. He was better built than most of his compatriots and, surprisingly, younger. Early into middle-age rather than almost past it. He wore a short beard that seemed intricately cared for, something I considered the mark of a man who did not engage in much magical combat. Wizard or magician bears have become historically iconic, for some reason. In combat, rather than history, they become fireballs.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “There was trouble,” the man who had taken me growled.

  “I can see that,” nodded the leader. “Two deaths. It was one Doctor you had to fight, and Brown was no great battle-magician. How did you suffer a loss like that?”

  The men who had captured us were glaring at their magician escort, now, given all the reason they needed to drop the blame soundly at his feet.

  “I don’t know,” he snapped. The man’s face was reddening like he was being repeatedly slapped. “We entered as planned, but somehow he saw through the smokescreen. He must have prepared a scrying spell or…or something.”

  Excellent, so they had not actually realised the source of those attacks I threw out.

  My thoughts were interrupted briefly when the apparent leader of this group—of the magicians—made his way over and knelt down before me and Agrian, who had by then been set down on the carpeted floor. He looked between us with what was probably an attempt at some warm, welcoming smile. I did not get that impression of course, being too familiar with people and their double-faces, and neither did Agrian.

  “Hello children,” the man smiled. “Do you know where you are? Or rather, do you know who you are with?”

  Agrian said nothing, just trembled as he gently nudged me further back behind him. I could admire the boy’s effort, at least. It must have taken something close to courage to still be putting himself between me and our new enemies.

  But I had no need for such protection.

  “You are magicians,” I began, stepping forwards to place myself between this man and my brother. Agrian was a rat, but he was the creature I had studied and worked alongside. And he had tried to protect me. I would see to it that he was rewarded for that.

  And of course, seeing the man’s surprise—all of the men’s surprises rather—at what they took to be a mere six-year-old girl speaking so fearlessly and well was just more satisfaction for my part.

  The leader was not quite as shocked as his men though. “You’re Isabel, yes?” he asked me. There was the same note of condescension in his voice that adults always took on when they spoke with me.

  “I am. Who are you?” I demanded. Fortunately, that same condescension meant that, in many cases, being outwardly rude was more likely to amuse most people than offend them. I saw that this was no exception.

  “Me? I am Doctor Avens, have you ever heard of me?”

  I had not, but that was no surprise. Doctor Brown had assured Agrian and myself that we would be educated on the notable magicians of Garamon eventually, but that had always been mentioned as something to expect later. I looked at Agrian for any sign that the boy recognised this stranger—he was, after all, given a more complete education about history and politics than myself—but he seemed as lost as I was.

  “I work with the Runborg Institute of Arcane Study, and me and my coworkers have heard very impressive things about the two of you. Apparently, you’re both very good at magic, can you show me some?”

  “No,” Agrian snapped. “I want to see my father. Where is he?”

  Again, the boy’s spirit was to be admired. I only wished his situational awareness would match it. Fortunately the Doctor was not enraged.

  “I’m afraid you won’t be seeing your father for a while, Agrian, but if you’re good then it might happen sooner.” An obvious lie, but one that achieved its intended effect of calming Agrian down.

  I kept my own feelings, or lack thereof, hidden, and just drew a few conclusions. So this was a rival branch of magicians from the order that Doctor Brown had come from, who had somehow heard about the rare talent of Agrian and myself and now wished to take advantage of us themselves. I was hardly surprised, such tactics had been commonplace in ages long gone.

  With the sheer power available to gifted magicians, second only to the divine magic of the Gods and their children, a little something like kidnapping would hardly even raise eyebrows next to its potential rewards.

  My largest question now was whether or not I wanted to evade capture. After all, depending on what was planned for me…. This may well have been just the chance I was waiting for.

  ***

  Henry woke up buried under bricks and mortar. His head hurt, his back hurt, everything ached and throbbed, like fire was dancing under his skin. He crawled out and coughed, then spat, then coughed some more. His eyes were stinging and the world was a ruin. What had…

  The children.

  Everything came back to him with the abruptness of a gunshot, and he was on his feet an instant later, then stumbling back to the ground an instant after that.

  The room just wouldn’t stop spinning, space itself warping around Henry. Concussion, that was the word, right? He had a concussion.

  He blacked out, woke up maybe a minute later, maybe an hour, with healing hands on his temples and pain slowly receding. Magic, it had to be. Normal medicine would do nothing like this. His sight cleared and Henry looked up into the face of Father Johnson, a man he had gotten to know well over the last few years. He was Baron Vornholt’s personal healer and a Godtouched of minor power.

  Minor indeed, even after the arcane regeneration Henry felt like his skull was splitting.

  “He’s awake? Good, listen to me now then you little lump of fuck!” Something tightened around Henry’s lapels and then he was in the air, dangling within a grip so strong he thought it might have crushed marble. Baron Vornholt was staring up into his face, eyes alight.

  “My son. My daughter. Where are they?” There was a ferocity to him that went beyond rage, something inhuman even. Henry was staring into the face of a wild animal, one that thought he was standing between itself and its young.

  Better talk fast.

  “I…I don’t know, sir,” he spluttered. “Men came, a magician with them—I tried to fight them—”

  The grip tightened more, apparently held back until now.

  “You tried?” Baron Vornholt snarled. “You TRIED!? MY CHILDREN ARE MISSING YOU WORTHLESS DOG!”

  “Agrian!” A new voice came, Baroness Vornholt’s, Henry thought. It sounded so meek next to the roar of her husband, so fragile. But he found it cutting into his thoughts all the same, like only a lifeline before death could.

  “I should tear his head off,” the Baron spat.

  “We need him,” his wife added.

  A moment passed, the longest moment of Henry’s life. Then it ended. He was dropped to crumple at Baron Vornholt’s feet, and looked up just in time to see the man storm across the room and throw a frenzied punch at the brickwork.

  The brickwork contested his fist for a single instant, then proved the inferior as it cracked apart and burst inwards. Debris rained from the ceiling, and it seemed the room shook.

  “What do we do!?” the Baron spat. “I want—I want the guards, the police! Tell that little cockwart of a captain that he’s to sweep the damned streets, you hear? If my children don’t turn up within the hour, I’ll have his balls for a necklace!”

  Henry could admire the enthusiasm, but it would do little to help on its own. Then again, he hardly had a better solution himself.

  So much for my damned book. “I fear the police will be of little help here, sir,” he ventured. “Whoever did this is…most likely working with considerable arcane resources. I believe this is one of the magician’s institutes trying to p—kidnap Isabel and Agrian.” So help him, he’d almost said poach. That probably would’ve been a very fast way to die.

  The Baron turned slowly to eye Henry, and now he seemed to be calming fast.

  “Magical resource,” he echoed.

  “That is correct sir.” Henry must still have been mentally fogged by the blow to his head, because he didn’t realise what was happening until the Baroness stepped forwards too.

  “So you can help us track our children?” she cut in.

  Ah. Bugger.