Hidden Power (7 page)

Aurora looked at her sheepishly. “It is for learning,” she insisted, before turning back to Hilliard. “And I wasn’t in the Wandering Woods the whole time. I went… I went to Mage City.”

Hilliard nearly choked on his own sip of fresh herbal tea.

“Ythulia?” he asked, shaking his head and looking at Majorca’s worried face, trying not to express his own sudden dismay. “Aurora, you’re hallucinating. Ythulia is a myth, just like the great Crystal City after which it’s named.”

“But it’s not,” Aurora insisted, standing abruptly and pacing in front of the wood burning stove while waving her hands wildly as she wove a most extraordinary tale. “It’s real, and I saw it. I went up into it, in a Crystal Car that went all the way to the top. And there were mages there, with great flowing hair and stiff beards and flowing robes and wise eyes. And… and…”

Hilliard pressed her shoulder gently, easing her back down into her chair. “Aurora, only mages, squires and those with the Sight can see Ythulia. You must be joking with your old man. And it’s too late in the morning to try that, young lady,” he warned, only half-jokingly.

“But I’m not,” she pleaded, looking up at him earnestly. “I was there, honest. I looked down and saw the ground, and looked around and saw through walls. I… I… even met a boy, Kayne, who was being trained as a squire…”

His daughter’s voice fading, Hilliard helped Aurora up out of her chair and guided her gently into her bedroom, where she slumped promptly onto her bed. 

“My pack,” she insisted, calling for her bag resting on the back of her chair. He grabbed it for her, noting its sudden heaviness. 

Was it packed with new clothes
? he wondered to himself, tempted to sort through it after she slept but knowing what trouble it might cause if she found out. 

“What did you pick up in Mage City?” he joked instead, lying it next to her as she cradled it protectively. “A bag of crystals? A pile of priceless gems?”

She mumbled something beneath her breath but, before he’d closed her bedroom door, was already breathing heavily with the weight of sleep pressed upon her. Hilliard joined his wife at the breakfast nook, grateful his daughter was home but alarmed by her tall tales.

“She’s never been one to tell stories like that,” he said to his wife, gripping a cup of lukewarm tea with both hands.

“Maybe it’s just the exhaustion talking,” Majorca reasoned, cleaning up the table except for the mug she noticed he wasn’t drinking out of. “Lack of sleep will do that to people.”

He shrugged, kissed her, and stood. Taking off his apron, he hung it by the door. “You?” she joked, squeezing his cheeks. “Taking off from work early? Are you going to visit Mage City as well?”

He chuckled, putting on his riding cap and hunting vest before grabbing his rifle. “I’m off to find my friend Lutheran,” he said. “At least now I’ll know where to start looking and with two hands, the work I’ll miss today will be done in half the time with his help.”

Hilliard stabled Boer, making sure to give him extra oats and water before shutting his gate. Then he saddled up his own six-legged steed, Orion, and took to the trail, heading for the Wandering Woods and his old friend, Lutheran.

The two had done a tour of duty in the Guard, what passed for the Army of Synurgus, and which was mandatory for all able-bodied, mortal males over the age of sixteen. 

They hadn’t encountered much drama in their time of service, but they had grown close and, when it came time to grow up and settle down, they’d both settled into the rich, ripe farmland that surrounded the tiny town of Balrog.

Lutheran had married a girl from the village, and the two had settled into the farming life, and all that entailed. But his friend’s land had turned fallow, his marriage untidy and, after a few years, both had ended on a quite sour note. 

Lutheran had come by one day, a bulging pack on his back, his walking stick in place, so in debt he’d sold his horses to cover the load. The two had parted years earlier, but just the other day Hilliard had heard tell of his friend being back in town. 

Now, it seemed, the village seamstress had given Aurora directions to Lutheran’s cabin. It would be good to see his old friend, but better to have his help building a larger pen to help keep Hilliard’s growing herd of Bleaters fenced in! Aurora was a help, but some jobs just needed two grown men to pull off in time.

He tightened the reigns and guided his steer into the Wandering Wood. He hoped by end of day he’d find his friend and they could share a draught of ale together like in the olden days.

The thought made Hilliard smile, a rarity these days.

Iragos lingered at the edge of the wood, regarding the crystal globe that rested firmly atop of his walking stick. Inside the globe a green mist swirled steadily, confusing him; it was supposed to be a clear mist, making his prey easily visible. 

Using the powerful Wanderer Spell, Iragos could usually track down his prey quickly, as if seeing through walls, trees or, in this case, the Wandering Wood.

Instead the green mist swirled, and swirled and swirled.

“Kronos!” Iragos hissed to himself, stabbing the tip of the long, crystal staff into the dirt at his feet. His fellow mage must have been using an equally powerful cloaking spell, hence the green mist interfering with his own white magic. 

Iragos hurried, feet hardly touching the ground as the hem of his flowing maroon cloak, with its rich gold threading, swirled just above the grassy forest floor. His blue eyes were keen as he peered through the darkening sky. Afternoon was waning here Below, the evening approaching quickly.

Iragos heard a twig snap and stopped, marshaling his excellent vision and focusing it on where he’d heard the noise. Silence followed as he stood still, watching the spot near a cluster of old, gnarled trees at the edge of the forest. 

Somewhere in the distance, a small cabin stood, smoke rising into the approaching darkness. But Iragos ignored it, staring instead at the shadowy cluster of trees where he’d heard the noise. 

He made not a move, but instead peered closer and closer, until he saw the slightest blur of movement in the trees and the telltale whispering maroon cloak of his prey. 

Iragos gently slid his walking stick into the earth and smiled, chanting a Transformation Spell that slipped from his muttering lips. “From the earth, spirits dwell, to the earth, let them swell; change my form, as I desire, set my human blood on fire; mystic powers, hear my plea: from this form, let me flee…”

With each murmuring of the incantation, his hand upon the crystal stick changed. His pale skin turned leathery and dark, his fingers stretched forward, longer and longer, as bones cracked painlessly and reformed effortlessly, while carefully tended fingernails turned to claws, while hair sprung from his leathery skin.

His cloak fell away, as did the tunic and pants beneath, as his form lengthened, shifted and morphed into something strange, beautiful and deadly. 

Iragos felt the power deep within his bulging muscles, the venom in his blood as he fell to all fours, now covered in sleek, black hair, yellow eyes now spotting the shape of a human form lying in the shrub, curled like a ball.

Iragos leaped, a black panther at last, silently stalking his prey on powerful paws tipped with glistening claws. His shoulder muscles rippled with each step, ribs visible against his slinky black hide, whiskers sensing motion in the invisible air.

The figure in the brush stirred, startled, and rose to one knee — Kronos!

The panther Iragos roared, a biting sound that seemed to silence the very forest itself. Kronos shuddered, then stood, raising his own crystal staff, this one gnarled and bent, the glass smoky and spiked along its gleaming black length. 

The dark mage’s lips began moving as Iragos leapt, front paws extended, mouth wide, slashing and tearing at Kronos’ maroon cloak with a fierceness that would have been impossible only moments earlier in his physical “man” form. Kronos screamed, stumbling back, too shocked to transform himself into something more powerful than a panther.

At least, for the moment. 

Kronos lay on his back, scrambling away on his palms, backing into the trunk of a mossy green tree as his gorgeous cloak sagged off of him in tatters. 

Panther Iragos stalked forward, claws itching to slice, teeth bared and drooling to tear into the dark mage’s weak, human flesh. It was forbidden to mortally wound a fellow mage, Iragos knew – even in animal form – but the Council said nothing of scaring one to death!

Kronos shivered, scared eyes half-lidded as he mumbled incoherently to himself. Iragos was half afraid he was plotting some spell, but Kronos was only cursing his fate.

Iragos neared, intending to slice the boots off Kronos’ feet, to shred the last of his magnificent cloak, to slap the staff away from his trembling hands when suddenly a crack rang out and the tree above Kronos’ head splintered as a bullet sheared off a towering branch.

It landed on Iragos’ head, causing him to yelp when another shot fired out, this one striking the dirt at the temporary panther’s paw. Iragos bolted, using his powerful legs to steal away from the rifleman’s sights and leaping deeper, ever deeper, into the forest.

He was breathing heavily when at last Iragos returned to his crystal staff, glowing black with the fever of his spell. As at last he returned to his physical state, he slipped back into his clothes and rested on the ground, chewing on a local root to get his energy back while he recuperated from the powerful spell.

He hung his head, tired from the exertion of the spell, frustrated that he hadn’t been able to do more to scare Kronos out of his plan. After all, the dark mage was still on Synurgus and clearly had found an ally among the people of the Valley.

Then again, as far as Iragos could tell, Kronos didn’t have the orb – yet. He stood, rested, and leaned more heavily on his staff than he had in the past. He would have to keep a close eye on Kronos, starting with finding out who his mortal ally from Below might be…

Lutheran Augustus waited until the sounds of the forest quieted to approach the wounded man. The muzzle of his hunter’s rifle still smoldered as he kept it cocked and aimed, awaiting the roar of the wounded panther at any moment.

He would have loved nothing more than to track the wounded animal into the brush where it had disappeared, not only to put it out of its misery but also to have that black, silken hide adorn the floor of his humble cabin.

But mortals came first, and the man in front of him looked gravely ill… if not already dying. He was an odd sort, and even as Lutheran approached him he felt wary, almost more wary than if he were approaching the panther! 

The man was tall and thin beneath his shredded cloak of foreign finery, but clearly possessing a strength far beyond his physical stature to have survived such a savage attack.

His face was lean and severe, perhaps aided by the wiry black goatee that covered his thin, gray lips. His eyes were closed but they fluttered behind the waxen lids, as if the man was struggling to stay conscious, or already deep asleep.

Lutheran surveyed the landscape carefully before lowering his gun, listening closely for another black panther charge as he bent to feel the man’s pulse. It was soft and weak, although the man’s skin was almost inhumanly warm. 

Lutheran slid his rifle over his shoulder awkwardly before lifting the man into his arms. He was surprisingly light for a man so tall, and his whole body vibrated as if he were fueled by a furnace instead of a heart and lungs.

Lutheran’s cabin wasn’t much to look at from the outside – or from the inside either, for that matter – but it was warm and hearty and safe from giant black panthers. 

He knew that much at least!

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen an animal so wild in the Wandering Woods, but stranger things had happened and when beasts were hungry, he figured they’d hunt most anywhere.

Lutheran’s bed was soft and warm as he laid the injured man inside. His patient was unconscious, mouth slack, eyes no longer moving rapidly beneath their lids. Even his shimmering silver hair, which had seemed to have a life of its own during the attack, now lay limp and flat against Lutheran’s pillow.

Lutheran set about studying his herb cabinet, selecting various natural remedies and crushing or bending or flaking or pouring them into a large copper pot. He added water and set it over the fire to boil while he tended to his patient’s wounds.

The man’s gorgeous cloak was torn and tattered and his patient roused momentarily as Lutheran slipped it off his muscular frame. Beneath it the man wore a simple tunic of white and more gold thread. There were tears here, too, and fresh blood but when Lutheran unbuttoned the tunic to tend the man’s wounds, the blood had already dried.

He ground a fresh mixture of sulfur swamp mud and loganberry root to aid the healing, and dabbed it onto the scratches left behind by the giant, vicious panther. 

“What are you doing?” the man asked, weakly, eyes fluttering open and then closed.

“You’ve been attacked,” said Lutheran gently, covering the home remedy with fresh camaroon leaves to keep the air and other irritants off of it. “This will help you heal.”

The man’s eyelids fluttered open and flashed impatience. “I need none of your barbaric home treatments,” he sputtered before his eyelids closed again. 

“Magic,” he sighed, “is all I need.”

Lutheran chuckled to himself and shook his head. He left his patient to his incoherent mumblings and turned his attention to the simmering pot instead, using a metal ladle to spoon the steaming mixture into an earthen bowl. 

It smelled ripe of healing and goodness as Lutheran sat back down next to the man. His nostrils rippled and his patient opened his eyes. 

“What is that hideous smell?” the man asked, trying to stir but too weak to make much of an effort before crumpling back into the bed linens with a grunt.

Lutheran ignored him and filled a wooden spoon with a helping of the cloudy brown broth. “Your body needs rest,” he instructed the man as he slid the spoon into his mouth and forced him to drink. “This recipe will help you find it.”