Tinkers and Magelight

My staff was slick with sweat against my hand. I had to push hard to build the Perception rune, and even harder to splice in a Sound rune with a Location base. Black spots danced in my vision. I’d done too much today, cast too many complicated spells. The weaving came harder and harder with every rune. I needed to sleep, needed it desperately.

But these people needed me even more, so I carried on, despite the weariness of my body and mind.

I finished the Warding spell, and cast it out over the hillside like a huge piece of satin. There was a faint blue sheen to the air for a moment, like a coloured heat haze. Clumsy work, but it would suffice.

One of the tinkers, an older woman, pulled herself over to me.

“What should we expect, mage?”

I turned to her, leaning heavily on my thin staff, feeling the runes carving into it for reassurance.

“Expect the worst. That way, all your surprises are good ones.” I lifted one corner of my mouth in a droll smile.

I was slurring my words, I realised. This was ridiculous. My head pounded.

“If you hear a chiming noise," I continued, "just run. I can hold them off, if they try to pursue you.” I hope.

“Very good, sir,” she responded with aplomb. I nodded at her, and began to turn away, but she clapped a hand over my shoulder. “And...thank you.”

I nodded tiredly, suddenly ashamed that I’d been uncaring for the tinkers’ fear.

“Do not fear. I have dealt with worse situations,” I told her.

“Of course, sir,” she said, but she sounded weary, unconvinced, and on edge. I sighed in a mixture of tiredness and sadness as she walked away.

Tinkers were renowned for stealing things, including children and coin. They were known as scammers and cheats across the Verich coast. Whether they truly did commit such acts or not was irrelevant; when a teenager died in a small fishing hamlet, reason didn’t even factor into the villagers’ surety of the Tinkers’ guilt.

To my mind, the jump from theft to murder was a huge one, but apparently the villagers did not agree.

This had been my life for a year. Travelling the coast, finding an injustice, trying to help. Most of the time, I failed, and began travelling again, searching for a meaning.

I was less than a man. It was not simply that I hadn’t lain with a woman for two years, nor kissed one. It was not even that I had no desire to do either of those things. It was that I had no goal, other than to make up for my crimes.

I was a whisper, a thought, a gust of wind; not a man.

My eyes, slowly drifting shut, jerked open as the night exploded into a cacophony of noise.

Here they come. My thoughts were far too sluggish, I decided, and forced myself to wake up a little with an effort of will. It’s a shame they found us. But there it was.

The older woman, so vulnerable before, was all matronly stature, ordering the other tinkers to scatter into the night.

She glanced at me once, with a flash of concern. I wish I had her skills holding fear at bay.

As it turns out, I hardly needed the Warding Spell. The sound of the villager's hoofbeats echoed over the hills. Horses were rare on the coast. By the time they reached the hillside, it was empty other than me and the cooking fire that had no doubt revealed us.

There were five of them, all carrying makeshift weapons - a sickle here, a pitchfork there. The horses were small, but by no means harmless. I was terrified. My runes would only take me so far before I collapsed, and without my powers, I was naught but a child armed with a stick.

Nevertheless, I pooled my remaining will and energy, and forced it to my fingertips, ready for a final moment of glory if necessary.

“Halt!” I called out, raising my staff a few inches and calling on the Sol runes carved on it, filling the air with glimmering blue and green light.

To my eternal surprise and gratitude, they did.

“Stand aside, mage.” The big, beefy man who spoke appeared to be their leader. “They’m as taken our daughter need to pay.”

I replied, but not with much hope. “Please, hear me out! These tinkers mean you no harm, nor did they the victim of which you speak. They run from you in fear for their lives--”

“As well they should,” grumbled the Beefy man. I decided to call him Chunky.

“They see you as monsters,” I finished quietly.

They heard me, but didn’t listen.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” said Chunky. Everyone else remained quiet, almost reverent of the Chunky One.

I redoubled the effort I was exerting on the Sol rune, flooding the area with light. “No,” I said, tiredly, “I am offering you one chance.”

The Ice rune flashed in at my fingers, and cold fanned out from me. The the grass froze beneath the horses legs, covering the blades in frost. The men shivered, rime forming on their facial hair.

“I have studied the laws that govern the Arcane; the powers of Creation and Ruination, Disintegration and Progression are mine to command. I have Words of Power in my teeth and could empty this hill of you brave hunters, and scatter your ashes to the four winds!" My voice echoes around the hill "Heed me!”

Chunky One was starting to look a little doubtful. I decided he needed another push. I flashed another ice rune, this time at a stump. The wood exploded as the water in it froze and expanded. Beset by a wave of exhaustion, I leaned in what I hoped was a surreptitious manner on my staff.

“Don’t push me,” I murmured tiredly.

The men glanced at each other for reassurance. None came, even from Chunky. I had long ago realised that much could be said for the appearance of power, even if power itself was lacking.

“I said I would offer you one chance. This is it.”

They hesitated a moment before they turned and galloped away over the frozen grass.

I stood, a weary figure in my black travelling clothes and russet cloak, a half-inch thick staff in my hand, on a mage-lit hill. Alone.

I was a whisper, an ideal. Carl Markos, the theorem. Carl Markos, the philosophy, the curiosity. But not Carl Markos, the man.

I lay down on the cold grass and slept.

--

I was stiff as a board when I woke, but refreshed enough that I could easily coax the Sol rune to my fingertips, and convince the light to fill the air. I stood in a wooden room, full of pots and pans and barrels. The room smelt metallic, and oily.

My Magelight shone with barely an effort on my part, making me grin. It was a nice change from last night for my power to come so easily to my fingertips.

I suddenly wondered where my staff was, missing it’s weight in my hand. It had oftentimes been my only support (both literally and figuratively) in the long days roaming the coastline.

I listened against to wood of the heavy door, more out of a habit of caution more than anything else. Hearing nothing but what sounded like a light rain, I pushed open the door. It was very early morning, and I was standing in one of the tinkers’ smaller carriages. A group of three children looked up at me guiltily from what had, a few moments before, been a stealthy approach towards the door. They had just wanted to see the sleepy mage, their parents told me later.

As they looked up at me, worried and hopeful, the sunrise shone on my first true smile in months.

Reviews

[Margaret Norway]

This is an excellent chapter that flows nicely from the prologue. Your characterization is spot on; Carlos is the perfect sympathetic character that the reader and root for. I enjoy the fact that his skills aren't perfect yet, and that he admits to his failures but continues persisting. My favorite line that truly solidified my enjoyment of Carlos is: "I was a whisper, a thought, a gust of wind; not a man." This is a sentence that truly captures his personality and makes the reader like him all the more for it.

I have only one suggestion, and that is that you repeat "too much" twice at the very beginning. Though it was not a thing I dwelt on as your writing draws the reader in and I look forward to reading more.

I am enjoying this story and I am eager to see where it is going. : )

[Shin George]

I love the sense of atmosphere you've crafted with your writing and I like that you avoided the 'hero's quest' trope which is difficult with high fantasy. The only small issue I have as a result is that there seems to be a lack of direction? I'm not sure where the story is going and while this can work for some, it may lead to later plot points sounding like ret-cons. Is Carl's rivalry with his brother going to escalate even further or he seeking something else? I would have established the overall plot-line right at the beginning to give your story a good foundation.

And by the way let me just say I love the character of Wyla. I do have a small weakness for sharp-tongued females but you developed her excellently with only a few short words.

[Taal Vastal]

Direction is coming in literally the next chapter :) Ty very much for review