“That seems rather narrow-minded, considering all the things you can do.”
Master Enoch shrugged. “At least in Garenland I have basic rights as a citizen. I’m free to live as an ordinary man if I choose not to use my magic. Not that I ever would. But in Straken they hang then burn anyone that shows wizard potential. In Rolan and the other kingdoms they use us as slaves. Be grateful that you were born in Garenland. Being of the nobility would offer you no protection in the other lands. Now show me your fire.”
Otto grinned. He loved this part of the lesson the most. He’d used his magic instinctively as a child, but now that he’d learned the proper way to do it, the things he could accomplish had multiplied by a hundred, as had the Bliss. It was a pleasure beyond anything imaginable to a non-wizard and Otto pitied them its absence.
He rubbed his fingers together to build up heat. Fire magic was a form of enhancement magic. Next he focused on the warmth between his thumb and forefinger and sent ether into it. A flame blossomed to life. A quick adjustment to the etheric flow and the flame started feeding on the magic.
Like the dagger earlier, the flame was fully under his mental control. Otto shaped it first into a dancing girl that pranced around on the palm of his hand. Next he made a dragon and sent it flying around the room, breathing tiny fire blasts.
The dragon landed on his finger and he considered what to have it do next.
“That’s enough, Otto. I think you’re ready for a new spell.”
Otto snuffed out the dragon and blinked away the ether to better focus on the spell book. Finally, a new spell. Master Enoch was so stingy with his magic. He never let Otto learn a new one until he had full control of the last. “Which one this time, Master?”
The wizard didn’t even bother to correct his use of “master” as he grabbed one of the books at the end of the bench. “Since you have the knack of enhancing heat to make fire we’ll see if you can enhance electricity. Here we are.”
He set the book down and Otto peered eagerly at the pages. You could build up a charge capable of rendering a man unconscious by enhancing the spark you made when you shuffled your feet on a carpet. The etheric flow matched almost identically the shape he used for fire magic. The description went on to offer a number of ways to create the initial spark since there wouldn’t always be a carpet handy.
Otto eagerly read and reread the pages, setting it all firmly in his mind.
“Otto.”
The sooner he mastered this spell the sooner Enoch would teach him another one.
“Otto!”
He blinked and turned towards Master Enoch. “Did you say something?”
“It’s time for your sword practice. If you don’t hurry, you’ll be late.”
Otto’s momentary happiness vanished. He hated sword practice, but it was a skill required of a nobleman. Never mind that he didn’t have the least aptitude for the blade, much less any interest. Father expected him to show up for training and if he didn’t, the beating he’d receive would keep him in bed for a week.
Chapter 2
The crisp fall air made a refreshing change after the stifling closeness of the basement workshop. Otto strode across the empty courtyard toward the training circle where his tormentor—or teacher as his father would have it—waited, bare chested and eager. Halfway to the circle Otto diverted to the armory to collect a padded leather jerkin and wooden sword, even though it would have made no difference if he had chosen a live blade from the numerous racks. He had no hope of landing a blow on Sergeant Graves.
Properly armed and armored for his daily beating, Otto resumed his trek. All around the yard the dark walls of the castle rose, blocking out his view of anything but the clear, blue sky. It was said that in the old times, when the Arcane Lords still ruled the world, a wizard with the knowledge and power could soar through the sky like a bird. He would have given anything in that moment to bound into the air and away from the circle. Unfortunately, he had a better chance of being struck by lightning on this fine day.
One step from the training circle Otto stopped and bowed to Sergeant Graves. Though approaching fifty, Graves had shoulders twice as broad as Otto’s. Scars crisscrossed a chest covered with coarse black hair. The wooden sword in Graves’s hand looked like a child’s toy.
Graves had joined the army when Otto’s grandfather still ruled the barony. Father and the sergeant had trained together and become fast friends despite their differences in rank. When it came time to select a sword master for his sons, Father had come to his decision instantly. Both of Otto’s older brothers had taken to the sword like a pig to filth. He wanted only to survive his daily bouts without any broken bones.
“Sergeant Graves, permission to enter the circle?”
“Permission granted, my lord.” Graves always spoke perfectly politely even as his training methods remained brutal. “You showed some promise yesterday. Hopefully we can keep that up today.”
Otto restrained a laugh. At this point if he went ten minutes without falling on his face it was considered progress. It wasn’t Graves’s fault he had an incompetent student. At least his father had ordered the yard cleared during Otto’s training. If he’d had to do it with all his father’s men-at-arms watching, a miserable experience would have been rendered a nightmare.
Not that he imagined Father gave the order for his benefit. He simply didn’t like to advertise the fact that one of his sons was useless in the one area that really mattered for a nobleman. Otto was no warrior and all the training in the world wouldn’t change that.
“Let’s start with forms and get you loosened up.”
Otto stepped into the circle and began an unending cycle of parries, slashes, and lunges. The minutes dragged on, broken only by the occasional, “Raise your elbow, my lord.” Or “Don’t overextend, my lord.”
After an interminable length of time which was probably only fifteen minutes, Otto’s shoulders and thighs burned and sweat plastered his dark-blue tunic to his back. He bent over, hands on knees, and struggled not to throw up.
“That should have your blood pumping,” Graves said. “Let’s have a couple practice bouts.”
Otto straightened and joined his teacher in the center of the circle. When he first started training with Graves, Otto had asked why the sergeant didn’t wear protective gear when they sparred, to which Graves had replied that as a beginner he had no chance of landing a blow and even if he did it wouldn’t strike with enough force to hurt him. It seemed in eight years his assessment of Otto’s skills hadn’t improved.
Which only went to show how preceptive the veteran warrior was. Otto raised the hilt of his practice sword to his forehead then slashed it to the side. He’d grown competent with the salute at least.
Graves returned the gesture and raised his sword. Ten seconds later Otto’s weapon went flying to the left and he went sprawling to the right. A light tap on the head ended the first bout.
“Up and at ’em, my lord. We still have an hour of sparring and half an hour of running.”
It took all Otto’s self-control not to scorch the smile off Graves’s face. His palms already burned from grasping the sword. A little etheric energy and whoosh, he’d win his first match ever. Using offensive magic would also see him quickly hung and his body burned.