In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (54 page)

Malenec’s voice carried, and he felt the power of his prayer moving through him.  A sudden tremor riled the sea, and the boat began to rock heavily.  Suddenly rocks from atop the cliff began to break free and fall into the water.  Then a massive slice of rock came apart and slipped into the Strait, causing a massive tidal wave headed toward
Godsail.

“Protect your servants, Kuth-Cergor!”  Malenec cried, arms outstretched, still on his knees.  “Raise new ones!”

He watched as dozens of Elves fell screaming to their death as the wall of rock they had been standing on came crashing down.  Thousands of his undead warriors converged on the fresh, fallen flesh, some riding the up the massive wave, others underneath.  Soon he had added his first Elves to ranks of his army.

It took less than a minute for the wave to form and reach
Godsail. 
Water broke all around the boat, and the ship rose 70 feet in a heartbeat.  But it never capsized, never climbed vertical.  The massive wave passed underneath, and Malenec rode his boat down the back of the wave until it had passed completely. 
Godsail
was no worse the wear.  He stood and looked out over his army in the sea.  He saw one of his soldiers holding three arrows above its head, but most were simply paddling on.

He looked back at the cliff, the top of which now truly butted up against the forest.  It looked as if a thirty-foot chunk had been chipped off and dumped into the sea, the face of the rocks more jagged than ever.  Newly formed, they had not been worn down yet by the endless march of wind, water, and time.

“Our god truly is spectacular, isn’t he, Genevieve?”

Chapter 19:  Familiar Faces

~Magi~

Magi felt the walls of the stairwell; they were certainly real.  The torches flickered as he approached, and they appeared very real as well.  He warily looked up the Staircase. 
That is steep.
  It curved around, so he could only see a handful of steps ahead at any one time.

He took out the spell components for his best defensive spell and recalled the words, trying to prepare himself for whatever might occur.  He looked back at the door directly behind him that he
’d just slammed shut.  He could abandon this Climb and step back out into his father’s rat-infested home.  But then he would never be a True Mage.  Resolutely, carefully, Magi turned back around and put his foot on the first step.

Nothing happened.

He took another.  Then another.  Slowly, steadily, he climbed.  Around and around the staircase slowly wound, with oddly spaced and mismatched, rocky steps.  There was no end in sight, and he could never see more than a shadow’s worth of steps ahead of him in the flickering torchlight.  Still he climbed.  Some steps were a few inches apart in height; others he almost had to use his hands to climb over.  Still he ascended.  Minutes became hours, and sweat freely poured out of Magi.  Up, up, up he went.  He grew thirsty, but was hesitant to cast any spells and had no water with him. Time began to blur, as all he could concentrate on was the next few steps.  Two, three, or five hours later, he was still climbing.

With growing exhaustion, he wearily hoisted his leg up over a particularly steep step.  As soon as his second foot hit the step, it dissolved and Magi immediately began falling. 
The sudden shock of his free-fall brought his situation into acute focus. 
Levitate! 
Quickly recalling the spell, he felt that familiar heightened awareness the instant before the magic burst forth.  The overwhelming sensation he experienced was simply this:
I am not alone in here.

The spell was cast, and Magi began to float gently.  He felt as if he was
in
or
under
the Staircase itself.  It was pitch black, like an abyss.  Only the faintest pinprick of light was above him, presumably from the step far above that had disappeared.  He floated himself up toward that light, and sure enough he squeezed himself back through the opening.  He decided to continue to levitate rather than climb. 
Why didn’t I think of that in the first place?

And so he continued, floating now in a steady spiral, like a spectre
—touching no steps, touching no walls. 
Perhaps a test of my ability to react under pressure?

He lost all sense of space and time again, unsure of how high he was or how much time had passed.  Still he floated, until a withering blast of ice
-cold air hammered him from nowhere.  He was being forced back down the steps, and the cold nearly caused him to lose concentration on his levitation spell.  Fighting not to freeze and to keep his wits sharp, he created a fire shield—a wall of flame to try and repel the icy wind.

The cold began to seep through and continued pushing him lower, back down the steps.  He dropped the levitation spell, landing on a large step that (thankfully) did not dissolve underneath him.  The cold was overpowering.  He needed to dig deeper, much deeper, pouring his strength into this flame wall. 
So this shall be a battle of the depth of my power.  So be it.

Magi summoned a strength of will he had never
tried before—never thought to attempt.  Reaching deep, deep into his potential well of magic, he focused his energy on pushing back that fierce cold, trying to incinerate the very stones on either side of him, pushing all the heat upward.  The forces were in equilibrium as he strained to hold his position.  He was trying to move upward into the teeth of a wind more fierce than the strongest tornado.  He found more energy to give, searching himself for a bottom to this well of magical talent, digging, holding nothing in reserve.

Had this Staircase been formed of anything other than magic,
by now it would have been flowing lava from the sheer heat of his spell.  Yet the stairs were cool to the touch, but the sound of this hurricane ice wind getting snuffed by his fire shield was deafening.  The sound reverberated throughout the stairwell.  A lesser mage would have given up long ago, likely deaf, frozen, and much worse.  Who knows how many leagues he would tumble back down the stone steps if he gave in?

Magi was not, however, a lesser mage.  He was born for this, and he defiantly put one foot onto the step above him.  Then the other
—he was determined to keep climbing.

The wind broke.  Magi’s shadow danced on the walls as he cautiously reined in his fire shield.  He was nearly exhausted; that had been the most intense spell he had ever cast, and he
’d maintained it for what felt like an hour.  Parched beyond measure, he once more climbed upward.  He was now far more concerned about preserving his magical strength than his physical strength.

He pressed on, finding it difficult to focus.  He was so very tired; he must have been climbing now for fifteen, maybe twenty hours.  Who knows?  But he was determined to reach the top.  As tempting as it was to stop on a step and lean against a wall to try and sleep, he didn’t dare close his eyes.  Magi just kept lifting his legs.

Suddenly, the steps ended in a door!  He was so startled by it that at first he thought it must be an illusion.  A flood of new energy jolted him to his senses as he considered the door.  It looked like the door he had entered so long ago to begin this hellish climb.  He cleared his mind to see what spells he might have the energy to cast, depending on what he found on the other side.  With great anticipation, he reached out and grabbed the door handle, which silently swung open.

“Hello, Magi.”  It was Ragor Stri, standing on a plateau of sorts.  Through the door was a tournament square similar to Marik’s tourney square, only this was up in the air.  Magi walked through the door, which disappeared behind him.  It was just Ragor and Magi on opposite sides of this thirty-foot square.  Outside the square was nothingness, blackness.  A fall to oblivion as far as Magi was concerned. 
And so we must duel.

Ragor
smiled fiendishly and instantly disappeared.  From his left came a missile out of nothingness, the same that Ragor had drilled into Tarsh what seemed to be an eon ago.  Only this missile was not meant to knock an opponent around.  It was meant to obliterate Magi.  He had a shield ready, and barely deflected it, but the force of the blow nearly knocked him down.  Undeterred, Magi decided to change the weather.  He could feel Ragor off to his right when his senses were heightened magically.  Soon a massive snowfall descended on their little battlefield, and Ragor could no longer hide where he was, invisibility spell or no.  He was outlined in the falling snow, and his footprints were obvious.  Frustrated, Ragor lashed out with fire to try and melt the snow (and his footprints), but it was not working; the snow just came down faster and kept extinguishing his fire. 
You cannot match my depth, fool.

Ragor sent lightning; Magi blocked.  Ragor sent missiles; Magi deflected.  Ragor sent fire; Magi countered.  Nothing he tried worked, and Magi was beginning to actually enjoy the idea of toying with him.  Ragor
abandoned his invisibility now, concentrating his mind on Magi fully.  He looked nearly spent, although Magi knew he himself was running fairly low on energy, too.

Magi cast one final spell, materializing a giant blade, razor sharp, out of thin air.  A beautiful sword with a wicked, curved edge, Magi had it suspended magically at Ragor’s neck.
  He looked at it admiringly. 
I bet this is what Marik used on my mother many years ago.
  Undeterred, he pressed the blade against his throat.  “I think we should end this duel, Ragor.”

Amazingly, Ragor smiled
, a thin line of blood forming along the edge of the blade.  He chuckled lightly.  “Is this a threat?  From
you
?  You haven’t the guts.  Never did.  You’re just a teacher’s pet, always doing the right thing, the honest thing.  But not the smart thing or the difficult thing.  You let that fine girl go, and you should see the way she carries on with that weakling Tarsh.  Seeing the two of them together would make any man sick, even you.  If you had seen them the way
I’ve
seen them, while invisible…the way they hold each other under your stupid Tree…  And I’ve seen so much more between them now with our Master away—”

Enraged, something in
side Magi snapped.  He reversed his stroke and sliced low, severing Ragor’s feet with his magical blade.  The wizard crumpled to the ground, screaming, with pouring from his open ankles.  “That was for tripping me.”  Magi said darkly.  He physically grabbed Ragor’s hair and dragged him to the edge of their fighting square.

“MERCY!”
Ragor begged.

Again repositioning his floating sword,
Magi drove its point through Ragor’s soft belly.  Twisting it, he said, “Not a man?  No guts?”  He ground the sword painfully through his body slowly, right up to the hilt and out his back.  “In that case, I guess I’ve grown quite a bit on this little trip, wouldn’t you say?”

Ragor could only gurgle and shudder.  Magi looked at his former classmate and
curled his lip mockingly.  He kicked Ragor in the head, making him fall, glowing sword and all, over the edge.  There wasn’t much of a scream, and Magi never heard him hit the bottom.  He walked over to Ragor’s bloody feet, grabbed them, and tossed those over the edge as well.

So, she has always loved Tarsh, and has played me false.  I will deal with her as well.

Another door appeared out of nowhere, near the far edge of the tournament square.  Magi took a deep breath and walked toward it, physically exhausted, sweaty, and magically fatigued.  Triumphantly, he grasped the handle on the door and pulled it open.

More steps.

Disgusted, Magi climbed on.  He did not want to spend any more energy levitating, preferring to preserve his strength.  Carefully he climbed, testing each step before he put his full weight on it. 
I wish I had a staff.  What was that staff the Elf told me to search for anyhow – the Staff of Insight, I believe. 
It was the first time he had thought much about it.  He trudged upward, ever higher, continuing to rotate around a central core until he felt dizzy.

By now it was painful to swallow, his mouth was as dry as paper, and he was leaning heavily on the outside wall as he raised one foot up and brought it down.  In time he came to a landing with a door to the outside wall or more steps up. 
A choice.
  Desperate for anything that didn’t involve a step, he opened the door.  He didn’t step through, but he listened.  There was a grey fog through the door that was slowly lifting.  Slowly he began to make out shapes—familiar shapes.  He saw Black-John the smitty, and in the distance he saw Melanie Goodwin, and Horace Packard, and Brandon Gains.  He saw his home.  He saw
Tarsh.
  Despite his voice growing hoarse, he called out anyhow, but nobody in the scene stirred.  The light grey fog continued to just swirl.

The scene doesn’t feel right. 
He shut the door and continued climbing.

Finally he came to another door, this one with no options.  Hands on his aching knees, he steadied himself and pulled it open.  He walked through the do
orway…and into a gypsy campsite, where were three of them sat.  It was nightfall.  He looked around to see if he could get his bearings, but the only thing that looked somewhat familiar were the Crystal Mountains in the distance.  He felt pretty comfortable that he knew that mountain range.

“And here it is!” said the first gypsy.  “We finally have it back!”

“It’s beautiful!  Let me see it!”  The second one chimed.

“Me first!” said the third.

Magi crept closer.  He thought about an invisibility spell, but decided to rely on old-fashioned stealthiness to preserve his strength.  He continued to move closer until he was behind a nearby tree, just outside the camp.

“Not none of you need to hold it.  I lifted it, and it was a fine job, too.  Plucked it right from his finger, I did.  We’ll not be sharing the gold on this one.  I’ll let you see it cause I’m a good sport and all.  But you’ll keep your own greasy fingers to yourself if you want to wake up with five per hand in the morn!”  And then he held up a ring in the firelight.

My ring!

A hailstorm of magic missiles and fireballs rained down on the gypsies until they were goo and hot ash.  Magi could care less.  He ran over and picked up his ring, slipping it on.

It felt wonderful to have it back on his hand!  He twisted it like he had done since he was a boy, examining every familiar facet of the emerald and each of the perfectly rounded-off corners to the onyx upon which it was mounted.  It was just as he remembered it.

The fire from the campsite had gone low, and a chill wind began to blow, with flurries in the air.  Suddenly he heard a wolf howl.  He looked at the dying embers and threw a pinch of cinnamon on them, adding his magic to the fire.

Only it didn’t work.  He felt nothing, and no magic came forth.