Curselock

Chapter 7: Sixty Percent

“Sixty percent?” Gilbert mused. “Whatever makes you think that?”

“Call it a mage’s intuition,” Leland replied.

“What about if I create a flame shield? Still sixty percent?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Hmph,” Gilbert crossed his arms. “Already fine. I’ll wager that you cannot hurt me with a single spell while I have a shield active. If you win you can go on the quest.”

“That’s not fair,” Jude cried. “Did you test Leland’s mom with a shield?”

“No.”

“Then don’t you think that’s not fair?”

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “Tell you what. If you can win, Leland, while my shield is active, then I’ll give you my necklace.”

Leland glared at his friend. “What if I lose?”

“Then I get to pick your first quest.”

They all groaned, but accepted. Together the four entered the Guild’s training hall, much to the amusement of the patrons. They followed them, finding seats around the periphery to watch. Gilbert stepped to the opposite side, then pulled at his tattoo. A crystalline scepter of red quartz and black glass materialized in hand. He gave it a little twirl, allowing its power to glow internally.

Leland did the same but pulled his grimoire. The purple heavy tome sprung to life, flipping through its pages before coming to rest on the spell Leland envisioned.

Abruptly, a pillar of flame extended from the ground at Gilbert’s command. It blazed well into the ceiling before collapsing in on itself and wrapping around its caster. As the fire leveled out, it encircled the old man, protecting him at all angles.

“Whenever you are ready,” the Guild Master said with a yawn.

Leland grimaced, the encouraging words from his friends going on deaf ears. He focused on what his Legacy gave him. Knowledge, forethought, power – the tenets of any mage, whether it be curses or not.

Slowly, he held out his hand, purple mana forming at the tip of his thumb and middle finger. With a solid snap, Leland spoke the powerword, “Fracture.”

Someone coughed.

“Eh?” Gilbert sang, his eyebrow raised. “Did it fizzle?”

Leland muttered something to himself, red already forming along his face. Around him, the crowd snickered and giggled, no doubt already formulating the gossip for the adventurers that couldn’t be here today.

Gilbert scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, why don’t you give it a second try. After all, your mother had a few months experience when we made the same bet.”

This made Leland’s embarrassment fade. In its place, rage and displeasure formed and bubbled with great haste.

There were many other tenants of magic, some far less savory than others. Spells, as Leland understood, came in many different forms. Some were cookie-cutter, others open ended and volatile. He didn’t know much about curses but from what little information his Legacy was telling him, Fracture was not one that could empower with emotions.

A cold breath escaped Leland’s lungs as he expelled all the anger he held. A cool mind saves the day, he reminded himself – a saying from his mother.

He hated to be compared to his parents, he hated the special treatment others gave him. He hated the songs, the stories, the renown. They, while celebrated, were not his stories or songs. Definitely not his renown. People looked at him differently, not because they saw him, but because they saw his parents.

Magic flowed into his fingertips, this was as good a time as any to make people notice him, right?

“Fracture,”

A resounding crack echoed over the murmuring crowd and crackling flames. It silenced the training hall, it zipped closed the mouths of the gossips. Then Gilbert yelled, crumbling to the floor. He cursed and screeched, his fire failing and returning the temperature of the hall to normal.

“The hell boy!?” Gilbert seethed through grit teeth. “You broke my femur!”

That sent a wave of whispers through the crowd. Dozens of eyes found themselves glued to Leland, predatory or fearful gazes in each.

Jude and Glenny came in fast, each locking arms around their teammate and jumping up and down. The celebration went unnoticed by Leland, his mouth long agape and dry.

“Uh, Jude, I think he’s broken.”

“Huh? You in there Leals?”

Leland shook himself, his legs suddenly feeling like jelly. “I, uh, uh…”

A green glow pulled their attention. Perfuming through the air, a vibrant mist drifted down from a white wood staff with a golden ring embedded through the thicker end. A gentle chime filtered through the hall, along with the feeling of warmth and happiness.

The boys recognized the feeling quite well, having been on the receiving end of the spellwork quite a few times over the years. The Guild’s resident healer, Gwen, was a kindly soul, always looking out for others – even though she charged adventurers an exorbitant fee for her work.

Leland grimaced at the thought of Gilbert’s bill.

Eventually the healer and Guild Master strolled over, Gilbert’s leg in perfect health.

“Some spell you’ve got there, boy. Fracture, was it? I may have to do some research…”

Gwen eyed Leland with her lips pursed. “A spell that breaks bones. Can’t say I’m in favor of such a thing… although it would do wonders for my business.”

Leland let out a nervous chuckle. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to break your leg.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “Better my leg than my skull.” He sighed, pulling off his silver necklace and pushing the chain away. “Winnings as promised.”

With shaky hands, Leland accepted the item, slipping it on right away.

“You know how that works, right?”

Almost robotically, Leland repeated the item’s description from a catalog he had skimmed through once. “A necklace of protection can store a single barrier type spell. At the holder’s command, the necklace will activate, consuming the spell. The spell can then be recharged at the fee of mana by the holder.”

Everyone, even Jude and Glenny, eyed the boy. Gilbert scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, pretty much.” Then he muttered about three hundred gold down the drain.

“So that means we can have the caravan quest?” Jude asked.

Gilbert frowned. “Do you have more than that one spell, Leland? I know today is your birthday, so there hasn’t been much time to rank up.”

“I do,” he responded.

“Good. That spell isn’t going to do much if it’s all you have.” The Guild Master paused for a long minute. “Fine, you can have it.”

The boys celebrated with a loud, “Yay!”

It was Gwen who spoke up next. “You three should probably get out of here and to the market. Shops will be closing soon, and it sounds like you’ve got a long journey ahead… And the crowd here looks ready to challenge you, Leland.”

“Let ‘em come!” Jude screeched.

“No, no,” Glenny waved off. “Don’t let them come.”

Leland laughed at that. “Thanks Gilbert, Gwen. For everything.”

Glenny's expression turned somber. “Yeah, thanks for looking after us all these years.”

Jude’s battle crazed smile fell, turning into a saddened smirk. “Yeah, what they said.”

Gilbert’s heart melted and it took everything out of the old man not to tear up. “Come and visit from time to time.”

“Of course,” all three said.

They exited the Guild waving goodbye and took to the streets again. Liontrunk was a few weeks away by caravan, they would need traveling provisions and proper clothing. Eventually, and several gold later, each boy had a full pack of necessary items.

In the morning, they would be well on their way.

He ran, it was all he could do. Through the trees and past the vines, he ran. For three years he had been running, for three years he had been tracked. Like a dog, they chased him.

Illuminated by the moonlight, the brand of the Witch shined with red agony. Murder, theft, arson, maybe even more, the man’s crimes were brandished well and true with the simple tattoo. Unlike the marks of the Lords, the tattoo of the Witch grew past his hand, grew past the Legacy.

It took up most of his face, the red lettering stretched across his cheek for all to see. A simple “W” was the man’s penance, always to be hunted until the letter found itself on a corpse. Only in death would the man’s crimes be set free, only when he smoldered and his bone became dust.

Inquisitors followed closely behind, less than a week if the man was guessing. He cursed as he fell, tripping over a root. They were tenacious, he had to give them that. Killing one of their own did that to a man, he mused, the blood on his scuffed knee freezing over instantly.

Murder, cold like the ice he controlled, was his crime - a Royal Inquisitor his victim. He was the last alive, the last not found. The others, the ones he called his crime family, had all been executed for their communal crimes.

But that was his Legacy to deal with. His cold blooded Legacy.

Soon the forest would turn sparse, the grass dry, and sand would be on the horizon. Soon he’d come across a town, soon he’d have refuge.

Soon he’d be at Liontrunk.