Chapter 1: Ægon

I'm slowly writing a novella, based in my otherworlds universe. It is called Spectral knight, and here's chapter one. Criticisms welcome (as is praise - I always welcome praise :P). If anyone actualy reads this, please comment, just to let me know what kind on interest I'm getting. Thankyou.


Ægon ignored the flashing lights behind his eyes. He blocked out the unsettling feelings in his head. He wasn’t going to lose. Sustaining his thoughts on the wall of ice in front of him, he reached out for his magic. Focusing hard he fortified it, strengthening it, against the barrage of flame blasting at its other side. The flame was growing weaker, but so was his wall of ice. For over an hour the students had been battling, and they were weakening. The young mage and his opponent were running out of mana – magical energy, and it was painfully evident. Although the pillar of flame glowing through the ice was weak and sloppy, it could still burn a man to death. He thanked the magical amulets each student wore, they would absorb all magic sent at the bearer, up to a point, when they would use the mana absorbed from the magic to magically cause the wearer to appear in the chamber below the arena. His amulet was glowing with a dull luminosity as he pulled himself to his feet for a new assault. Ægon marshalled his thoughts, summoning the anger he needed to motivate himself in this new charge.

He remembered the day where he and Pyran first met. The two were virtual opposites. Ægon was small, short and almost albino, save for his long raven black hair, and his shimmering grey-blue eyes. Pyran was tall, strong and dark skinned, with no hair on his pate, and flaring brown eyes, of such intensity they seem to burn red as red embers, or as naked flame in certain lights. Where Ægon was from a Norscan tribe, far to the north, Pyran was from a southern village on the boarders of Araby. It was of little wonder that such polar opposites did not react well to each other’s presence. As a child Ægon was picked out as ‘talented’ by an Adeptus Magus and was sent to the Schola Magus, an academy for those with magical innate abilities, to learn how to control his magical abilities to benefit the tribe. However apart from an inclination to know what the weather would bring, he showed no obvious signs of his talent. Pyran however had shown his talent from an early age, and was proudly juggling fireballs showing off to the other adepts before their first class. Seeing a small and easy target, Pyran danced the fire in front of the young Norscan’s eyes, laughing at the smaller child’s protests. However Ægon was not the soft target Pyran took him for. Growing up in a Norscan tribe, he had learnt to fight from an early age, and was as skilled a brawler as many ‘civilised’ men twice his age. He leapt and viciously struck Pyran across the face, and then proceeded to jab at his stomach before executing a wicked kick to the groin that caused the larger adept to fall to the floor, spitting blood. Pyran then retaliated by blasting the front of Ægon’s shirt with fire, which is when the Adeptus Magus came in and settled the dispute by sending each boy into solidary confinement for an hour. Since then the two had harboured an animosity for each other that had only grown with time.

These thoughts taking but an instant to sweep through Ægon’s mind, along with many memories of the conflict the pair had fought since then, always striving to out-do the other, to better the other in every way. He gave out a tribal war cry, and charged, his anger materialising as an axe of frost in his hands. He ran forwards at his wintry walls of ice as they shattered bereft of his attention. A wind stuck up, as cold as death and the arena became a blizzard; and at once he was the eye of the storm, assaulting the burning shell in which Pyran hid. Summoning his focus he stuck the orb of unnatural flame, flickering yet solid in the maw of the storm. Although he was exhausted he gripped his axe in both hands, and struck with what seemed to be the impact of lightning, and the sound of thunder spoke out as the orb split in two. And then the Norscan mage found that he could not sense the fire of his opponent and knew that he had won. He revelled in the victory for a moment, giving out another cry – this time a victory cry of his people, praising his ancestors for the strength they lent him in his battle. The fury of the storm seamed to howl with him, and abruptly he let it drop, the raging winds gone, the unnatural ice dropping into the ground bereft of the magical winds; the lightning and thunder stopped. He breathed deeply for a few moments and he too dropped to the ground, exhausted.

****

He awoke in a bed, unusual as he slept on a straw mat in his dorm, something his father had insisted on to ‘stop him going soft’. Ægon had stuck to that, and the weapons training with the guards, exercising his body as he exercised his magecraft. Although no longer short of stature he still practiced the brawling tricks his father had taught him to keep him safe with the playing boys of his village. Violence was part of the Norscan way of life, and even the weakest Norse was a formidable brawler out in the ‘civilised’ world. He had eagerly learnt swordsmanship skills from the guards, swords being rare in the Norscan villages of his youth. If the schola magus rules didn’t forbid his entering he would have been a contender for the duellists dagger, a local swordsmanship competition. He joined anyway, and got through the first two rounds before he was discovered and evicted by an Adeptus Magus in attendance.

The disorientation from his new surroundings was short lived, his memories from the fight returning momentarily, and everything falling into place. He looked around at the hospital, the white surrounds momentarily blinding him. Blinking furiously he sat up, trying to clear his head. Despite remembering the fight, his brain felt like it was made of cotton wool, his thoughts moving sluggishly. Tiredness swept over him like a wave, and he slumped back, asleep within moments.

****

Weeks later Ægon had recovered, he had awoken just days before the initiation ceremony. He was walking well now, and was fit enough to ride to the ceremony where he would leave his student life behind and go into the world as a journeyman mage. He had already planned for his journey to the North, back to Norsca and his tribe. His few belongings were packed in saddlebags; his newly bought horse was in the stables ready to go. He looked out the window at the Schola Magus, the place that had been his home for the past 8 years. When he had first arrived he had hated the authoritarian approach and the adherence to times, but he had grown accustomed to them if not fond. Glancing at the great clock he saw it was an hour to midday. He had half an hour before he had to be at the ceremony. Ægon briskly stood up, gathering his possessions and set out. He wanted to avoid lateness for his own ceremony.

No sooner then he had set his foot outside the doorway he was surprised by the sight of a tall dark haired and bearded soldier and a short black haired man in the robes of a journeyman mage. Momentarily he recognised the merry pair as Jarrod and Iryl respectively, and felt a surprised joy at the meeting. Iryl started laughing as he saw Ægon, and the pair rushed to greet each other. Iryl had been a mage a few years older then Ægon and was his initial roommate, the diminutive man helping the young Norscan adjust to life in the Schola Magus. Due to Ægon’s unusual acceptance of Iryl’s rare magic, which many found repulsive, he soon became his unofficial tutor and closest friend in the academy. Iryl had left as a journeyman mage some years ago, and occasionally visited the academy for the library, advice and reunions with the small group of close friends he had built up over the years. Jarrod was a different story altogether. The young man had joined the guard as soon as he was old enough, and was a sergeant of the guard at Argon, the small town that had built itself around the Schola Magus. He was a skilled swordsman, a good soldier and handsome rouge, too fond of a good beer and bad company. Ægon had met him quickly enough when he started training with the guards; they soon became duelling partners, drinking partners and then friends. After Iryl’s departure they had become close friends, on a Firesday evening after study they would often drink well into Sabathday morning, and wake in the afternoon of the Sabbath, blessing the fact they had the day to recover and cursing their heads, the cheap liqueur he had awoken and the noise of the campus.

The pair whisked Ægon to the gate, where the ceremony was to be held. As well as his horse waiting for him there was another two horses loaded up with bulging travelbags. His surprise must have shown, as Jarrod quickly quipped “you didn’t think I’d let you get away that easy – you’re the only dueller around here that can lay point to me. Without you life around here would be terribly boring.” Iryl chimed in “I'm heading northwards anyway. Some horse-magic up north has caught the eyes of the Schola, and I’m heading that way on a rekko.” Rekko was Schola slang for recruitment journey-quest; any journeyman living on the Schola grounds was required to finish any journey-quests given before he could return to campus. However in times of peace most of these would be recruitment, or taking on an apprentice. These journey-quests were a primary reason why there were so many journeyman mages, who continued their life with their already formidable abilities rather then spending many years on campus honing their magical skills to become a full Magus. Particularly in remote areas, mages were rare enough that a journeyman’s badge was ample guarantee of quality, and a full-blown Magus was lucky to be seen once in a lifetime. Although Iryl wished to become a Magus Batuere (battle mage), Ægon had no such desire. Although he was proficient in battle magic, he had little love of war, despite his relish of one on one duels. The young soon-to-be-jouneymage had studied particularly weather-magic, which he had much talent in, and other applications of cyromancy. His magic was with ice, unsurprising since he was from the cold snowy Norscan Mountains.

Iryl wished to become a battle-mage because it was uniquely suited to his magic. Iryl was born with the curse of being a necromancer. His magic dealt in death, and with the dead. After being brought to the Schola Magus by his parents who were fleeing persecution, the Schola Magus brought up Iryl. It is truly said the gods are fickle, that such an otherwise cheery and calm man would be gifted with such a curse. Necromancers are rare in the civilised world, being amongst the most persecuted groups worldwide. Because of his suffering as a child, Iryl’s desire to join the Magus Batuere was unsurprising. Specialising in the violent applications of magic this faction of the Schola Magus consisted of magical mercenaries, religious and people with a cause. Seeing as most mages joined at a young age, and there is almost a decade of training to become a journeyman mage, this group was in the minority. However any cause was greatly helped by the presence of one of these powerful and destructive allies.

The ceremony was over before Ægon knew it had begun, and momentarily he found himself out on a road northwards to Romah – the capital of Erondia, and a hub for trading. From there the trio hoped to travel with a caravan headed for The Mark. There Iryl would spend some time before returning to the Schola, and Jarrod would return with him for protection. Iryl didn’t need protection from brigands or such, but to deal with the many problems a smaller man faced without resorting to magic that would result in a pitchfork and torch mob or a member of the White Inquisition – A new religious group dedicated to hunting out what it perceived as evil in all its forms. This group was responsible for Iryl’s persecution – and Iryl would gladly remove such a person from the mortal coil. However they carried with them potent charms against magic (which they saw as evil), and in particular necromancy and the undead – both of which they saw as not only undeniably evil, but reasonable grounds to kill a person despite the law. Ægon planned to travel back to his tribe, study for some years and eventually return to the schola to become an Adeptus Magus, and become a teacher for all mages in the local (using the extremely loose Norse definition of the word) Norscan tribes.

Ægon ruminated on all this as the group rode out, their talk calming to a friendly silence with the occasional comment or banter from one of the trio. The road was easy and well worn, the grasslands slowly giving way to idyllic woods, the greenery pleasant and calming. Eventually Jarrod called the group to a stop, as they set up camp. All of the men were used to camp conditions, and soon a small campfire was merrily blazing away in a clearing, where they soon set up a canvas tarp. The group was quickly asleep, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows on the woods.

Suddenly awaking with a knife at his throat Ægon gasped involuntarily with fear of the cold steel on his throat. In the darkness he started to make out a face, and a harsh voice cut at his hearing. “Now then,” it mused “what have we gots ourselves here lads? A pair of scrawny kids and a soldier-boy.” Laughter came from around the camp as stealth was forgotten. Another voice barked out orders “Right boys – lets ransack this place, find their gold and supplies.” A pause followed and then almost as an afterthought “kills the soldier – the other two ca-” An unearthly scream cut the statement off, and for a moment Ægon thought it was Jarrod. As if to contradict him Jarrod rolled to the side, leaping to his feet sword in hand. The thief with the harsh voice rolled Ægon over positioning him between himself and Jarrod croaking, “You moves we cuts this lads pretty throat.” Now fully awake the young Norscan mage concentrated a moment and his attacker gave out a gasp of surprise as he ruptured and died; the water in his body freezing and expanding, and the frozen mess no longer recognisable as a body, but as a dark red explosion of ice. Next he mentally reached out for more mana to replenish what he had just used – but found little – and almost none particularly suited to his magic. Unlike the Schola that was dripping with mana and magical energies, the wilderness had little mana ready to him. However here there was an unnatural lack of mana, even for the outside world. Ægon resolved to ponder this at a more convenient time (i.e. when people weren’t trying to kill him). He looked over his shoulder and Iryl had dealt with his foe, whose limp but otherwise unhurt form laid on the ground. Ægon knew the bandit was dead. Ægon called forth a sword of ice-energies to his hand and charged, knowing he must save his magic for when there was no other alternative. Iryl’s hands began glowing an unearthly green he pointed to the apparent leader who began convoluting. Before Ægon or Jarrod could do anything more the rest had disappeared into the woods, fleeing in terror, weapons forgotten. The leaders spasms soon passed and the seemingly unconscious corpse froze in rigor mortis.

Jarrod deliberately strode over to the fire, carefully placing the sword next to him as he spoke. “Bandits this close to the schola… that’s something I haven’t seen in a long time. Somethings on the wind, mark my words.” He paused momentarily glancing at the sickly full moon before continuing, “There’ll be a few hours to dawn… I think we’ll se another visit from our friends before the suns up.” Iryl nodded adding “We better get under cover… they’ll use their bows this time, now they know what they’re dealing with.” Jarrod walked over into the shadows to where their horses previously were, and as expected only saw cut halters and shreds of rope. “Grab what gear you can carry easily, and leave the rest here. Don’t take what you can’t carry to Roma, it’ll only slow us down in the meantime.” Quickly but carefully the group re-checked their supplies, grabbed a travel bag each and walked into the gloomy shadows of the woods. Jarrod quietly spoke the noise seeming loud in the unnaturally silent wilderness. “Don’t talk if you can avoid it. Keep it down if you do, otherwise follow me. The road is leading north, so that’s where we want to go, but the road will almost certainly be watched.” The group silently moved through the forest, every tree seaming to hide a thug, every shadow filled with assassins and every hollow brimming with bowmen of the imagination. Suspicious of every stone, watching every branch, startled by the scampering of the wildlife the paranoid group slowly progressed.

Their progress was slow and they couldn’t tell how far they had gone in the darkness of the night. Ægon in fear for his life scanned for movement, checking over his shoulder every few paces. Every potential area from which attack could come he watched dutifully, always scanning for movement. Then without any warning, his mouth was covered. A voice murmured in his ear “Tell your friend in front that you’re going the wrong way. If you keep going like this you’re going to blunder right into an ichorn Nest” The hand covering his mouth disappeared as he whirled around, but the mystery man had vanished. He hissed to Iryl in front of him to stop. Iryl called Jarrod back as Ægon quickly told of his encounter. “If this wasn’t so serious I’d think we were the butt of a jest,” Iryl continued “but that isn’t the problem. The real issue is who is this man and why in the eternal dream of the sleeping god did he stop us.” After a few moments a voice to the groups left chimed in “I can answer that. It appears someone has it in for the couple of mages here, and doesn’t want them reaching the Mark. Word on the understreets is that your heads are worth a bit to the right people. Odd thing is for wanting you dead, they didn’t say much about you. You might be recognised on sight, but not a word on your magic.” Jarrod had his sword out by this stage and Iryl tensed, Ægon noticing that he was ready to spring into action at any moment, his mana at easy reach just below the surface. The cyromancer also readied himself, feeling edgy and high-strung. Seemingly unperturbed by all this the mysterious man continued, “As for who I am, that is of little importance, save that I am here.” He flicked back his hood, showing a face that was ruggedly handsome, save for a festering X brand burnt onto his left cheek. Grinning the nameless stranger continued, “I see you don’t recognise the mark of the excommunicate. Lets say the church of the light wants you dead and I have a problem with the church. Call me John.”

He proffered his hand across the group to Jarrod. Jarrod flicked the sword to his left hand and took the calloused and scarred hand saying, “This doesn’t mean we tru-” before being cut off by a knife though his throat. The Norscan ice mage rose with violent intents and anger, materialising as a shimmering sword of Ice in his right hand, his left glowing as he attempted to freeze the traitor John. John laughed at this, simultaneously drawing a dagger and flicking his sword out in an amazing display of dexterity. He then struck like fury and Ægon barely parried in time. John screamed, “Your black arts won’t work on me you vile sorcerers. I have been blessed by a priest of the white order.” The zealous fanaticism in his voice was tangible. Iryl tried to blast the attacker with the green energy, which had had such fatal effects barely a few hours before, but to no effect. Ægon realised this was the fight for his life and he moved onto the offensive, his sword dancing, light shimmering across its surface, as if refecting from an unseen sun. In a flash of magic they were in a storm of ice energy, the magics not hurting his opponent, but reducing his visibility and hindering his movements. A cold wind rose, tugging at the clothes of his opponent, and causing his attacks to falter, but he knew he couldn’t raise the tempest he could effortlessly raise at the Schola, or even normally. He was tired from the battle before and knew that something about this man was draining his abilities. Dancing like leaves in the wind, the two swordsmen duelled. In an instant Ægon found himself on the defensive, raising his sword and flicking it in glimmering arcs to stop sword and dagger strikes he didn’t see, but knew they were coming – his magic telling him of the path the sword cut through the cyromantic energies. There was no time to think, the melee was beyond reactions.

A dagger spiralled from the assailant’s hands well to the left of a pale Ægon. In the back of his mind Ægon heard a scream as Iryl fell to the ground, dropping his dagger. He saw his chance, and locked blades with his attacker, turning it into a competition of strength. The larger man grinned and slowly pushed the blades to his right, opening up Ægon’s guard slowly. Every time Ægon pushed harder so did his opponent. The Norscan cyromancer grinned and focused his energies. Cold swept into the paired blades, strengthening his, but making his foe’s steel brittle. With an ear splitting crack it shattered, splitting into thousands of metal shards swept away in the freezing winds. Ægon lunged but his sword shattered as it struck his foe, whose chest glittered with white stars dissipating the sword. Even as he called the mana to himself he felt it being sucked away and in a heartbeat he was without magic. Confused he was dumfounded, but so was his opponent. Weaponless the pair stood there a moment, Iryl on the ground bleeding from his leg, helpless on the ground; Jarrod dead to Ægon’s right. Again contradicting Ægon’s belief in his death Jarrod’s hand swept up, his sword arcing toward the journeyman mage’s hand, his teeth once more smiling. Froth bubbled on his lips and from around the knife as he rasped, “Give ‘im hell…” Gratefully catching the blade surprised at Jarrod’s endurance, he turned toward his opponent, who had pulled a concealed crossbow from somewhere in his jacket. A bolt jarred Ægon’s chest pinning him to a tree through his lungs. John showed his teeth in a predatory grin. “You shouldn’t be alive, either should your friend there, but for the blessed nature of the steel in the bolts and knives I carry. No one wounded by one can die until the weapon is removed from the flesh. I didn’t want your friend here brining you back to defend him with his dark magic. That could be … problematic.”

Ægon’s mind raced as his lifeblood trickled down from his chest, creating rivulets down his body and through his clothing. A swarm of fatalistic thoughts swarmed inside his head, but he banished them to his subconscious. If he had stopped them dying that meant that as zombies they could hurt him. He had seen Iryl spiritually bring the dead back to life before, in graveyards he often brought up willing spirits for a chat. But physically he had seen it once, the bodies coming out hungering for flesh of the living. Although it revolted him if it could help Iryl he decided he would do it. Laughing hysterically he realised that the answer was simple. Fatalistic madness gleamed in his eyes as he laughed; his deranged cackle the voice of someone no longer wholly sane. Although he couldn’t move, his blood and energy at his feet he noticed that since the bolt had hit him he could again feel mana surrounding him. The magical debris from the fight was thick in the air and he brought it in, filling himself with its power. Then he froze his chest around the wound, his flesh expanding and expelling the crossbow bolt. The pain was intense but he willed it to continue for Iryl’s sake, the mere seconds seaming like days. The bolt dropped, splashing into the dark puddle growing at his feet as Ægon slumped to the ground, a maniac grin on his face, knowing that he would have died anyway, and this way he had saved Iryl, and maybe even Jarrod.

But surprisingly he found himself still standing there. He was glowing white, and as he looked down he saw his corpse lying dead on the ground, yet somehow he was up outside of it. He heard Iryl’s voice in his head ‘Not zombies, he wouldn’t fear that… no you are now something else entirely.’ He looked at John, the terror showing on the excommunicates face. ‘You are something new to this world. Different to a wraith or weight, although that is the possibly the closest you could come. The specifics aren’t important at the moment though.’ John shot at him again, but this time Ægon felt the metal bolt pass through him, a strange feeling as it passed through his ethereal form. He instinctively used the mind talk to ask Iryl ‘Can I even hurt him in this form?’ as he looked at but somehow seeing through his hand.
‘Yes,’ Iryl started, but continued ‘however he can hurt you. Not with steel, but you are susceptible to fire and weapons made from some woods, and I think he knows this. Think a sword to your hand, similar to your ice-blade!’ Even as this was passed along the link, Ægon saw a wooden stake appear in the hands of his foe from the folds of his leather trenchcoat. Ægon concentrated and a sword cold as the grave appeared in his hand and he lunged, the tip of the spectral ice-sword disappearing in his foes chest as blood spurted out across the clearing in crimson arcs glimmering in the moonlight. ‘Thankyou my friend,’ Iryl said his voice heavy with regret and strained with pain. ‘I can’t hold you here forever though. I will be able to get by if you will remove this dagger from my leg. Our friend here let slip that we were almost at Romah. Help carry Jarrod, if we get him to a healer he might just survive…”

Chapter two is here