A Mage's Power (Journey to Chaos) (13 page)

Aio was strangely
missing.

Given how many
classes he already tested out, of Annala suggested he ask the school if he
could graduate early. He was almost sick with nerves when he sat down for his
final school tests. His nausea vanished after he started and he finished with
confidence. It wasn't as if he were fighting an orc.

Chapter 5
Meeting
the Guild

 Thirteen of the last fifteen chess games ended in Aio's
favor. Eric was sure his mischievous roommate was switching the pieces when he
wasn't looking. As the endgame began, he realized he was just a poorer player.
Instead, he complimented his friend for his no-doubt complex strategies, but
Aio insisted he only had flexible plans. He elaborated and Basilard walked in
unannounced.

“Eric, pack up. You're moving out now.”

“Daylra!” He stood up to greet his mentor, and when his back
was turned, Aio moved a rook towards a pawn. “Oh . . .well, Aio . . .I guess
this is goodbye.” Basilard had a sudden coughing fit for some reason.

Aio smiled. “Actually, my own Proof of Skill is set for
today.”

“Really? Great! Good luck. Maybe we'll work together.“

Aio handed Basilard a glass of water to help his cough.

The boys packed up the game and Eric left the room for good.
Everything he owned he was wearing: the clothes he found in the room on his
back and the two books Basilard gave him under his arm. His only other
possessions were the crystals and he returned those to the dorm keeper.

The Silver Dragon Dormitory was a block away from the slums.
Houses stacked one on top of the other and piles of garage that were pushed
into corners were visible from the windows and their smell wafted in if the
windows were opened. The sun shined brightly on both as Basilard led Eric west
to the port.

Streets changed from pounded dirt to broken brick. The
buildings on either side were old and worn, but built with skill, patience, and
quality. With every block, he saw more item stores, more training halls, and
more restaurants without signs, asking customers to disarm before being seated.
At last, Basilard stopped beneath a stone arch. To either side of him were
statues; one wore a cloak and carried a staff, while the other wore full body
armor and carried a sword. Both carried shields.

The veteran threw up his arms and said, “Welcome to the Red
Town of Sword and Staff.”

“The guild has its own section of the city?”

Basilard dropped his arms. “Sort of.” He waved Eric forward.
“When Roalt was founded, the first warriors settled in this section of town.
That led to smiths placing their forges here and, before you know it, we had
our own community. Watch your step. Some of us are kinda rough.”

The veteran's point was illustrated by an old man judo
throwing a young punk into a dumpster. Then he stooped to pick up his dropped
firewood; all ten pieces. He stood tall, lean, and wiry without any strain at
all. Eric
pitied
that mugger moaning in the garbage.

Basilard waved. “Hi, Jacks.”

The old man smiled. “Hey, Belard. Is that the new meat?”

“Yes.” Basilard clapped Eric's back. “We'll come by later
this week.”

Ax nodded and went his way. Basilard pointed to the end of
the street. Instead of a stone building like its neighbors, it was a fifteen-story
mountain. Its surface was rough, smothered in bird droppings and decorated with
runes. Standing proudly on a ledge overlooking the front door was a granite
statue of an armored woman with dragons at her sides.

Basilard took a deep breath and let it out. “Eric, welcome the
Dragon's Lair.” The novice couldn't help noticing the pride in his mentor's
voice. “Look up there. That's the founder of our guild, the Mother Dragon. We
believe she watches over us; that includes you now.”

At the ground level was a rune larger and more complex than
any other. Basilard grabbed one of its rings and twisted. The door opened. He
passed under it and the door frame glowed with innumerable sigils. A bell rang.

“Hi, and welcome to,—Oh Uncle Basi, you're back!” The
speaker was a young lady sitting behind a wooden desk. A headset was secured
over her hair and long red pigtails draped over her shoulders. Her smile lit up
her red eyes.
Wow . . .She's pretty . . .

 “And you must be the new novice!” She jumped over the desk
and leaned in close to get a good look at him. “I'm Mia Bladi, the
receptionist. Pleased to meet you.” She stepped back and extended her hand. “I'll
be the one giving you all your missions so we'll be seeing a lot of each other!”
Her cheery mood infected Eric and he smiled back.   

 He shook her hand and said, “I'm Eric Watley. The pleasure's
all mine.”

 “Welcome to the Dragon's Lair, Eric.” She hugged him, then
jumped up to hug Basilard's neck.

To hide his red face, Eric examined the lobby. The room was
bright and spacious and smelled of dust. Other than the entrance, there were
four doors; one at each side of the room and two at either side of Mia's desk.
Behind the desk was a message board, and above it, a big mechanical clock.

“Now that you're part of our guild, you'll be sorted into a
squad,” Mia said as she returned to her desk. “I should have your papers right
around here.” She stuck out her arm and to Eric's astonishment, it disappeared.
“Now where is it?” Her face scrunched up and she stuck her head in; it, too,
disappeared. “I really should clean this thing out . . .” She climbed all the
way into where-ever-it-was and disappeared entirely.

Eric looked at his mentor. Basilard grinned.

“Duck.”

 A swarm of miscellaneous junk flew out of nowhere: papers,
pens, half-eaten food, daggers, and a live snake. Eric ducked just in time.
Basilard caught the snake before it crashed into the wall. When Mia reappeared,
she gave Eric a scare; she was a floating head.

“Found em!” she chirped. Her arm reappeared and handed Eric
a bag. “Those are your citizenship papers. For some reason, they were sent here;
your diploma—congratulations  congratulations by the way—the badge signifying
your membership to the Dragon's Lair, and the ones about your sorting. Take
that one—yes, the red one on the bottom—to Old Man Aaloon down at Archives, and
he'll assign you to a squad.”

Eric took the bag and Mia's arm disappeared. “Now if you'll
excuse me, I'll finish cleaning this out. Have a good day!” With that, she
disappeared.

“Oh Mia . . .This way to Archives, Eric.” He led his student
out of the lobby. “Oh, and Eric, you might want to watch your head.”

“Why?” The word had barely left his mouth when a blade
soared towards him. Basilard pushed his head down. The sword thudded into the
door where Eric's head had been.

“Sorry! Did I kill anyone?” Eric looked at the still
quivering sword, inches above his head.

“Not quite!” Basilard called back.

“Okay!”

Basilard pulled the sword out and rapped Eric's head with
his palm. “That's why.”

The ceiling was solid basalt, but a large glowing crystal at
its center lit up the room. It was supported by smaller crystals along the
walls. At the four corners were four statues: an orc in robes with a winged
girl perched on his shoulder, a seven foot armored canine, an elf with a
bottle, and a woman with a flower and a dagger.

There were three more figures, but these were of the flesh
and blood variety: a red-haired girl wearing two scabbards lying flat on her
stomach, a slightly older man wearing two bucklers pinning said girl's arms
behind her back, and a woman older than both juggling swords; ten swords with
four
arms.
A demon . . .?

“Raki, I declare this match in Aegis' favor,” The four-armed
woman said.

“But I can, ehh, still win!” The redhead protested and
struggled. He twisted and she yelped.

“Do you yield?” Raki hmpfhed and stopped struggling, so the
man let go. Eric guessed what happened. They were fighting, Raki was disarmed,
and her swords went flying—one in his direction.

“Basilard, who’s the shrimp?” the four-armed woman asked.

“This is the new novice, Eric Watley,” Basilard said,
pushing Eric forward. “Eric, meet Squad One Captain Giji Mesh.”

“How're you Eric?” Giji asked and extended one of her hands
to him. This left only three to juggle the swords; their blades glinted in the
light and whistled as they sliced the air. Eric gulped. Giji raised an eyebrow,
then laughed. “Don't worry. I'm an expert.”

“Captain, if you would, humor the novice,” Basilard pleaded.

“All right.” Giji tossed the swords up into the air one by
one, caught them on their way down, and sheathed them. “Better?” she asked,
extending her hand again.

“Er, yes. Thank you,” he said and shook her hand.

“I'll win next time, old man!” Raki was on her feet and
glaring at the shield bearer.

Aegis glared back. “Old man!? I've told you a hundred times;
I'm only twenty-eight!”

“What's up with those two?” Eric asked.

“It's . . .a long story,” Basilard answered.

“Uncle Basi!” Raki shouted. “What am I doing wrong?”

“I don't know, Raki,” Basilard said. “I didn't see the
fight.” Raki crossed her arms and fumed. “Eric, why don't you go to Archives
while I help Raki improve her technique?”

He has more than one student . . . I should've known.
“Sure.” Eric forced a smile.

“Thanks. Archives is just beyond that door.” Basilard
pointed to a door at the end of the chamber. “Now, can you show me the battle?”

The walls and floors weren't pure basalt; limestone, quartz,
and other types he didn't recognize were mixed in. The hallway tilted, curved,
and dipped in ways no human would ever design. Anything artificial looked
tacked on.
The guild is a cave
. . .
A real dragon's lair?

Eventually, he reached a wooden door with a crest of a
scroll nailed on.
This must be the place
. He knocked, but no one
answered. Opening the door, he entered a long and wide hall that seemed to
stretch into infinity.
Archives? It looks like someone lives here
. There
was a bed, a desk, a dresser, stacks of food, bottles of drink, and other items
one would find in a home. However, both walls were shelves with scrolls neatly
arranged and organized.

“Hello? Old Man Aaloon? Are you here?” His only answer was
his own voice calling back to him.
Maybe he can't hear me . . . This is a
big place . . .if he's further in . . .

  It was rude, but Eric's curiosity overcame his inhibitions
and he ventured deeper into the hall of never-ending scrolls. He turned down
corridors and hallways; they all looked the same and he was soon lost but he
didn't
feel
lost. Where he came from was no longer important. All that
mattered was moving forward.

 Deeper and deeper he went into the archives. It seemed to
go on forever. Finally, he found a clearing. A pedestal stood in the center
with a single scroll laying on it; a scroll that glowed with a faint
golden-brown light. Without his command, his hand rose to grab it. The paper
tingled in his hands; a pleasant feeling, empowering. Again, without his
thought, his other hand rose to undo the clasp. He didn't know why, but he was
excited. He couldn't wait to see what the scroll contained; what secrets—

“Halt!” Eric froze. “Who are you and what are you doing
here?!” Behind him was a wrinkled little creature, wearing clothes that looked
as old as he was, and hanging on a staff twice his size. Although his face was
hidden behind bushy eyebrows and a long beard, the anger in his eyes was very
clear. “I leave to pee and a little brat sneaks into my home!”

“P-please e-excuse me. I'm Eric W-w-watley, a new n-novice.
I'm h-he—”

“Don't lie to me, boy!” the old voice hissed. “You're a
thief, aren't you? Yes, that's what you are! How else could you have unlocked
the locks?!”
But the door wasn't locked . . .
“You're here to steal my
scrolls, aren't you? Aren't you! You little thief! NO ONE touches my scrolls!”

“But—”

 The old man whacked him with his staff. “Get out!”

“Ow!” Eric dropped the scroll. “But I need to—!”

 “Out! Out!”

The old man chased Eric back into the halls by pogoing on
his staff. Then he jumped off and swung it down with elderly fury. Eric yelped,
grabbed the bump, and ran faster. He hit a dead end and he got whacked for his
mistake. When he finally found the exit, the old man chambered like a hockey
player and whacked him straight out of it.

“And stay out!” He slammed the door and locked the numerous
locks.

 Eric sat on the floor, stunned.

“Touched his scrolls, didn't you?” A young man was suddenly
behind him. A three-talon dragon claw hung from his neck and a headset rested
on his ear.

“Well . . .” Eric scratched the back of his neck in
embarrassment.

He pulled Eric to his feet. “Don't worry about it. The old
man's a nutcase; it's not your fault.” He paused as if realizing something. “Who
are you?”

“Oh . . .uh . . . I'm Eric Watley . . .a new novice.”

The young man smiled widely. “Wonderful! Pleased to meet
you. I'm Retis Sasti, Ridley's apprentice. What can I do for you?”

“Mia told me to go to Archives for my squad assignment.”

Retis pulled a flat crystal from his pocket and tapped it
with a stylus. “I see . . . Mia's supposed to warn novices about the old man .
. . I'll talk to her later.”

“I-it's not Mia's fault, really!” Eric protested. “I touched
his scrolls and—”

“Don't worry, she's not in trouble.” There was something
about this guy that made Eric like him instantly; like talking to a cool older
brother. “Now for the old man.” Retis knocked softly. “OPEN THE DOOR, YOU OLD
MUMMY!” His voice was a physical thing that knocked Eric off balance.