On first sighting the Academy for Magic, Frances couldn’t help comparing it to the White Order’s headquarters of Salpheron, where she’d been trained and where she’d invented her lightning spell.
For one, the two were both walled castles with central keeps. They both had tall pointed towers built for magic experimentation.
The Academy, however, was far older. Frances could tell because instead of stone walls, the complex had rammed earth walls that dominated the horizon. On top of these two sets of ancient walls, were newer short, stubby stone ramparts perched on top. Peeking out above these ramparts were the tops of the towers and plaster-faced buildings.
Recalling her old textbook, it to Frances as if prehistoric celtic hill fort had survived into the modern day and was now teaming with life. Smoke curled from numerous buildings in the complex, and she could see people coming in and out of the Academy.l
“That’s a good sign,” said Aloudin. “It looks like we got here quickly enough.”
“Yeah, but would they let us leave with Morgan?” Frances asked.
Timur, looking uncharacteristically grim, grunted. “Only one way to find out.”
With Timur and Frances hiding in the cart underneath some blankets, Aloudin and his squad approached the walls. The orphans under the orc’s command were surprisingly carefree, chatting about mages, how uppity they could be and how much of a pain in the arse they were to deal with. If Frances hadn’t seen them take care of and look out for Epomonia, she’d have thought they were insulting her on purpose. As it was, they definitely were taking the opportunity where she couldn’t say anything to play a bit of a prank on her.
“I wonder if I should tell Aloudin that what they’re saying is rather… crass,” muttered Timur from where he lay beside her.
“I don’t mind, Timur. I know they don’t really mean it about me. They’re probably just as nervous as I am right now.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, as she heard one of the squad members, an ogre by the name of Venne, making a joke to her troll girlfriend Joa.
Timur, having overheard the joke, frowned. “Wait, what was so funny about that? Of course mages can enchant devices to solve most problems.”
Frances stared at her boyfriend, her cheeks flushed. “Timur, what kind of frustration needs a device to um, vibrate.”
“What kind of—” Timur’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh.”
“I didn’t realize they weren’t common in Alavaria,” whispered Frances.
“They are! I just… well, it’s not the first thing I think of because…” He blinked and stared at Frances. “Wait do you use—”
“Are you really asking me this now of all times?” Frances gasped, shivering with mirth at the poleaxed look on the trogre’s features.
“I was just wondering if we could incorporate—” Timur slammed his jaw shut and buried his face in his hands. Meanwhile, Frances had to bite down on the sleep of her robe, one hand holding her stomach as she tried her best not to laugh. Somehow, she managed to suffuse the glee to the back of her mind for a future laugh, and waited until Timur was peeking out from between his six-fingered hands.
“Sorry,” he muttered, his face so red that it highlighted the freckles dotting around his nose.
Frances let out one last, quiet giggle. “It’s alright. Um, the answer is maybe.”
Timur blinked. “Maybe… wait, maybe to which question?”
“I’ll let you know,” Frances whispered. She winked, wondering if she was being a bit too cheeky with the prince, but he was smiling now, eyes on her with a vivid interest. It made her heart pound in her chest and she suddenly became aware of how they were so close.
“Well, let’s say that you’ve made me very eager to find out, Mataia,” Timur drawled softly.
“Timur, Frances? Is everything alright?” whispered Epomonia’s voice.
“We’re good, are we through?” Frances replied, finding it very difficult to tear her gaze away from Timur’s.
“We’re through the first wall. The excuse that we’re delivering supplies worked. Ready to call Olgakaren?” Epomonia rasped.
“Yeah. Calling her now,” said Frances. She fished her hand mirror out of her pocket and focused on thinking of the harpy, who was to her slight annoyance, another of Timur’s ex-partners. Then again, Olgakaren had at least proven herself very trustworthy.
The harpy’s image swam into view and she blinked owlishly. “Frances? Where are you?”
“Timur and I are in the Academy for Magic, ready to pick you and Morgan up. Sorry for the late notice. Where are you?”
“I’m in the outer annex. I’ll go get Morgan ready. She’s just at class right now,” said the harpy.
Frances noticed Timur wanted to speak and flipped the mirror to him.
“Wait, she’s willing to go?” the trogre stammered.
“Yes, Timur. She’s a bit scared about going to the human kingdoms, but there were enough half-humans in the Academy to put Morgan at ease. She’s eager to see you again,” said Olgakaren. She grimaced, “But you need to be careful. The Pedagos of the academy, that’s the head of the Academy, is looking out for both of you. I can’t tell if it’s to turn you in to Thorgoth or to help you, so don’t get caught!”
“Roger that, which building is Morgan going to classes?” Timur asked.
“The Queen Moragon building. You’ll have to get out of… whatever you’re hiding, but you’ll need to be careful. I’ll go there first,” said Olgakaren.
“See you soon,” said Timur, grinning. Olgakaren waved him away and the call ended.
“Epomonia, is it clear to come out?” Frances inquired.
“Yes. There aren’t a lot of guards. The war’s stripped many of them from the Academy, but do be careful,” said the centaur.
Giving each other a mutual check of their disguises, Frances and Timur slid out from the cart.
It was at that moment that Frances realized how empty the Academy was. At a distance, there looked to be life, but behind the walls, she could see that while there was smoke rising from the buildings, there were very few people on the streets themselves.
“You were here before, sir?” Aloudin asked Timur.
“Yes. All of the princes and princesses all had to take lessons here. Keep your weapons sheathed,” Timur whispered.
Frances, already in her armored mage robes, nodded, and pulled her hood over to hide her features. She wished she could wear her helmet, but that would be unwise and broadcast her as a combatant.
As with all fortresses, the entrance to the inner courtyard was offset from the gatehouse in the outer wall. In this case, while the outer entrance was south-facing, the inner wall’s entrance was west-facing. The small group had quite a ways to walk.
They tried to be as casual as they could, but they inevitably drew glances. Nobody approached them, though.
“Is it just me, or this outer area seems entirely residential?” Frances whispered.
“That’s how the academy is laid out. The area inside the first wall, which we call the Inner Annex, has the research and schooling facilities. The Outer Annex is where everybody lives and where the recreational spaces are.” Timur flicked a thumb at a tavern that looked to be boarded up. “Not that there’s much business left. I… I didn’t realize the war had drawn so many people away.”
Frances smiled at a few children playing with a ball. They looked to be half-human children, like those she’d seen in Erlenberg. “Whatever Thorgoth’s planning… I hope he leaves these children alone.”
“I hope so too,” Timur muttered.
They’d just reached the entrance to the gatehouse and had to wait for a moment to let a group of gruff-looking trolls carrying sacks to pass by them. Once through, Frances blinked at the sight.
The Inner Annex was a beautiful collection of white-washed buildings nestled in the shadow of the thick earthen walls and overlooked by the tall experimentation towers. There were more people here, mostly robed mages, in deep discussion or study under ancient trees, or on even older tree stumps. Some were practicing on a large training arena that was dug into the ground. Frances even spied a half-human goblin and a harpy kissing behind a building, where they thought nobody could see them.
“We’re heading there,” said Timur, pointing at a nearby pale pink building, the largest in the collection. “That’s the Queen Moragon Hall, the largest lecture hall—”
A winged figure toppled out from between the Queen Moragon Hall’s double-wooden doors. She staggered for several steps and collapsed, one wing holding onto her stomach. Timur blinked, and instantly broke into a run. A moment later, so did Frances.
“Olgakaren!” Timur howled. Frances, gasping, watched the trogre fall onto his knees, almost slamming into the fallen harpy, his knees skidding on the ground. She was beside him, helping him flip the harpy.
It was a deep stab wound and Frances ripped her wand out to cast a healing spell, only for the harpy to shake her head.
“Trolls, disguised as humans, heading to the gate. They have Morgan,” Olgakaren winced. “Sorry.”
“Go! I got her!” Aloudin bellowed, his wand out. Frances nodded and yanked Timur to his feet. They broke into a run, heading toward the gatehouse, tearing past shocked mages.
Epomonia galloped next to Frances and Timur. “Get on my back!” she yelled. Timur didn’t hesitate and leapt nimbly onto the centaur’s back, onto the gambeson she wore.
“Can you carry both of us?” Frances asked, accepting Timur’s hand. He pulled her up so she was sitting in front of Timur and right behind Epomonia.
Epomonia did an experimental trot and snorted. “You’re like a feather, Frances. Hold onto my waist. Don’t be shy, we’re going to gallop hard.”
Frances obliged and wrapped her arms around the centaur’s waist, making sure not to dislodge the two pistols Epomonia wore with her saber. She whispered a thanks as the centaur gave a “Hiyah!” and galloped towards the gate. She charged past dazed onlookers, making for the main gate.
“How are humans in Alavaria?” demanded Timur.
“I don’t know, but it must have been that group of trolls we passed at the gate!” Frances stammered. She winced. Without a saddle, the ride was as Epomonia said, hard, and it was all she could do to hold on with her knees and hands.
“Frances, what’s wrong?” Timur asked, hearing the pain in her voice.
“It’s nothing—no. Sorry, I’m not fully recovered,” Frances stammered, clutching at her upper right arm. “But keep going! We have no time to waste!”
“Alright, we just need to find—there!” Epomonia exclaimed, pointing ahead.
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The group was made up of ten figures, all of whom were carrying sacks. They were dressed in plain, if a bit bulky, clothing.
As soon as they saw Epomonia, Timur and Frances, nine of them dropped their sacks. From the bags, they ripped out swords, bucklers and pistols. One of them even pulled out a wand along with a buckler.
The tenth one was handed a sword before he turned and ran.
Frances burst into song, forcing the notes through, she threw a quick lightning bolt that zapped the first disguised human and sent her convulsing to the ground. It was weaker than she’d wanted but it’d disabled her.
But the other humans quickly fired pistols. Epomonia howled and suddenly Frances was flying in the air. A hand grabbed her and as they tumbled Frances found herself wrapped in Timur’s arms before they barreled into the ground.
The impact sent Frances sprawling. Throwing her magic into her armor’s shields, she heard two more whining bullets ping off her barriers. Immediately scrambling to her feet, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Frances drew on Ivy’s suggested spell and threw a lance-like bolt of magic into the nearest human, leaving a hole in his chest. Her eyes wild, she saw the rest of the humans running away, continuing to fire pistols at her, leaving the one mage to face her.
Frances fired a fireball at the mage, but her opponent used her buckler as a focal point to create a glimmering green shield. The unknown mage then lashed out with a whip of fiery red magic that Frances quickly slapped out of the way with a violently hissed Word of Power, and retaliated with the acidic shield-melter spell of Yvonne’s creation.
This one had a better effect, and the acid cut through the woman’s buckler, forcing her to drop it. Frances had to dodge too, though, as the enemy mage drew knives from her belt. To Frances’s dismay, she wasn’t quite fast enough. Two of the knives pinged off the armored skirt in her robes. While she wasn’t hurt, Frances found herself panting, her throat aching.
She wasn’t fully recovered yet, and it’d been too long since she’d been in a mage duel. Where was Timur and Epomonia?
“Epomonia! Oh Galena no! Stay with me. You can’t! Don’t… don’t leave me please!”
The anguish in Timur’s voice almost made Frances take her eye off her opponent. As it was, it brought forth the anger coiled in her chest.
“In the name of Frances Stormcaller, daughter of Edana Firehand, stand down or I will kill you!” Frances bellowed.
The human mage narrowed her eyes. “I take my orders from Queen Janize and Duke Darius, not from the Skinmelter’s broken daughter.”
Oh for crying out loud. Enough is enough. Snarling, Frances raised her left hand, and threw up a semi-circular shield with her diamond ring. With Ivy’s Sting, she started to build up power to her lightning spell.
That was when the woman did a curious thing. She reached into her pouch and threw a vial at Frances.
Mid-song, Frances couldn’t muster the strength to dodge, so she threw more magic into her shield. Except when the vial impacted, it didn’t explode or rain fire on her, instead it seemed to leave nothing behind.
Too late, Frances smelt a strange odor, and suddenly, her throat seized. Her nostrils, her tongue, her mouth, it felt like they were on fire. It hurt to breathe, to even touch her tongue to her teeth. Gasping, clutching at her throat, Frances staggered, trying to breathe, crying as she did so.
She tried to raise her confused and panicking wand, scream out a note, any note, only for a boot to kick Ivy’s Sting away.
Frances looked up to see the human-disguised orc point a pistol at her head.
“Goodbye, Stormcaller,” hissed the woman.
There was a bang. A pistol bullet sent dust into Frances’s face, but she could see Timur tackling the mage, dagger drawn from his belt, plunging into her collarbone, just underneath her gambeson. Somehow the woman threw Timur off with a bellow, only for another crack to ring out and send the woman staggering back. A second pistol shot from somewhere behind Frances made her twist her head around and she saw Epomonia, lying on her side, one hand trying to stop the bleeding on the chest of her horse section, the other sighting down her second pistol.
She gave a weak smile and went limp, dropping the weapon. Frances, still in agony, flopped onto the ground, seeing the human mage dead. Tears filling her eyes, all she could focus on was on breathing, in spite of the fire that was burning over her lips and mouth.
Timur was beside her, his black eyes filled with tears.
“Frances, what’s wrong? What’s hurting—”
“Get Morgan, leave!” Frances screamed, her eyes screwed shut. Mad with agony, she ripped the lid to her flask open and poured the contents over her face, but as the liquid contacted her mouth, it only made the pain worse. Choking on the liquid, unable to swallow, Frances felt like she was falling, and yet she couldn’t. Not with the thousands of needles that pierced her lips and stabbed into her nose.
A new voice yelled a word, and suddenly, Frances felt herself toppling into merciful sleep.
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Timur looked up from Frances’s body, which was just starting to go limp, to find a golden-haired female ogre with a staff staring down at him. She was dressed in the gold-trimmed purple robes that marked the Pedagos of the Academy, but oddly enough, she seemed familiar, and her eyes widened as she saw him.
“Thank you. I’m sorry, but I need to—”
“They set fire to the stables and released the horses they didn’t take, Your Highness. We aren’t going anywhere after them,” said the ogre sadly.
Timur shook his head. “Wait, but Morgan, we need to save her.”
“We can’t go after them, Your Highness. Face it, we failed,” hissed the ogre.
Timur dodged past the ogre and started to run. “No, we must have—”
“I told you, they’re gone and you’re not going anywhere until I figure out what to do with you and your lot, Your Highness!” hissed the ogre.
Timur froze and cold despair pooled into his stomach. He could see several robed mages were converging on them. Two of them were examining the disguised human’s corpse. A smaller group were getting Frances onto a stretcher, and more still were healing Epomonia’s wound.
“They aren’t with me. They’re just onlookers who were trying to help,” Timur stammered, turning to face the ogre mage. He frowned as she sighed and crossed her arms. Her tail twitched a bit as she considered her words. There was something about the color of the troll’s hair, the shape of her square chin, and the shape of her black eyes that was bothering him.
“Timur, I’m not an idiot. I know you’re with the Stormcaller, who is likely that girl in the stretcher. I know you’ve decided to for some reason, fight your father of all things.” The troll groaned. “Why you decided to bring this mess to my doorstep I have no idea.”
Timur stared at the ogre, and realized who she was. As he did, a deep scowl set into his expression and he crossed his arms, mirroring the ogre mage’s pose.
“With all due respect, I wasn’t aware you had become Pedagos of the Academy. In fact, I didn’t even recognize you, mother,” Timur growled.
To his surprise, Goldilora, one-time consort to King Thorgoth, flinched. A flicker of hurt flashed across his features before they were schooled into a blank mask.
“Noted. Go attend to your girlfriend. She’ll be cared for in the Academy hospital. I’ll call on you when she’s recovered.” Goldilora took a deep breath. “We have… much to discuss.”
“I bet,” Timur hissed. He tore himself away from the woman that gave birth to him, steps taking him towards the limp form of the woman he loved.
All the while, he tried not to think about the niece he’d failed.
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Frances hated waking up after being knocked out or fainting. One would think that being knocked out would lead to a peaceful rest. In her experience, though, waking up after being wounded so badly that she fainted, often just led her to becoming gradually more aware of just how badly she was hurt.
As she woke up, her mouth, throat and nose felt like it was raw, as if someone had reached in and scrubbed it with sandpaper. Blinking, Frances tried to get an idea of where she was.
She was in a very comfortable bed. Someone was waving a staff of some kind over her head. Her eyes traced the gnarled wood to a frowning female ogre.
Brushing blonde hair back over her ears, the ogre nodded. “Okay, that worked. Tell me what hurts, Stormcaller.”
“Mouth, nose. What… who are you?” Frances croaked.
“The name’s Goldilora. I’m the Pedagos of the Academy. You’re lucky to have survive—What are you doing?”
Frances had rolled right off the bed and onto unsteady feet. Her eyes wild, she desperately searched for her wand.
“Where’s my wand? Where’s Timur? What happened to Morgan?” Frances hissed.
“You’re in no position to make demands of me, Stormcaller now sit the fuck down,” Goldilora hissed.
“And why should I trust you?” Frances shot back.
Because I am your lover’s mother,” Goldilora said coolly. She clearly expected Frances to calm down after she said that.
She was dead wrong.
“You abandoned him to an abusive monster!” Frances hissed. She raised her hand. “You left him! Did you know his father brainwashed him to believe he was not worthy of his title? Did you know how hurt he was when he came looking for you, and you told him that you wanted nothing to do with him!” Gasping, grasping at her throat, Frances felt her back slump against the wall, but she somehow remained standing. “Why should I trust you?
Goldilora was glaring at Frances, her black eyes narrowed, her auburn-furred tail swishing menacingly. She started forward and Frances braced herself.
But then the ogre stopped, her shoulders sagging.
“Okay, when you put it that way, you don’t have a reason to. But if you haven’t noticed, I made sure to scrub every last bit of that powdered poison you breathed in and you’re not in a cell. As for your wand, my son has it and he’s getting breakfast.” Goldilora shut her eyes. “Unfortunately, we couldn’t stop the kidnapping.”
The words hit harder than any kind of gas or spell. Frances’s legs gave out and she slumped to the ground.
“We… we failed. Oh no. Timur, he must be devastated,” Frances croaked.
“He’ll be fine. We need to talk about what the hell happened to you?” the ogre hissed as she sat down in a squat position.
Frances frowned. “What do you mean?”
Goldilora pointed at Frances’s arm. “Your arms and legs were recently broken and healed. Your throat looks like it barely recovered from being choked and I still saw damage from some kind of major spellwork you performed. Your magic is taxed to breaking point.”
“I dueled King Thorgoth, and I lost.” Frances frowned. “What do you mean my magic is taxed? Until yesterday, I haven’t fought for a month.”
“And before that? How long have you been in active combat?” Goldilora demanded.
Frances opened her mouth and closed it as she thought back over the past year, no—over her almost five years in Durannon. The first year she hadn’t been fighting, but then came Vertingen, and after that… she couldn’t remember a time she wasn’t fighting or preparing to fight.
“Four years, on and off,” she said. Frances swallowed as the ogre’s eyes narrowed. “I… I have gotten month-long breaks, particularly in the winter, but it’s been a busy few years.”
“But I bet you’ve been using your magic constantly and training with magic even during those breaks, is that correct?” Goldilora hissed.
“In a sense,” said Frances. After all, even when she wasn’t training, she’d been supplying the magic to suppress Timur’s curse ever since she was fourteen. She studied the ogre, now completely confused. She could see and hear the alarm across the ogre’s features and in her tone. “Why… what’s going on?”
“What do you mean by in a sense?” Goldilora growled.
Frances averted her gaze. “It’s not my business—”
“Not your business? This is your body we’re talking about, Stormcaller!” Goldilora exclaimed.
Frances wasn’t sure why, but the arresting worry in the ogre’s eyes compelled her to take a breath and muster her thoughts.
“W—when Timur was fourteen, King Thorgoth… laid a curse on Timur. It’s called Queen Friganoth’s Agony. I chanced upon him in the Leipmont woods and managed to lay a spell atop of it to stop him from dying. We didn’t manage to dispel the curse until the peace conference.”
The ogre’s eyes widened. Horror, shock, and then deep worry, flicking through her features. “Are you—that’s impossible. That boy would have died years ago. Queen Friganoth’s curse isn’t something that—wait, no. That explains the damage and it explains the remnants of that contract I saw. ”
“Damage? What… what kind of damage?” Frances whispered.
Goldilora ran a hand through her hair. “Stormcaller, if you continue to push yourself like this, your body will break down.”
Frances shook her head. “What… but I’ve been eating—”
“Not nearly as much as you should. Army rations barely have the proteins and fats you need to replace all the energy you use and you’ve been constantly using your magic for the past three years just to maintain that counterspell on Timur, while fighting a war. Or do you not notice how horrible you’ve been feeling for the past month?” Goldilora asked.
“That’s just because I fought Thorgoth,” Frances stammered.
“Your duel with Thorgoth is merely the straw that has broken the camel’s back. If you were really alright, why did you lose that last fight? You’ve always seemed to recover quickly, right? No matter how many times you were shot or stabbed? Why is this time the exception?” Goldilora demanded.
Frances shook her head. She wanted to deny it, to refuse the ogre’s answer, but… but…
She could feel it. No, she’d felt it even before her duel with Thorgoth. She’d felt more tired, more frustrated, and it’d been harder and harder to get up out of bed. It had been minor then, but after the duel….
“That’s… but… but that means… that means I have to sit out the war for a month, or two,” Frances stammered.
“No. You need to sit out of the war for three months, minimum, with at least the first month and a half without using magic at all.”
Frances shook her head. “I can’t! I… if I don’t fight then my friends, Timur, they’ll all—”
“If you continue on like this, Stormcaller, you would be lucky to be able to use magic at all!” Goldilora bellowed.
Those words rang in the room and Frances refused to believe them. She couldn’t. To believe these words would mean that despite her best efforts, despite how hard she’d tried, she was being forced to confront an irrefutable fact.
She had nothing left to give.
“I…I…”
“There is some good news,” Goldilora said, in a gentler voice. “There has been no permanent damage to your magical core and yours in particular is the strongest I’ve ever encountered. This can be fixed, but you need to understand that there cannot be shortcuts. No more magic, starting from now. I mean it, Stormcaller.”
Frances nodded numbly, for what else could she do?
On one hand, she now knew why she lost the fight. She’d deteriorated so far she was just not at her best and wouldn’t be until a long rest. But on the other hand…
A month without magic at all. No casting, no singing… how… how were they going to continue their escape? How could they get out of Alavaria now?
A gentle hand took hold of her arms and lifted her up, practically carrying her to the bed.
“Don’t worry about anything else, Frances, just get some rest and I’ll let my son know you’re awake.”
Unable to argue, Frances let her head rest on the pillow. As much as she wasn’t sure about Goldilora, she had no choice. At least she wasn’t dead or worse. Perhaps Olgakaren’s information had been wrong and the Pedagos of the Academy wasn’t against them?
And why were humans here and kidnapping Morgan of all Alavari? It didn’t make sense. Thorgoth hated humans. He had employed them in the past in the attempt to take Freeburg, but there was no reason for him to use humans in Alavaria itself. Everything that she knew suggested assassins from Thorgoth, not a group of humans aiming to kidnap Morgan.
Obviously, they had to be missing something, but what precisely?
The door flew open. Goldilora ran in, eyes wide. She looked panicked, and from how awkward her expression was, it was clear that she didn’t feel this emotion often.
“Frances, I need your help. Timur… He’s locked himself in Morgan’s bedroom. I can hear crying inside.”
Frances rolled out of bed but this time, her foot hit the ground at a weird angle. Goldilora caught her before her face slammed into the ground and helped her up.
“Do you have a death wish or something?”
“Just… Agh, take me to your son,” Frances hissed, hanging onto the ogre’s arm. Sighing, Goldilora helped the much shorter mage along.