Days went by with little change as they marched across the arid landscape of the Clain. There had been a few small skirmishes with monsters, but nothing of much consequence. Wherever the beasts from the scars were charging up from, they weren't appearing around here.

Earon couldn’t help but wonder where the goblin shaman had teleported him to. He had marched quite some distance through the Scarworld himself, but he was certain it was a far shorter distance than what was between the Scarlet Stone and Saner.

“When will this journey ever end,” Lexi whined from beside Earon.

“You’re the one you wanted to come adventuring with me.”

“And I don’t regret a thing. But that doesn’t mean I have to like walking.”

Earon stretched his arms. The sun was setting on the fifth day since leaving Saner. “You want to be a caster, and yet you leave the one city known for having the most tricksters. I really don’t know what you expect to gain.”

Lexi narrowed her eyes at Earon. “Didn’t you tell me that you left the only other rune crafter you’ve met? An ancient master that also had an endless library of books to study? Huh, Earon? And you’re judging me?”

“Yeah,” Earon awkwardly scratched his neck.

“Hush your voices,” Rayets called from his wagon whilst pointing ahead of them. “There’s something ahead of us.”

The group readied their weapons, a combination of swords and crossbows for the most part.

As they continued, the scattered remains of a battle came into view amongst the rocky terrain. There were dozens of corpses, both human and scourglings.

One of the sellswords approached and kicked one of the slimy, wart-covered monsters. Their torsos were roundish with long, hooved feet, clawed hands, and curved horns protruding from their heads.

“Lower fiends. They’re said to live in the darkest depths of the Scarworld. Troubling times If even they are reaching the surface.” Rayets said.

Most of the human corpses wore mismatched armor and flew no colors, identifying them as adventurers or sellswords. But as they continued through the small battlefield, Earon noticed familiar blue robes covering some of the bodies.

“These are spiral mages,” he muttered, eyes glued to the corpses of what looked like a couple of apprentices.

Only barely catching Earon’s words, Rayets hopped down from the wagon and marched over. “Apprentices,” he tilted his head.

“Look,” Earon said, pointing out scorch marks up ahead.

“So, they did travel with a master. At least that means they might have won.”

“I don’t like this boss; we should keep moving.”

Rayets nodded, “Everyone back into formation. We don’t want to be hanging around here.” He waved above his head and the group scuttled back into position and the wagons quickened.

Why were adventurers working with spiral mages?

Earon was no expert on the mages, but he hadn’t seen any signs of them working with hired help during his short time amongst them. If such a powerful fraction was seeking outside help, how bad might things have become within Ome?

“Help,” coughed a weakened voice from somewhere ahead and Earon jumped into a jog.

The others remained in formation, with Rayets yelling out to Earon to stop, but he didn’t listen.

Skirting down beside where the voice came from, Earon pulled a stiffened corpse aside and found a pale, deathly man. He was ordinary enough and appeared to be an adventurer.

“They... they followed us. The mages, they didn’t tell us...” cough. “It’s something they’re carrying; those things wanted it.”

“Give him a potion already,” Rayets commanded of a sellsword, who approached and poured the liquid into the man’s mouth between coughs.

“Unfortunately, you’re going to have to come to Caedstad with us. That or we leave you here.”

“Take me,” the wounded man groaned.

Two of Rayets’s men approached and lifted the man onto a wagon.

“Excuse me, but what you were saying about the mages,” Earon said as he followed them to the wagon.

“Let him rest, Earon,” Rayets scolded. “You’ll have plenty of time to ask the poor man questions later."

Earon grimaced and nodded. Rayets was right, but a fire was lit within at the mention of spiral mages.

“Hey, what’s up? You’re not acting yourself.” Lexi asked as Earon fell back into formation beside her.

“It’s nothing. I’ve got a little history with those mages, that's all.”

“That’s all? A little history with a circle of mages?” Lexi bowed her head. “That doesn’t sound like something minor to me.”

“It's not minor... but now isn’t the time, okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” Lexi sulked.

***

“Push them back with everything you have!” Prelate Gordon shouted from the crumbling walls as heavily armored dwarves clashed against their ranks.

Flaming rocks as large as men flew overhead and bolts screamed past as a man beside the prelate – his head wrapped in bandages; poured tar from behind a partially crumbled parapet wall.

Screams could be heard as the sticky, boiling fluid clung to their steel and boiled them alive.

Gordon moved to the parapet’s edge and cast down a miracle of golden light, blinding several dwarves that ascended the rampart along a timber bridge of the incoming siege tower. Ineffective arrows followed, bouncing off the heavy steel armor, but a moment later, flaming tar spread across the bridge and engulfed the blinded warriors.

“They falter, drive the scourge of the underworld back!” Prelate Gordon screamed as he waved his staff above his head, casting down another miracle in the process.

A formation of knights pushed forward across a lower section of the wall, their high shields, halberds, and war picks designed to face heavy armor. The outnumbered and cut-off dwarves fell back against the crushing attacks, some misplacing their steps and falling from the walls to their deaths.

“In the name of the Slave King, do not retreat!” Roared the bulky Warmaster as he climbed a siege tower, grabbing hold of fleeing soldiers and pushing them back into the fray. “We do not turn back today. Victory is almost amongst us.”

His muscular hands squeezed the arm of a passing warrior, stopping him in his tracks. “Did you not hear me?”

Blood sprayed across the Warmaster’s face as a bolt cut through the dwarf’s throat, sending him crumbling to the ground as he gargled and sputtered.

Without pause, the Warmaster approached the bridge, rousing several others as he defiantly marched toward the wall. A flash of gold blasted over him, stunting his followers. But the Warmaster’s endurance abilities were too high for a single miracle to stop him.

“Concentrate fire there!” Prelate Gordon commanded, pointing out the dwarven commander, and a hail of bolts and arrows followed.

Whilst most ricocheted harmlessly away, a growing number of missiles found their mark, protruding from the Warmaster as he slowed.

“I will be victorious, for the Slave King!” The Warmaster shouted as he charged forward, bolts and arrows opening new wounds across his body every second.

Prelate Gordon met the challenge head-on, blasting the Warmaster with another miracle as he clashed staff against axe.

The dwarf commander's strength waned with every attack they exchanged, but he was a warrior amongst warriors, and it wasn’t long before his vicious axe had cut gaping wounds across the prelate. Another golden flash burst out from the two, engaged atop the siege bridge. A second later, a guttural grunt followed as the dwarf lopped the prelates head off with a single blow.

However, there was no time for celebrations. The moment the prelate fell to his death, the rain of missiles continued.

He mightn't have won, but the battle had taken its toll. The dwarven lord barely managed a few more steps before he fell to his knees, a bolt slicing through his visor and embedding itself in his eye a moment later.

***

The caravan had continued until they could see Caedstad far on the horizon. Even at such a distance, the plumes of smoke drifting up from it were visible, that and the surrounding camp of its attackers.

Rayets and his men had already told Earon and Lexi about the situation. Though they hadn’t described it as bad as it looked. However, as they set up camp, they explained that it hadn’t been half as bad when they left.

He hadn’t been working hard enough, Earon realized. He had been training every day since meeting Trudels, besides when he was recovering. But he still hadn’t been pushing himself hard enough.

What use would he be in a battle like this? He needed to get stronger if he wanted to help.

And what of the Rye? If the scars reached beyond Caedstad, and this was how the heavily fortified city had fared, How would Ryewood?

Earon marched several meters away from the camp and sat down.

Lexi followed. “A little far from camp, aren’t you?”

“Not now Lexi.”

“Was it something I said?”

Earon glared at Lexi with a ferocity she had never seen. “I’ve got work to do.”

Lexi nodded and peeled back away, walking over to the camp with a lowered gaze.

Sat amongst the others, she passed poorly disguised glances back at Earon - unable to concentrate with his presence so distant.

Mana flowed through Earon, through his runes. He redrew them, time and time again. He focused on how the mana clung to their shapes. How he let the runes shape the form of his raw mana and they twisted from energy into spells. He left the world around him and focused his thoughts entirely on how his mana took shape. Earon could physically feel as mana flowed through him, a sensation like cool fluid running through his veins and strengthening his body.

He felt his mana channeling improve without even seeing the skill increase and his understanding of magic grew.

It wasn't just a skill, Earon's relationship with mana was growing with intimacy into something innate to his very being.

He hadn’t been far away from leveling as it was, he had already felt that. Nonetheless, the feeling of mana surging through his body and pushing him to the next level was intoxicating.

***

Warlock – Level 12

***Skills & Abilities***

Channel Mana (7)

Arcane knowledge (10)

Rune Crafting (Body Transmutation) (7)

Mana Sense (8)

Riding (2)

Survivalist (3)

Block (6)

Resistance (2)

Physical Resistance (3)

Brawling (7)

Tracking (2)

Dark Sight (8)

Stealth (3)

Throwing (12)

Polearms (10)

Navigator (4)

Dodge (7)

***Spells***

Magic resistance (7)

Zap (5)

Featherweight (7)

***

“That’s more like it,” Earon said between pants as he caught his breath and steadied his shaking hands. This was what it was meant to feel like. He was becoming a real caster. He was starting to understand. And it was an entirely different feeling from what he had experienced as a foundling.

This was only the beginning of the second stage, the apprentice.

Earon's heart thumped as he thought about what was ahead of him, and he started to realize why masters like Trudels would isolate themselves to grow stronger.