Falduin dismounted.

“What are you doing?” Ifonsa screamed, as she reined in.

Falduin drew his sword.

“Go! This is a foe too great for you,” Falduin told her, keeping his eyes on the approaching witch. She flew towards them, cascades of fire swirling about her.

It might look impressive to the peasants on the ground, but Falduin knew it was all just tricks and deceptions. He didn’t need to use his wizard sight to realise that The Witch had not been trained at The High Tower. She was a renegade, and he was about to teach her a very valuable lesson.

“Mount up, you idiot! The horses can outpace her.”

Falduin turned his head so Ifonsa could see his eyes. He made them glow white, radiating with power, “Go!” he said to her, his voice sounding deep and demonic. More tricks, but it worked.

Ifonsa growled, then urged the horses into a run, fleeing towards the trees to the north-east. It left him alone amid the recently tilled fields, about three-hundred paces from the town. He was surprised they hadn’t seen any of the guards Ifonsa had told them about. Perhaps they had returned to sleep.

Escaping the bailey had been a simple matter. They led the horses, including a massive grey stallion that Ifonsa called Rianio, toward the main gate. There was no sign of the guards he had seen patrolling earlier. Likely Ifonsa had removed that problem. Then all he had to do was tweak the lever and the drawbridge lowered by itself. They were through it, riding at pace before the guards within the tower even noticed.

While that was simple, galloping with five horses in tow proved much harder. Falduin could ride, but not overly well. It took much of his concentration just to keep in the saddle. That left Ifonsa to deal with the horses, ensuring they didn’t stray or become entangled with one another.

How The Witch had detected them, he wasn’t certain. Maybe his efforts at the drawbridge had alerted her, but that was a simple spell. It should have been undetectable. Perhaps he had wavered maintaining his wards, leaking just enough for her to notice. Or it might have been something that Ifonsa had done, or Heric and Ganthe. He simply didn’t know.

The first clue that something had gone awry was as they galloped away from the bailey he began to hear detonations above the town. Looking back he could see a figure floating just above the northern gate, flames whirling about it chaotically. A lick of fire rained down and caught on one of the nearby roofs. Then The Witch turned and began moving towards them.

Ifonsa was correct. They could have outpaced The Witch, but she would forever dog their progress up to Wombourne. It was better to deal with her now at a place of his choosing rather than allow her to dictate the terms.

Now that Ifonsa was out of harms way he could concentrate on doing exactly that. He turned to regard her.

The Witch was close enough now to see that instead of riding her broom she held onto it with her right hand, leaning upon it. Her left hand waved about in the air, gushes of fire streaming behind it.

Whereas Kobanongar had his red walking staff, and Hiemo had his Rod of Wishing, Falduin only had his sword to act as a conduit. It would do. It was the master not the manner, as they said in the High Tower. He took his sword and drew a circle on the ground around him in the tilled dirt. The farmer wouldn’t appreciate what he had done, but likely there was worse to come.

His mind reached out toward The Essence. That’s what he called it. The Masters just called it The Power, which to Falduin’s mind didn’t really explain it well enough. It was like calling the sea The Water or the wind The Air. Technically they were correct, but they failed to convey the majesty, intensity and capacity.

He made the connection and tapped into it. Just enough to avoid being overwhelmed. It’s mesmerising melody filled his head. If you listened closely enough you could hear words within the song. Sometimes it would offer helpful suggestions. Everything from how to use The Essence to fly, or to unleash its full force and raze the entire world with fiery tendrils. All that was needed was to give in and let it take control.

Falduin knew it was a trap. Submission meant destruction. He held it in check. He just needed enough to power the wards he had prepared. Discipline was the key.

He realised that was why the Witch was spraying fire everywhere. It wasn’t just a trick to dazzle the townsfolk. She couldn’t control the power. She needed to release it periodically or else it would build up and then bad things would happen. She might even explode. That would be an awe-inspiring sight.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

The circular groove surrounding him filled with a black, bubbling ooze. His chosen protection always disturbed the other apprentices and sometimes even the masters whenever they battled in the arena. Of course, that was always just for points. This fight was for real.

Strangely, he felt no fear, just a gnawing anger directed at The Witch. He peered at her. She was almost upon him. He allowed the anger build into hatred. He could use it to destroy her.

A jet of fire launched itself from her hand, directed straight for him. He didn’t even have time to react. The flames swirled around him, and to anyone looking on they would have seen him totally enveloped by them. But his wards leapt up to smother the blaze. He didn’t even feel any heat. The ooze gurgled and hissed as it sunk down into the groove at his feet.

That gave The Witch pause. She stopped, examining him. She had not expected to be opposed in such a manner.

Slowly she lowered herself to the ground, then with the tip of her broom, she drew her own circle, surrounding her. Falduin’s challenge had been accepted.

Battles between wizards can take many forms. The most basic involved hurling primal arcane magics at one another. This was generally regarded as bad form by most mages, even renegades. The equivalent of throwing your own waste at an opponent. It was also likely ineffective against a skilled practitioner. They nearly always prepared themselves for such an onslaught beforehand, by using a magic circle.

Some wizards threw spells at their opponents. Some simple, others elaborate. This was generally more effective, but even apprentices were taught how to defend themselves against most forms of attacks. That didn’t make this tactic worthless. Overwhelming the defences of a mage was completely viable, but usually took too much time and energy. Often the victorious magus was left so exhausted by the feat, they were essentially useless (sometimes for days after). It was said that Garde The Great’s reputation was forged by waiting for her opponents to fatigue themselves fighting one another, before she would issue her own challenge.

Most wizards, at least those trained within the Towers of High Magic, had come to conclusion that the best way to combat a fellow magic user, was not through spectacular spells or awesome arcanisms, but through cold, hard logic...as well as biting wit and devastating insults.

Falduin brought up his wizard sight. He could see the tendrils of power focusing around The Witch. They were frayed and disorderly, interspersed with shadowy artefacts that he couldn’t properly discern.

“You cannot defeat me,” her voice said, filling his mind. That was a surprise. None of the apprentices or even master had done that before. He wondered how she had done it. That sort of thing was generally considered an ecclesiastical province. “I am a servant of the secret shadow,” she continued. “None can withstand me.”

A burst of fire launched itself from her hand, but once again it was smothered by Falduin’s wall of ooze.

“Your structures are ill-defined. Your spells weak,” Falduin told her matter-of-factly. “How have you survived this long without destroying yourself?”

“Who would destroy me? You?” her voice echoed in his mind again. “I have been battling your kind for over three-score years.”

“And yet here I stand,” Falduin said. “Perhaps you would be better served instead of propping up your failing vanity, to bolster your understanding of the craft.”

He could see that she wore a dweolmer about her. It was subtle, but it hid her true form. It allowed her to appear as a pale, dark-haired girl instead of a wretched crone, silver-haired and bent over within her circle. He perceived the circle was filled with blood, bubbling and writhing as if it was alive.

“Did you just call me ugly?”

“No,” Falduin said, “I called you ugly, old, and stupid.”

He could sense the rage building in her. The Sight showed her strands becoming more agitated and chaotic, the shadowy coils thickening.

“I am the servant of the secret shado-“ she began.

“You’ve already told me that!” he screamed back at her. More forcibly than he had intended. She annoyed him.

“I have been battling your kind-“

“And that! Don’t you have anything original to say?”

Falduin felt a rush of wind, as something passed close by his right ear. Then The Witch was no longer standing ten or so paces away, but immediately before him, with a curved dagger in her hand.

He began to raise his sword to defend himself, then he noticed that The Witch was staggering backwards, an arrow in her throat. One of Ifonsa’s arrows.

Looking behind he saw Ifonsa galloping towards him, her bow in her hand. Then he heard The Witch fall. She made a gurgling sound in her throat.

“I had it under control!” Falduin screamed as Ifonsa drew rein.

“It was taking too long.” Ifonsa said.

“Wizard battles take as long as they take. You can’t rush them.”

“Tell that to them.”

Falduin looked to where Ifonsa was pointing. Hordes of bandits were charging towards them across the field.

Ifonsa offered her hand. Falduin didn’t need to be offered twice. He leapt up behind her, and the two of them fled towards the trees.