Chapter 2

The dark shapes resolved into six figures riding steam-powered cycles. The guttural roar of their engines grew louder long before they came into view, belching black steam into the sky.

As the men drew closer, I saw they wore tanned leathers and dirty cloaks, their hair greased or dreaded into thick clumps. Several wore goggles against the dust. The scarred man moved behind me, trembling.

These types rarely made negotiation easy, and I knew what would happen if they searched me. I drew several glittering gold pieces from the pouch at my side, letting a couple fall into each hand.

In my pouch, only a handful of gold pieces remained. A bump in a secret pocket revealed a single diamond, rare and priceless. I had pried it from a ring I found it years ago but had never used it. It was the most powerful spell-casting material I had left.

The closest rider stopped a dozen feet away, leaping from his bike and raising a crossbow rifle that sputtered small bursts of steam, an oily discharge coating his arm. He didn’t seem to notice.

He stepped closer, sizing me up with dull, uninterested eyes. His long dreadlocked hair hung loosely, and a stubby cigar dangled from his lips. Looking me over, he dropped the weapon to his side, seeming less inclined to use it.

“It’s just an old man and a homeless wanderer, Freegear! What did you say you saw — a mage?” the man growled, as his companions hopped off their bikes.

“He was waving his hands all funny,” a younger man insisted, holding a steam-powered scope. “He’s a mage, I tell you. He was doin’ something out here.”

“You ain’t ever seen a mage, Freegear,” the first man retorted. “You wouldn’t know one if he dropped a rock on your head.”

He turned back to me, noticing the scarred man behind me but dismissing him.

“What’re you doing out in the middle of the desert, old man? How did you make it this far without transport?”

“Check his pack, Marken!” one of the others called out.

Dreadlocks — presumably Marken — stepped toward me, reaching for my pack.

I stepped back into a balanced stance, swinging my pack behind me. Dropping my arms to my sides, I palmed the small bits of gold.

The scarred man lunged at Marken on all fours, growling, as if trying to protect me. All five men closed in, while young Freegear took a step back. Marken raised his crossbow again, pointing it at the scarred man, who flinched.

“Your pack, old man,” Marken demanded. “You gotta pay tax to come into Vale.”

“What tax?” I asked.

“We decide what the tax is when we see what’s in your pack,” Marken growled.

The scarred man must have sensed the threat in Marken’s tone because he launched himself at the thug. Marken, clearly accustomed to this sort of confrontation, intercepted him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and drawing a blade from his belt. He sliced it across the man’s neck.

No! I thought, too late.

Marken dropped his body to the dirt, wiping his blade on the scarred man’s cloak.

“You see, old man? We ain’t playin’.”

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I shuddered, my resolve wavering.

Could I really do this? Was I ready for all that came next? I shook off the thoughts, trying not to look at the dying man, and steeled myself. Concentrate.

Marken stepped forward, grabbing my wrist in an attempt to spin me around. I broke his hold and took a step back, maintaining a calm expression, arms still down at my sides.

His eyebrows shot up. “Watch out for him, I tell you!” Freegear warned from further back.

“You really want to fight, old man?” Marken yelled, surprised at my defiance. The others laughed, one licking his lips as if eager for a brawl — or a meal. “You have no weapons. You want to make this hard on yourself?”

“You didn’t ask nicely,” I said, glancing down at the scarred man. His blood now stained the desert floor.

“We’re not your welcoming party, old man,” Marken sneered. “Everyone’s gotta pay the tax. Hand over your pack, and we might let you pass into the city.”

I stepped behind my pack and spread my arms, feigning welcome.

“That’s more like it,” he replied, nodding. The others holstered their weapons.

Marken emptied my pack onto the ground, the contents spilling out — cloak, books, my black leather notebook, a few trinkets, a sheathed dagger, small pouches, dried meat, my aluminum cup, and a large bundle of leather tied with a strap.

He picked up the small pouch, the cup, and several trinkets, tossing them back to the others, who grabbed for them greedily. Marken slid the dagger into his own belt. My breath quickened.

Then Marken dropped to one knee, unrolling the large sheet of leather with small pouches sewn onto it. Most were empty now, but a few rare, green and blue sparkling gemstones were visible.

Marken’s eyes widened. “He is a mage!” he cried. “Take him down!”

The men dove for their weapons. I had only seconds. Marken scrambled away from me while another fired a crossbow bolt at my head. I dodged, and it whizzed past me into the desert.

I dropped the first gold piece and wove my hands in a circle, lifting a leg into the air, draining its matter. Marken recoiled backwards, his eyes widening.

“What in the holy hell are you doing?” he cried, fumbling with his crossbow.

The gold piece vanished before it hit the ground. I quickly split its matter into six pieces, directing them toward each man. I finished the weave, flicked my wrist, and triggered the spell.

Six small pockets of gunpowder exploded directly in front of each man. Three collapsed immediately, while the others staggered blindly, clawing at the air. One moaned as blood dripped from his ears before he fell to his knees.

I dropped the second gold piece and drained its matter to nothing.

I spun my arms in small circles, gradually increasing the size of the circles, building power. At the apex, I triggered the second spell and launched a seven-foot-tall desert cyclone toward the remaining men.

The swirling vortex of air, sand, and howling wind knocked the men down, spinning motorcycles into the air, throwing bodies and machinery into the dirt.

When the chaos settled, the remaining three men lay scattered, coughing and wounded. I quickly gathered my belongings, retrieving my pouches and cup, as well as the dagger from Marken’s belt.

I heard the click before I could drop to the ground.

I whirled to see Freegear, blood-streaked but determined, lying flat with his crossbow aimed at me.

He pulled the trigger.

A flaming arrow zipped toward me, striking just below my ribs. Fire erupted upon impact, and I collapsed to the ground, rolling to extinguish the flames. The abrupt motion snapped the arrow off, leaving the shaft embedded in my side.

Gasping for breath, I knelt, watching my blood spill to the sand.

I took a deep breath, gripped the remains of the arrow, and yanked it out in a swift motion, tearing more flesh and skin from my side.

I grunted, nearly passing out from the pain. Once it subsided, I looked down to see my shirt burnt and bloody. Lightheaded, I put a hand to the ground for support and pulled a sweat rag from my pocket, wincing as I pressed it against the wound to stanch the bleeding.

For a moment, I wished I had studied healing magic, but I had pursued other avenues of study when mages were more numerous. Healers were scarce now.

I stood, groaning and sweating, drawing a heavy piece of granite from the ground. I drained its matter and transformed it into a bulky walking stick, almost as tall as I was, which I leaned on for support.

Freegear’s eyes widened at the sight of the spell.

I walked over to him and with a quick motion, drove the stick into Freegear’s skull with a thud. He went limp on the sand.

I destroyed each of the rifles and crossbows beneath my boots, salvaging some of the iron and steel for later use. I also pocketed a gold bracelet and a small vial of precious water.

I drew on my pack and began hobbling toward Vale.

With each step, pain seared through me, and dizziness began to creep in, accompanied by a relentless thought pulsing with every drop of blood that left my body.

This wound could kill me.

Bugger. I must have lost my touch.

But I had to survive a little longer; I still had much to do. I needed to share what I knew of The Way — I had to pass along a lifetime of knowledge to someone, preferably another mage.