Rising from the depths of the lake, it vigorously shook as it broke the surface of the water and felt air on its dingy surface. It was a shell of its former self, no longer shimmering and clean, having spent far too many years submerged in Lake Windmere, but the mage who held out his staff, pulling it up and to freedom would see to it that everything would be put right.
“You’re doing it!” squealed Marina excitedly, clapping her hands together. She promptly bit her tongue when Sigurd shot her a look of annoyance.
The mage gritted his teeth and held his breath as he mustered what remained of his strength to force the water filling the ship to flee to the lake. As it did so, the load lightened, but the strain did not for he was almost spent. Slowly, he pulled the ship forward and closer to the shore, but it started dipping as his magical energy was finally depleted. The ship slowly started sinking again as he dropped to his knees.
“Too…tired…” he said. “Need…rest…”
Sigurd flopped back on the wet grass and relaxed. He did not care in the least that he was being soaked through and Marina suspected he had a spell that would take remove the water from his hair and clothes in seconds. Magic could be funny like that; powerful and destructive in so many ways, yet useful for the most mundane tasks. She had always wanted to learn minor spells that would take her no more than a few hours of study to master, yet she always deemed her time too important and reread the same books she had over and over again, hoping to glean a small scrap of information that may make her lightning bolts a tiny fraction more powerful.
She wondered what if Pheston had entered the forge already and was working on the weapons at this very moment. No, they would surely still be ascending the mountain. The Forge of Ages was a couple of days away with one of those days being the ascension itself. If Friedrich turned into a minotaur and hauled the wagon, perhaps that would shave some time off the journey, but the idea likely hadn’t crossed his mind. She giggled to herself as the thought of him pulling the wagon with the horse sitting in the back with the others as a passenger.
“What is it?” asked Sigurd.
“Nothing,” said Marina, shaking her head and ridding herself of the amusing thought. “Shall we give it another ago?”
“Already?” asked an incredulous Sigurd. “I’ve had barely a minute of rest! And we will be doing nothing, I am the one exhausting himself out of the goodness of my heart.”
Marina frowned and wagged her finger at him. “There’s no need to take that tone with me,” she said. “I don’t like it when people get snippy with me for no good reason.”
Sigurd waved a hand and snorted. “Alright, I apologise. But give me a moment, for pity’s sake. We’ll try again in ten minutes. Giggle to yourself while you wait if that’ll make you happy.”
*
“Almost there,” said Marina as Sigurd strained himself until his face was a vivid purple.
The brass ship was slowly dragged ashore, piling mud up around the hull. Water sloshed around it and fell from the deck as it moved. With it finally firmly aground, the lingering water filling its interior could be expunged and it would be able to float once more; in theory, at least. If Marina had to use Shockwave to keep it from sinking, that’s exactly what she would do.
“I need…a minute…” said Sigurd, dropping to the ground for the fifth time. To his credit, each rest was shorter than the last with his determination to finally see the ship in the open air fuelling him beyond what he thought was his limit.
Marina walked up to the shabby metal ship and tapped it with her staff. “Outstanding,” she said proudly. “I need to give you a name. The Thundering Brass! No, that’s silly…hmm. The Metal Drifter! No, that’s much worse.” She sighed. “I will never be able to top The Lightning Foxes or The Golden Lightning Foxes, so perhaps it will need put to a vote when the others arrive. Come to think of it, I never amended the name for Pheston’s sake, so perhaps he should be the one to name it.”
“What in the world are you rambling about?” asked Sigurd, startling Marina. She was not aware he could hear her mumblings.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“The ship needs a name,” she said, turning to him. “Every good vessel needs a name.”
“The Brass Ship,” suggested Sigurd.
“I’ll consider it,” said Marina, knowing that she had no intention of considering it. She walked over to Sigurd and sat on a rock beside him; it was drier than the grass. I hope that I can maintain Shockwave long enough to reach the island.”
“You said that you held him together on a journey across the desert,” said Sigurd. “And you helped fell an undead dragon, a giant snake, and countless demons, goblins, and other nasties.”
“Yes.”
Sigurd smiled. “Then you should have nothing to worry about,” he said. “Show me a lightning bolt at half-strength.”
Marina stood up and held her staff into the sky. She conjured up her powers and a magnificent bolt of lightning erupted from her staff, flying across the sky until it was out of sight.”
“Impressive,” said Sigurd. “Especially for one as young as you. Where did you learn magic?”
“I’m mostly self-taught, but I did briefly study under Hansel the Strike in Akatfall and with Grephor of the Sand in Kai’roh.”
“Self-taught, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Is there any history of magic in your family? To possess your aptitude without years of dedicated study is most unusual.”
“No history,” said Marina a little too nonchalantly.
Sigurd’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying,” he stated firmly.
Marina was taken aback and bit the inside of her mouth in shock. “I am not lying! And I do not take kindly to such accusations, Sigurd the Frostbitten.”
“That isn’t going to work with me, girlie. You inherited your magical prowess, didn’t you?”
Marina stared at him with narrowed eyes. She wanted to lie her way out of this, but the insightful mage had rumbled her too swiftly and there was nothing to be gained by angering him with a few other feebly-spun fibs. “Yes,” she sighed.
“I thought so,” said Sigurd, nodding slowly. “This begs the question of whether it came from your mother or father.”
Marina looked away and quietly muttered something barely distinguishable. Luckily for him, Sigurd’s hearing was almost as acute as Teleri’s hearing was.
“Your father?” he posed. “Such a gift should be cried about from the heavens, but I suspect there is more to this story. Your lineage is a mark of shame for you. Is that so?”
“Very much so,” said Marina quietly. “I’m sorry that I lied when you first asked, Sigurd, but I would prefer not to discuss the matter further. My past is a sore spot and certain events are still so fresh that the wound is raw; not yet a scar.”
“That is all you had to say,” said Sigurd softly. “I apologise for my forthrightness. I am someone who asks a question when he wants to know the answer. Beating around the bush had never suited me, as Pheston will tell you. As penance, you may ask me one quest—”
“How did you lose your fingers?” asked Marina without hesitation.
Sigurd chuckled. “Frostbite,” he said remarkably jovially.
“I gathered that, but how did you get frostbite?”
“From the cold.”
Marina massaged her temples in frustration as Sigurd laughed uproariously. She knew he was teasing her, but she had wanted to know the answer since she first saw his missing fingers. It had seemed uncouth to ask, but he had offered an opportunity to ask the question.
“Alright,” he said, calming down. “You want to know? I was delving deep in an old ruin some thirty years ago and the floor gave way. While I may not have broken my neck on hard stone, I did however, fall into an icy river. Its current was strong and carried my staff down the stream. Fortunately for me, I was carried along with it and managed to retrieve it while we were both being tossed around under the water. A simple spell later and the water expelled me to the riverbed, but it sent me tumbling down a snowy hill. I smacked my head against a stone and woke up a couple of hours later. By the time I made my way into a town, my injury was too severe. It was a miracle my hand was saved at all, so I’m not too cut up about losing a couple of fingers.”
Sigurd swished his staff and formed new fingers from water as he had done once before. “Should I ever need them back for whatever reason, I’ve got a temporary solution to the matter. While regrowing limbs is possible, the alchemical reagents are rare and expensive; not worth my time at all. As with every challenge, you learn from it and it just so happens I learned how to manipulate water as though it is a part of me.”
His words hit Marina harder than she had expected. “Had I not been fleeing my father’s men, I would never have met Friedrich. Had I never met him, everything that has happened to me since would never have occurred. I would not have friends in Teleri or Pheston, and I certainly would not be using an elemental to power an ancient ship.”
Sigurd nodded. “The passage of time is a curious thing. The longer it goes on, the easier it is for us to look back and see how every step we take leads us to where we are. We see the missed opportunities and, if we have good things around us, we realise that we missed those opportunities for a reason. You are here today to help a friend rescue a loved one. Would you give that up to enjoy a pork loin with a couple of apprentice mages in a guild in Mercia?”
“Never,” said Marina. “My friends and I would die for each other.”
“And there you go. Whatever troubles this unscarred wound has brought you, something good has come of it.”
Marina smiled and whipped out staff from her back, making Sigurd flinch. “You’re right,” she said. “Now it’s time to show that my magic is my own.”
She twirled her staff and the amethyst glowed. Shockwave burst from the lightning plane, crackling and fizzing as he did so.
Sigurd nodded and held out his own staff. “Our work is just beginning,” he said. “First steps first, my young friend. I’ll drain the last of the water if you can burn off the algae and tarnish as best you can.”
“Shockwave,” said Marina, pointing to the brass ship. “Clean!”