“We will need to be careful as we enter the town,” Allora said as their destination, a small clump of buildings nestled tightly into the foot of the Skybreaker Peaks, grew slowly larger in the distance. They had diverted from the Diran Road two days prior for a route that had become progressively roughly the farther north they went. The idea was that one of the smaller, less frequented mining villages would have fewer people who would notice their passing.

“Ivaran was sending regular updates to his superiors during our journey,” Allora continued. “They will have assumed by now that he is dead and that I am free. They will have sent another team over the mountains. Maybe more than one. There are likely to be eyes watching for us.”

Mitchell grabbed reflexively at the sword belted to his waist that Allora had purchased back in Basari. He felt confident enough with its use at this point that he was pretty sure he wouldn’t cut off his own foot, but still believed himself to be woefully unprepared to use it in an actual battle. Allora had told him that the average cutpurse or thug would have almost no formal training, relying more on the element of surprise or brute force to win a skirmish. She assured him he could handle such opponents even after barely a month of practice. As for any of the mercenaries that might be on their trail, they were a mixed bag. Some of the officers would be skilled, while the lower ranks would have only rudimentary knowledge of blade work. She used that bit of information to reinforce the necessity of his magical training as using them in combination would help shore up any weaknesses until he became more skilled with both.

Revos and Allora had been right about his magical training. Once he learned how to separate the flows of his different mana types, it was a simple matter of recalling that vibration of the type required for the spell and directing it into the rune of the spell he wanted to cast. Mitchell likened it to learning to ride a bike: Until you first got the hang of balancing on two wheels you were a wobbly mess and it seemed impossible. But then it would click and you would be gliding along with no hands, perfectly at ease, and wondering why it took so long to figure it out. Now that he could feel the distinct harmonics of each type it was no effort at all to call the one he needed. It was so simple he felt like a moron for not getting it right away but Allora and Revos both told him that everyone struggled in the same way at first. That bit of knowledge helped to mollify him as he had begun casting his first spells.

Revos had told him that he associated each of his mana types with a smell, which Mitchell could make no sense of. There had been no smell that he could detect with his hours of time spent immersed in his mana flow. Allora’s had come to her in the form of sword movements. Each mana type she could access put her in mind of a particular style of parry, thrust, or block and that’s how it made sense to her. This is why no one could help a magic user separate their flows. Everyone found their own unique method to call it forth.

So far, he had learned the light cantrip--the easiest spell in the book--a simple healing spell good for superficial wounds, and an arcane missile spell that fired one, two, or three silver-white pulses of energy toward a target that might serve to stun or knock down an opponent. The range appeared to be about thirty or forty feet, depending on how long he had to focus on the target before firing. There were other spells in the book Revos had purchased for him but he’d earmarked these as the most useful for him in the beginning and he drilled with them over and over again until his mana reserves were empty.

Learning each new spell required careful study of the associated rune from the spell book. He spent hours tracing them with his finger in the air, onto the wood of the wagon, or into the sand when they stopped, attempting to cement the circular shape into his memory. Then, once he felt like he had it down, he had to recreate the rune in his mind, draw forth the required mana type, guide it into the shape, then direct the reformed mana to his sevith, where it would be released into the world.

The first day of practice had been disappointing. More often than not the spell failed as he made mistakes with the runes. But over time, the design began to get firmer in his head. The spells failed less often. And, lest he think things were getting too easy, Revos and Allora started throwing in distractions once he had a good grasp of the spell form, forcing him to cast it under stress. Unlike the sword, he could practice this activity on the move so now he spent his travel hours in the back of the wagon drilling again and again and again.

The excitement of using real magic wore off after the first day. It became a mind-numbing routine but at least it didn’t make him vomit. There was a slight bit of nausea and lightheadedness when he exhausted his mana but it wasn’t nearly as bad as when he was meditating to separate the flows, and went away after just a few moments.

Still, he stayed focused, worked hard, and it yielded results. After three days he could cast each spell perfectly when he was sitting alone and unmolested in the wagon. The minor distractions were less of an issue most of the time. The more intense distractions, the ones involving pain, were almost always enough to disrupt the spell in his mind. Luckily, they were such low-level spells, the light spell and healing spell being only a cantrip and the arcane missile spell being what Allora and Revos called first-circle spells, that losing hold of the rune in his mind while it was charged didn’t hurt him.

He did get a mild zap from losing the arcane missile spell, a bit like a very low-grade electrical shock. Revos said that channeling the mana into a rune compressed and concentrated the energy. As such, losing the shape suddenly caused a greater-than-normal release of power to flood his system and that is what caused the feeling. A strong enough spell would cause intense pain, unconsciousness, and even death if the caster lost focus.

“Don’t use a high-level spell when a lower-level one would do,” Revos had instructed. “It wastes mana and puts unnecessary wear and tear on your gemstones. Don’t try to overpower a lower-level spell as it will only fail and could mean the difference between life and death. Higher-level spells require more complex runes with more channels to properly handle the mana. You must master the lower forms before attempting the higher ones as they build upon each other. Do you understand?”

The wagon continued on in the gloom of the afternoon, the pace of the clorvol just slightly faster than a man could comfortably walk. This close to the mountains darkness came on quickly as the sun set behind the towering peaks before them. They were truly magnificent and Mitchell found it hard to stop looking at them.

The Skybreaker Peaks stretched north and south as far as he could see in either direction and their height was dizzying to behold. Mitchell had lived his whole life in Oregon and then in Phoenix where he went to school at ASU and then got his first job. There were mountains there but they were dwarfed by the nearly impossible size of the formations he now gazed upon. The pale gray stone of the granite speared the sky in sharp angles, many of the faces appearing near vertical from his vantage point. And they just seemed to keep building upon each other. The highest peaks were shrouded in mist thousands of feet up. He was told that they went even higher as one journeyed inward but that there were indeed paths and passages through, albeit dangerous ones.

“Not many people traverse the Peaks for trade,” Revos had told him when they first came into view. “But there are ancient ruins still undiscovered, and rumors of riches left behind by the dragon lords, so treasure hunters make frequent trips up and down. Sometimes they find something of value but many never return. What happens to them is anyone’s guess.”

“As dangerous as it is, this is still safer than taking the Southern Road into Awenor,” Allora had said. “There are frequent patrols and checkpoints once you cross the border and we would not be able to avoid detection. But there are many paths over the mountains and it would be impossible to watch them all.”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Mitchell glanced over at where Lethelin sat near the lip of the wagon. She stared blankly at nothing, lost in her own thoughts, and more than once Mitchell had found it difficult to focus on her. Sometimes she seemed to almost phase out of existence. Then she would snap back into focus. Mitchell thought it must be some effect of the cloak that she still wore, although she had said that the enchantment was only active when the cowl was up, which it was not at the moment. She’d been unusually quiet since Besari and when he’d asked her about it, she’d just shrugged. He had expected more warmth from her after their moment in the garden. In truth, he had expected to be spending the night with her that evening at the Maiden’s Mist, but she’d never come. He wanted to talk to her about it but now that she was being so cool towards him, he decided to leave it alone. Maybe he had offended her by not going to her? Some cultural taboo he had mistakenly committed? Mitchell had no idea. It went onto his ever-growing pile of things he had no fucking clue about.

“There will be taverns and inns here. At least two or three given the size,” Allora said, drawing his attention back to their impending arrival. “We will find a stable, sell as much as we can, secure provisions for the trip, and leave first thing in the morning.”

Allora glanced at him to make sure he understood and he nodded his agreement. She looked to Lethelin and Revos in turn and they all gave their assent.

“Once we secure lodging and supplies, we will not leave the inn until we set out in the morning. No exceptions.”

The wagon rumbled on and the cool air coming down off the mountains blew over Mitchell’s sun-tanned face, once again showing stubble. The wind carried with it the sharp tang of snow which excited him more than he expected. Growing up in the American northwest, winter meant the Christmas season – a time of hot chocolate; of cinnamon and cider, of family, warm blankets, and fireplaces. It made him surprisingly homesick and he felt an ache in his chest. He hoped he made it out of this alive. In all likelihood, he would die and he was aware of that. But if he didn’t, he hoped he could travel home and tell his parents he was okay. Maybe even invite them back to this world with him.

Mitchell nurtured that hope as he glanced at Allora. She was watching the town with a hard look. Her long black hair was loose and the steady breeze moved it around in a way he found almost hypnotizing. Following her gaze, his eyes went back to the squat little town and once again began the long journey upward as he followed the lines of the Skybreaker peaks until they were lost in fog thousands of feet up. Seeing her tension had filled him with a similar feeling and he wondered if he would be forced to put his nascent sword and magic skills to the test in this one-jivi town.

“This should be interesting,” he mumbled to himself in English.

***

It was almost full dark by the time they made it to the edge of the town. Mitchell commented on how there were no walls or defenses of any kind securing the as-yet nameless hamlet and, with a look of distaste on her road-dust covered face, Lethelin remarked that it was because there was nothing in this piss pot worth taking.

All together it looked to be about thirty or forty buildings, roughly arranged down a central thoroughfare with a handful of small side streets and alleys. Some were stone but there were a handful of wooden ones as well. Mitchell had seen small copses of trees here and there as they neared the mountains so he guessed wood wasn’t quite as precious a resource as it had been in the deep desert. Still, the stone buildings looked to be in better shape than the wooden ones, most of which looked rather flimsy and poorly constructed.

The wagon rumbled past a faded sign with writing on it that Mitchell tried to sound out. He was only just beginning to learn the Common alphabet with the help of the handful of books that Allora had picked up while Revos had been getting him fitted with his sevith.

“De-li-kik?” Mitchell said aloud.

There was a sharp sting on his right ear which caused him to flinch forward.

“Ow!”

He turned to see Lethelin grinning her old grin at him, her green eyes flashing with a mischievous sparkle.

“Close,” she said.

“De-li-kir,” Allora explained, not bothering to hide her grin at his discomfort. “Look at the accent above the letter krian. When it is at the end of a word it is pronounced like the rian sound.”

Mitchell rubbed at his ear, trying to be annoyed at Lethelin but she’d been in a funk for days and he liked seeing her a little more like her old self. Even if she was only grinning because she got to inflict pain upon him.

“Delikir,” Mitchell said and tried to cement the pronunciation rule in his head. “What does it mean?”

“Drake’s Rest in the old tongue,” Allora replied.

“Drake’s shit bucket is more like it,” Lethelin mumbled half under her breath.

Looking at the poor state of the houses on the outskirts, Mitchell found he didn’t disagree.

There were a few people milling about but most didn’t pay them any mind. Some sat on porches peering at the traveling party with half-lidded eyes while others leaned out of windows having been drawn by the noise. Seeing the wagon, most went back inside to continue on with whatever they’d been pulled away from.

“They don’t seem to care that we’re here,” Mitchell said. “That seems like a good thing.”

“There are little towns like this all up and down the mountains,” Revos explained. “Some are more prosperous than others. There is still good mining to be found but from the looks of this place, the mine dried up long ago. Most of the coin that comes through here is from prospectors and treasure hunters. They probably assume we’re one of those.”

“Mitchell, try not to talk too much,” Allora cautioned. “Your accent is still very odd and it will make you more memorable.”

Mitchell nodded and continued to watch the people around him. Some were eying their little wagon more hungrily than he liked but none approached. There were a few more dwarves than he had seen in Basari, a mix of humans and a few elves, and some haflings. They were roughly the same size as gnomes but looked more human, like an adult shrunk down to the size of a ten-year old.

Mitchell asked the question he’d been wondering for weeks now.

“How is it that there are so many races of people here? Where do they all come from?”

“The dragon lords, mostly,” Allora explained. “They brought in people from other worlds to populate their empires and work as slaves and servants.”

“So they just snatched people from other planets, other universes?”

“Yes,” Allora nodded.

“Not my people,” Revos exclaimed, a note of pride in his voice. “They knew better.”

Mitchell saw Allora grin and almost roll her eyes. If Revos noticed, he didn’t comment.

“You said something about that before,” Mitchell interjected. “That your people came here after the fall of the dragon lords and settled in… Where was it?

“Kazig,” Revos supplied.

“Yeah. Why did you come here?”

“Our home was destroyed. The powers at the time dabbled too deeply into darker magic and created a rift into a hell dimension that began to swallow our entire world. Some escaped. Most did not.”

Revos paused and took in a big breath as he recalled the tale.

“The cinva of our land at the time, the king,” he said it in such a way that suggested he didn’t like the word but it was the best descriptor he had in Common, “was an arcanist, a powerful one. As our planet was being pulled into the hell dimension he created a series of portals to save those that he could. One of those portals opened here. About twenty thousand of us made it through before it collapsed.”

“It was good timing,” Allora added. “The reign of the dragon lords had come to an end about fifteen years before and the land was still in upheaval as people fought for control. By the time any of the smaller powers had realized they had a new neighbor, Revos’s people had already fortified their position in the mostly empty wastes of Kazig. There were some small engagements where the cambions proved themselves more than a match for the largely disorganized groups of soldiers in those early days and they were left alone.”

“My people are superb warriors!” Revos seconded. “We crushed them and to this day none have dared to invade our borders.”

Mitchell found it odd that for someone who apparently loved his home and his people so much he didn’t want to go back. Before he could comment on it further, however, Revos pulled the reigns and the clorvol came to a stop with a snort.

They were parked in front of a three-story building, the first floor of which was made of the pale desert stone and the upper two of wood. It looked to have been a hasty add-on at some point in the past and had not improved since then. He wondered what was holding it up.

“This is the inn?” he asked uncertainly.

“Likely the best they have to offer,” Revos told him, “and the stable is big enough for the clorvol.”

From the looks of the place Mitchell wasn’t sure if sleeping on the ground wasn’t preferable but he hopped off the wagon and followed Allora and Lethelin inside while Revos stayed to stand guard.