“Quake, Summit Sigh.” Orangier breathed out. He got on one knee and pressed the tips of his fingers to the courtyard’s tile floor. A tremor shook the ground instantly, traveling to the middle of the chamber. That spot in the flooring was already broken, with the earth within it in a jumbled mess. The vibrations intensified, and a boulder-sized chunk of rock arose from the muddied pit.
Ben stared idiotically at the giant stone and then squinted accusingly at his teacher. “You said you would make it smaller.”
“It is smaller,” Orangier said as he stood up and dusted off his kneecaps. “Two hands and a half, to be precise, almost a foot’s worth.”
Ben cursed under his breath. He’d been training under Orangier for a little over a month now, and he remained as merciless a taskmaster as ever. Not that it came without its benefits, though—the progress he had made so far was nothing short of impressive. Unless compared with Sybil’s, he thought glumly.
He returned his attention to the boulder before him. How was he supposed to move it with his bare hands? Bolster was proving to be the most difficult of the trio of armspells he was studying.
With Quicken and Fortify, there was an element of self-preservation deeply embedded into the required state of mind that was needed to be cast. In this case, however, it was quite the opposite: to strengthen oneself to meet danger head-on. A lethal, almost suicidal instinct.
Frustration rose within him, but he kept it in check. “I don’t know if I can do it with a rock that big.”
“You won’t with that self-talk, that’s for sure,” Orangier rebuked as he walked toward it. He pressed the palm of his hand against the side of the boulder. “Walk me through the basics, and we’ll see if there’s a gap in your knowledge. What’s the first step? Gods know I drilled them into your memory.”
Ben sighed. There was no use arguing with Orangier when he got like this. He recited the expected words verbatim. “To cast an armspell, one must first perceive the body: bones, sinews, muscles, and nerves.”
“More specifically, in the anatomical regions to be perused. For me, it’d be my right arm, and to a lesser degree, my abdominals and left leg,” Orangier added. He closed his eyes, a look of concentration on his face. “Go on.”
“Next comes redirecting the flow of magic. The magical currents within and without us are in a state of constant convergence. We mean to alter this flow by forcing them to veer into the desired region and having them stay there.”
Ben felt the distinguishable jolt that accompanied the act of sorcery as Orangier exhaled, his breath visible in the cool evening air. He could see the muscles in his arm bulge and their veins pop. He nodded at him to continue without averting his eyes from the back of his hand.
“By doing so, one attains a state of overflow. Excess magic permeates the body, enhancing it beyond its ordinary capabilities.“
“And what is the last step?” Orangier cut in.
“One casts the spell to lock in this state of overflow for as long as they desire—and can maintain it, of course.”
“Bolster.” Orangier declared. His voice reverberated with power.
With a flick of his wrist and a firm press of his hand, he unleashed the full brunt of his enhanced strength on the boulder. It lurched forward with levity, propelled by the shove like a cannonball, until it landed on a pillar in the corner. A wide crack crossed its surface, a small crater where his hand used to be.
Orangier grunted. “Huh. There is no gap in your knowledge, Mr. Umber. Perhaps we should try a different approach.”
“Like what?” Ben inquired suspiciously.
“I’d say a sparring session would suffice,” Orangier proposed with a wry smile.
Ben winced inwardly, already feeling the sores and aches that he would surely wake with the next morning. However, a thrill accompanied the sensation; the pressure of battle had started to feel gradually natural to him ever since he crossed into the World That Is Not, and it was under this stress that he had made most of his current progress.
They moved to their designated positions on either end of the courtyard without exchanging a single word. It was a practiced motion borne of countless hours of training.
“Sparring it is,” Ben muttered. He examined his adversary and steeled himself.
They bowed at each other curtly and immediately assumed the same fighting stance. It had been one of the first lessons instilled in Ben, after all.
“We’ll go three rounds,” Orangier said.
“Two outta three?”
He laughed at the proposal. “You win if you get a single one.”
Smug bastard, Ben thought with a side smile. Maybe today is the day I get you.
Magic swirled around them, and the first round began without delay. “Quicken!” Both sorcerers bellowed in unison. Their legs hummed into a rapid blur.
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Orangier took the offensive. He closed the distance between them in a single fluid motion; a wave of ripples trailed behind him. He came into focus before Ben, hands already clasped above him and poised to fall like a hammer.
Ben wasn’t about to stay and find out. He exhaled as he concentrated on the shimmer that enveloped his legs. Then he bore his eyes on the space behind his enemy and visualized himself there. Finally, he took a single step, and the world around him faded for an instant. Whoosh.
He relocated successfully out of harm’s way, but Orangier had foreseen him exploiting the opening. The butler spun in place, his leg whipped into a sped-up sidekick. There was no time to pivot into safety.
Left torso. Come on, get it right this time! Ben implored himself. He inhaled and quickly intoned a single word. “Fortify.”
The kick met his ribcage noiselessly. Ben still staggered backward, but the spell had taken hold just in time. He remained on his feet, and that was a minor victory in itself.
Orangier nodded his approval, his leg still in the air. He examined Ben with a determined glint in his eye. “Well done, Mr. Umber! Let’s spike the difficulty and see if you can handle it, shall we?” He reassumed his stance and said, “Bolster.”
With a renewed surge of strength, Orangier unleashed a barrage of punches upon him, each delivered with pinpoint accuracy and devastating force. Ben focused on his own spell, making sure to maintain it for as long as he could. His movements became more measured as he retreated one step at a time under the ceaseless assault.
“Inaction can also prove to be your undoing, Mr. Umber! What will you do now?” Orangier’s voice cut through the howling din caused by his barrage of fists.
He knew that he was being underestimated. Orangier probably thought he was waiting for the perfect moment to escape. Ben decided to take a gamble on that presumption and beat him at his own game.
As he received the onslaught unabated, he furtively prepared to surprise him by going on the offensive. He titled his head to the side with an unexpected motion and evaded one of Orangier’s punches. Now’s my chance!
“Bol—”
Crack. Ben’s defenses faltered, and the spell ended; a fist pummeled his face with a bone-crushing sound. A painful throb exploded behind his eyes as he hurtled to the ground, incapacitated.
Orangier proclaimed himself the winner of the first round, but Ben could barely make sense of what he said. “Well fought, Mr. Umber! Not good enough yet, though. We better take a moment of respite, hm?”
The wave of pain subsided, and he touched his nose with two tentative fingers. There was a little blood coming from one nostril, but nothing to be panicked about.
He shook his head as he got to his feet, wiping the trickling blood with the back of his hand. “I think I’m ready for round two.”
“Oh-ho! You may not be a warrior yet, but you’re a fighter, alright. Round two, it is. What about using weapons on this occasion?”
“Fine by me,” Ben said, and he pulled the wyrdknife from its sheath. He held it sideways and put one hand over it. The dagger elongated into a dull-bladed sword. Sparring couldn’t be outright fatal. Orangier protruded a pair of lightweight knuckle dusters and fit them into his fingers, which he waggled in anticipation.
They assumed their positions for the next bout, this time taking alternate sides. The customary bow came, and they immediately plunged once more into the fray. Ben took the initiative this time around in order to beat Orangier to the punch.
“Quicken!” came the opening spell, and the sorcerers shimmered with alacrity. Ben swung the sword before he dashed behind the opponent—once he did and regained focus, the edge of his blade was already upon its mark.
Too easy, came a belated inner alarm. Orangier expected him with a devilish smile. Like an ogre. He clenched his right hand into a fist and drove the knuckle duster upward straight into the blade’s side, which made it quiver astray. Without wasting momentum, he then shot his free hand straight at Ben.
Ben knew that getting caught would result in the round being done then and there. It was time to pull no punches. He drew in the flow of magic and prepared to use his triumph card. “Repel, Void Push!”
He pointed the highspell at Orangier’s chest in the hope of shoving him across the room, but he immediately retracted his strike as soon as Ben began to cast and slithered away from the trajectory. The force of Void Push instead flung Ben away, midair as he was. He landed opposite his teacher and brandished the sword at him.
“Hey, we never stated that highspells were allowed!” Orangier chided.
Ben clicked his tongue in annoyance. “The bout was fruitless, highspell included. Stop complaining, old man.”
“Maybe Sybil oughta teach you a thing or two on the topic of highspells,” Orangier taunted, getting into a fighting stance. “Let’s call that the end of the second round and a draw. Ready whenever you are for the next bout.”
Orangier’s jeer provoked Ben. The pace at which Sybil had grown as a sorcerer in a single month was impossible to emulate. She was expanding her grimoire every other day, while he still struggled to learn armspell basics.
Of course, she was Blake, and he shouldn’t be comparing himself to her, but he couldn’t help it; it was a competitive part of him he didn’t know he had possessed until now.
Maybe Sybil ought to teach you a thing or two on the topic of high spells, Ben echoed in his head. An idea snapped into place, and he grinned. Maybe she already has.
That very morning, while they ate breakfast in the dining room, Ben told Sybil of his problems mastering Bolster. She asked what he had done to master Void Push and to do the same with the armspell. Ben had struck the idea as unviable. They belonged to two different schools of sorcery, after all.
Desperate times require desperate measures, though. Ben extended the sword horizontally and pointed the tip at his opponent. “This round is mine,” he declared.
“Come and claim it, then,” Orangier retorted, inviting the challenge.
Use the principles of highspells to cast an armspell. Easier said that done. He thought of his arm in its entirety, down to the tips of his fingers—wherein he ended and the sword began. Ben focused his eyes on the transformed weapon between his fingers: its pommel, its hilt, and its blade.
What did I do about Void Push, huh? He worked on Quicken and Fortify and realized the self-preservation factor was an aspect they shared. That’s what he did. In the end, wasn’t the very act of said highspell rejection in its purest form? To push away from the caster. He also now knew it was gravity magic, which gave him a better understanding of its nature.
As he furiously preoccupied himself with such thoughts, Orangier sprinted at him. He was almost a blur, even though he wasn’t magically boosted. A tinge of desperation influenced Ben as he prepared to cast, when black sparks suddenly emanated from the sword and zapped him, the electricity tightening his grip.
Ben lost control as shadows coalesced and coated his arm and wyrdknife, forming a writhing tentacle that surged towards Orangier as if animated by its own will. Ben felt suddenly drained, and his vision was slightly blurred. Where had he seen such a thing in the past?
His eyes widened as realization dawned on him. He’d seen Miss Toadwart use such a spell before, back in Dunport-Salem. He fell on one knee as it continued to leech on to his vitality.
Orangier pivoted as the shadelimb pounced on him, barely getting out of the way. However, it swiveled without losing speed and instinctively homed on its target. The shadelimb struck Orangier directly in the chest and slammed him against the floor.
Ben couldn’t take it anymore. He was about to pass out. In that moment, the shadelimb dissipated into thin air, and the wyrdknife clanged into the ground, returning to its original form.
What had just happened? He stared at the palm of his hand, which shook violently. Ben turned to Orangier, who coughed as he struggled to his feet. He let out a sigh of relief and felt silly to worry about him. It would take more than that to defeat the butler.
“Interesting turn of events,” Orangier said amidst groans, the very act of speaking visibly hurting him. “Interesting indeed. I concede the final round to you, by the way. The sparring session ends in your victory, which is encouraging progress over your usual string of defeats.”
“That was a cursespell.” Ben blurted out, stupefied.
“Aye. That it was. That relic of yours, witches forged it; and from what I’ve seen, you seldom part ways with it. I’d advise you to do so now and then. And do not go off using that trick in front of crowds, eh? Cursespells are mostly banned by the Treaties, but things being what they are, we must at times use every tool at our disposal.”
Ben’s gaze fixed on the wyrdknife as it lay on the ground. His mind raced with questions, but the answers would come later. He picked it up and put it back in its sheath.
“We’re done with training for today,” Orangier declared. “Clear your mind off, Mr. Umber. Why don’t you pay Sybil and Wilhelm a visit? They should still be there, and it’d prove a sure distraction.”
“Right. Will do. Thank you, teacher.” Ben said vacantly as he bowed, occupied with other thoughts. A cursespell, he pondered. There’s no such thing as bad progress, is there? He gathered his scant belongings, and left the courtyard behind Orangier. An ominous mood clasped heavily over him.