2
Wizard or not, I still feel fear when
surrounded by darkness. Having a pair of firearms doesn’t change anything when
you know deep down that your prey is unaffected by both darkness and bullets. I
stood very still as my eyes, slowly adjusting to the darkness, picked up subtle
hints of movement. A twitch here, a jerk there. I willed my magic right into my
guns and I opened fire at the closest hint of movement. All hell broke loose,
as flashes of red from my enhanced bullets showed giant reptilian figures
scurrying around and running up walls. Angry hisses surrounded me, and I knew
there and then that if I did not kill these monsters soon the predator could
very easily become the prey.
There exist several
types of magic but they essentially boil down to two: Wizards can simply wave
their hands, say some words, and something happens. Or they can use channels.
Channels can be just about anything: guns, knives, swords, bows and arrows.
There is a downside, however: Everyday objects made by everyday people are too
brittle to handle any real power.
So when I fired off
more rounds and saw that I was getting nowhere, I decided to switch tactics
before my guns disintegrated from sheer pressure. I holstered them with
practiced ease and grasped the handle of my short sword, unsheathing a
double-edged blade half a meter in length. The moment my fingers wrapped around
its leather-wrapped hilt the blade glowed a faint azure hue.
Unlike my pistols,
the short sword is perfect for magical channeling. Its main feature is the
aura, or life force, of a Jinn fused into the weapon itself. I affectionately
named the sword Djinn and it has been my faithful companion for years.
The Lizardmen’s
hisses grew louder as the blue light hit them, and they retreated deeper into
the safety of the shadows. Relishing my victory, I poured even more energy into
the blade and held it high. The faint hue became a blazing explosion of light.
I approached the two Lizardmen in front of me, now clearly visible, and held
the blade in front of me like a shield. The giant reptiles thrashed in writhing
agony and their hisses decreased in octaves to become mewling chirps,
reminiscent of those of newborn birds.
My victory was
short-lived.
Feeling danger
approaching from behind, I dropped and rolled to my left just in time to avoid
the clawed swipe of a third monster. My momentum carried me to the other side
of the room and, even at that distance, I stabbed in my assailant’s direction.
The short sword’s blade elongated disproportionately, skewering the giant
lizard and embedding its tip in the wall behind it. I cancelled the spell,
reverting the blade back to its original form, and spun and scanned the room
for the two remaining monsters. I spotted one at the far end of the corridor,
scurrying in retreat. I reversed the grip on Djinn, holding it point downward,
and swiped with all my might, slashing the distance between me and my quarry. A
crescent-shaped wave of blue energy erupted from my blade and streaked toward
the lizard, bifurcating it. I smiled at my second victory.
Momentarily letting
my guard down.
Too late, my senses
warned me of danger as I felt a mighty blow on my right side, which knocked me
into a door, crashing me inside a dimly-illuminated classroom.
The monster, erect on
two legs, hissed furiously and stormed into the classroom after me.
I groped for Djinn
and found nothing. “Crap, crap, crap, crap,” I cursed, each word louder than
the one before it. I pulled out my pistols and started squeezing their triggers
at the Lizardman—which was nearly on top of me—pouring every ounce of magical
aura into the guns and the bullets it was firing. After what seemed like a
year, I opened my eyes and saw a dead Lizardman splayed on the ground, its head
resting comfortably between my legs.
“That went well,” I
muttered in relief as I retrieved Djinn. A series of deep breaths helped my
racing heartbeat to regain its normal tempo. I made it back to the pitch-black
corridor and prayed that that was the last of the Lizardmen.
I noticed the
telltale signs of a spell cast only in the corridor, a spell meant to coat the
entire area in darkness. It also served as a dampener, reducing one’s sense of
smell, sight, and sound. Lizardmen, which used their heat-seeking abilities,
just like a snake, would not be hindered by the enchantment. This magic was
clearly meant for any unfortunate idiot who happened to stumble in.
There are many ways
to counter a spell. A subtle and cunning magician would simply dismantle a
spell covering this wide an area. The trick is finding the right component to
remove and such things require patience and subtlety—two things with which I
was never compatible. Brute force, on the other hand, was second nature to me.
For the second time,
I raised Djinn high above my head, holding it as if it were a trophy and I the
athlete who had just won it. I poured as much energy as I could into it, making
the blade glow intensely. Blue became white and after a few seconds, hot,
searing, smiting, supernova light pushed back against the swallowing darkness
of the spell, although I had to shut my eyes; the luminosity was too painful.
Atmospheric pressure dipped and my ears popped. And then it was over. The
pressure dropped, and both light and darkness vanished, leaving behind a
ringing silence broken only by my panting breath. Natural light hit the walls,
revealing a very mediocre paint job. My hearing picked up things that had been
dulled out before: the chirping of birds, the distinct, tense orders from the
police officers outside. And the muffled whimpering of children. I followed the
latter sound, turning around corners and running down adjacent corridors, until
I came to a plain, wooden door. I placed one hand on it and extended my
supernatural senses as I closed my eyes, groping for any hint of a foreign
aura.
Behind the door were
fourteen spastic and scared aura bundles, presumably belonging to the children.
They were huddled in a corner to the right. Directly in front of the door, as
if it were some grotesque bouncer, was a jagged and sharp aura, vibrating at an
erratic pace and swirling in unnatural patterns. Its shape, color, and texture
was completely different from that of the children. This was the aura of the
final Lizardman.
I willed my eyes open
and blocked my aura-sensing, trying to replace the image of the swirling and
erratic blob of energy with the image of a giant lizard. I did not plan on
facing it in combat. If I made a single error, one of those kids could end up
suffering and that was unacceptable in my book. So I calculated the position of
the monster and pointed Djinn at where I assumed its chest would be. I placed
Djinn’s tip on the cheap wooden door and channeled my own aura into the sword,
which promptly elongated for the second time. The azure blade shot through the
door and embedded itself inside the Lizardman’s sternum, skewering and pushing
it farther back into the room. Releasing the spell, I opened the door and was
greeted with the satisfying sight of a giant bipedal lizard thrashing
agonizingly on the ground before stopping abruptly and remaining still.
I sheathed my sword
and spun to face the kids, just to make sure that none of them were hurt.
Ignoring their looks of awe and bewilderment, I turned my back on them and took
out my cellphone.
The air in front of
me popped and a Lizardman materialized out of thin air. I froze and stared at
it, eyes wide open. This one was clearly different from the others. Its hide
was a different shade of gray, lighter and milkier. Its eyes shone yellow and
were shaped like a cat’s, rather than a reptile’s. Its joints were more slender
and its muscles more wiry, perfect for speed attacks. Its tail, which,
according to the few depictions I’ve read, Lizardmen used as a sort of
counter-balance to aid them walk on their hind legs, was shorter and stouter,
as if its owner had evolved beyond the purpose of needing a tail. Its long
snout was considerably shorter, as was its neck. But the real danger was the
claws. The unusually straight, sharp claws it bore on each hand were serrated
on one side.
Nature had already
given Lizardmen all they needed to survive; the claws, the teeth, the thick
skin, and tail. There simply was no need to evolve. To my knowledge, none ever
had serrated claws, or indeed any of the features that this particular specimen
bore. I realized with morbid horror that those serrations were self-inflicted.
The monster’s crocodile smile widened and it dawned on me that this monster,
unlike its primal brethren, was intelligent.
Then with a blur it
plunged one clawed hand into my chest.
As I fell onto my
knees and onto the ground, I thought, Did
that giant gecko just chuckle at me?
__________________________________
Any normal person, wizard or not,
would have been dead by then. Yet, despite losing half my blood I was still
conscious and relatively rational. But, I am not just any normal wizard. I was
born under a family curse, one which so far has only affected me.
Well, that’s not
entirely true. My twin sister, was affected by it, but she got the good side of
it.
Maybe I should start
at the beginning. My ancestors were not the Merlin-type wizards. They were
old-school warlocks and in those times none of the laws existed which govern us
today. Modern warlocks abide by a golden rule: Do not tamper with other realms.
We can watch, observe, study. But my ancestors took it a step further. They
marched from dimension to dimension in search of knowledge and power—until they
met a power which could stop them. I don’t know who, or what, they pissed off,
but after a century of realm-plundering, they stopped abruptly. Later
generations realized that they were cursed. No one asked why or how. The
subject is still considered a taboo in the Ashendale bloodline. That is, until
my sister and I were born.
My sister has an
affinity for most branches of magic, whereas most wizards have at most two or
three, making her nothing short of a genius; a brilliant tactician, wizard, and
leader. Her only drawback is that, albeit knowing all these powerful spells,
she does not have the raw energy necessary to perform half of them.
That is my side of
the bargain. I am cursed with a titanic aura; energy levels which rate way off
the scale. In terms of magical energy, very few people can actually come close
to what I have. The downside is that my own energy is too much for me to
control. Thanks to this, I am unable to cast any spells on my own, requiring
the constant use of a channel in order to do magic. It is only recently, after
nearly two decades of intense training and rigorous concentration exercises
that I have become able to conjure up the weakest of spells without some horrible
punishment. It took a lifetime of training and discipline in order for me to
produce just enough flame to burn a cigarette. I wouldn’t dare use any more on
my own. The after-effects are too great. It starts with pain; the bigger the
spell, the more intense the pain. I can handle the pain; it’s that feeling of
slowly fading away, as if your very soul is being doused and torn. I never
tried going past that feeling. I’ve heard too many stories about overzealous
wizards spontaneously combusting or melting into a puddle of goo. At best I
would lose my mind.
There is one upside
to my condition, however, that has proven to be very useful in my line of work.
My body is constantly regenerating itself, healing the daily collections of
scrapes, cuts, and bruises, as well as the occasional bullet or claw wound,
almost instantly. My magic is strong enough for me to automatically heal my
body with enough raw power left over to cast very taxing spells repeatedly and
without fatigue. Already magical energy had gathered around the hole in my
chest, reducing blood loss and regenerating tissue. Pain coursed through my
body, but it passed as quickly as it came. The super Lizardman had barely taken
four steps toward the cowering kids before I’d gathered enough strength to get up
and point both Berettas at it.
“Hey, ugly,” I said.
My voice was calm but every word oozed ethereal power as if I were possessed by
the spirit of an arcane deity.
The Lizardman spun,
poised to attack.
I squeezed both
triggers at an inhuman pace, forcing the guns to spit magically-enhanced lead
at a rate that no human could ever achieve. The shrapnel tore the Lizardman’s
body to shreds. With a blood-curdling scream, its corpse disintegrated into
dust with the same pop that was audible when it had magically appeared.
Detective March chose
that exact moment to burst into the room through the window and in seconds the
room was littered with police.
“Nice job, er— Holy
shit,” Roland exclaimed as he pointed at my guns.
I raised them to eye
level and examined the damage. The barrels had completely melted and molten
steel was dripping down like water. “How the hell?” I remarked as I emptied the
guns from any bullets, and tentatively pulled their triggers. As I did so, both
pistols simply exploded into a million pieces, leaving me standing there with
nothing but a pair of nearly broken grips. I looked up and saw the entire
population of the room staring at me, shaking their heads in disbelief. I
glanced at the nearest police officer, a blonde female. “I’m too hot to
handle.” I winked at her.
She blushed and
scowled before scurrying out of the room.
It was Roland’s turn
to shake his head. “Don’t bother. Every single cop in this town has heard
stories about you,” he said as he patted my back mockingly.
“All good stories, I
hope.”
“Good stories, yes.
Funny ones. But none of them picture you in a good way,” he said, no longer
trying to hide his amusement.
I sighed. “Then
they’re probably true.”
