Rotten Magic (The Artifice Mage Saga 0.5)

  ROTTEN MAGIC

  Jeffrey Bardwell

  Published by Twigboat Press

  Copyright © 2017 Jeffrey Bardwell

  ISBN-10: 1-943289-12-3

  ISBN-13: 978-1-943289-12-7

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s wild imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to another person.

  Cover Art designed by Rebecca Frank

  The Artifice Mage Saga

  Rotten Magic

  Broken Wizards

  Hidden Revolt

  Riven Kingdoms

  Sudden Prophet

  Barren Power

  Dedicated as my very own message in a bottle

  to my recluse high school friend, Patrick L.

  With fond memories of many, many,

  pleasant arguments critiquing

  our favorite fantasy novels.

  Then we lost touch.

  Miss you, Pat.

  Cheers!

  JB

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Artifice Mage Saga

  Dedication

  Notes from the Artificer's Guild

  Devin, Year 491

  Devin, Year 491

  Devin, Year 491

  Devin, Year 491

  Devin, Year 491

  Devin, Year 491

  Next: Broken Wizards

  Newsletter Sign Up

  Glossary of Esoterica

  Character Compendium

  The Author

  NOTES FROM THE ARTIFICER'S GUILD

  No spring is ever wound quite so tight as an apprentice on the verge of becoming a journeyman. This is not the calm facade he presents to the public and it is imperative when that fateful day arrives, you young imps remember to maintain the dignitas and decorum expected of those wishing to enter the Guild Hall as boys and exit as men. But be wary of the danger maintaining such an illusion amongst your friends while you fall to pieces in private. The guild is first and foremost a team of peers. Use that support and thrive. Always remember this vital lesson as you proceed through your own apprenticeships and those springs begin to tighten. Lest the spring snap.

  DEVIN, YEAR 491

  Devin peeked through his bedroom window, spying on the Black Guard patrolling the streets below. In this case, 'patrolling' meant squatting on his helmet at the street corner, prying the crotch flap open with one steel wrapped finger, and scratching his balls. Giving that lout a suit of awesome Drake Mechanical Armor Mark 2 was like strapping a fancy, black corset on a pig: a corset hiding gears and springs and levers.

  The youth didn't know what the inside of the mechanism looked like, but he could describe the outer latches in intimate detail. The spiral-threaded mobius bolt that disengaged the outer plates was particularly fascinating. Devin had never seen the armor up close of course, but he knew it used a mobius bolt by the way the guard's fat sausage fingers twisted in a clumsy figure eight before popping the plate loose to piss on the wall.

  Huzzah for the city's boys in black, an oily voice whispered in his mind. Chasing mages and evildoers all over the place. If they only knew.

  Devin shook his head. The voices were getting worse, but he didn't dare tell anyone. His mother would say he was breaking under the strain. Maybe even pull him from the Artificer's Guild. What would the guild say? And that wasn't the worst secret. He glanced out the window again before pulling the drapes closed.

  Satisfied the guard's attention was occupied, Devin twisted the nozzle on the gas lamp mounted on the wall until the barest of blue flickers illuminated the dark room. He wrinkled his nose as he leaned over the lamp and ran a finger down the pipe that fed the lamp. The gas always smelled of rotten eggs. The village used candles made from beeswax which burned brighter and cleaner. Even the candles' light was more wholesome and they always smelled like fresh honey. Lost in his memories of the simple village life, the youth took a deep breath and got a lungful of sulfur.

  Devin stared at the gas lamp. Can't even find wax candles here, he thought. The merchants won't stock them. There's no market for candles in the city. In his mind, it was always 'the city.' It didn't deserve a name. It wasn't really . . . a home was a place where you ate dinner and worked and read by candlelight. He glanced from the gas lamp on the wall to its cousin sitting on the desk: the oil lamp. If the gas lamp was merely a metal box of vapor connecting to a tube in the wall, the oil lamp was hardly a step up to a real machine: just a wick dipped in a pot of oil with a fancy glass flue on top. A simple gear raised and lowered the wick.

  An artificer pining for candlesticks? a second voice scoffed in Devin's head. How absurd. And what is wrong with a simple machine? All this time spent crafting a device to light a bit of wax and braided cotton nobody uses anymore. Your complex designs and metal frippery will be the ruin of you. While the first voice always reminded Devin of a greasy handshake, the second voice felt like a firm and sturdy grip, more wholesome, like candles. In the privacy of his thoughts, Devin had taken called the first voice 'the mage' and the second voice 'the artificer.'

  Devin took a deep breath, feeling his chest swell as he focused and silenced both voices. Not the voices, not even the lack of candles will ruin this day. Master Huron is finally . . .

  Devin's concentration broke as his little sister bounced up and down on the bed, pulling her brother's focus back to her where it belonged. “Gonna do it? Gonna do that special thing you do?”

  “Am I going to do it? Yes. The time is nigh.” Devin wagged his finger. “Only babies and barbarians say 'gonna,' Misera. You're not a barbarian, are you?”

  “Yes I am,” his sister grunted and growled in her adorable approximations of barbarian noises. “Momma said I was a barbarian this morning for picking up my syrup and fritters with my fingers.” She waved her sticky digits proudly and then started licking them.

  “Stop that. Go wash your hands.”

  “Mama didn't catch me,” she said between licks. “You won't neither.” She grunted again.

  “A barbarian is not something one aspires to become,” Devin clucked, swatting his sister's fingers. “It is not an appropriate occupation for little women.”

  “Don't wanna be an artsy facer,” Misera said, kicking one of the random bits of machinery littering the room.

  “Artificer,” Devin ground between his teeth, moving the machinery away from her inquisitive, little toes. “I swear you mispronounce that one on purpose. You don't have to work with machines like I do. You should have years to find a guild to learn a trade you love . . . unless they snap you up early.”

  “Like you,” Misera cried gleefully, clapping her hands. She frowned as they stuck together.

  “Yes, like me.” Devin sat on the bed and cradled his sister, absently rocking one of the half-completed metal projects with his big toe.

  “I could join the Cademy.” Misera said, stretching to hug him. Devin shied away from the girl's sticky embrace. “Be a red sodder or a black gourd or a gold mat.”

  “Red Soldier. Black Guard. Gold Diplomat. Well, you've learned your colors at least.” Devin sighed, ticking them off on his fingers. “I suppose you could do that if Mom didn't haul you off to the Atrium
of Justice, first.”

  Misera's eyes widened and her cheeks turned bone white. “She woodin'.”

  Devin smiled. His sister was in for a nasty surprise when she left his room with those sticky hands. He envisioned his mother lying in wait at the bottom of the stairs with a set of manacles, a stiff brush, and a bucket of soapy water. Not a woman easily thwarted. “If it was that or her daughter joining the Imperial Academy? In a trice, Sis.” He reached over and scissored her little nose between two fingers. “They'd chop that little bit off first,” he whispered.

  “Don't wanna join the Cademy,” Misera shrieked, covering her nose with both hands.

  “Settle down.” Devin held up his hands. The last thing he needed was his mother bursting into the room right now. “Settle down or I won't show you the special thing. I need to go soon anyways.”

  “Gonna go to the good hale again?” Misera asked.

  “Yes, I am going to the Guild Hall again. Like I do every morning,” Devin said, smacking his forehead. Maybe if she saw a real barbarian, she wouldn't persist in talking with that horrible accent? She'd get a kick out of their colorful red and black tattoos if nothing else. But it might encourage her bad habits. When did I see the last caravan roll through? Barb speech! Mom would never have let me get away with that.

  Misera reached her fingers up and poked his nose. She reeked of syrup and juice. “Wish you didn't hafta go, Devi. Momma still teaches awesome classes.”

  “Me, too, squirt. But not the right classes.” Devin said, spreading his arms and falling backwards onto the bed. Misera giggled and aped his movements.

  The Artificer’s Guild always got what it wanted and they wanted Devin. They demanded his family relocate to the city. They enrolled the youth in his apprenticeship early for his impressive skills. His mother and sister were thrilled. Devin was not. Entering the Guild Hall was a dream come true, but the city was harder to love. It was a cacophony of screeches and bellows and whistles and schedules. It took in raw materials: eggs, flour, glass, and steel and churned out bread and sweet rolls and girders and green houses. The city was like a machine, but all the gears were people. He chuckled. Some of the screws were people, too. And he loved machines, but he had never wanted to live inside of one.

  The Guild Hall was his sanctuary. Over the years, Devin had thrived in his apprenticeship, but now it was time to move up. Becoming a journeymen was one step closer to becoming a master, and then they could live in a place of peace and quiet away from these wretched slums.

  The youth groaned as he reviewed his schedule. Surely when he became a journeymen, things wouldn't be so hectic? Class time with the other apprentices in the morning. Machine shop time in the afternoon. Family time in the evening. No Devin time. His projects sat neglected. And when was the last time he played games with Misera?

  “You gonna play the dragon game today?” Misera wrapped herself around his arm. “I don't like it when you play the dragon game. You come home all scruffy and Momma yells at you.”

  Devin clenched his fist and pumped it in the air. “It isn't a game, Missi. It's a competition among apprentices, a challenge. The greatest challenge.”

  She stuck out her tongue. “But you always lose.”

  “I'm working on something special for my journeyman's piece. I'll show you when it's done. I'll win the competition then. I will win over the entire Guild Hall. I will win everything. You'll see.”

  “Kay. If you say so.” Misera climbed off the bed and gave him one of her twisted shoulder shrugs which loosely translated as: 'I think you're lying to me, but I can't tell for sure and I still love you 'cause you're my brother.' It was similar to the 'you're full of shit, but you're family' gesture she gave their mother when the woman insisted that white clouds were really made of vanilla cotton candy. Outside the home classroom, Mom tended to give her imagination free reign.

  “You see that rock on the desk over there?” Devin pointed to the corner of the room.

  “That's not a rock. It's a pebble, Devi,” Misera said.

  “And what color is the pebble?” Devin asked.

  “Orangey-reddish-yella?” His sister scratched her head.

  “Ochre,” Devin corrected gently. “I don't think Mom has taught you ochre, yet.”

  “It's not an ogre. It's a rock.” Misera giggled. “Ogres don't turn into rocks unless the sun's out. You pulled the curtains, so nyah!”

  “Do you know where they put little girls who sass their big brothers?” Devin said in a sing song voice. “Atrium of Justice. They'll cut your tongue off, too. Better hide it.”

  Misera's eyes grew wide. She clamped her jaw shut.

  “Still want to see me do the thing?” Devin asked, reaching under his sister's wet armpits and lifting her back onto the bed. Less sharp, pointy metal bits up there.

  Jaw still clamped, Misera nodded, tousling her long, blonde hair. She grabbed her knees and rocked on the bed, eyes fixated on her brother.

  Devin patted his sister's head. “The room is closed. The lights are dimmed. Time for your big brother to work his magic.” Devin grabbed a cover sheet draped over a shape in the corner and twirled it around his shoulders. “Behold!” He raised his arm and wiggled his fingers.

  Slowly, the pebble wobbled on the table like a loose cobble. Then it rose unsteadily into the air as if on a rickety, invisible hydraulic lift. Devin clenched his fist. The stone pushed up towards the ceiling. Two seasons of practice and the most he could do was raise and lower it. At least it entertained his sister. And glowed. He could make the stone glow red hot. Sweat beaded from the youth's forehead as the quivering pebble began to pulse and iridesce.

  “Devin,” his mother screamed up the stairs. “Aren't you ready, yet?”

  Devin turned his head. His raised arm followed. The stone swung wide, shallow arc and smashed into the oil lamp. Devin could only watch helpless as random calculations for the reaction of oxygen, fire, and dragon liver oil shot through his mind.

  The volatile fuel ignited, transforming the cheap desk lamp into a weak, tin bomb. Devin turned to protect Misera when the room exploded.

  Shards of metal and glass spewed across the room as the vessel and the lampshade disintegrated in a loud, concussive blast. Devin hugged his sister, syrupy embrace be damned, and threw her low on the bed. The bedroom window shattered. The youth leaned close, shielding the little girl with his body and covering her ears as tiny, painful daggers pinned the shirt and pants to his flesh and lodged in his hair.

  Thank the five gods that rock missed the gas lines, Devin thought, numb as he checked his sister for injuries and then sat up, wincing. After verifying Misera was unharmed and glancing out the broken window, the youth clasped his hands, trigger fingers pointing towards the heavens, and thanked the five golds nobody was injured in the accident. Then, he tweezed the pesky shards from his butt and contemplated the lamp's destruction. The curtain fluttered in the breeze and street noises filtered through the window frame. What if I lose control again? He glanced at the gas main on the wall. Better cap that.

  It's not the gas main that needs capping, the artificer groused. Seal the magic instead.

  Let the magic flow, the mage grinned. Who needs puny gas lighting when you can create fire in your hands?

  Devin ignored the voices as he stared at the ruins of the oil lamp. Mom will never believe I didn't blow up the stupid thing on purpose. Not after all my griping about how much I missed candles last night. Well, it's not like I haven't blown things up before. I doubt the corner cop will even twitch. Wonder if she'll let me walk back to the village now and buy some proper beeswax taper candles? They never exploded.

  Devin pressed a hand to his sister's chest. Misera's tiny heart was still fluttering. He ran a finger through her hair. “You're safe, Missi. You're safe,” he crooned as the flutter eased. “What are we going to tell Mom?”

  “Ass dent,” she said, smiling. “Esplody lamp was a misery to me.”

  “Accident,” her brother murmured, wrappi
ng her in a warm embrace. “And it was a mystery to you. Don't think for a moment Mom won't realize I'm coaching you.”

  She squeezed him back. “You're a nice coach, Devi.” Then she stood on the bed and imperiously waved to the bedroom door, which had somehow survived the blast. “Now get gone to the good hale afore Ma' yell achoo again.”

  Devin shook his head and bowed to the tiny barbarian empress. Where does she pick up these things?

  As Devin walked to the Guild Hall, he saw a city lackey in gray coveralls rolling a new poster on the walls. The youth critiqued it on artistic merit; the prose was nothing new. “Danger! Protect your children. Your next door neighbor could be . . . a mage.” A woman huddled over her two crying infants, gripping an iron pan while a large man in a gaudy cloak menaced them from the corner, his arms unnaturally extended and arching over the scene. The curls on his head formed the suggestion of dragon horns, his fingernails looked like claws, his pupils yellow slits, and his teeth black fangs.

  Devin grinned. What, no majestic scales or flaming breath today? More subtle than the usual fare.

  There is nothing subtle about magic, the artificer snorted. Not a suitable occupation for anyone of note.

  And you think twisting bits of metal is majestic? the mage cried. You merely bend steel bars to your will. I bend the frame of the universe.

  The Guild Hall was a large, ancient building in the South District. It was an imposing structure, fit for the masters of machinery. It was quite a distance from the slums in the North. But he wouldn't have to walk across town every day forever.

  Devin glanced to the east at the mansions and their lush, verdant lawns as he passed through the market in the center of town. Some day, he would be a Master Artificer and they could afford to live someplace nice. These city aspirations conflicted slightly with the wry observations of a stalwart village youth that devoting all that space to a large house was wasteful and all that green grass really needed some sheep and pigs.