Battlemage (Part I) (414 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1 on 14 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Anthony Locascio (View user info) at 2006-11-15 21:33:58 EST
Figured 9 pages was too much for you ADHD bastards, so I split it up some.
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Oath of the Battlemage:
I embrace the sword, that I may cut true.
I embrace the spell, that I may weave power.
I embrace justice, that I may have purpose.
I set aside hate, vengeance, and self-gain.
I reject the petty, the greedy, the vain.
I defend the good and the like of mind.
I will draw sword and spell that they be safe.
I will die to destroy evil
I will live to create good
So it shall be, all of my life, until I am no more
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The hunchback made his way up the stairs as best he could. He hated the stairs - it made his joints creak, and the tight spiral of the tower made him claustrophobic. He would not complain today though. Today there would be death, and death was one thing that would countenance no complaints.
The heavy oak door at the top was adorned with glyphs and symbols. Most were shielding wards, meant protect the rest of the castle from the magical energies that would be produced during private experimentation. Others were protection wards, meant to prevent intruders from entering. These were the oldest, and the most crudely done, the work of a wizard who had yet to grow his beard. He knocked twice, firmly and respectfully, to keep them from going off. In theory, any fewer or more knocks would send the uninvited guest packing in a hail of small lightning bolts, but the hunchback knew secretly that these first runes, carved thirty years ago to the day, would only produce a weak smattering of sparks.
The door opened, revealing a tall man with a thick, bushy brown beard that reached the upper part of his chest. He was thick through the shoulders, and where his hand pulled back the latch, a forearm of corded muscle stood out.
"Hello, Grom," he said gravely.
"Mathter thent Grom to bring thee, thir," the hunchback said dutifully.
"Come in, I will be ready in a moment."
Grom hesitantly limped forward. He had rarely been invited into the rooms of either the master or the apprentice, and he was unsure. The chamber was sparse - a bed, some candles for nighttime reading, and a large double-door wardrobe. Other things had adorned the chamber over the years - the toys of a child, the artwork and drawings of a growing teen. The mature wizard had over time shed these trappings, and now his room was largely bare except for his books.
"Grom mutht bring Thalantir to Mathter at once," the hunchback said quietly, scratching his back and head to conceal his nervousness. "Grom mutht hurry."
"Yes Grom, we will go," Thalantir replied. He waved his hand gently and the wardrobe opened. Out floated the robes of his tradition. He had worn them only once before, and that was when he first received them. They were similar to an ordinary wizard's robes, but they clinked audibly when he took them in his hands. The inner portions of the midnight blue, shimmering garment were reinforced with chainmail. He had, over the years, endowed it with enchantments to turn aside maces and clubs and even had one nifty spell he'd concocted to bend the light around him, making him more difficult to see. After thirty years of instruction, he'd learned a number of more useful spells that would make him fully invisible, but he had created this particular one himself at a young age, and was quite proud of it.
Floating after the garment was a heavy broadsword. It was a simple enough weapon, with a plain iron crosspiece and a carbuncle set in the pommel. He gripped the leather-wrapped handle in his calloused hand and swung it easily a few times before belting it around his waist. Grom flinched slightly when he did so - there had been many drills over the years that he had been "volunteered" for, generally consisting of spearing an apple off of his head with one swift lunge, or slicing a melon in half as he held it in his outstretched hand.
"Grom..."He began. The hunchback did not move, only tilted his head slightly. "Grom, can he win?"
"Mathter is very powerful, thir," Grom replied, scratching his head again.
"Yes, but that's not what I asked. You've been with him for even longer than I have. Can he win?"
"Mathter is motht powerful," Grom replied again.
"I have been around here long enough to know that you are not stupid Grom. You know what I am asking."
Grom scratched his head. "Ygrixius was mathter's apprentith, once. Apprentith can not defeat the mathter."
The wizard sighed and ruffled a hand through his hair. "Yes, but this is not an ordinary apprentice. This is Ygrixius. He blasted the dragon of Saint Francis Isle into nothingness. He was responsible for driving back the demon horde sent by the Hell Chapel. He destroyed the Bone Citadel and the Black Cathedral. I know you respect the master, but he has never left the Castle of the Rock. He's never done what Ygrixius has done. I'm...afraid for him Grom."
"Mathter is very old, thir," Grom said, apparently unconcerned. "He hath....many deeds before the old appretith. Many. They may have been forgotten, but they are no leth great."
"I hope so, Grom. I hope so. Let us go."
Thalantir followed the hunchback down the steps. He kept a hand on the hilt of the sword, but reminded himself repeatedly that he was forbidden to draw it. The rules of a wizard's duel were inviolate, and to break them would bring terrible pain on all involved, most especially himself.
The Castle of the Rock was the same as it was any other day - dreary-looking but made warm and inviting by the roaring hearth and bright lights. In thirty years, he had never seen a torch changed, or the fire stoked, not that it surprised him at all. Of the many things he had learned, to make a fire burn was the least of them. He turned to Grom.
"Wait here. I'll get him."
He made his way up the spiral stair to his master's room with dread. He had climbed these steps only once before, on legs that were much shorter. The heavy oak door at the top would have appeared blank to an ordinary man, but it was very obvious to Thalantir the number of protective wards that had been placed on it. He reached a hand up to knock, but the metal latch clunked and the door opened before he could touch it.
He was amazed to see his master's room was nearly identical to his own, bare except a shelf stuffed with books, a bed, and a wardrobe that looked as though it had been carved out of the same stone the rest of the castle was made of. Waiting expectantly, was the stooped body of his old master. He was bent with age, leaning heavily on his staff, his white beard reaching almost to his knees. Old or not, an aura of power surrounded him.
"You are late. I expected you several minutes ago," he harrumphed. Thalantir had learned not to argue - had he been early, his master would have made an issue of it regardless. "Help an old man on with his cloak, yes?"
"Yes master,"
He opened the door to the wardrobe. The robes within were far different than his own, looking for all the world as though they had been woven from pure metal, but softer than silk. He had no doubt that the garment would turn aside swords as well magic with ease. The old wizard spread his arms behind him and shrugged the robes on.
"Master, I ask that you allow me to fight him," he said quietly. He had expected a sharp rebuke, but the old man merely laughed his raspy laugh.
"You fight him? Really? When I received the summons from Ygrixius, I don't recall him challenging my apprentice to a duel. I could have sworn it had said "Shadax", nor do I remember that being your name."
"He's very dangerous, master," Thalantir pressed. "But he is old. I may be able to best him with the sword,"
The old wizard sighed as he cinched the belt on his robes. "Thal, ever were you dedicated to me, but you allow your dedication to make you forget. I have trained you from childhood to be a battlemage, and you know that we may not shirk from a challenge. That way lies damnation. At some point in your life, you will be challenged when the odds are stacked against you. You must make your mind up now to face those challenges, for if you wait until that moment, you will falter and fail. Ygrixius did not destroy the Black Cathedral on a whim. He took an oath to accept that challenge many years before it presented itself. Only by setting your mind in stone that you will be just, true and courageous, will you be able to call upon it when the time comes. Now, bring me Kazgul."
Thal hesitated, then went to the wardrobe. Kazgul, the ebony sword that Shadax only wore as part of his full battle regalia, was sheathed unassumingly, hanging by its baldric inside. He picked it up hesitantly, not really knowing why. Although Kazgul had seen many years of use, it was not magical, just as none of the swords battlemages bore were magical. "A magical sword," Shadax had explained many years ago to him, "can be taken away. It can be lost, it can be stolen, it can be dropped. Choose then a plain sword, made magic by your own hand, and withdraw it should it be stolen. In this way, your tool will never be turned against you." He handed the weapon to Shadax, who unfastened the baldric and tied it tightly around his narrow waist.
"A good fit as always," he cackled. He drew the sword from its sheath and cut it through the air a few times. Thal noticed that the old man stood straighter now, without the feeble lean on his staff. "Ah, old friend, we have business." The sword went back into its sheath. "Now, my apprentice, you must make me a promise."
Thal looked up, eyes wide, realizing he had been lost in worry. "Anything, master."
"Good. Swear to me now, by Kazgul's blade, that you will set aside vengeance if I am killed. Swear that you will never raise a blade against the victor, and that you will abide by the wishes of the winner of this contest, within the bounds of the oath you have taken."
He blinked in wide-eyed disbelief. "But that means, I give up my right to challenge him!"
Shadax cackled, leaning easily on his staff. "You mean, you would succeed where I failed? Or you rather think that I will fail?"
"No, master, but I..."
"Good, then it is settled. I have your word?"
What harm, Thal thought, to promise him? He could not lose.
"Excellent. Now, we should be going downstairs to prepare the dueling field. Our guest has arrived."
"But master, I would surely have sensed...."
There was a sudden thumping explosion that heralded the displaced air of a teleport spell. Shadax cackled. He spun Kazgul expertly and then slid it home.
"Shall we?" he said with a wry grin. Thal shook his head and followed the grizzled old wizard down the stone stairs.
User Reviews
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-11-16 14:16:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
haha you dork trying to present a plot and stuff instead of potsing three pragraphs and calling it a story haha.
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2006-11-16 12:54:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2006-11-16 09:41:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I would have liked this in fifth grade...
Submitted by hour_man (user info) at 2006-11-16 09:06:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by domenad (user info) at 2006-11-16 06:53:01 (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by hour_man (user info) at 2006-11-16 04:45:02 (#)
Ranking: 2
Anyway Grom is the worlds most cliche character ever. A hunchback. With a speech impediment. Who limps. Says master alot. Is stupid....kill him.
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He's supposed to be cliche!
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Why? He's not funny, only annoying. He detracts from the otherwise good story. If this was meant to be funny al a Rincewind, then it was atrocious.
Submitted by jack11058 (user info) at 2006-11-16 08:29:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Spam (user info) at 2006-11-16 08:16:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Grom is almost ripped wholesale from The Igors in Terry Pratchett's discworld series. And TP's Igors are in turn the embodyment of every deformed servant cliche ever conceived. Fair one, you say you've done it on purpose and had you executed this parody with any of the verve and flair of Pratchett then it may just have been bearable.
but of course you didn't, so it wasn't.
Submitted by Method (user info) at 2006-11-16 07:41:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2006-11-16 07:25:40 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
i hated this
Submitted by domenad (user info) at 2006-11-16 06:53:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by hour_man (user info) at 2006-11-16 04:45:02 (#)
Ranking: 2
Anyway Grom is the worlds most cliche character ever. A hunchback. With a speech impediment. Who limps. Says master alot. Is stupid....kill him.
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He's supposed to be cliche!
Submitted by hour_man (user info) at 2006-11-16 04:45:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
First of all it should be a 'wizardrobe'....haha. Ok.
Anyway Grom is the worlds most cliche character ever. A hunchback. With a speech impediment. Who limps. Says master alot. Is stupid....kill him.
Submitted by The_taste_of_Monkeys (user info) at 2006-11-15 23:27:49 EST (#)
Ranking: -1
Not awful...no, wait, whats the actual word...oh yeah, thats right...awful.
Submitted by DCWoody (user info) at 2006-11-15 23:01:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Damn good. Didn't expect it to be, but it was.
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2006-11-15 22:20:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-11-15 21:53:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
HOLY SHIT!!!!!