The Way Of The Caster

Prologue

The sun glowered over the red sands like O Pena. Thousands of men stood sweltering in armour, staring into the hazy army. The hot air seemed to choke the life from every soul. A man in red acrylic armour walked through the tents of the Uprising, every step bringing orange dust from the parched ground of the desert, giving him yet another fit of coughing. He heard steady footsteps coming near him. Turning, he saw an unit begin to give a bow.

“Number 2682,” the unit said respectfully.

“What is it?” the man asked, his voice harsh like all who stayed long enough in the dust filled plains of the South.

“How much time before it begins?” the unit asked. He seemed surprised at himself to have enough courage to approach one of high rank.

The man gave a sigh and wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow.

“Soon,” he answered, hating himself for giving a vague answer. But the truth was, nobody knew when. “And when it starts, it will not be long until it’s finished.”

The unit gave a salute and stepped back from the road; the bottomless answer of his superior having still given encouragement. The man continued until walking on the dust path by the tents until the border. There he was among the trenches and the guards. He could feel the tension in the air. He carefully avoided the glances of the soldiers, whose eyes were the only opening into the fathomless terror within.

“Sir!” a guard walked up to him and saluted. “How may I help you?” He stood straight, anxious to please.

“There is no need,” the man said wearily. “I intend to walk along the border one last time before it all begins.”

The guard saluted and continued his walk along the border. The man walked around the camp, gazing absently at the Empire’s camp, hazy from the distance. The whole plain seemed to crawl with the soldiers, little as ants. There were thousands of soldiers in Reloj uniform to cross before reaching the Empress. Enar could do it. He had to do it. They had trained him and the jiankae as hard as anyone could. He heard another man approach him. The man in red acrylic armour sighed, and turned round.

“What?” he demanded.

The man saluted. “The Ghaqzu requests you return to the House immediately,” he said. “The war is about to begin. Will you come?”

“Aye,” The man returned heavily. “I will come.” He had waited all these years, and now it was happening. Emotions crashed in turmoil within his heart.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I am stone.

He followed the man to a large grey tent where the man leading him saluted and departed. The man entered the tent. Nine men were sitting in the tent. The maps and diagrams they had argued and scrawled over for months were now neatly tied up. Everyone was wearing the armour they had made from the repurposed metals of Enua. Enar, the only young man, stood against the canvas walls. His perfectly smooth and olive tanned hands idly fingered a sword. Enar would have been the attraction of many a Choosing, had not weariness and responsibility stunted his youth when his training had begun.

The man saluted the Ghaqzu, perhaps the last time he ever would. His hand trembled slightly. Him, one of The Seven Council, trembling!

“We are stone,” the Ghaqzu said in his forceful voice and without looking up. A reminder had not been needed; it was merely the man’s rebellious body. Using the saying out of hand right before it would begin was incorrect. The Ghaqzu seemed to sense his annoyance and turned his gaze upon the man. “Structure is merely a path to an objective.” His tone clearly said this had been said many times.

Brinak contained his sigh. “By the Dragon, I hope we can part without any sorrows.”

“We shall.” The Ghaqzu stood up and grasped Brinak’s arm in a firm grip. “Fare you well, Brinak blood-brother,” he whispered, a phrase that held no meaning.

“Fare you well, Dun.” Brinak felt his eyes begin to burn. I am stone.

Gorn, Rean, Nerak, Mirv, Olitk, each stood up and embraced him. They were his friends, his companions, his blood-brothers. He forced tears down. He was stone.

Last, the young man walked over and took Brinak’s hand. “I will open the pit myself in a few weeks,” he promised easily. “And we shall all celebrate the equality with a grand feast.”

Brinak smiled at his confidence. “I will wait expectantly for that day.”

The six other jiankae jogged into the room. Shouts were coming from outside the tent, “Arise, arise!”

“Enar of Vero, it is time,” said Dun.

The young man nodded and turned to the jiankae. “We go to eradicate tyranny!” They cheered and loped rhythmically from the tent. Enar, Jae, Bewirk, Mona, Dyled, Iana, Iowa, Qea.

And so joyously they went to war, unknowing of their fates.

Brinak could hear war cries begin to rise. “Vero! Vero!” or even more vulgar, “O Irnt! O Irnt!” Despite years of training, tribal fervour had yet to be erased. And now, it was too late to train for longer.

“Brinak, it is time.” The Ghaqzu raised his golden helmet and placed it on his own head. The men nodded brusquely to Brinak, and strode out.

He stood inside the tent, alone. That was what he would be, for years, perhaps decades. No, not alone. There would be him and the others the Ghaqzu had chosen. Brinak walked out of the tent without looking back. He walked a few hundred paces to where a small group of people were gathered. The thirty nine men and ten women were waiting for him around a large pit.

It had been carefully dug out, with ample corridors, at least ample in their calculations, to allow space for the spellcasters to live alone if they wished. The floors were covered with smooth tiles and the cellars filled with food to last centuries. The professionalism of the operation intimidated even him.

He climbed down the ladder. One by one, the spellcasters climbed down after him and stood in the main chamber, frightened yet brave. When they were all down, the two soldiers who had not yet joined the fight saluted. Brinak could barely see their faces as the bombs from the enemy began exploding all around. The soldiers closed the heavy trapdoor. It clicked shut perfectly, and darkness consumed the pit. Brinak could hear stones, soil, and branches piled upon the opening. The debris seemed to weigh upon them all.

Brinak whispered a spell, and his right Mark began to blow, the slim poplar lines on his palm illuminating the whole chamber. He could see the crooked chambers leading off into individual rooms. A silent contrast between the shouts and clash of weapons above, each spellcaster grasped the next person’s Mark until they formed a circle, rocking back and forth. A hum arose, louder and louder. Threads of light and dark from all the Marks wove together, more complicated and intricate until…nothing.
Brinak couldn’t hear the cries of the people above. Brinak couldn’t hear the screams of the horses dying. Brinak couldn’t hear whether they were winning or losing the battle that would define all.

None of them would, until the trapdoor opened again.

Days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries.

O Dragon, the infinite, help us all.

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