CHAPTER 2
Krytien sat inside a small wooden hut in a village on the northern tip of Mytarcis. His master, Philik, a man older than dirt whose mind had been honed by age, sat across from him. Krytien had never been able to figure out why Philik had insisted on mentoring him after their chance meeting in a local market a year earlier, but the old man wouldn't take no for an answer then, just as it seemed he wouldn't now.
"Estul Island? But Master, I'm not ready for that."
The old man shook his bald head. "Your understanding of the arts has increased at a pace I've never seen before. You still lack discipline though and I feel confident that High Mage Amcaro will succeed in helping you where I have failed."
"You haven't failed, Master. I just prefer to practice sorcery off of feel rather than wasting my time on silly exercises."
Philik's eyes narrowed. "Those exercises are not silly. I thought I proved that by controlling your mishap today."
Krytien lowered his head. "I didn't mean any disrespect, Master. It's just . . . for me to improve as rapidly as you say I have, then I must be doing something right. I just need more practice."
Philik sighed. "You do need more practice, but you need to learn the old ways and concentrate on structure first before attempting anything so risky again. Do you realize that no one has progressed in becoming a black robed mage as quickly as you have? You could be a High Mage one day if you learn to apply yourself. Perhaps one of the best, ever! I'll write you a letter of recommendation tomorrow to take to Estul Island. There, you will learn from the greatest mage alive. Despite your reservations, I know it's what you want. Am I right?"
"Yes, but the money. . . ."
". . . .will be waved once Amcaro reads my letter. Now, it's late. Go home and get some rest."
* * *
Krytien woke with a start. He rubbed his eyes.
Twenty-five years ago and that dream still haunts me.
He sat up and shook away the lingering images. His former master never wrote the letter and he never saw Estul Island. Philik died in his sleep that night and Krytien went off to seek his fortunes elsewhere, eventually joining the Hell Patrol.
"No use worrying about it now," he muttered while rising to his feet. "Plenty enough to worry about today."
* * *
An hour past dawn, Krytien slipped into the dark tent as his commander snored. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of alcohol-infused sweat. The mage exposed a chubby hand from his black robe. A blue light formed in his palm, brightening slowly until the tent dimly glowed. The snoring broke off and Krytien watched his commander attempt to shield his vision as he peered through cracked eyelids. Red eyes glared for a moment, then the man rolled over, turning his back to the mage.
The room brightened and Krytien added a bit of heat to the man's backside with his other hand. The groggy figure slipped his hand under his pillow, doing his best to conceal a dirk next to his head. Ronav turned and flung the blade across the space.
Krytien casually stepped aside and the dirk embedded itself in a nearby post. The man fell to his back with a loud exhale of breath as if the effort had drained him.
With Ronav awake, Krytien dimmed the light in his hand and lit a lantern.
"One Above. Can't this wait until morning?"
