Renegade Wizards

CHAPTER 4

The encampment was small, the tents poor shields against the crisp mountain air. A lone fire sparked and raged in the grip of the frosty weather, forcing the men and women seated around it to huddle closer and tuck their chins behind their scarves and cloaks. Over the fire rested a large pot of boiling water, tended by a dwarf with a frosted beard that served as his apron.

Kinsley patted a few people on the shoulder for encouragement before heading for one of the tents. He was comfortable despite the cold, though he’d never gotten used to the remedy against the Vingaard Mountain chill. Beneath the layers of his cloak and his wool-lined jacket was a pouch tied by string around his neck. Inside the pouch was a boiled potato, a few hours old and still emanating the heat of the fire. It was a farmer’s trick, but it worked. Regardless, Kinsley looked forward to returning to Palanthas and eating at a real inn. He was tired of hot potato for company and cold potato for his meal.

After scratching at the growth along his jaw, he decided that he was looking forward to a good lather and shave as well. However necessary, the outdoors experience was entirely to his disliking. His round, boyish face, green eyes, and delicate fingers were better suited to seducing the daughters of noblemen and offering charms and enchantments to their wives. Potions to spark a husband’s sexual fervor, trinkets to appear younger or shapely once more, scrolls to improve private fortunes, and the rare curse to punish a cheating lover: Kinsley provided many favors for the spoiled noblewomen of Palanthas, magics often looked down upon by the Wizards of High Sorcery. And therein lay the problem; were it not for the Wizards of High Sorcery and their zealous enforcement of magical law, Kinsley wouldn’t be here in the Vingaard Mountains, freezing his potatoes off.

He stood at the closed flap of the tent and cleared his throat.

“Come in,” a voice called. It was deep and sounded annoyed.

“I have to return soon,” Kinsley said as he entered the tent. He tried to sound disappointed but couldn’t wait to leave.

Berthal nodded absently as he continued reading the book set upon his lap. He was a bearish man with a black beard and mustache. His black hair was a touch messy, and he wore gray robes. Even seated cross-legged on the mat, he was imposing. In another life and without any talent for magic, he might have been a warrior. Instead, he sat, mouthing the words from the page with a scholar’s intensity. Leaning against the tent wall was his staff, two braided pieces of wood that unraveled at the top into two dragon heads that faced each other.

“Anything of interest?” Kinsley asked, nodding to the book.

“Not interesting enough,” Berthal said, slamming the book shut. “Damn fool of a boy got caught for pinching the wrong books.” He waved the leather-bound tome to make a point. “Only a desk-trained practitioner would consider this important. Too much theory … not enough practical stuff in it. Just like the orders.”

“What about the other books,” Kinsley asked, motioning to the three other volumes on the mat next to him. “Please tell me I didn’t break my back bringing them to you for nothing.”

“Well, you didn’t actually break your back,” Berthal said, “so I feel no pity. But here,” he said as he tossed Kinsley the tome. “Throw it on the fire. Nothing in there worth keeping, so it might as well keep us warm.”

Kinsley looked at the book and shrugged. “Don’t you think we should hold on to them, just in case?”

“Just in case this Wyldling magic doesn’t work, you mean?”

“Honestly, Berthal,” Kinsley sighed. “Are the old ways really so terrible?”

“These are the old ways,” Berthal replied. He held up his hand. Liquid light flowed from his elbow, up the column of his forearm. Threads of yellow energy undulated between his fingers and were spent in pops and snaps. Berthal’s eyes sparkled with their light; he delighted in the touch of raw, naked magic, unformed and uncontained by spell or word, ready to become something at the merest provocation. Pure, shapeless energy. Wyldling energy. It was the spark of creativity and the flush of inspiration before the artist turned it into something manifest.

“You know what I mean,” Kinsley said. He worried when Berthal got into those almost ecstatic states, as if he might lose himself and never return.

“Very well,” Berthal said. He sounded frustrated. His fingers flared open, and the light vanished, but the magic was never so easily dismissed. That which was called would never return willingly. Pages fluttered in the tent; the flame in the hooded lantern turned blue; two books rose an inch, then fell; Berthal’s eyes went white, then returned to normal; the temperature increased by several degrees inside the tent.

“We can’t keep hiding like this,” Kinsley said.

Berthal was silent a moment, his eyebrows arched together in troubled thought. “I know,” he replied. “More recruits are on their way. Then we’ll move down the mountain. Someplace warm … warmer at least. So go. Back to Palanthas with you, and have a stout for me. We’ll join you soon enough.”

Kinsley nodded and weighed the book in his hand. “It’s risky … calling in these favors from our spies. What are you looking for?”

Berthal tapped one of the books next to him in thought. “Hope,” Berthal finally said. “And a weapon against the wizards.”

“Our army is growing.”

“No … armies are for war. To be slaughtered,” Berthal said. “I’m not looking for an army; I’m looking for a solution.”

Kinsley hesitated, uncertain of Berthal’s meaning, but the large man had gone back to thumbing through the books. It was time to return to Palanthas, Kinsley realized. Maybe something would turn up in their favor.