Chapter One The Bell Of Minden’s Hall-7

Now seemed like a good time to indulge.

I said the appropriate trigger words, drawing on every last spark of power at my command, and suddenly everything around me was in slow motion. My head hurt from the effect, and my stomach wanted me desperately to throw up what was left of last night's cider, but I didn't take notice of my body any more. I was more than mere flesh, for a few glorious seconds.

I dropped my staff and sprinted towards the shaman, moving three times faster than I could possibly have hoped to un-augmented by the spell. Slasher came to my hand unbidden, and a wordless battle-cry erupted from my lips of its own accord. I noticed in passing that I was catching up with one of Henir's arrows in flight. A gurvan warrior tried to interpose himself between me and my prey, but I left him behind me clutching the stump of his hand in shocked amazement.

The shaman saw me coming, of course. No doubt his magesight was up, as well, in this chaos. He shifted his gaze toward me even as he prepared to release the spell, a defiant grimace on his lips. I guess he thought I was either a knight with some spark of Talent, or a hedgemage with a sword, but he definitely did not expect a fully-trained warmage, or else he would have shifted his spell to a defensive one. They taught us in War College that the all-out offensive attack has a better chance of succeeding than a more cautious approach, and I was testing that theory.

I sliced at his left knee, right shoulder, left side, and his neck in rapid succession while my other hand worked a distracting little flash cantrip. He blocked the first blow, and part of the second. He was still trying to block the third when my thin blade passed between his shoulders and his head, severing the neck neatly. He died before he was aware of the fact, and suddenly I was faced with a dilemma.

Magical power that is summoned and not used can either dissipate slowly, or it can release explosively, depending upon the vessel and a host of other factors. That was what had killed the Mad Mage of Farise during the final assault during the war. He had built up power and then had been deprived of his release mechanism at an inopportune moment. All of that power must be expressed somehow, and in the absence of a powerful mind to control it, magical energy can be pretty volatile. When he blew apart he had taken a good portion of the Citadel with them.

When I realized just how much power the gurvan had summoned I knew that I was in a similar position. It was also likely to take out me, most of the surviving goblins, all of Sire Koucey's cavalry, and probably half the village unless I could channel it away somehow. It was happening too quickly for me to form an apis, or other thaumaturgical construct to absorb the power. I had to channel it. I still had the remnants of the fire illusion hanging around, and that seemed to be the most convenient thing to do, so I sent it all into one big fire-illusion spell and directed it straight up.

The result was spectacular. A fountain of fire nearly a mile high, and twelve feet across, bursting at its apex in the biggest firework I had ever seen. It lit up the entire village like it was daylight, and it could be seen for miles around. It was so terrifying to the normally nocturnal gurvani that those who were not already retreating bolted and ran as fast as their hairy little legs could carry them.

Me, I collapsed in a heap next to the recently living body of the shaman. I stayed there, catching my breath and waiting for the spell to diminish, until Sire Koucey himself, jingling with every step in his armor and spurs, shook me back to consciousness.

"Excellent job, Spellmonger," he said, a grin dividing that gray-white mustache and beard, when I regained my senses. "We've got them on the run. My knights are chasing them back to their damn holes, but that would have been difficult going without . . . whatever it was you did. Well done!"

I stared up at him for a moment while I tried to make sense of what he said. This seemed to be an occasion that called for a grand and noble gesture. I had just been honored by the lord of the domain, after all. It seemed a good place for ceremony, a gesture, or at least a few thankful words.

When speech was available to me again, I managed to mumble, "Thank you, my lord," before I bowed . . . and vomited used cider and bile on his boots.