My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But, ah, my foes, and, oh, my friends -
it gives a lovely light.
- - - Edna St. Vincent Millay, "First Fig"
"It was a pleasure to burn."
- - - Ray Bradbury, "Fahrenheit 451"
Panting from the physical strain, Icantus again parried with
the wooden practice sword in his right hand, simultaneously
lunging forward with the similar weapon supported by his opposite
arm. His opponent sent the weakly-held sword flying with a single
flick of the wrist, and Icantus had to jump backwards to avoid
yet another flurry of strokes.
Crap, on the defensive again. He could almost feel Anvanit's
mild irritation as he concentrated on sidestepping the relentless
barrage of blows. No, on the run. Rolling along the ground
to dodge a smash aimed at his mid-section, the young ninja trainee
felt a boot clamp down on his right wrist. The hand and sword
were pinned limply to the ground; the opponent's face grinned
Icantus smirked in return, thoroughly puzzling the apparent
victor who stood above him, then mumbled an incoherent phrase.
A wall of flame erupted from Icantus's left hand, its force
pushing the opponent to his knees. If not for the protective
barrier Anvanit had created for the duelers, nothing would have
been left of the ninja that could not have been blown away by
"Concede," stated the surprised warrior, and Anvanit entered
from outside the circle drawn to designate the combat area.
"Excellent!" the aging but sharp master declared, clapping
both young men firmly on the back. "Icantus, Drort--gather your
weapons and return home. We will continue tomorrow morning,
an hour after sunrise."
"Your damn magic wins," Drort sighed, though he obviously held
no hard feelings toward his friend.
Icantus extended a hand to help his training partner to his
feet. "I should give up the swords," he grumbled. "What's the
Drort unfastened his headband, running a hand through the long
blond hair that fell from his face. "You were made from a different
mold than the rest of us." He laughed and did a sword flourish
before taking the weapon beneath his arm. "A real wizard
from Eblan, beyond just using ninja magic."
"A wizard," Icantus mumbled to himself. It had a nice ring
Anvanit bowed to the figure seated at the throne. "Your Majesty."
The King of Eblan nodded in response, his indigo ninja garb
sharply contrasting with the royal violet cape thrown over his
shoulders and the shimmering crown atop his head. "My people
have told me about the business you have to report."
"Yes, Your Majesty. It concerns the ninja trainees."
"They are all coming along very well, Your Majesty."
"I am glad to hear that."
"Thank you, Your Majesty." Another bow. "But, there is one--his
strength lies in a discipline we cannot train properly in Eblan.
I recommend that he be given an education in Mysidia, with Your
Majesty's support, naturally..."
The youthful monarch rubbed his chin in thought. "So it shall
be. Chamberlain, make the necessary arrangements for this student."
"Thank you, Your Majesty. This man will eventually have a great
impact on this kingdom, I am sure."
The five-year-old crown prince of Eblan was building a crude
castle with a set of blocks in a quiet corner of the throne
room, so it was quite a mystery as to why he suddenly felt a
chill run through his heart and down his spine.
Chapter 1: Mystic Mysidia
Icantus bade farewell to Drort before the ship bound for Mysidia.
"Well, my friend, it looks like we won't be fighting together
A snort, probably to cover his emotions. "Damn straight. You
can attack your own kind out there in wizardville."
In truth, Icantus felt completely alone now, isolated from
the Eblanese he had felt himself kinsmen to since birth. It
didn't matter that he was going to a place where his powers
would fit in and he would make the most of his abilities--his
homeland was still Eblan, and he was leaving it now, for the
first time. As his shining green eyes stung, he felt almost
as forlorn as when he had learned his parents would never return
to him, killed before Icantus reached his twelfth birthday.
"Just watch over Merla for me," Icantus managed. The thought
of the fair daughter of Anvanit calmed him, as he imagined her
throwing a playful smile at him over her shoulder, tossing her
dark hair behind her flippantly. God knew he wanted to win her
over, but now he could only hope she would still be there when
Drort laughed heartily--perhaps a bit too enthusistically--and
reassured, "You'll be sure I'll keep her out of trouble. Have
a good trip, man."
Icantus didn't think it would happen.
The wonder Icantus felt upon arriving at Mysidia was exceeded
only by his confusion at the entirely novel setting. He was
met at the dock by an arrogant black wizard, draped in an oversized
blue robe and huge straw hat, then taken to the training hall.
Unlike facilities in other towns, this was devoted purely to
magic: no massive swords and spears, remnants of ancient battles,
graced the walls; instead, rods, staves, and spellbooks reigned
supreme. Here, he was asked a battery of questions.
"Seventeen years, three months, and--"
An involuntary shiver. "It is of no matter."
There was a pause, as the white-cloaked mage behind the desk
sized up his appearance. Tall and lanky, not at all imposing
or intimidating; eerily bright green eyes, with ambition flaming
behind them; the clothing of an Eblanese ninja--no, no; that
would never do in Mysidia. "Magic specialty?"
"None. You see, I studied ninja incantations, and--"
A tiny flutter of magic, so minute that Icantus doubted his
own sensation of it, struck his forehead. "I'll put you as Red."
The wizard looked sharply again at the native of Eblan. "You
will live in the dorms, upstairs, with the others taking Black.
A set of clothing and a thick textbook were shoved in his direction.
He looked at its cover: "I Must Calm Myself to Cast Black Magic,"
followed by the subtitle, "A comprehensive guide to the beginning
study of the Mysidian arts, Volume 1."
It was the regulation book issued to all new students.
And so it began.
Chapter 2: A Long Way to Go
Icantus roomed with three other wizards who had newly entered
the academy: they ranged from three weeks to two years of study
and were all his age. All three were Black, as Reds were rare
of late; the one who had irritated him at the dock was one of
them. Icantus couldn't remember this mage's full name--it had
been something Agartian and unpronouncable--and called him Orisk
like the others. The others were Gord, a talkative and fidgety
prankster, and Lance, a withdrawn student who seemed to disappear
into the background when surrounded by rowdier young men.
He began training the day after arriving, finding that magic
was taken quite seriously in his new home. Half an hour of meditation
after breakfast, carefully monitored by instructors who wouldn't
accept sleeping as an calming alternative. One hour of reading
from "The Mysidian Spellbook, level 1," followed by two hours
of lecture; today's was on the casting of Venom- and Virus-family
spells. A half an hour break, then independent practice of magic,
and so on...
It was no less draining than a day of swordfighting, that much
he would venture, and even the experienced students left with
weary steps. But a sort of reassuring peace fell upon his psyche
as he trudged to the adjacent compound that night. For once,
he wasn't at the bottom of the hierarchy, the weakest scapegoat
whose weapon always dropped helplessly from his hand. No longer
did he struggle to comprehend the lessons others easily absorbed;
he had potential now. Yes, Anvanit would have been proud.
Icantus only wondered about Merla as his head touched the pillow
that night, half a world away. He had sent her a letter upon
arriving, one of the first things he had done after registering.
Disappointment would sink in after a month without a reply,
frustration after a second unanswered letter two months after
that. But for the time being, on this first day of Mysidian
training, he was hopeful and eager, his tired but contented
mind flitting back to recall Merla's pleasant visage.
He smiled and was asleep the next instant.
Icantus's plan began to take shape after the novelty of living
in Mysidia began to wear off, some four months after his arrival,
after his experiences there began to change him.
His self-confidence was slowly built up, one magic-using success
at a time; his reputation as a talented--though still largely
untrained--wizard spread among his classmates. He breezed through
his lessons and was promoted to the next level of study in a
third of the expected time. He made the acquaintance of others
at the training academy, including Orisk, though the latter's
pompous attitude occasionally grated on his nerves.
In his spare time, he wandered the vast underground library
below the academy, venturing into the dusty recesses of the
ancient sections, where the volumes were rarely touched by the
hands of students. He would gently slide a book from its place,
his palm print leaving a damp smear on the dust of the broad
spine. His fingers would carefully turn the yellowed pages,
touching phrases here and there; he would smile to see the words
"Mysaedya" or "Aeblain" in faded archaic script.
Not that he understood much of it, of course. This was the
realm of sages and experienced scholars who had studied the
history of magic for twice as many years as Icantus had been
alive. He did learn of the existence of ancient magics, though--spells
that protected casters from the elements, inflicted harm on
the undead, or sent enemies to unknown dimensions. They were
outdated and no longer taught, he found out from a professor,
but who was to say they still couldn't be cast?
But suffice to say that the master wizards at Mysidia, the
instructor added, weren't willing to risk their valuable necks
on attempting magic that might ruin their careers or their health.
But back to his plan. It emerged one cloudy morning in late
summer, as he stood apart from a crowd of Mysidians in a marked
field just outside town. Icantus was scheduled to compete in
his first magic tournament, against a student of Black he knew
only remotely, by the name of Raltin. Perfect from a strategic
standpoint: no reluctance to harm a friend or judgment clouded
from hate existed. In truth, he had something of an upper hand,
with his slight knowledge of White.
The green-eyed man stood mutely apart, his gaze fixed on the
grass, his thoughts distant. He remembered the last public duel
he had been in, back in his days at Eblan. The same grass, the
same crowd of warriors-in-training, instructors, and friends;
the spirit was the same, though the exact form was different.
There he stood near the center of the circle of watchers, practice
swords drawn and ready, facing a grimly sneering opponent.
And he was losing, being beaten back as always. There was Anvanit,
fingers stroking thoughtfully at his beard, wondering what to
do with his struggling student. A sympathetic small group of
friends cheered him on, their familiar cries giving him strength.
The opponent's supporters jeered at his clumsiness, disheartening
him, overpowering the friendly voices. And Merla, with a group
of girls, her eyes sad. What was that reflected in her eyes,
pity, contempt, or encouragement?
"Icantus," a voice said, shaking his shoulder.
It was his Mysidian roommate Lance. "Yeah," Icantus answered
"You're up next, y'know."
A professor pointed him toward the center of the ring and announced
the match. The protective magical barriers were cast around
the two by mages who stood near the judges; a high-level white
wizard watched to one side, but it was doubtful he would be
Icantus faced Raltin, blood and adrenaline beginning to flow
fiercely to his head. He struck first, with a weak bolt of thunder
that was easily dodged. Moments passed before he felt a stream
of deathly cold ice approach him. He tried to dance out of its
path, but it grazed the barrier and was left embedded in its
The barrier protected him from permanent injury but not from
pain. He clutched at his stomach, casting a mild healing spell
that relieved most of his pain. At the same time, the opponent
launched a mid-level virus spell that threatened to slowly suck
the strength from his body.
Icantus thought back to his days as a ninja trainee, heart
blazing. He wouldn't suffer the same humiliation again, not
unless they killed him first! It was an ideal opportunity, he
thought idly, now that their abilities were evened out but he
appeared to be at his weakest.
The decoy of helplessness. Icantus ignored the lightning spell
he subconsciously felt jolt the left side of his body, beginning
to chant. He finished and released a fire spell--huge, for his
level of study--that made his opponent cry out in pain and tumble
gracelessly to the ground.
And it was over. The other wizard-in-training lay stunned,
curled into a motionless ball. Apparently, the Fire 2 had partially
broken through the barrier. Two white wizards tended to Raltin,
healing his wounds and helping him into a sitting position.
Icantus extended a hand to the defeated, simultaneously seeing
a second image--that of a similar hand being offered to him
a year earlier as he writhed in agony under the critical
gaze of dozens of spectators.
He shuddered as his hand made contact with Raltin's clammy
palm. For he imagined himself slumped on the grass as before,
filled with disappointment and shame as he looked up into Drort's
The rest of the day passed quickly for Icantus, dazed but faintly
filled with a confidence and joy he had never experienced before.
And here his plan was set down in his mind, as the professors
and graduating wizards gave their long speeches and awards were
presented. He would study magic like it had never been studied
before, with determination and a vengeance. Yes, he would definitely
return to Eblan triumphant and have a chance to grin back at
Drort and the others who had taunted him. He would dazzle them
with his magic and impress even Merla, then maybe settle down
in the service of the king...
"Hey, Icantus, wanna go get a drink with the rest of us?"
It was Gord, representing a group of academy students who were
already headed in the direction of a cafe in town.
Icantus only took a moment to think. "Nah, thanks, but I'm
kinda busy already."
He went back to his room and lit a candle against the rapidly
falling twilight. "Casting high-level destructive-group spells,
p. 347," said the index.
He started to memorize the words for Quake.
Chapter 3: Into the Darkness
Soon, others at his dorm knew better than to ask him to leave
his room. He received a few joking comments about it--"Bet you're
sneaking girls in while we're out, Icantus?" (laughter and eyebrow-raising
followed)--"Hey, don't kill yourself, 'right?"--but was treated
with considerable respect and understanding. Meaning: they weren't
willing to face his magic.
One exception came about four years after he first arrived
at the academy. It was a Saturday afternoon, and Icantus was
naturally using the time to pour over his texts. By now, he
knew close to all the black magic the academy could teach, save
Nuke and a couple other high-level spells, and it appeared his
future lay with the antiquated library downstairs, or perhaps
with an associate professorship and study under a Master Wizard
somewhere in Mysidia. It was the ancient magics that had fascinated
him the most the last few months, however, with their twisting
words and faint aura of mystique drawing him in more than any
faraway Meteo or White.
They could be cast, this he knew; a couple of simple spells,
largely forgotten for centuries, had proven viable when he tried
them in private. Effective, though unneeded, as he could think
of numerous modern ones that served similar purposes. The one
he studied now, however... This one was a real doozy, one with
a long incantation that rivaled Fatal in difficulty, and that
was one that had eluded him for almost eight months. But he
just about had it, if he could tackle the last few words...
He finally closed the volume, sending up an invisible cloud
of dust that made him sneeze twice. A spider skittered across
the wall, stopping in a corner at the opposite side of the room.
Icantus smiled, leaning back in his chair, then closed his eyes
and began to chant. He strained at times, feeling his forehead
crease in thought, holding his concentration on the form of
that tiny spider. The final words spoken, he released his spell
and crossed his fingers.
He watched its effects, his reaction first wonder, then glee,
then... unrestrained laughter. Yes! It was done, for the first
time in modern history!
Icantus's moment of exultation was interruped by the entrance
of Orisk, his arrogant roommate. With a somber, unreadable expression,
the latter said bluntly, "Gord's in the infirmary. I'm going
to see him now."
Icantus, moved to seriousness by Orisk's mien, took that as
an invitation to follow, which he did. Gord was lying in a bed,
eyes closed, a tight expression on his face that indicated pain,
a bruised right side of his face, and a swollen lip.
"Gord! What happened?" asked Icantus, a momentary panic fleeting
through his mind, imagining trolls and mythical dragons.
The injured man opened his eyes with some effort and, after
nodding at the visitors, shrugged in response. "A little accident
is all. I was walking home late last night, a bit plastered,
maybe." He coughed, bringing a bandaged hand to his mouth. "Another
careless academy kid, eh?"
"Who did this to you?" (Imagining vicious pickpockets, potential
Another shrug. "Damned if I'd know. I don't remember a thing.
One minute walking next to a gutter, the next..."
"Let's go," said Orisk quickly, catching Icantus's elbow. "We're
going to let the man rest."
Once outside, the red wizard turned to his roommate, following
him and showering him with questions. "What happened to him?
How could that happen? He was out late, but who would
have attacked him for no reason?"
"I left the cafe early," Orisk answered. "I didn't see it.
I hear he got too talkative and pissed one of the others off,
and the group caught up with him later."
"That's... not right!"
"He deserved it," came the short reply. "If you'd been around
the rest of the world, you'd have known that this kind of thing
happens almost every other day."
Icantus pondered in silence, silently cursing himself for his
naiveté. His idea of retribution was ostracization, or perhaps
a fair fight in the forest outside town--certainly a group against
a single perpetrator fell into the category of unjustified violence.
Orisk's voice broke into his musings. "So you coming for a
drink with us?"
In an effort to make conversation: "What was up in your room
a couple minutes ago?"
A faint smile touched the corners of Icantus's lips. "Learned
a new spell, that's all."
"Your unending enthusiasm," Orisk replied sarcastically.
Icantus whistled a light little tune as they walked to the
Two hours later, the cafe was filled with talking and laughing
Mysidian youths, and Icantus was in a bemused state, having
had more beer than was typical (none) of him. So he didn't completely
believe it when Lance entered, spotted him, and asked him if
he wanted to go to Eblan.
"Eblan? Just like that?" asked Icantus, his thought processes
"We're going--me and a few other final-yearers--t'observe the
learning system there, and t'talk to the kids, see if any wanna
come here to Mysidia, a student exchange thing, y'know. Another
guy here--think you know him, Brent, I think--his mother came
down sick last night, pretty bad, so he can't make it. No catch.
Except y'hafta be ready tomorrow morning, nine. They'll take
care of missing class. Whadyasay?"
"Well, sure," he answered, "just sign me up."
He laughed uproariously to himself, muttering unintelligably
in between, so that the server considered bringing him nothing
stronger than milk the next time around. What perfect timing!
He could show his newly-learned spell to the other wizards and
have them ooh and ahh in the presence of Eblanese higher-ups.
Just then, he noticed a bit of an argument brewing between
Orisk and a stranger, an out-of-towner with a merchant caravan,
it would seem, based on his clothing. It was evidently over
a servingwoman who happened to be Orisk's girlfriend.
"So what, I gave her a comment on how she looks," the stranger
"Get your eyes back in your head and shuddap," Orisk spat back,
throwing in several other colorful comments in between. "Or
you might have trouble finding them."
The foreigner grumbled and knocked his glass onto the table
with an elbow but didn't seem to care, stamping out after yelling
complaints about the drink and the atmosphere.
Orisk seemed to exchange glances with some of the others, and
they stood up en masse, gesturing for Icantus to do the same.
"What's going on?"
An ominous chuckle was issued from several throats, but Orisk
was the first to speak. "Remember what I said about people getting
what they deserved?"
Justified violence. Yes, but what was justice? And who could
administer it, Orisk with his own clouded judgment?
His head unclear, Icantus followed his companions outside,
the sharply cool air reactivating the keenness of his senses.
They moved down the street menacingly, following the path of
the solitary retreating figure.
Icantus could only imagine what the man thought as he turned
and focused unsteadily on the eight twentysomething wizards
stalking behind him. He reached into his doublet, pulling out
a knife that gleamed fiercely in the light of the full moon,
but one of the mages slapped it from his grip from a distance
of five yards with a quick incantation, whereupon the visitor
fled desperately for the nearest building. Another spell--this
one a Stop--paralyzed the victim, and the group was upon him.
Orisk delivered the first blow, slamming his fist into the
man's face with rage in his now predatorial eyes. Icantus was
right behind him, heady with liquor and excitement, holding
down the victim's arm and delivering a kick to his hip, ignoring
his groans and gasps of pain as the others swarmed in around
The wizards weren't the first ones to draw pleasure from hitting
others in the jaw or side; it was a universal rush of power
a number of people had felt since time immemorial. Justified
violence, Icantus thought viciously, stepping back when a grinning
Orisk gave a signal. Who was to say the lowlife lying on the
pavingstones wouldn't have done the same to them or worse?
They left him unconscious outside an inn, with nothing splints,
salve, and a couple months in bed couldn't cure, except for
a bitter taste in his mouth associated with the gentle citizens
Chapter 4: Illusionary World
Icantus walked silently through the streets of Eblan, glancing
sideways at the lights that shone from within the cozy homes.
No fanfare or welcoming committee had greeted the group of wizards
when the ship landed, and certainly no one expected him. His
red mage's cloak pulled around his frame, Icantus headed in
the direction of his closest friend and advisor in all Eblan.
Anvanit's house stood apart from those of his neighbors, near
the woods of the town's outskirts. From far off, Icantus saw
a small figure slide from the back door, closing it slowly behind
It was Merla. That was her blue-black hair, falling across
her slim back, and her light step moving furtively away from
the house. He felt tender emotions rise to the surface and longed
to run to her, yet just as quickly, the questions sprang up.
Where was she going? More importantly... who?
Icantus felt himself choke silently, slowly--his heart being
clamped down on by the gaping mouth of a piranha. Muttering
a few words, he spun a shield of invisibility around himself
and followed her into the forest. He stayed some distance away,
not wanting any sounds to alert her to his presence.
She met him a minute later, a ninja leaning casually
against a tree who pressed the back of her hand gallantly against
his lips. His face was obscured from Icantus's vision, but he
was fairly certain he wouldn't have recognized it anyway.
"Let's go," the ninja seemed to be saying--Icantus couldn't
tell from this distance--to a reluctant Merla, who looked cautiously
back at her house, visage cold and uninterested.
"Come on, they won't notice you're gone," he encouraged, pulling
on her hand.
"Leave me alone!" She jerked her fingers from his grasp.
Icantus almost ran toward them to attack the ninja, he almost
screamed out. Nobody--nobody in the world--should treat Merla
like that! He remembered all those dreams, those images he conjured
with her lovely laugh, her radiant smile, her happiness--what
were they now, if he were to watch her being taken advantage
He began to whisper fiercely, lips automatically guided by
his years of Mysidian training and the rage boiling in his head.
The ninja continued trying to convince Merla to follow him somewhere--where,
Icantus didn't know or care--unaware of the danger lurking behind
a Blink spell.
The red wizard neared the end of his chant. There was still
time to turn back, a part of his mind thought tentatively, but
something else within him, infused with a sort of animallike
vengeance, drove him forward unceasingly.
And it was done; the ancient enchantment's power was ready
for him to use, for only the second time in the last three centuries,
if only he would speak the final word.
It came out as a dry croak: "Rub."
A huge ripple of energy escaped his outstretched hands, stiking
the ninja and bringing him to his knees.
And he began to disintegrate.
Atoms, molecules, cells fell away in a wave, starting from
his feet and moving up through his body. He looked down in horror
at where his legs once were, just as his hands started disappearing.
Beside him, Merla clutched desparately at his shoulders, as
though her pulling him to his feet would bring back the matter
that had been sent into oblivion. She screamed once, twice,
shaking with fear.
Now there was nothing left but the face, contorted into a mask
of agony. It thrashed to the side, staring with its last moment
into the face of the murderer, then vanishing to a forbidden
Icantus clutched his hands together to quiet their sudden trembling.
Drort. The ninja Drort Ellizy.
The red wizard ran from the scene, not caring that he had let
his Blink spell drop, to escape the terrified shrieks of the
Icantus plodded to the inn, where his bags had been sent, and
rented a room. There, he slept immediately and with a purpose:
to quiet the awful ache in his chest, to forget the horrible
void that was more frightening than any man alive, because
it represented one who had once been but had been wiped mercilessly,
hauntingly from the surface of the earth.
The expected crashing in of the door came just after dawn.
"Royal orders! Get up, and don't put up a fight!"
Icantus stepped from his bed, still wearing the red wizard's
clothing from the previous night, already prepared for what
he knew he would need to face.
"Surrender your weapons."
That was simple enough. He had none, if you discounted whatever
powers were held in his mind and in his words.
He went sedately, eyeing the drawn swords of the soldiers and
smiling at the wide-eyed citizens he recognized as they passed.
Chapter 5: Suspicion
Eblanese ninjas held the eager throng of townspeople back from
the center of the town square, where the king and a small flock
of his administrators presided in the setup of a public trial.
Standing calmly before the spectators for the "trial of the
century," as curious housewives had dubbed it, was the suspect,
the defendant, the Eblanese wizard Icantus Drefflin.
He had been called to give his story and now stood before the
king--who always ruled in high-profile cases such as this one,
as human interest stories were rare in the out-of-the-way city--as
the royal guard attempted to hush the overflowing pool of gawkers.
During this wait, he turned and scanned the faces, not finding
the one he searched for, though he did spot Anvanit near the
front. The aging ninja instructor appeared stern but tired,
meeting Icantus's eyes for a second before turning sharply away.
"Your testimony, Mr. Drefflin," the chamberlain ordered, after
a brief history of Icantus's life had been read.
Icantus related the events steadily, not hiding his intentions
or crime. The crowd had to be quieted several more times in
the course of his statements, but he plunged relentlessly and
Justified violence, he thought, as the administrators standing
to the side exchanged rather disturbed glances at his lack of
remorse. Justified according to himself, of course, but fulfilling
The few pieces of outside evidence were brought in, including
a damning written statement that had been dictated sometime
in the week that had passed since Drort's death by the absent
Merla--as though his own confession were not enough. Despite
the simplicity in everything, the trial dragged on until past
noon, the midday sun driving many of the watchers back to their
homes and chores.
King Eblan, his sceptor held regally at his side, finally stood
and gave his official verdict and sentence. "The accused, this
Icantus Drefflin, is indeed guilty of the murder in question.
He will be put to death by hanging tomorrow morning at sunrise,
in this very town square. That is all."
The townspeople who were left buzzed with excitement, but Icantus
was relaxed and somewhat pleased, in a twisted way: he had finally
gotten his day of fame in Eblan.
Lance and the other traveling Mysidians visited him briefly
in jail that afternoon, appalled but somehow not surprised by
the green-eyed wizard's actions. He had always been an odd sort,
seldom associating with the others, and you know what they said
about still waters? That time spent alone must have bred trouble,
or was a sign of it, but hindsight was always twenty-twenty,
wasn't it? In any case, they wished him well and bid him their
solemn farewells before ducking out for the comfort of the local
Then came Anvanit, looking old and stressed as Icantus had
seen him earlier, with the omnipresent question, "Why? Why did
you do it, Icantus?"
"What else could I have done?" came the cold response, and
Anvanit knew that he was speaking to a sad, bitter man who had
secretly been that way since his parents died or earlier.
"How could you have done that to Drort? And how could you have
done that to Merla?" This time, his voice was soft, as though
Icantus were the son he never had.
"Merla?" His head snapped up. He had thought of her often while
alone in the tiny, dark cell that reminded him of the lonely
depths of the earth.
"She was in bed for three days because of the shock. She's
still at home, crying in her room." A hint of steel entered
Icantus could think of nothing to say.
"She's sorry this had to happen." A pause, then a sort of sigh.
"She loved you, you know."
He suddenly turned to study the older man. Anvanit read the
flash of emotion and continued, "Why else would she have waited
for you for so long, holding Drort at bay for four years? She
talked with him about ninja training and thought of you training
in Mysidia every time. Didn't you know that? She had no idea
that you were the red wizard she saw. If she had known..."
"But... but she never wrote," Icantus stuttered falteringly,
his stay suddenly unbearable. Oh, to walk free in the streets
"She did, but you never responded."
What neither man, nor any other living person, knew was that
a certain long-haired ninja had promised to deliver the letters
to the post office but had gotten them only as far as the nearest
"It's too bad this had to happen," Anvanit finally said. "You
had such a promising future, Icantus."
The ninja instructor walked down the corridor, his shoulders
slumped in a way uncharacteristic of him.
"Tell her I love her," Icantus cried down the hall, but his
response came only in the form of the echo of receding footsteps.
Chapter 6: Run
Four soldiers trudged into the dungeon, their plate armor--quite
unusual in Eblan, clearly present only for ceremony and for
the sake of keeping up with the rest of the world--clanging
lightly to declare their arrival.
"So damn early," one said, yawning, as a second guard fished
for the correct key to open the barred iron door.
"Shoulda become an executioner, then," the one struggling for
the keys--apparently the leader--grumbled, and the others laughed
nervously, glancing at Icantus. The prisoner sat on the hard
cot near one corner of the cell, again in his red wizard's clothing.
He had paced the cell late into the night, thinking of his
life on that, his supposed final day, and thinking of what might
have been. He thought of the biggest mistake of his life--for
he saw it with regret, now--and of how it had forever branded
his name with infamy. It was an act that he wished would never
be forgotten, to him or to anyone else, since it was a lesson
Icantus would personally make sure his deed would never go
forgotten. He would brand that dreaded Rub spell into his very
identity, as a reminder never to act out of emotion again.
He would call himself...Rubicantus.
No, that was far too clumsy; just plain Rubicant would do.
He somehow didn't think in a way fitting a man expected to
die at dawn.
The soldiers didn't know any of this, or care, for that matter;
they had their job to take care of for their 250 GP per week
and benefits. The leader managed to get the door open and gestured
for Icantus--Rubicant now--to get up. "C'mon, prisoner. Get
ready to go. We can't keep the executioner waiting."
He fell to the ground in feigned agony, clutching at his stomach
and moaning theatrically.
The guards exchanged tired glances. They had seen this before,
the shock of staring ahead at the tunnel that represented one's
life and seeing the specter of death looming only minutes away.
"You have five minutes," one stated blandly. To one of his fellow
soldiers, he asked, "His name's Drefflin, or something? Icantus
Rubicant began to convulse, his limbs thrashing against the
cold stone of the cell's dusty floor, eyes jerking wildly.
The first guard began to worry, cautiously approaching the
twitching figure, fingertips against the sword at his belt as
a precaution. Then, when he moved in to examine...
The massive fire spell virtually melted the two guards closest
to him, and the other two were scorched almost fatally, their
armor softening, clothes and skin charring beneath.
"The name's Rubicant," the former prisoner whispered. He had
never seen mangled corpses from this close and turned away,
sickened by the scene he had created.
Ignoring their yells, he ran down the dimly-lit corridor, skidding
to a stop as he rounded a corner. For there a guard, who had
come to inspect the source of the noise, stared at him for a
moment, surprised that the sunken-eyed prisoner had been able
to escape. Rubicant stared back, afraid of what he might have
to do, already upset by the first deaths, the human life he
felt was crushed and smeared by his stained hands.
The Eblanese guard acted first. He drew his sword and swung
it in Rubicant's direction, but the latter recovered quickly
enough to create an invisible barrier, weak from short notice
but strong enough to ward off the blow. The sword stuck into
the field with a hollow thud, and its wielder struggled to pull
it free. Then Rubicant dropped his spell, causing his enemy
to stumble backwards. Tired of magic and its destruction, Rubicant's
old ninja instincts took over.
He threw a punch at the off-balance soldier's face, connecting
solidly and sending him reeling back, nose bloodied. Rubicant
hoped that would be enough to let him get away, but the guard
recovered and rushed suddenly in his direction, honed blade
flashing in the feeble light.
Rubicant had no choice. He tossed a fireball at the man before
him, catching the guard in the face. The sword fell loudly the
floor as he clawed desperately at his face, skin and hair still
aflame, kept burning by the wizard's powerful magic.
Rubicant gagged at the sight and knelt to pick up the guard's
sword, ready to finish the task and put the man out of his misery.
A droplet of fiery blood from the struggling man's nose landed
on Rubicant's face. He wiped it away and felt it singe his hand,
taunting him with its parody of his magical skills.
The red wizard slammed the sword into the soldier's unprotected
neck and shoved the dead figure backwards. Then he continued
down the corridor.
He met and burned four more soldiers who stood guard near the
entrance, then easily took care of three others waiting outside.
Luckily, the jail stood near at the very edge of town, because
his ability to cast magic was tiring.
Rubicant sprinted desperately for the caves west of Eblan,
never turning back to see the melee that was developing far
behind him. When he neared their gloomy entrance, he took a
fallen branch from the ground and lit it as a torch with a weak
fire spell. The temperature dropped ten degrees inside, and
he was greeted by cool mustiness and the distant sound of squeaking
He would be safer deeper within the twisting passages, and
so he pushed forward, hoping he would be able to find his way
back. That is, if he survived long enough for that to become
a necessity. Glancing cautiously behind his shoulder, he stumbled
into a wall. But it wasn't exactly a wall, since it gave slightly
from his weight...
Rubicant jumped back, his body and mind tensely ready, as the
black-clad figure advanced. "Who are you?"
The armored man chuckled, his deep voice almost rumbling within
the cavern. "I have been watching you for some time, Icantus.
Your services would be very useful to me. My name is Golbez."
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