The Spell Realm (The Sorcery Code #2)(12)
“The shed where they were experimenting with the pigs exploded, and Shram’s house went up in flames, along with his wife and son,” Ara said, her voice low and thick. “They died while Shram watched, paralyzed from the spell. A burning ember from the house fell on him, giving him that scar you see today.”
Blaise stayed silent, not knowing what to say, and after a few moments, Ara continued her story. “That’s why Shram came here, you know,” she said, staring into the darkness of the forest. “Because he ultimately found and killed the acolyte responsible for casting that spell—the only acolyte who survived that explosion.”
Blaise felt like a heavy fist was squeezing his heart. “I see,” he said softly. He couldn’t blame Shram for exacting his revenge. He would’ve done the same in his place. “And what about you, Ara? Why are you here?”
To his surprise, Ara’s lips curved in a faint smile. “Oh, my story is not nearly as tragic. I was simply fed up with Davish, Kelvin’s overseer, trying to force me into his bed. Well, that and constantly being hungry. So one day, I just packed up my things and decided to take my chances with the Western Woods.” She paused, then grinned at him impishly. “As you can see, it worked out.”
*
For the next couple of hours, Ara told Blaise more stories about Alania and its people. It seemed that everyone had different motivations for being there. Some came because they desired greater freedom, while others wanted to escape poverty and starvation. Many had run-ins of one kind or another with the authorities, and almost all of them desired a fresh start away from the oppressive structure of the territories. Hearing these stories, Blaise couldn’t help but admire these people’s stoicism and determination. These were individuals who took their fate into their own hands, rather than meekly accepting their station in life.
When everybody in the camp was finally asleep, Blaise decided to do a few spells to help himself with the responsibility he took on. “You don’t mind if I perform a little sorcery, do you?” he asked Ara, not wanting to be inconsiderate after hearing Shram’s story.
“No, I don’t mind,” she said. “I told you before, I’m not afraid. What spells are you going to do?”
“Well, I am about to make myself see in the dark and over much greater distances,” Blaise explained. “I’m also going to improve my hearing and prepare a basic fireball spell.”
“Oh.” She appeared nonplussed. “Why?”
“If I am expected to raise an alarm in case of danger, I want to be able to see and hear as well as I can. And the fireball is because I don’t have your bow and arrows.”
She grinned. “I see. Do you mind if I watch you write this?”
“Not at all.”
The next hour passed quietly. Blaise worked on his spells, while Ara sat still, seemingly content to be watching him. There was a curious look in her eyes, and Blaise realized he might have a volunteer if he ever wanted to teach the basics of magic to these people—if they ever wanted to learn it, that is.
Loading the vision and hearing spells into the Stone, Blaise felt the effects of them immediately. Despite the darkness, everything looked sharp and distinct, as though in daylight, only with the colors somewhat muted. The sounds, however, were overwhelming, and it took him a few moments to adjust. He could hear insects crawling on the forest floor and Maya lightly snoring in the tent.
“Did you do it?” Ara asked in a whisper, and he nodded, his brain starting to get used to the new stimuli.
It was at that moment that a new sound caught his attention.
It was a low growl in the distance.
Chapter 7: Barson
Barson was traveling for several hours when he stopped by a small river to let his horse drink and graze for a bit. Up ahead, he could see a small group of armed men. They looked like mercenaries—men who hadn’t been good enough to make it onto the elite force of the Sorcerer Guard, but who still made a living by hiring out their sword.
Ignoring them, he led his horse to the river, taking out a piece of cured meat to chew on the way.
“Hey, you got more of that?”
One of the strangers had approached him, stopping a few feet away with an arrogant expression on his face.
Barson frowned in annoyance. “No,” he retorted. “Just have enough for myself.” Then, remembering that he was trying to blend in and avoid attention, he added, “I passed an inn not too far back, though. They might have some food for you.”
“Well, why don’t you share anyway?” the man suggested, taking a step in Barson’s direction. “Then you can go on your merry way.”
Barson’s hackles rose. He had no intention of giving up his supplies to this idiot—not when he needed to get to Turingrad with all expediency and had no time to look for more. These men were obviously used to taking what they wanted from hapless peasants and thought Barson to be one.
“What’s going on here?” Another one of the men approached, his hand clutching the hilt of his sword.
“This peasant is being disrespectful,” the first man said, jerking his thumb in Barson’s direction. “Thinks he’s too good for us.”
“I’m just passing through,” Barson said evenly, ignoring the anger starting to curdle low in his stomach. “I don’t want any trouble, and I’m sure you don’t either.”