Michael Foster - She Who Has No Name

They spied dozens of small bands of the dark-skinned desert-men who had entrenched themselves along the narrow mountain paths, just as Grand Master Tudor has foreseen, but luckily, the three of them managed to avoid direct conflict with all but one of these groups. Grand Master Tudor’s concealment spells had kept them virtually invisible to eye and ear every step of the way.

‘We need to reach the coast and signal an Imperial vessel,’ Tudor told them,as they afforded themselves the luxury of a cooked meal-a number of fist-sized quail caught and cooked by magical means. ‘I can’t guess how far west these desert-men havepenetrated, but our chances are better on the sea. They can train their armies as much as they like, but unless they managed to keep an ocean hidden in the desert as well, we will still have the advantage in the water.’

Samuel and Goodfellow both agreed-although it would have done them little good to object-and,while the old man set himself to sleep on a bed of dry leaves, they sat staring at the stars and the moon that peeped down at them between the branches.

‘I really hope Eric made it,’ Goodfellow said, finally breaking the silence. The starlight glinted on his spectacles-a reminder that although magic could accomplish wonders, it still could not solve something as common as near-sightedness.

‘Me, too,’ Samuel responded, ‘but if it turns out he fled and left us to fend for ourselves, I’ll be giving him a piece of my mind. There he goes, refusing to teach us his Journey spell and,when we need his help, he rabbits off and leaves us.’

‘I doubt it was intentional. Although, I still wouldn’t blame him if it were. I’m sure we both would have done the same if we could.’

‘Not if I had to leave anyone behind.’

‘Well, I guess it depends on the situation,’ Goodfellow noted, but Samuel only eyed his sandy-haired friend darkly. After a few moments, broken only by the night-time noises of the woods, Goodfellow spoke again, but he chose to change the subject altogether. ‘Times have certainly changed. I had no idea Grand Master Anthem could summon such beasts. I wonder where such fiends can come from.’

‘Who knows?’ Samuel said, rhetorically.

‘Do you remember when we fought the summoned creature in Hammenton?’

‘How could I forget such a thing, Eric? It was the most terrifying time in my life. Things like that tend not to be easily forgotten.’

‘When the Ti’luk creature first came up out of the well, we tried our magic against it-unsuccessfully. I keep thinking back to the spell you tried against it at the time. You told me you had amplified the spell by folding your power in upon itself.’

‘It seemed logical at the time, although I’ve had little chance to pursue it further. That was a long time ago.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it quite a lot,’ Goodfellow admitted. ‘What do you think if you kept pushing such a spell, pushing it tighter and tighter, with more and more magic? What would eventually happen?’

‘It would be very difficult to get past the point I reached on that day,’ Samuel explained. ‘The physical ability to manage such a spell is not easy. A lot of power is gained,but a lot is also wasted. I think the benefits would be lost in the effort.’

‘That could be overcome quite easily. The efficiency could be increased; the wayward power turned in upon itself. It could lead to spells of great proportion, perhaps something beyond what has ever been accomplished before.’

‘Are you suggesting some new kind of Great Spell?’ Samuel asked, looking to his friend with interest.

‘It’s possible, but I don’t think it would be a spell that could be cast in any useful way. It would be too chaotic-too difficult to knit into any kind of purpose.’

‘Then what would be the good of it? It would be energy, but undirected. It would take too much time to then unravel and be used as something useful-’

‘It would be powerful,’ Goodfellow interrupted, growing more excited. ‘Power upon power, ever inwards. If you could get enough energy down to a small enough point, I feel the pattern would not be able to hold it. The ether is vulnerable to magic in great concentrations, as with Summoning spells. At some point, I’m sure the spell would be forced to change its nature.’

‘Into what?’

‘I don’t know,’ Goodfellow admitted.

‘I think it more likely that such a point could never be reached, or it would just become something too dangerous to complete. This sounds like one of the discussions for old men on cold nights in the School of Magic, Eric.’

‘There are very few of those old men remaining,’ Goodfellow observed.

‘All the more reason for us to hurry back to Cintar.’

With a nod, Goodfellow conceded and laid himself to sleep while Samuel kept watch upon the night. Looking up, he noticed a faint trail just visible amongst the light of the constellations. It was a distant comet, barely discernible amongst the stars. He hoped it would bring them more luck than they had been having of late.

The wind was blowing straight in from the wild and broken sea as Samuel, Goodfellow and Grand Master Tudor came stumbling across the grey, seaweed-strewn beach. Much to their relief, a small fishing boat was lying up on the sand, trailing a shallow groove down to the water where it had been dragged up only recently. There was no sign of the owner, orahouse or homefromwhere it could have come, so they shoved the boat back to the water’s edge and clambered in,their robes dripping and sodden.

They had little knowledge of how to work the tiny sail and instead set their vessel coursing straight out beyond the breakers with a curt spell. Goodfellow took over from old Tudor when the man needed a rest and it was not until each of them had taken several turns that both of them were too tired to continue.

‘Your turn,’ Goodfellow said, scraping the salt and spray from his eyeglasses. ‘I need a rest.’ He sighed and released his spells, collapsing at the back of the boat next to the sleeping old man.

Samuel was left crouching at the tip of the vessel as it lulled atop the lapping waters, rubbing the ring in his fingers nervously and thinking what he would say if he failed to get them moving. Alternatively, there was a good chance that the power of the ancient relic would shatter their craft into a thousand pieces and leave them flailing in the salty sea, and that would also require a tactful explanation. Slipping the ring onto his finger, Samuel tried his best to squeeze out only the tiniest trickle of power for a Moving spell. When he felt a torrent of power about to swell, he withdrew himself altogether before any magic could be released. It must have taken him twenty attempts, but finally he coaxed a tiny squirt of magic from the thing and the boat jerked ahead, beforebecomingbecalmedas the spell expired. Daring to peer back towards the rear of the little boat,Samuel was relieved to see thatold Tudor and Goodfellow were both still splayed out and fast asleep, too exhausted to notice his dismal attempts.

Samuel continued for what seemed like hours, struggling with the ring and sending them ahead in lurching,intermittent spurts.

They had only just reached a shallow cove and passed by a few clumps of lightlytreed islands when Tudor coughed and spluttered and finally awoke. He came staggering to the front of the boat like a dazed drunkard.

‘You take a rest now,’ he said, still coming to full wakefulness, blinking quizzically at his surrounds.

Samuel needed no further encouragement and climbed to his feet, stepping over the planks that acted as seats and setting the boat to rock about. Tudor’s spells fell into place and the vessel jumped forward, sending out curtains of translucent water from its bow and leaving a deep wake behind it, which the ocean rushed in to fill as they left it. Within minutes,they had travelled further than Samuel had managed the entire time.