Jack Campbell: The Dragons of Dorcastle

The heat, the dust, the mountains rising ahead were all false, as much illusion as the mirages wavering with the fake promise of water.

Mage Alain of Ihris focused inward, denying the dry, hot wind which had just flicked a cloud of fine sand off the crest of a dune and dusted it over the caravan. Denying the grit which settled in his eyes. None of it was real.

Mounted caravan guards rode alongside the open carriage in which Alain sat, their horses plodding with the same weary gait as the oxen pulling the long line of wagons. Those guards were here for the same reason he was, to protect the caravan from the bandits of the Desert Waste, but that in no way made them equals.

He was a Mage. At seventeen years old he was the youngest Mage in the history of the Mage Guild, but to the common people in the caravan and among the guards, Alain’s age did not matter.

They did not matter, either, Alain reminded himself. Those other people, like the desert about him, like the carriage in which he rode, were all illusions, mere shadows created by his own mind. Only he was real. Ten years of harsh schooling in the Mage Guild had taught him that he was always alone, no matter how many shadows his mind imagined seeing.

Alone.

A memory intruded despite his best efforts: a vision of two graves near Ihris, where the remains of a man and a woman lay buried side by side. His parents had never been real and had never mattered, the Mage Guild had taught. It didn’t matter that his parents had died at the hands of raiders off the Bright Sea after Alain had been taken from them and isolated within a Mage Guild Hall. It didn’t matter that he had not learned of their deaths until a few months ago, when he attained Mage status and could finally leave that Guild Hall.

It did not matter, Alain told himself, trying to deaden all feeling as he had been taught.

But the stab of pain the memory brought served as a reminder of what Alain had successfully hidden from his teachers in the Mage Guild. Despite his best efforts to deny all feeling, to see others only as shadows with no value, deep inside emotions still tore at him. All of the Mage Guild’s teachings, all of the elders’ ruthless discipline, had not caused his mother’s last words to fade in Alain’s memory as the Mages took him away. Do not forget us.

At least there were no other Mages here to detect Alain’s failure, to constantly watch him for signs of weakness.

There should have been, though.

This was his first assignment since earning his status as a Mage. He did not know why he had been sent to protect the caravan alone. Normally, two Mages would have been assigned, as some insurance against failure. And even though the Mage Guild saw everything as illusion, the elders had always shown a fondness for gold, real or not. The protection of two Mages cost the common folk twice what one Mage would.

Alain peered ahead, where the track the caravan had been following for days wound up out of the wastelands and curved toward a pass surrounded by rugged hills. Despite his denial of the dust and the glare, a moment of weakness caused him to wish that he had a pair of the odd headgear some of the caravan guards wore, a sort of bandana with two pieces of dark glass set in it that protected the eyes. But those “goggles” were made by Mechanics, and the Mechanics who claimed the ability to change the world illusion in their own ways were frauds. His elders had never wavered in that. Common folk might be fooled into using and paying for the strange gadgets of the Mechanics, but no Mage would be taken in by their hoaxes. The goggles could not actually work, and as a Mage Alain could not touch them.

Perhaps the pass would finally bring them out of the blazing desert, or at least provide momentary shade as they passed between the higher ground on either side. Between the glare of the sun hammering down from above and the reflected heat from the ground below, Alain felt like a loaf of bread being baked in an oven. It might be just an illusion, but it was a very warm illusion. Regardless, he had to take no apparent notice of the heat. He had to maintain at all times the stoic indifference of a Mage to physical hardships, no matter what those hardships were.

That pass, though. He should not remain indifferent to that. A narrow way between looming walls of rock. If bandits did lurk here, they would surely choose such a place for an ambush.

Alain denied the unease that thought brought to life. He denied any hint of nervousness that he might soon face his first deadly test outside a Mage Guild Hall.

The commander of the guard rode not far from Alain’s carriage. Alain raised one hand slightly, turning his head just enough to look at the commander.

Common folk avoided looking directly at Mages, but they knew to respond when a Mage beckoned. Tugging at the reins, the commander brought his horse over to trudge next to Alain’s carriage. The commander pulled down the scarf protecting his nose and mouth, then slid up the goggles covering his eyes so that his face was visible. Only then did he bow as deeply as permitted by his position in the saddle. “Yes, Sir Mage.”

Alain watched him, knowing that his own expression revealed no feeling at all. Merciless training had taught that skill to the young acolytes of the Mage Guild. But with the ability to hide all feeling came a corresponding proficiency at spotting emotion in others, even when they tried their best to hide it. On those few occasions when he had spoken with the commander before this, the man had revealed beneath an impassive face and respectful tone of voice the usual fear of Mages. Now within the commander’s eyes and voice lurked a greater worry.

After most of a childhood spent obeying Mage Guild elders in all things, it felt odd to be addressed with so much respect and fear by a man of the commander’s age. It would have felt awkward, that is, if that were not one more feeling to be denied.

Gesturing ahead, Alain spoke in a voice with no feeling in it. “We approach a pass.”

“Yes, Sir Mage.” His voice hoarse, the commander used the back of his hand to wipe his dust coated lips, then raised a leather water flask and drank to clear his throat. “We are entering difficult territory.”

“More difficult than this waste we have spent so long crossing?”

The commander hesitated, anxiety flaring in his eyes as he tried to guess what Alain had meant by that comment. “Yes, Sir Mage. The pass threatens worse than heat, thirst, and dust.” He pointed up the road, to where the hills loomed over either side of the pass. “Bandits rarely operate far into the waste, and once beyond those hills there may be patrols out of Ringhmon to help keep the peace. But if we are to be attacked, if there are any brigands out and about, that pass is where they’ll make their try at us. It is called Throat Cut Pass for good reason.”

He hesitated again, not quite looking at Alain. “Sir Mage, do you know of any…?”

“No.” Alain let the flat word stand alone. Some Mages did have occasional flashes of foresight warning of what was to come, but never reliably, and he had never felt that gift himself. The elders said that stress or danger could bring foresight to life in a Mage, but Alain would not explain any of that to a common. “Why does Ringhmon not garrison the pass?”

The commander licked his lips nervously before replying. “A garrison here is too much trouble and expense as far as Ringhmon is concerned, Sir Mage. Keeping a strong garrison supplied out here wouldn’t be cheap, and a small garrison would too likely end up victims to the bandits.” He pointed ahead again. “See that column of stone, Sir Mage? Ringhmon claims its borders out to here, but that’s nonsense. They’re not half so big as they like to pretend.”