“Surround him!” one broad dry lander commanded, stepping forward from the group and lifting his torch. “And get your damn dog back, Gorder!”
Borl didn’t have time to worry about what exactly the dry landers were planning. His windstick—if it even deserved the title—was finished, and there was no time like the present to test it out. He would worry about their dogs and torches if he failed.
The windstick had no footholds, so he just sat on it, feeling entirely ridiculous, and channeled energy into the final layer of talismans he’d added. He was careful to start with a level of energy too low to make anything happen, feeling out the quantity and quality that each talisman would need. Using talismans was an art of its own—a simpler art than casting spells without them—but still an art.
“He’s trying to fly!” a new voice called out. “Where’s the net?”
Blaze it! Borl hadn’t worked out the intricacies of his hasty talisman array yet, but he supposed his rough estimate would have to do. He increased the quantity of energy so that it was enough to start levitating and then cast a levitation spell on his shield so he could keep it with him. He wasn’t going to be able to maneuver it along with his flight, but as long as he got up high enough that the arrows wouldn’t touch him, that should be fine.
He zoomed up faster than planned and almost lost balance, the shield getting stuck a couple meters below him. Luckily, it was close enough that it still blocked the few arrows they shot before Borl managed to pull the shield back around him. And then finally he figured he was high enough and could let it dissipate, zooming off to find the disciple, who, as it turned out, had only made it a depressingly short way.
Borl dropped fast, certain that the dry landers were racing after them now.
The disciple nearly toppled over when he saw Borl plummeting towards him. Borl, for his part, hit the ground hard again, and this time couldn’t keep his balance, plopping onto the pine needles and dirt. He made sure to stand up as if nothing had happened. Even in a crisis, he had to maintain his image.
“Here.” He thrust his creation at the disciple. “Test it, but be quick. It’s not the same as a proper windstick.”
The disciple took it but seemed uncertain how to go about getting on without the footholds.
“Just sit,” Borl commanded, and the disciple did. Borl pointed out the final level of talismans. “Activate these ones,” he said. “Start slow. I’ll add energy once you’ve gotten the hang of it.”
The disciple was very obedient, even with the yelling of the dry landers close behind them. Borl couldn’t see them yet, but it would only be a minute. He hastily began recasting his own flight spells.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” the disciple admitted, glancing at him with his excessively large eyes. “They’re not the talismans I’m used to. Not that you’re at fault, of course; I just…”
Borl wasted a moment stewing before dropping his spells and striding over to the disciple. “Here,” he said, whacking a palm firmly—perhaps more firmly than necessary—into the disciple’s back. He directed a tiny tendril of his own magical energy along the boy’s energy veins. This was not usually done because it was invasive and had the potential to cause damage (hence the tiny amount), but Borl didn’t have time to explain. He traced out the path to the appropriate talismans so that the disciple could feel how he should be going about it. Borl continued for several seconds before retracting his energy.
“Try,” he commanded.
The disciple gave him a hesitant look and swallowed and then did as he was told.
“Yes?” Borl prompted.
The disciple nodded and then shook his head and then said, “I don’t know.”
A loud bark called Borl’s attention down the hill where the tan dog was now visible again, a little dot bounding towards them. It appeared entirely innocuous from this distance, but the people who came behind it would not be.
“Try harder,” Borl snapped and then forced himself to exhale and soften his voice. “Do it again,” he said. “I’ll monitor.”
Still obedient, the disciple tried, and Borl directed his own magical energy along the same pathways to sense how he was doing. ‘Not great’ was the answer.
The dog’s barking was getting louder, and it was hard to think clearly.
“I’ll just do it,” Borl concluded, since he couldn’t think of anything better right now. “Grab my arm and don’t let go. And don’t say anything. And pay attention so you can take over.”
He thrust his left arm out at the disciple, and, as soon as the boy grabbed it, Borl jammed energy through him, enough that it would likely damage a dry lander, or even a non-practicing magician, but hopefully not this particular disciple. He activated the windstick’s talismans… and then had to recast all his own flight spells for the third time that day, this time while maintaining the talismans. It was simpler than if he’d had to maintain two complete sets of flight spells, but it was still difficult. If anything broke his concentration, they were going to fall from the sky, and never mind the dry landers because Borl and the disciple would be too flat and dead to care.
Borl didn’t want to take the final leap and send them up, but the dog was rushing at him, teeth bared after its recent, unhappy collision with his shield, and the dry landers were shouting on the horizon. He kicked up his energy output and thrust them both into the sky. The disciple tilted and only stayed on the stick due to his bruising grip on Borl’s forearm.
An arrow sailed past them.
Borl forced them higher. And higher… until the air was cold and it was hard to breathe with the wind whipping past, but at least no arrow would reach them. He couldn’t think about anything except controlling all the spells, so that’s what he did, guiding them east, away from the border.
Borl had been living on the mountain’s north slope, but the ridge, which, at the location of Borl’s cabin, ran east-to-west, curved south several miles on, so the land eventually began to fall away beneath them and Borl felt safe to bring them lower, low enough that maybe a fall would only mean broken bones and not certain, flattened death. The trees were closer together here and taller, and the pines began to give way to deciduous trees like birches and broad-leafed maples. It was late summer, so they were still a rich green.
Only when they’d reached the foothills and Borl felt thoroughly exhausted did he feel safe letting them down in a meadow. The landing was once again less than smooth, and Borl was too tired to set himself straight, but he attempted to plop onto the grass with grace. He couldn’t stand up, but he smoothed his robes around him and acted as if it was his choice to remain seated. The disciple had contributed some of his own energy to the talismans, but he’d never taken over the channeling process.
Borl had known he was out of practice, but he hadn’t realized quite how out of practice. He was so tired. He shouldn’t have been this tired. In the past, he could have maintained two complete sets of flight spells for hours. Then again, lack-of-practice likely wasn’t the whole of it. Even if he’d stayed at Holey Hill and kept up with his work and his studies, he wouldn’t be able to do now what he’d been capable of five years ago.
“Master,” the disciple said from beside him, calling Borl’s attention up to his face, which looked both sheepish and concerned. “Are you alright?” He sounded hesitant about asking, as if he thought Borl might take offense to the question.
“I am fine,” Borl said, returning to his wise-master voice. Now removed from immediate danger, it was of course the tone he should use with any disciple, especially after how much snapping he’d done earlier. “I just need some time to rest and recover my energy. How are your legs? Do they need attending or will they be alright until we return to civilization?”
“Oh, I’m fine; I’m fine,” the disciple said hurriedly, though he was still standing in an unnatural posture that made Borl suspect he was not quite so fine. “I… I was only asking because, when I was holding your arm, there seemed to be something…” He trailed off, even though it was obvious his next word would have been “wrong,” but perhaps he felt uncomfortable implying there was something wrong with Borl, or that Borl hadn’t accurately assessed his own health.
Borl, however, wasn’t sure what exactly the boy was talking about. He hadn’t been physically injured, only exhausted. Unless he’d failed to notice an arrow grazing him… He drew back the sleeve of his left arm to look and, ah… of course. The bark.
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