Renegade Wizards

curtain of fire erupted from the earth. The wall steamed under the rain and caught a handful of dolls in its heat. The others turned and scampered back into the buildings’ dark ruins.

Tythonnia’s horse bucked and she cursed herself for getting so distracted. Several dolls were already at its hooves, trying to leap onto its legs. One managed to clamp on and bite, and again, its soft mouth seemed to draw no blood. But the Dairly whinnied in pain and reared back. Tythonnia lost her balance and fell into the mud.

The fall drove the wind from her lungs and knocked her senseless. Something in her mind screamed at her to get up and fight, but her thoughts were muddled. Dancing dangerously close to her, the horse bucked and kicked, trying to knock the dolls loose. Only a couple attacked the horse, however. Four, or perhaps more, had turned on Tythonnia. She screamed in pain as the first doll bit into her calf.

The bite itself wasn’t very deep, but the doll’s mouth seemed laced with something that burned her skin with an unholy pain, a lancing agony that impaled her leg and sucked her strength through the wound. She felt weakened even as her blood pushed her heart faster.

“No, no!” she cried, fighting to pull the doll from her leg, as another doll bit into her forearm. Strength faded and she thought she might pass out.

“Discipline through pain,” a voice said. It echoed somewhere deep inside her thoughts. Tythonnia dimly recognized the voice. It belonged to a trainer, a veteran taskmaster named Segarius. Her teacher, Amma Batros, had asked Segarius to put Tythonnia through her paces in preparation for the test.

“Use the pain to provide focus. Focus is clarity and clarity is magic.”

“I can’t think! Stop! Please!”

“The test is merciless, so why should I be any different? Don’t think! Act!”

A third doll bit into her arm and overwhelmed her in pain. It rode the senses; she was suddenly bereft of the right words, the correct motions to unlock the magic spells stored in her head. She felt a sudden void where the knowledge was supposed to be; the bizarre dolls were sapping her strength and her ability to think, to react.

Save me, she thought, hoping the others would somehow hear her, but they were caught up in their struggles, and her horse was racing away with two dolls latched onto it. Through tear-swollen eyes, she could see more dolls running toward her. And still the magic refused to come. Tythonnia could recall nothing beyond that moment of pain.

She couldn’t remember the magic, but there was once a time when she could feel it. Long before Amma Batros taught her to read arcane script and unlock the power hidden in reagents, long before the High Sorcery wizard found her on her father’s farm, there was the crone Desmora. Desmora could whisper to the world and have it heed her words. Desmora taught her how to bend the elements to her whim without words or dancing fingers, just using naked will to harness magic.

Tythonnia felt raw energy surge along her body and down the channel of her arm. She thrilled at it. From her outstretched hand, Wyldling magic curled and popped between her fingertips, and she grabbed the first doll. It jerked in her grip, and the stray ends of straw that poked out from the lining of its burlap skin caught fire. A hissing shriek escaped its lips before the glow of its button eyes dimmed and it went limp.

She pulled it away in time to grab another doll and send another electric charge into that little monster. It, too, shrieked and fell. The pain diminished even though one doll remained firmly clamped on her thigh and several more were charging her.

Memories returned and with it, her training. Suddenly, the lessons of Amma Batros and Segarius flourished in her thoughts.

Her fingers danced and connected before the next wave of dolls could reach her.

“Sihir anak,” Tythonnia whispered.

The words evaporated. Four darts shot out, two arcing back to strike the one biting into her thigh, the other two slamming into the lead doll. The doll stumbled and fell, while the one latched to her thigh was blasted loose, never to rise again.

The pain vanished almost immediately and Tythonnia could feel her strength return in full force. More important, she could think clearly, and with that came the anger at what she’d done. To have retreated to unsanctioned, chaotic magic and forgotten her training shook her to the very core. She was proud to be a wizard of the Red Robes, but to have abandoned her discipline in a moment of panic was unforgivable. Anger gave way to rage, and Tythonnia pulled a pinch of powder from a small belt pouch.

“Corak pesona!” she said as she released the spell material. In her mind, the powder overtook the dolls racing for her and another ribbon script of magic was unwritten.

The powder fanned out into a cone of violently clashing colors. It swept over the attacking dolls, and instantly, all four fell into the mud. Tythonnia quickly crawled to them and began stabbing them as hard as she could. It only took a stroke or two before the light dimmed from their button eyes, but Tythonnia stabbed each a couple of times more for satisfaction and good measure.

The three wizards surveyed the damage about them. Fifteen or more dolls lay scattered in the mud, some burned, others ripped apart. Tythonnia, Par-Salian, and Ladonna said nothing. They were too tired, too exhausted from the battle that had sapped their strength and pushed their magics to the breaking point. Ladonna seemed to have fared better than the rest of them, never once succumbing to the dolls, while Par-Salian looked downright miserable with his hair and clothing caked in mud.

“What’s happened to your hair?” Par-Salian said, looking at Tythonnia.

Tythonnia’s hand went to straighten her blond locks, but it was hard to find them beneath the layer of mud that covered her. Even the rainstorm was hard pressed to rinse her clean. Tythonnia and Par-Salian laughed so hard, it was impossible to stop or stand straight. Even a stern look from Ladonna fueled their laughter even harder.

Ladonna allowed her two compatriots to ride out their mirth until they were too exhausted to offer anything but a chuckle. Finally, she asked, “What about the dolls that escaped? I counted two or three of them. And there’s the matter of their creator,” Ladonna said.

“Creator?” Par-Salian asked.

“Yes,” Ladonna replied. She motioned toward the body of the dead villager, the one she spoke to earlier. “He told me that the dolls belonged to an old man living on the edge of town.”

“We must rest first,” Par-Salian said, levity instantly forgotten.

“No,” Tythonnia said. “This isn’t our concern.”

“He murdered these people,” Par-Salian said, motioning to the corpses around them. “He nearly killed us!”

“I think he should die,” Ladonna said.

“Wait, wait. I didn’t say that either,” Par-Salian protested.

“It isn’t our problem,” Tythonnia said. “It isn’t our place to bring him to justice, only to report him. Our priority is finding our horses and reaching Palanthas.”

“We should at least bring him before the conclave,” Par-Salian said.

“To what end?” Ladonna retorted. “To assuage your guilt for leaving him alive? I say kill him.”

“No,” Par-Salian replied. “And that’s final, Ladonna.”

“Then leave him for the conclave,” Tythonnia said. “Send them a message, and let them decide what to do about him. We need to keep going.”

Par-Salian shook his head slowly as he pondered the matter. It wasn’t an easy choice, Tythonnia knew, but none of them were ready to capture a renegade, much less drag him back across the countryside to Solanthus. That would not only delay them, it would endanger their identities as well. It was better to leave him for the conclave to deal with.

“We find our horses,” Par-Salian announced finally, “and continue on to Palanthas. I’ll alert Highmage Astathan as to what’s happened here.”

To Tythonnia’s surprise, Ladonna said nothing.

It had taken them an hour to find the three horses. Tythonnia’s Northern Dairly had managed to lose her two attackers along the way, though where the dolls had escaped to was anyone’s guess. The three wizards