Chapter 2
Sweat readily beading on his narrow brow, Spellbound hitched his travel pack up once more as his thin legs took him farther up the forested slope. He was not a particularly adept mountaineer, cursed as he was with a rather meager physique, especially for one aspiring to join the elite ranks of Equestria’s finest. The young mage had never exceeded average marks on the martial components of his courses and so, it wasn’t surprising that the three other cadets had quickly left him in the dust. With no lost love between the four cadets who constantly vied for the highest rank, the others had been more than happy to leave one competitor in the dust as they raced ahead to see who would have the glory of apprehending the marshal.
That was fine with him. Let the meatheads run. After all, there was far more to being a good soldier than brawn.
What Spellbound lacked in strength and stamina, he more than made up for with near savant levels of intellect and skill. Hailed as a genuine magical prodigy, the arcana many of his classmates struggled with came to him as naturally as swimming to a silver pike. By the end of his first year at Academy, the brown-haired youth had already exhausted the entire curriculum and was delving into more complex magicks of his own accord. By the second, he’d qualified as a full-fledged magister. By the third year, the sheer breadth of his encyclopedic repertoire had transformed him from a scrawny lad into a bastion of unparalleled, mystic might.
No, there was much more to a soldier than throwing a hard punch. He’d realized that early on, and that’s why instead of wasting his time with push-ups and squats, Spellbound had devoted himself wholly to the study of magic, the wellspring of true power. Brains beat brawn in combat, and it was high time for someone like him to remind his peers just why.
Clambering over a moss-covered log, Spellbound adjusted his glasses with a slight smile as he found exactly what he sought. In between a dense mass of undergrowth on one side and a solid cliff on the other lay a small clearing he'd used many times before. Well out of sight from the common paths, this little hideaway would provide the perfect cover as he prepared to show that grey-eyed brute just who he was dealing with.
Removing his pack, Spellbound took a moment to crack his stiff back before he pulled out a utility wand and gave it a quick flick. Instantly, pale, yellow light surrounded the pack and summoned forth a truly impressive set of glass phylacteries chock full of all manners of ingredients ranging from the common bits of newt to incredibly rare finds like genuine ectoplasm. That one had been a nightmare to acquire – literally – but this moment would make it more than worth it.
With each subtle flick of his wand, the various vials tipped their contents into a pewter mixing bowl where a matching pestle swiftly ground them into a fine paste. While this went on, Spellbound knelt to the ground and began tracing out an elaborate spell circle into the loamy soil with his other hand. This wasn’t easy, even for a naturally ambidextrous one such as himself, but the bespectacled prodigy managed it, and soon, his work was done.
Carefully, more carefully than most mothers were with their newborns, Spellbound poured the shimmering green liquid from the pewter bowl into the circle, making sure each rune and every sigil was well-touched with the magical brew.
To the casual onlooker and even the well-informed observer, the thin cadet’s actions would make no sense. Despite the complexity of the design, the basic spell at the center was still a standard tracking spell, one that should hardly aid him now. While seeking magic was simple to apply when you had a target before you, it grew exponentially more difficult the farther out the target ran. This meant that in a man-hunt where the target could be hiding anywhere between here and Prance, tracking spells were about as useful as lead-lined swimsuits.
Fortunately, this wasn’t a regular man-hunt.
Amidst the all-too-arrogant marshal’s challenge, Spellbound had found a fatal flaw in the man’s bravado: he’d limited today’s test to just the first training mountain. Normally, such a large swath of land would still be too much for any sort of mage to cover with a sweeping scan, but Spellbound wasn’t an ordinary mage. Between the complex broadcasting array borrowed from some rather… restricted texts and the potent amplifying mix filled with all manners of magical goodies, covering the mountainside with a sensory pulse should be possible.
From there, it would only be a matter of time. The spell would find the marshal. A scrying spell would reveal his location. Spellbound would prepare by drawing on his vast array of spells and enchantments. Then, when he was nice and ready, the cadet would call forward the fires of heaven itself upon Graves wherever he tried to hide. By limiting the arena, Graves had taken a task more difficult than divining the five-year future of a draconaquis and simplified it into trigonometry. What a fool.
“There, that should do it,” Spellbound grinned in satisfaction as he took upon his finished work. Another flick of his wand drew forth a flat, silver disk that floated precisely into the circle’s center, forming the heart that would serve as the spell’s nexus. A few final checks, a deep breath for calm, and the hazel-eyed cadet pressed palms to the ground and began to chant.
Words of power flowed forth thick and fast as Spellbound poured raw mana into the ground and into the array that began to grow with a pale, yellow light. Minutes ticked by as Spellbound continued his chanting, the pale glow growing stronger even as sweat began to drip from his brow like heavy rain. Despite his natural gifts and the extent of his preparations, the limits of his physique and the sheer scope of his task made the endeavor a taxing one at best and debilitatingly exhausting at worst. It was like trying to put out the fires of a burning house with a bucket made of stone where the run to the river and back was uphill both ways. Nevertheless, Spellbound persisted, pouring more mana into the arcane array and bringing every ounce of his skill and knowledge to bear as he wove the intricate magic into being.
Finally, with a heated pulse of dense, sunglow light, the circle burst in a massive shockwave that disturbed neither leaf nor grass as it silently swept over the mountain. Taking off his glasses and wiping away a bead of sweat, Spellbound allowed himself a small, but triumphant smile as he breathed a sigh of relief. It had been difficult, a true test of his prodigious skills, but the spell had worked. The silver disk at the circle’s center pulsed with light as the magic wave returned information on the marshal’s location. His cover was blown. The end was at hand.
“Well, soon at least,” Spellbound chuckled as he returned the glasses to his face and heaved another weary sigh. “I’ll just take a few minutes to catch my breath, get my next spells ready, and then go… after…”
Hazel eyes fell upon the silver disk before him and the cadet frowned.
That was odd. According to the inscriptions, the disk was supposed to glow with two points of light, a blue one at the center to mark where he was and red blip to mark the marshal’s location in relation to his. Yet there was only one, and not in either expected color, either. Rather, it looked to be an odd, wavering shade of… purple.
“Strange,” Spellbound muttered. “Did I mess up the incantations?”
“Not at all,” a rough voice called from behind. “Just took you forever.”
… Oh, buck.
With the cold, unshakable dread of thin ice cracking underfoot, the young mage slowly turned around and found himself looking into the steely, grey eyes of Marshal Graves. Ah, that was it. The spell was working perfectly. He’d found the Ghost of Thunder, just as he’d planned.
“Not a bad idea,” the marshal drawled as he raised his rifle and leveled it on the hapless youngster. “ 'Course, standing still and using that much mana makes you painfully easy to find as well.”
Spellbound looked over to where his own spell gun stood neatly propped up on the tree behind the marshal. He hadn’t set it there. He hadn’t even heard it move.
“That was your mistake,” Graves rumbled as his gun began to glow. “And now you’re dead.”
Bang.
*****
Boulder crept through the forest underbrush, his movements surprisingly agile and swift for one so large, even with the bulky, cross-strapped pack slung over his back. Overhead, a stray jay cawed, the only sound in the woods as no insects yet dared surface to face the still frosty air. Silently, he moved ever forward, brow knit and furrowed from straining his senses to the utmost.
Boulder may have been big, but he wasn’t stupid. People just assumed he was, on account of his size and propensity for silence. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t the smartest slap in the spanking. His scores on military strategy and magical theory were always middle of the pack at best, unlike some bookworms who couldn’t do anything but keep their heads buried in texts. That being said, there was a big difference between bad grades and stupid.
The giant cadet was definitely not stupid. For the first part, he didn’t try to convince anyone he wasn’t. In fact, he was perfectly content for them to think him a dull lug, a regular meathead who did more thinking with his pecs than his brain. Let them think that. While they laughed, he was slowly polishing his skills and asserting himself as one of the most formidable combatants to walk the Academy’s halls.
That lead to the second point that proved he wasn’t stupid: acceptance. Some of his classmates worked to develop flashy spells and convoluted of plans that more closely resembled a plate of spaghetti than any tactical progression. Boulder didn’t bother because he knew he couldn’t. The big man recognized that he simply wasn’t a gifted mage or a brilliant strategist. Even his aura-based magic, the less impressive of the two branches, didn’t allow for much creative glamour.
But the muscular cadet was clever enough to recognize that fact, accept those limitations, and thus free himself to develop his the gift he did have: strength. Drill. Train. Take the basics, repeat them ten thousand times, then repeat them ten thousand more in the arduously simple task of practice. Honed and refined, Boulder had taken his natural might, grown it twofold, and combined it with flawless skills that defined the meaning of simple but effective. While others danced and pranced about with their glittery spells and fancy tricks, he advanced, an unstoppable juggernaut that crushed all opponents beneath the weight of his stone-hard fists.
Simple didn’t mean weak. Simple meant flawless with no weakness to exploit. Simple strength was what a soldier truly needed.
This was how Boulder continued his silent trek across the forested slopes, not with showy spells or high-flying spider monkey acrobatics, but with practiced footsteps trained in the art of silence. He needed to be silent. As a short-range fighter who used the augmented strength of his spell armor to dominate opponents, the innumerable advantages he would have in hand-to-hand combat would be as useful as boots to a snake if he could never even get there.
Everyone knew of the Ghost of Thunder, of his reputation for nigh impossible precision and the devastating power of his trademark lightning blasts. While a fully charged suit of spell armor provided great protection against any form of attack, there was no way a standard set given to cadets could even hope to hold up against the marshal’s shocking bolts. He’d have to close in, but that’d be hard. Really hard. Honestly, how on earth was he ever going to–
A soft rustle ahead caused Boulder to freeze in his tracks. Crouching low, he minimized his massive bulk and peered from behind the cover of a tree trunk to see, much to his surprise, Graves just walking about. Well, maybe not just walking about. Even a passing glance showed that the marshal prowled about like a panther, every muscle relaxed, yet poised on the brink of explosive action as he set his gaze about like a pair of silver searchlights. But the key to all this was that as far as Boulder could tell, those searching eyes had yet to light on him.
You didn’t need to have thrice-awarded doctorates to see this was a golden opportunity, one not to be wasted in a million years. Boulder wasn’t going to waste it. Keep it simple. Simple plans couldn’t be broken.
Pressing palm to the medallion at the nexus of the crossing straps, Boulder released his magical aura and summoned forth his spell armor. Unfolding in whisper-silent metallic waves, the rune-inscribed plates slid over his body to encase him from helm to studded boot in protective armor. Hardened enough to protect the wearer from a charging minotaur, the arcane plating also served to increase strength and speed half again over. A proper aura mage could take that charging minotaur and toss it about like a steak on a grill, and Boulder was definitely more than just proper.
For a moment, the cadet paused, fearing that even the nigh inaudible whisk of spell-silenced steel would be enough to alert the marshal. But all was still. So slowly, ever so slowly, Boulder stalked closer towards Graves as he still remained vigilantly unaware of the approaching attack. Bit by bit, the cadet drew ever nearer, cautiously and steadily closing the distance till but a few meters remained between them. Tensing his muscles, Boulder clenched his fist, bringing his magical aura to maximum harmony with his armor, coiled tension into the immense pistons of his legs, and leaped.
Flying from their slotted grooves, rune frames flared to life as compact, pearly spell wings sprang forth and shot him forward like a loosed arrow. Boulder swung, aiming a devastating haymaker for the marshal’s head that would have sent a bull troll flying... if it had connected. It missed as Graves ducked just in time to let the crushing blow whisk by harmlessly overhead before, quick as a viper, spinning around to send a jabbing blow straight for Boulder’s throat.
Fortunately for the cadet, he’d only put enough strength in to land a powerful blow, not enough to throw himself off balance. Opposing hand came up for an open palm block the throat strike even as wings beat to arrest his momentum in midair. Jab averted, Boulder dropped to the ground and as soon as foot met soil, he charged, shoulder checking the marshal and forcing him to leap awkwardly back as his equilibrium was fractured by the assault. Smiling behind his visor, Boulder’s wings hummed into incandescent blurs as he rushed after Graves and pressed the assault. Keep it simple. Just attack.
His fists flew, a pounding storm of denting steel that never quite connected. Somehow, despite the great difference in size and strength, Graves managed to fend off the heavy blows with glancing parries and subtle redirections. Even in the middle of the battle, Boulder couldn’t help but be mildly impressed at the skillful defense. But only mildly. Between the cadet’s overwhelming strength and the agility provided by his wings, it was all Graves could do to slow the steady give of ground under the relentless barrage. Step by step, he fell back, and while the marshal tried to counter attack, the few counter blows he managed to sneak in bounced harmlessly off Boulder’s steely shell.
Victory was close. Boulder could smell it in the marshal’s panting breath and see it in his strained snarl. Sensing the break point, Boulder poured on the offense, raining down blows faster and stronger, stronger and harder. Graves was pushed to give still more ground, forced farther and farther until finally, he made a desperate leap back to clear some much needed space. Like a shark after blood, powers surged to his wings as Boulder charged straight in, an unstoppable juggernaut with arm poised and foot planted for the final strike–
“Whoa!”
–who quickly got to see the world flip turn upside down. Had Boulder been able to orient himself, he would have been able to look up and see that his ankle had been neatly snagged by a vine-made lariat. But he didn't because before the brawny cadet could even blink, a devastating blow to the back of his head hammered home, ringing his helmet like a gong.
“Passable offense,” a familiarly steady, baritone rumble called out from some blurred, dizzying direction. “But too simple. Got so focused on attacking, you forgot about your footing.”
As the vine slowly spun him around, the strong, yet addled cadet found himself blearily staring into the steely gaze of the marshal. He wasn’t breathing hard at all. Hay, he hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“You can’t tunnel in like that,” Graves sighed as his dull, metal barrel of his rifle began to glow. “But you did, and now you’re dead.”
Bang.
**********