Draemon Rising
Kirby Dannon was sure he'd put the wand somewhere in the cupboard.
His master had been very specific about where the long ash stick was supposed to go after he was finished practicing with it, but the Elgor had become enraged, snapping one of its chains and lunging for him. He'd set down the wand on the table to secure the beast, and the Flith in the corner had taken the opportunity to swoop down, and had almost gotten its claws around the instrument. If that had happened, his master would have been more than just unhappy – furious would be closer – so Kirby had shoved the wand in the nearest cupboard, made a rude gesture at the Flith and then re-chained the Elgor.
Of course, he'd completely forgotten that the wand was in the cupboard, and was now paying the price.
“Kirbs!” He could hear his master calling him from the summoning chamber. “Have you found that blasted wand yet?”
Kirby grit his teeth. He hated that name, but had little choice in the matter. An apprentice was essentially a glorified slave, and he was fortunate to have been chosen by master Grimthol. So long as he did nothing to anger the Gods and made it out of his novitiate alive, he would be allowed to choose a specialty and study at the college of Majiks. Kirby knew of two students who had avoided the servitude process in place for new applicants, both by virtue of their own inherent skill. One was his older brother, and one was a girl from across the Crater. She was said to be beautiful; tall and willowy like all of her kind, but a match in power even for some of the instructors.
His hands closed around a long wooden shaft, and he let out a triumphant yell. Rainy days had made for a great deal of cleaning in the small cottage, cleaning he was responsible for. The bucket, bin and dustpan had all shifted positions over the course of the last week, wedging the wand under them. Pulling out the wand, it took him a moment to notice that it had grown feathers and that the shaft was brown, not black.
“Bring it here, boy!” Grimthol called out, but he didn't bother to answer. The feather duster would do his master no good, and he had no desire to make his situation any worse. Quickly pulling out all of the cleaning materials, he stuck his head into the cupboard. Wedged in the far back corner was the wand, nearly invisible in the darkness of the small space.
Grabbing it, he moved too quickly getting out and caught his head against the edge of the cupboard top. With a muffled curse, he turned and sprinted toward the summoning chamber.
“Coming, master,” he said as he ran.
The tall man watched him through narrowed eyes as he entered the candlelit room. Bushy brows were drawn over a lined face, set with squinting eyes and a mouth that hadn't seen a smile in years. Grimthol was easily the oldest of any of the masters still alive, and some said he kept himself that way by use of his own Majik – something expressly prohibited by the Charter.
His master took the wand without a word, and motioned for Kirby to sit down. He had seen seven summonings so far, each one culminating in the appearance of a lesser draemon, bound to his master's will. They could do nothing in the physical world; the elemental protection afforded by the summoning chamber prevented that, but they could easily kill or main the one who had summoned them. The spiritual link forged with the Underealm left a Chanter open to attack, and though many who had their draemons turn on them survived, they were never the same.
Outward injuries were never the problem; the creatures were able to affect the mind such that a Chanter would be unable to ever use a certain portion of their body again, or would forget all of those around them.
Summoning draemons was a dangerous business.
It all lay in the wand, or so he had been told. That, and the Chanter's own mental fortitude. The words required to summon a draemon were quite simple, and he had memorized the formulas long ago. It was the ability to keep them flowing, keep the words coming even under extreme mental stress, that separated a successful Raiser from a broken one.
Kirby doubted he would pick Raising as his specialty. It took too much effort for far too little reward. The best could draw on their captured draemons power to do great works for the college and the Council, but each time that power was used, the chance that the thing would break free increased, and he had no interest in risking his life that way. Once he had completed his time with Grimthol, he had no plans to ever pick up a wand again.
“First class, third order!” His master barked, and he responded instinctively.
“Thorval,” he said quickly.
“Above and below,” Grimthol pressed.
“Thorvin and Thorvor.” These were tiny draemons, barely worth the effort to summon.
“Good enough,” his master said. “I trust you remember their formulas.”
Kirby nodded, a cold feeling swelling in his stomach.
“Today,” Grimthol intoned, rubbing his hands along the length of the dark wand, “you will raise your first draemon.” Kirby kept his eyes on the wand; Ash was not naturally black, and he knew that its color had come from the countless creatures it had enslaved.
“You are competent,” his master continued, “but lack focus. You will raise a Thorval, and I will not assist you. I suspect you will die, but if you do not, you will have earned a small amount of my respect.” Grimthol passed him the wand. “Begin now, Kirbs. Do not stray from the words, and do not look from the path. Raise well!”
- D
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