This was not a good day. The sky was dark and getting darker, the wind blew, the surf was wild, and an irate Sergeant-Magus was yelling threats at anyone who began to lag behind. When it started raining, no one was particularly surprised.

  Most of the group had spent a large part of their lives performing some tedious and laborious task or other. Cutting wood, scrubbing floors, mucking out the pig sty, generally working long, exhausting days. They were not completely out of shape and incapable of exercise. But the morning’s exertions while weaving, for some the first time ever, as well as the rapid pace Holland made them set, quickly sapped what little strength they had regained.

  Serrel thought he was close to collapse by the time they reached the beach, and still Holland pushed them further. Kaitlin started strong, pushing to the front of the group with her typical desire to be ahead of everyone else. That didn’t last long. She was soon struggling alongside Serrel.

  Victor seemed to have limitless stamina, taking the lead at the start of the run and staying in front for the duration. His pace never faltered. Serrel found himself hating the other boy for that. At the other end, unsurprisingly, was Justin. He expended what little energy he had early on, not wanting to be outpaced by Edgar. By the time they reached the cliffs, he had fallen behind and was struggling. This did give Edgar unexpected reserves of energy.

  They had just turned around on the beach and were halfway back to the cliffs when Serrel tripped and fell onto the sand. He tried to get back up, but his arms and legs were in open rebellion and refused to cooperate. The thought occurred that maybe Holland would just let him lie there and die.

  The others at least were grateful, as Holland screamed them to a halt. He came and stood over Serrel impatiently.

  “At least you kept a hold of your staff,” Holland said with a sigh. “Thank the Gods for small mercies.”

  He pulled a small flask out of a pouch on his belt and unscrewed the cap. He tipped a small amount of fluid into the cap and knelt down besides Serrel. “Drink.”

  Serrel downed the tiny mouthful of liquid in one swallow. It burned on the way down, and tasted eerily like the vile moonshine the locals of his hometown used to cook up. A second later, his fatigue vanished, replaced by a soothing warmth that spread from his chest outwards. His head cleared, and the last remaining inkling of the Hollow was filled with what felt like liquid fire. He all but sprung to his feet, suddenly overcome with limitless energy, like the ether was shooting straight through him.

  “How are you feeling now?” Holland asked.

  “I feel like I just swallowed the sun, Sergeant,” Serrel replied. His spoke very quickly.

  “Poetic, Hawthorne. Do any of you Pond Scum know what this is?” Holland held up the flask.

  There was contemplative silence, then Kaitlin said, slightly out of breath, “Is it the Elixir of Vorkeph, Sergeant?”

  “Good to see there’s at least one of you with an inkling of potential. Correct, Astral. This is the Elixir of Vorkeph. Also known as the Magi’s Bane. It is a very complex and expensive concoction that contains the distilled essence of the ether itself. Many a mage has died just trying to create this potion. As you can see, even a tiny amount of the Elixir will restore the ether energy within you and then some. You’ll feel like you can jump over mountains. Right, Hawthorne?”

  Serrel was only half listening. He was watching his hand wave back and forth in front of his face with a blissed-out expression. He could just see a second ghost hand waving in time, appearing just a millisecond before he moved his real hand.

  “Who else wants to try some?” Holland asked with a sly grin.

  “Oh, I do,” panted Justin. He made to take a step forwards, but Victor dropped a hand on his shoulder and held him in place.

  “What’s the catch, Sergeant?” Victor asked.

  “What makes you think there’s a catch, Blackwood?” Holland’s grin broadened. It only made him look more malicious.

  “Why is it called Magi’s Bane?” asked Kaitlin. “It’s dangerous, isn’t it, Sergeant?”

  “Well, aren’t you clever little Pond Scum after all. Quite, correct, Astral. The Elixir is almost pure poison.”

  Serrel paused, hand in mid-air. “What?”

  “It contains a piece of the ether in liquid form. No living thing was ever meant to ingest that. The amount of power in this flask alone could have the potential to sink this entire area into the sea. You took a capful, boy. Imagine taking a whole swig. Imagine downing the whole flask. You’d feel invincible. If you didn’t simply disintegrate into the ether yourself, which can and does happen by the way, the amount of energy flowing through you would almost make you a god.”

  Holland gestured at Serrel. “Until you got distracted by something shiny, of course. Many a good mage has become addicted to the Elixir, that feeling of power and invincibility. They waste their lives just trying to get another sip. It changes them, physically and mentally. Just that small amount will probably have some permanent effect on Caster Hawthorne here.”

  “I have four hands,” Serrel blurted out. “Did I always have four hands?”

  Holland frowned, but did a quick count. “I’d say you’re either hallucinating, or you’re seeing the future. It’ll pass. Probably. Stay away from anything sharp, and speak up if you start seeing dragons. That’s an important lesson actually. Never stay quiet about dragons. Now, does anyone else want a taste of liquid damnation, or are you going to make it back to the fort on your own?”

  Justin shrugged free from Victor. “I’ll take some.”

  Victor shook his head as Holland poured Justin a capful of the Elixir. “What part of “liquid damnation” sounded palatable to you?”

  Justin ignored him and downed the Elixir. His eyes bulged. “Wow. Oh... wow!”

  “Yes, yes, all the pretty colours and all that,” said Holland dismissively. “Who else? Astral? I see your mind working, girl. You just have to know what it’s like, don’t you?”

  Kaitlin chewed her lip thoughtfully, then stepped forward and took the offered cap. She hesitated a moment, then delicately drank the Elixir. She made a face. “Ugh. Tastes like cheap booze.”

  “That would be the other ingredient,” explained Holland. “Recipe calls for some form of strong spirits. The Legion being what it is, you’ll have to settle for the cheapest rot-gut we can legally source.”

  “If that were a real drink, there would be no chance I would ever stock it behind the bar,” Kaitlin commented.

  “Well, Astral, should you ever be in a position to mix the Elixir for yourself, feel free to use some fine aged whiskey. Gods know we’d all prefer something that doesn’t make your hair fall out...”

  “I don’t think it’s working. I don’t feel... Oh... Oh, I see. Wow.”

  “Indeed. Everything you’d hoped for?”

  “And then some.” A dreamy smile grew across her face.

  “Anyone else? Bullock? Paum? Mouse? How about you Glease?”

  “Never turn down a free drink, me,” said Greasy Tim happily.

  “My mother told me I shouldn’t drink,” said Mouse with unexpected volume and tenacity.

  “So did mine,” agreed Holland. “Good advice.” The sly grin returned to his face as he turned to Victor. “Well, Blackwood? How about you?”

  Victor carefully made his face neutral. “I think I’ll decline this time, Sergeant. I still have energy left.” He glanced at the rest of the group, and shot a pointed look towards Kaitlin. “I’ll meet you fools back at the fort.”

  He turned, and jogged away. Holland watched him go with a interested look. “Well, since you’re all back on your feet and raring to go, we’ll double time it. And no lolly-gagging this time, Tremmel.”

  They made it back to the fort in good time, where Victor was already waiting at the gates for them. Those that had taken the Elixir were still practically bouncing on the balls of their feet, which was good, because Holland was true to his word and set them about practising their newfound weaving skills without delay. First they attempted to get the now singed flag to fly using the word Soa, then when Holland deemed their attempts “Not nearly as contemptible as previous efforts” he made them weave the spell directly on him.

  Justin threw himself to the task wholeheartedly. His spell, unfortunately, battered impotently over and over again with no real effect against the magic shield Holland had conjured before him. The air was charged and stank of ozone by the time he gave up.

  “You’re flailing about like a child in a bath tub, Tremmel. Concentrate, Pond Scum! I want a gale! I want a hurricane! I want, at the very least, a bracing wind. All you’re giving me is a wet fart!”

  Serrel stepped up. He didn’t know why Justin had so much trouble. Having taken the Elixir, Serrel felt like he could have blown down mountains at that moment. He lifted his staff, and weaved the ether into a force that he threw with all his might at the Sergeant.

  His first attempt shattered against the shield with no effect. But his second hit hard enough that Holland swayed slightly on his feet.

  “That’s more like it!” Holland roared, happy for the first time that day, and without even having to hit someone. “Again! Concentrate! I want to really feel it this time!”

  Serrel didn’t realise it, but he was grinning. He hurled another wave of force at Holland. Then another in quick succession. The energy coursing though his body felt limitless. He figured he could do this all day. The third spell hit Holland hard enough to make him stumble backwards a step. It was a small step, but, to Serrel, a giant victory. He felt like yelling in triumph. He was a mage. How could he have resisted this? Look out world, here comes Serrel Hawthorne, and you are but an insect to him!

  Then, with utter suddenness, the feeling of power vanished. The fatigue of the day rushed back like a raging torrent and Serrel tumbled down into the Hollow.

  It was even worse than it had been that morning. The shock of it, the sudden emptiness, and the sensation that he was being leached of his very being dropped him to his knees. He gulped air like he was drowning, overcome by the strange certainty that if he didn’t he would stop breathing. He thought, This is what it feels like to die.

  Hands held his arms and supported him, and voices asked if he was alright, but they seemed far, far away. After a few moments he finally noticed Holland looking down at him grimly.

  “Ah, that would be the Elixir running out, I see. You can see why they call it Magi’s Bane now, can’t you? If you use up that energy too fast, it leaves you even worse than when you started. Empty, completely and utterly voided. You’ll be lucky if you can even hold a staff for the rest of the day, forget about weaving. On the battlefield, you’d be completely useless. Now, you have two choices: lie there and die, or get up. You’ll feel better for getting up, trust me.”

  Serrel didn’t want to get up. His entire being was asking him what was the point in rising? He was going to die anyway, so why waste the effort? There was nothing worth getting up for...

  “I told you before, Pond Scum, the Hollow can only kill you if you let it. But you need to climb out yourself. Get. Up.”

  It took all his remaining willpower, and in truth there was precious little of that left, but Serrel managed to somehow to wedge the end of his staff into a crack in the ground, and pushed himself upright. When he was back on his feet, the darkness within ebbed, just enough for him to think clearly and get his bearings.

  “I hope you appreciate just how close to ending your pathetic mortality you just were, Hawthorne,” Holland told him.

  Serrel took a deep breath. “Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Hawthorne. Be-”

  “Be better,” Serrel finished. “I will, Sergeant.”

  “Good.”

  “Is that going to happen to us?” Justin asked, looking pale.

  “Not to you, probably,” Holland replied with a contemptuous look. “You don’t try hard enough. Astral on the other hand...”

  “You could have warned us!” Kaitlin snapped, momentarily forgetting herself.

  Holland let that pass this time. “I believe in learning by doing. And Hawthorne here has definitely learned a valuable lesson here. You can never appreciated the edge of your limits until you throw yourself over them. Better you find that out now, rather than in the middle of a battlefield.

  “I think that’s enough hand holding for one day, Pond Sum. Back to work. The Hollow will be the least of your worries. You’re in the Legion now! Oh, and Hawthorne? You fell twice, now. So get your breath back, because you’re going to be on cleaning duty for the foreseeable future, boy.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Serrel said simply. His voice was coming back, and he was beginning to feel slightly better. The yearning abyss of the Hollow was still there though, threatening to swallow him up. He spent the rest of the training session watching the others weave ineffectually against Holland. No one seemed willing to push themselves too hard now. Even Astral held back, which made Holland even more cranky.

  And as they were dismissed, a tiny light flared in the dark within Serrel. It was a small thought, but one that began to burn away the near overwhelming oppression that came with the Hollow. It went, I nearly knocked him over. I nearly knocked that loud, obnoxious sergeant right on his arse.

  Next time, I will.

  The day passed in a haze of weaving, strangely school-like lessons on the words of power, and for Serrel, over an hour spent mucking out the fort’s rather extensive stables with several other recruits as punishment for his weakness of strength.

  It was long after sundown by the time he had managed to clean off the stench of horse manure in the wash room and tramped wearily back to the men’s barracks. The empty feeling of the Hollow was still there, but fainter now. Serrel learnt to recognise the sensation of the ether filling him once more with its limitless energies. That was a good feeling, a return to wholeness.

  But the Hollow was still there. Like it was waiting.

  Serrel had let a great many things beat him in life. He wasn’t going to let his own body join in.

  The men’s barracks was a long chamber lined with simple wooden beds. When he first arrived at Fort Amell, his bed had been towards the doors. Sometime during the day, the other recruits had reached a consensus and the six trainee mages had found their trunks of meagre belongings shifted right to the far end of the room. They had been segregated from the regular recruits. And perhaps it was Serrel's imagination, but even the space between their beds and the other recruits seemed wider than the space between everyone else's bed.

  Only a few of the other recruits bothered to look up as he walked past. A few he had been friendly with the day before pointedly ignored him. One even cast a hateful glare in his direction.

  The other boys of Pond Scum were already there, killing time. Justin was snoring his head off. Edgar was slowly and carefully reading through a thin book, his lips moving as he silently sounded out the bigger words, forehead creased in concentration. Greasy Tim and Bull were playing cards. More accurately, Bull was losing at cards, and Greasy Tim was cheating and silently cursing that they weren’t playing for money.

  Victor sat cross legged on his bed, sewing something on his brand new Legion issue coat. He glanced up as Serrel sat down on the bed next to his.

  “How were the horses?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what a sick horse looks like, but from what was coming out of the bloody things, I don’t think they were well,” Serrel replied. He nodded at the regular recruits. “Do they think we’re plague ridden or something?”

  “Rumour went around that sometimes mages set fire to things in their sleep. Personally, I think they just wanted to get away from Greasy Tim.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” asked Tim.

  “I credit Bull with being able to stand the smell. Do you ever wash?”

  “I ‘ave a healthy smell, I do. Keeps away the bad humours.”

  Victor just shook his head.

  “Did they go through our belongings?” Serrel asked. He looked at his trunk.

  “They wouldn’t dare,” Victor said. “Just touching a mage’s trunk is a invitation for trouble. Serrel, we may not have the plague, but from the point of view of everyone else, we may as well have. Most people have a poor opinion of mages. Hell, I would prefer to be far away from you lot, and I am a mage now.”

  Serrel nodded in understanding. Then he asked, “Did Tim go through our belongings?”

  Greasy Tim looked up, scandalised. “I never! Where I comes from, we ‘ave a code, you know. You never steal from one of your own. Besides, it ain’t like you buggers has anything worth stealin’ anyway.”

  “Ah,” said Victor with an amused smile. “So you did look.”

  “Course I looked. Not like anything was locked in any meaningful way. You should do a better job, if you don’t wants no one looking. Nothin’ worth looking at, anyways. ‘Cept Vic, and all his knives. What you need all those knives for, anyway?”

  “Knives?” asked Serrel.

  “Shiny ones, too. Would have been worth a few bob back ‘ome.”

  The expectant silence as everyone looked at Victor was broken only by Justin snoring.

  “They were a going away present,” Victor said, nonplussed. He didn’t even pause his stitching. “From the Abbot.”

  “The Abbot at the monastery?” said Serrel. “An abbot gave you knives?”

  “Knives are useful things. I am in the Legion, after all. Even Tim brought his own knife.”

  “Sure,” agreed Tim. He pulled out his own knife, which was basically a small shard of metal, sharpened at one end and wrapped in cheap leather scraps at the other. “Never know when a purse string might need cutting. But what you need twelve knives for?”

  “Different kinds of string,” replied Victor.

  “What kind of monks were at this place, anyway?” asked Serrel.

  “They weren’t always monks.” Victor sighed, and stared intently at his needle and thread. “I thought everyone knew about Blackwood Monastery. It’s a refuge for soldiers and warriors. Old assassins. Killers, looking for spiritual enlightenment somewhere other than on a blade. You can imagine what a cheerful place it was to grow up in. Old knives that have been drenched in human blood weren’t exactly a rare commodity there.”

 

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