The Hollow Read online

  The Hollow

  By Andrew Day

  Copyright 2014 Andrew Day

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Contents.

  The Hollow.

  About the Author.

  Bonus

  Also by the Author.

  The Hollow.

  On the third day of his training for the Imperial Legion, Serrel Hawthorne found himself about to become a mage.

  He was still unsure exactly why this had come about. He’d never had any inclination towards the arcane before. When he had signed up at the recruitment tent a week earlier, the recruiting officer had asked him to hold a strange copper device in his hand, full of clockwork with a large compass-like needle on top. Serrel had held it in his palm for a few seconds, watched the needle turn ever so slightly, and then the recruiter had snatched it off him, handed him the bronze coin denoting service to the Legion, and screamed “Next!” very loudly.

  No one had bothered to explain what the exact selection process for battlemage training had been, but that clockwork thing, that may have called an aurometer at some point in passing, was probably the reason.

  And so Serrel found himself dubbed with the rank of Caster, and relocated to the underground training hall beneath Fort Amell with seven other recruits, holding an old and worn training staff, ready to “tear asunder the veil of ignorance”, as the sergeant in charge had sarcastically put it. He was nervous, but not as nervous as the boy next to him, a somewhat podgy farm hand named Edgar Paum, who wore an expression like he was about to meet his maker, and he’d heard in advance of his maker’s deep disappointment in him.

  “I didn’t even move the needle,” Paum muttered to Serrel. “It was the wind, I’m sure of it.”

  Serrel looked down at the staff in his hands and nodded in agreement. He had the overwhelming feeling that the only thing being torn asunder today was going to be, if he was lucky, his dignity. If he was unlucky, probably something more vital and full of his insides.

  The training officer was a tall imposing man with a shaved head. His bare arms were covered in tattoos of strange arcane designs, and a few more traditional ones denoting famous battles he had fought in. Instead of a staff, he had a long, thick wooden rod in his belt, along with a large curved dagger. Serrel wondered if the rod was a kind of wand for weaving magic, or more for whacking errant students in the head with. Then again, he reasoned, there was no reason it couldn’t perform both tasks efficiently.

  The officer pulled the rod from his belt and began to walk up and down the line of recruits slapping it into the palm of his hand. He began the session in the traditional way of all armed forces:

  “What a bloody shower,” he commented. “Farm boys and chambermaids. They couldn’t have given me a worse lot of hand wavers if they’d just picked a few stray dogs off the street. Bloody typical... What?”

  He rounded on one of the recruits suddenly, a tall, well groomed young man with an air of aristocracy about him. The boy had opened his mouth as if to say something during the initial tirade, and had been spotted before he could wisely close it again.

  “Name?” the officer demanded.

  “J-Justin Tremmel.”

  “Something you would like to add, Tremmel?”

  “No.”

  “No, what?” The officer jabbed him hard with the rod.

  “No, Sir. I was just-”

  The man hit him in the gut with the rod, and walked away as the boy doubled over gasping.

  “My name is Sergeant-Magus Reage Holland. You will respond to all questions with “Yes, Sergeant” or “No, Sergeant”. If I want you to tax your tiny brains and elaborate, I will ask you to. Otherwise you will shut up and listen. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the group intoned.

  “Louder!”

  “Yes, Sergeant!”

  “From now on, you lot will be referred to as Pond Scum, until you prove that you are capable of extending more intelligence and arcane talent than real pond scum. When I call for you, Pond Scum, you will drop whatever you are doing and come running. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sergeant!”

  “Any of you primordial life forms have any experience with weaving? And the first person to ask if I mean baskets gets set on fire. I mean real weaving: using the higher energies to shape the world? Any of you idiots performed any real magic in your short, pointless lives? Raise your hands.”

  No one moved. Then Justin Tremmel tentatively raised his hand. Sergeant-Magus Holland immediately whacked his arm with his rod.

  “WRONG!” Holland snapped. “None of you pond scum have weaved before. You may have shot sparks from your arses, or snapped flowers out of your sleeves, but you have not. Ever. Weaved. As of this moment, you are all novices, no, actually you are not even that. What are you?”

  “Pond scum,” Serrel muttered.

  Holland heard him, and nearly smiled. “It speaks. Perhaps pond scum can evolve into something more useful. Let’s see if you lot of useless, slimy tossers can do any more tricks.”

  He gestured behind him, where a short wooden pylon was set in the ground. An old and ragged flag bearing the Legion’s insignia was tied to it.

  “I see you have all been issued training staves,” Holland continued. “They are pieces of shit compared to real staves, but in the wrong hands, and at the moment they are in the wrong hands, they are weapons of mass destruction. Still, you’ve had them this long, and so far have managed to avoid ripping a hole in the fabric of reality. Again, congratulations. You are still pond scum, but at least pond scum with slightly more self preservation than most idiots given a staff. Soldiers get swords. You are mages so you get staves. There are less sharp edges, thankfully for you lot, but the idea is still the same. Eventually, you will be issued with real war-staves. Until then, this is the only tool you will ever need. It is your weapon. It is the greatest friend you will ever have. It goes everywhere you go, and it is always within reach. Now, have any of you ever used a training staff before?”

  Justin Tremmel made to raise his hand, but thought better of it and lowered it back to his side. Holland noted this with an amused twitch of the mouth.

  “Better. No, you haven’t ever used a real staff before. After today, you still won’t have. These are training staves, and are no better for real weaving than a wooden sword is for killing a dragon. A real mage needs no instrument to weave. His aura attunes to the ether of the world, and it flows into and through him. A real mage can make fire dance to his tune with a crook of the finger, make a mountain tremble. A staff is merely an aid, but an important one.

  “You see, Pond Scum, the ether of the world is like water. People are like rocks. The ether shapes them with its energy, but cannot enter them. Us mages, we are a different kind of rock. I believe the word is “permeable”. Those who can read can look it up later. Basically, some of the ether flows into you, fills you up. What I need to do is somehow teach you all how to release that energy at will, and shape it to your liking. The energy you release will be, at best, a trickle. All the staff does is act as a tap. It opens you up, acts as the path of least resistance, allows all that energy to come rushing out...”

  Holland waved his rod in the air and a geyser of flame erupted from the end of it. The recruits all took a step back as fire filled the air, and began to roil and twist before them, taking on the form of a huge, roaring dragon. Then with another wave, Holland doused the flames, leaving the air smoky. Serrel patted his face to see if he still had his eyebrows.

  “The best staff,” Holland went on, ignoring the recruits shocked expressions, “is the one made by the mage who wields it. It is attuned to his aura and his alone. Another mage will never use it as efficiently as he will. Needless to say, it is bad form to use another mage’s staff. Not to mention extremely dangerous. So you will not share your staves with anyone else, and if you even think about taking another mage’s staff, it will go extremely hard on you, especially when I find you.

  “Any questions so far?”

  Justin Tremmel raised his hand, and yelped as Holland struck him a third time.

  “If you have a question, Pond Scum, it was because you weren’t listening!” Holland snapped. “First exercise for today: you will make this flag move.” He gestured to the makeshift “flagpole” behind him. There were half a dozen buckets of water arranged on the ground off to the side, which Serrel found suspicious.

  “Firstly,” Holland went on, “you are to clear your mind of all distractions, which shouldn’t be too hard for you lot. You must turn your thoughts inwards, ignoring the outside world around you and concentrating only on the energy residing within. It’s there. You’ve been sponging off of the ether your entire lives, so most of you will be filled to the brim with energy. You don’t notice it the same way you don’t really notice your arms or legs. They’re just there.

  “Second, you will focus on drawing this energy out. This will be easy. With a staff in hand, the energy will want to flow outwards. The trick is to make sure the energy comes out in a form you can use.

  “Third, you will say the word of power Soa. This is an anc
ient Ithieric word meaning force. The word is only a guide. It helps you focus on one single aspect of the weaving, force in its simplest form. You must think only of Soa. Anything else will only weaken the spell. Those of strong mind and concentration do not need words of power to weave. They can visualise the energy within and shape every aspect of it without making a sound. Other people invent their own words of power. Some people sing. This takes years of practice and dedication, so you, Pond Scum, will learn the words of power as I tell you, and you will remember them.

  “Now, say it aloud. Soa.”

  “Soa,” the group intoned together.

  “I’ve heard better pronunciation from death worms, and they don’t have lips. Again: Soa.”

  The group repeated the word of power over and over until Holland was satisfied, until Serrel felt the word rolling around and around in his head, which he supposed was the point. Holland pointed to the first recruit in line, and ordered him to the post.

  The recruit’s name was Timony Glease, or Greasy Tim. He was a short, wiry boy, who looked far below the recruitment age of sixteen. He stood near the post, pointed his staff at the hanging flag and screwed up his face in concentration.

  “SOA!” he cried out in a dramatic voice. “Soa! So-AH! S-OA! SOOAAAH!”

  He tried for a full minute. Nothing happened. When he finally stopped shouting, his voice horse, he looked as if he had ran a full marathon. Sweat was pouring off his head. He looked sheepishly at Holland, who just rolled his eyes.

  “Fall in,” Holland said. “Next!”

  The next recruit was Jedron Bullock. He was the opposite of little Greasy Tim, standing nearly a head over the other recruits, with wide shoulders and the large muscular arms of someone who had spent most of his life working the fields. Naturally, his uninspired nickname upon arriving at Fort Amell was Bull.

  Bull stared blankly at the post, the staff in one hand looking tiny and ineffectual in his huge fist. He pointed the staff at the flag and grunted, “Soa.”

  Green sparks shot from the end of the staff with a sharp bang, accompanied by a smell in the air like that following lightning.

  “You weren’t concentrating,” snapped Holland. “Empty your mind of everything.”

  Bull’s brow furrowed. He tried again. “Soa.”

  There was another crack, but amazingly the flag twitched, ever so slightly.

  Holland sniffed. “Again.”

  Bull weaved the spell again and again. At most all he managed to do was make the flag flop from side to side. Eventually Holland dismissed him when his seemingly endless stamina began to wane.

  “Fall in. Next!”

  Up went Justin Tremmel. He practically sauntered up to the post, cleared his throat and said with perfect flair, “Soa.”

  A gust of wind unfurled the flag to its full length. It stood there it all its grubby glory for a brief second, then fell back into place. Justin shot Holland a smug grin, then wiped it off as the sergeant began slapping the end of rod into his palm. Holland’s glare followed Justin back into line.

  “Next.”

  Next up was Victor Blackwood. He was a tall, dark haired boy of about eighteen. He walked purposefully up to the pole and started weaving without ado. It took him three attempts to get the flag to move, another dozen before it stood up as Justin had managed. By then he was spent, and retreated wordlessly back in line.

  After him came a blonde girl who had introduced herself to Serrel earlier as Kaitlin Astral. He didn’t think that was her real name. Kaitlin practically bounced up to the pole and started weaving enthusiastically. It took her only three tries to get the flag up, and then with extreme concentration she held it there as long as she could.

  “No one likes a show off, Astral,” Holland told her.

  Kaitlin let the flag drop, and then rejoined the others. She wore an extremely broad and self satisfied smile.

  After her was the girl everyone called Mouse. Her name was actually Jilla Freman, but Mouse seemed more apt. She was a small girl in her teens, who somehow managed to almost contract into her clothing and appear even smaller. She regarded the pole with something approaching abject terror. She held up her staff and whispered, “Soa.”

  “Louder,” Holland snapped.

  Mouse seemed to contract further. She tried again, her voice barely audible. Eventually Holland lost patience and sent her back.

  Then it was Serrel’s turn. He swallowed as he stood before the post under Holland’s glare, wondering once more how it had come to this. He had expected a sword. An axe. Something pointed at any rate. He was a carpenter’s son. He knew his way around things with sharp edges. In his brief years he had never once even daydreamed of becoming a mage.

  His father had liked to tell him, “A wise man knows his limits, son.” Serrel thought he knew his limits, and had thought that they ended far, far short of weaving the ether and messing about with the fabric of reality. A man could get hurt doing that.

  “Sometime this century, Hawthorne,” Holland said wearily.

  Serrel raised his staff. What was the worst that could happen, really? He would try and fail, Sergeant Holland would make some belittling remark about how he was even dumber than pond scum and then he would be sent back to the regular infantry to hit things the normal way. He just had to get it over with.

  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He tried to empty his mind of failure and looking like an idiot. He tried to feel something inside him, some hidden power that had always been there waiting.

  The staff in his hands began to feel slightly warmer, and a strange sensation grew throughout his body. Another feeling took over him, his nervousness slipping away. Despite his efforts to clear his head, memories of his old life came rushing back. Days spent sanding wood in his father’s workshop. The day his father finally finished the lathe so they could carve table legs that were actually symmetrical. All those lumps of leftover wood he would take, seeing something within them that was more than just leftover rubbish from someone’s new chair. Hours spent under the old oak tree whittling those scraps of wood into new shapes and forms with such ease and artistry it was almost... magic.

  That feeling came back to him, the one he had when he was carving under the tree, dead to the world around him, the passage of time forgotten. The feeling that rose in his chest and tightened his heart as he cut and chiselled the block of wood in his hand again and again. He called it confidence, self assurance of this mysterious skill that came so naturally. But now he began to think of it more like awareness. Knowing with each stroke of his knife that the hidden figure in the block would appear piece by piece. He never had to think about the cuts, or even stop and plan his design. He would just whittle, and then there would be a perfect wooden figure in his hand, a horse in full gallop, a knight weary from battle leaning from his sword. Perfect to the last detail.

  As the feeling grew in Serrel, the staff began to grow even warmer. Its shaft began to tremble in his hands as the hairs on the back of his arms began to stand on end. He smelled lightning and spring rain, and the memory of sawdust. He thought: Soa. Force. Soa.

  He felt a shudder pulse through the staff. The flag fluttered slightly and fell back. Aloud, he whispered, “Soa.”

  He had been thinking of force, but with the memory of the oak tree, the scrap of wood in his left hand, the knife in his right, and hidden shapes buried within, he weaved the ether around him.

  The flag lifted in the outburst of energy, so there was that. But the force hit the wooden pylon, and ground off the top layer of wood, sanding it down and sending out a cloud of sawdust that choked and blinded everyone there.

  Holland waved his rod, and a gust of wind cleared the air. They all stared at the wood pylon, which now had a perfect carving of a galloping horse etched into its surface.

  Holland snorted out sawdust. “Yes. Very pretty. This is what happens when you don’t concentrate.”

  Serrel coughed once, and fell back in line. He felt exhausted. More than that, he felt emptied, like there was nothing inside him. Something that had always been there was now gone. Oddly, he had felt sensations like this before after long sessions in his father’s workshop, or while carving. It had never been this pronounced before. Now he felt truly depleted.