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Wizard's Tower - Chapter 21
🕑 Added 2021-04-20 03:29:03 +0000 UTCI found myself too impatient to wait for them to make it down the road. Not even half an hour after they departed, I found myself standing before the beast pits. Oni, I remembered his name now because his nose had been broken, stood a few feet away, scanning the horizon. Tond was positioned on the top of the tower as a lookout. Mena was organizing the kitchen and storeroom, with Meathead’s ‘help’. There were six pits now. Four filled with wolves and one each of the boars and snakes. I’d had to enchant the ground and walls of the pit to keep the animals from burrowing out.
One of my many theories involved something I noticed. Quite a few beasts, and a handful of monsters, could evolve. Many ascribed it to the same infusion of power received when advancing to the next tier. Those morons, mostly alchemists with their brains clogged by fumes, convinced the crown to fund research. They were absolutely convinced that they could replicate the influx of energy from tier advancement through alchemical means. This diverted almost all live subjects for experimentation to alchemy labs, leaving the rest of us with beasts or monsters unsuitable for most types of experimentation. My personal thoughts on the matter were that the idea was stupid, that they would fail miserably, and that the whole thing was wasting time, money, and resources. Unlike their experiments, I’d had thirty years of observation of the matter to support my opinion.
But the study of evolution was worthwhile to me, if for a different reason. I noted that often such evolutions revolved around an environmental or elemental adaptation. An [Eagle] could evolve into a [Wind Eagle] or [Storm Bird] dependent on the circumstances. This was already proven. What I wanted was to force the evolution so that I could study the effects on their bodies. If I could isolate what kept those effects from overloading the bodies and killing the creatures, then I might be able to transfer that limiter to my longevity spell to prevent untoward growths from consuming the target.
With this in mind, I began the first part of the test. Out of the four wolf pits, I selected three. I had eight small emeralds to work with. These would connect to the plane of earth. I used seven of them to summon tier-one earth elementals, beings incorporated into the mud in the shape of a turtle the size of my foot. Four around one pit, two around a second, and one around the third. Earth elementals are notoriously dim-witted. At the first tier, I could only hope they would obey one command at a time. For this, I simply instructed them to sit at the top of the pit and push earth mana out towards the wolves.
Hopefully, I would be able to see the evolution process as it occurred. If I could replicate it repeatedly, then even if I failed to understand at the time, simply repeating the process would bear fruit. The final wolf pit I left alone, to meet the need to replenish the other pits if something went wrong. Next, was the boar pit. I wasn’t sure yet what experiment I wanted to run with them. They didn’t breed as quickly as monsterized wolves, though they normally held a higher level as a counterbalance. The snakes I didn’t need currently, but they could serve as a food supply until a need arose. I’ve never known a time when I had too many experimental subjects. Then again, I’m sure I could come up with a few good experiments by the day’s end.
It was as I stood there, in foot-deep murky waters looking down on a pit of snarling and grunting boars that Oni called for me, “Boss!”
“What is it!” I snapped at him. He didn’t deserve it, but I was focused on pondering the mysteries of magic when he interrupted me.
My snapping didn’t seem to bother him, as he pointed across the waters. A bald, disheveled man in a frayed and torn black robe reached for us, calling out, “Help!”
Soon after, he collapsed against the side of the tree. I tilted my head towards the man as I spoke to Oni, “Well, go get him.”
Exasperated. That’s the perfect word for my emotions at the moment. My planning to get my pupils out of the tower and focus on experimentation was ruined. The prison cell I just unmade, now remade. Certainly, I knew it wasn’t this man’s fault. He couldn’t have known. Still.
I asked Mena and Oni to watch over him and call me when he awakened so I could continue my experiments. But my heart wasn’t in it. Instead, I worried. His robe indicated a magic user. There were many spells that could release him from his confinement. I doubted he could get through the wards I set to protect my valuables, but I didn’t ward my couch from being sat on. He could be sitting on it right now!
I fumed for an hour pacing back and forth before stopping myself. I was throwing a tantrum, I realized. That wasn’t like me at all. I started looking back at my actions and realized there were several instances of me letting my anger get the best of me. Of acting on impulse that was more than whimsy. I checked myself for mental magic and curses. Nothing. Now, I paced again with worry instead of anger. Was my calming tea not working anymore? Had I developed a tolerance? Was it even being brewed correctly? I would need to check. Where the emotions of grieving bleeding through from the corner I shut them in? I considered unpacking that mental crate but hesitated. I’d check the tea first, I decided.
With an unsettled heart, I returned to my tower. The man was still unconscious when I returned, but a light spray of water slapping him in the face seemed to do the trick. He awoke with a panicked scream looking around before his eyes settled on me.
“Please! Please, you’ve got to help me. He’s coming for me, and he’ll be here soon!” The man’s eyes were wild on his hairless face. His skin, pale but sunburnt. I suspected heat madness for a moment but decided to err on the side of caution.
“Who is coming for you?” I asked, clasping my hands behind my back.
“Baron Llal! He won’t let me go. I’ve rebuilt so many bodies I can’t tell a shoulder blade from a hip bone anymore! I swear I’m trapped in one of the hells! I’ll never cast another spell again.”
Ah. This must be the rumored necromancer. I turned to Mena, “Prepare some tea for our guest.”
Tea, I’ve found, solves many of life’s emergencies. Almost anything that isn’t battle can be handled after a cup of tea. A good cup of tea can give me the moments I need to collect my thoughts when I need to. A magical cup of tea that induces a day-long calm can soothe an unruly necromancer.
Necromancy often has bad connotations. Much of the fear, I believe revolves around the protectiveness humans feel towards their dead relatives. The idea that someone may come to disturb a loved one’s grave is often the basis of such prejudice. The mana necromancers use, death magic, despite being illegal is nothing more than one of the elements. So, of course, I’ve studied it. But I wasn’t a specialist in the magic. My magical skills likely wouldn’t exceed the third tier if I only used death magic to cast.
Presented one of the rare specialists in death magic, it seemed the perfect opportunity to hold a discourse on the subject. We’d relocated to the top of the tower to discuss it. I didn’t want him to get a good look at my library or sit on my furniture without casting a good cleaning spell, and it would be rude for me to just cast it. I also didn’t want to offend the man by asking, as it seemed while he was no longer panicked, he was very tightly wound. I suppose magical tea can only do so much.
Pyl, the necromancer, was a short man with a round face and a bulbous nose. I’d assumed he had no hair earlier, but he just kept his head and face cleanly shaved. He still had eyelashes. It gave him a very companionable look, the type that would be perfect for a bartender.
Unfortunately, Pyl didn’t want to discuss death magic at the moment. Instead, preferring to complain about his working conditions. To be honest, I’m not certain he even put thought towards who he was talking to or where exactly he was at the moment, as impassioned as he was about voicing his grievances.
“Four days I spent on animating that bear into a wight, and he killed it in one strike! One strike! And you know what he said? ‘Bears should be tougher than that.’ Bears should be tougher! It was tier two! Halfway to tier three!” One of his hands waved up and down in time with his words.
“Mm-hmmm,” I answered. I needed to face the truth here, my day was spent. If this man has a mass animation or death field spell, I could potentially salvage it by having him remove the corpses floating in my moat.
“—and he just keeps destroying every creature I make. I perfectly align the spine from three different deer to support four arms and it just—”
Not that I wanted word to get out that I unleashed a necromancer with an army of undead beasts. I also just earlier sent Tine with a list of quests to the adventurers’ guild, one that included the shipment of frozen carcasses. Maybe half of them, then?
“—the man has no regard for my craft! None! Any necromancer can raise zombies. I am an artist! Does he think it’s like making chairs? He said as much! ‘Just put that leg on the other one, I’m ready to fight.’ My skills go unheeded, it’s like—”
Now that I think about it, I really don’t want to have a discussion about death magic anymore. I was in the mood earlier before he started complaining. I think when I misinterpreted the amount of time Pyl desired to spend on the subject.
“—there not a single solid bone left! Maybe one. When I looked at my supplies and I only saw bone dust remaining? I cried! Three years of work and I have nothing to show for it.” His shoulders slumped in self-pity.
Seeing the opportunity to not listen to complaints any further, I took it as quickly as possible, “Come, I have something to show you.”
I led the man downstairs, slowly because he decided he needed to walk in a despondent shuffle. He only realized we left the tower when the afternoon sun fell on his sunburnt head. That seemed to bring his attention to his surroundings. With a sweep of my hand, the mists of the moat parted, revealing bobbing frozen carcasses by the hundred.
While I had not truly paid attention to the man’s words, I did parse enough of them to gather he was out of materials. “How many would you need?”
I saw his eyes shine in excitement the way only a true mage or drug addict can. A brother in craft then. Perhaps if we maintain contact, then we can discuss the details of death magic. Through letters, perhaps.
A few minutes later, his shoulders slumped again, “It’s no good. No matter how well made I make it, he’ll just put it down in a hit or two.”
“What if you didn’t make it well?” I asked.
“Why would I do that? What craftsman that takes pride in his work would make an inferior product.”
“But doesn’t a blacksmith make nails? You have been crafting swords for a [Carpenter], thinking of how beautiful it is. Certainly, continue to make the sword, but save it for the [Knight]. Give the [Carpenter] his nails.” I waved my hand at a particularly large cluster as I spoke.
“I—I could do that. I believe.” He faced the sky, considering my words.
I clapped him on the shoulder, “Come, let’s get you something to eat and a bed to rest on. You’ve had a long day.”
