Blaze of Glory

• Cover
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• About the Author
  
• Extract: Heart of Gold
  

M
ICHAEL
P
RYOR

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet
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electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying
(except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the
Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by
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prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any
unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct
infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and
those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Laws of Magic 1: Blaze of Glory

ePub ISBN 9781864714753
Kindle ISBN 9781864717341

A Random House book
Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060
www.randomhouse.com.au

First published by Random House Australia in 2006
This edition first published in 2010

Copyright © Michael Pryor 2006

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by
any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except
under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian
Copyright Act 1968
),
recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without
the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at
www.randomhouse.com.au/offices.

National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Author: Pryor, Michael
Title: Blaze of glory / Michael Pryor
ISBN: 978 1 86471 862 1 (pbk.)
Series: Pryor, Michael. Laws of magic; 1
Target audience: For secondary school age
Dewey number: A823.3

Cover illustration by Jeremy Reston
Cover design by
www.blacksheep-uk.com
Internal design by Mathematics

For Wendy, Celeste and Ruby.
I'm a lucky man.

A
UBREY
F
ITZWILLIAM HATED BEING DEAD.
I
T MADE
things much harder than they needed to be.

'When you're quite ready, Fitzwilliam! We haven't got
all day!' bawled the pimply-faced Warrant Officer.
Aubrey stood up straighter and glanced at him. The WO
was Atkins, a fellow sixth-former, a newcomer to Stonelea
School. He had an Adam's apple that made him look
as if he'd swallowed a melon and he was taking great
pleasure in his small position of authority. 'Two laps of
the Hummocks, full pack.' Atkins paused to gloat. 'Lovely
weather for it, cadet, if you enjoy heatstroke.'

Aubrey said nothing. He lifted his chin, stiffened his
back and stared straight ahead to study the rounded hills
of the Hummocks. The pounded earth trail he had to
follow wound its way up and down through the sparse
growth of the training course. Heat haze made the air
ripple over the farthest reaches, obscuring the fence that
separated the training course from the school playing
fields.

Two miles, more or less. His task was to complete
the circuit twice, at the double – in early afternoon heat
that had already sent the tennis players from the courts
and the birds to drowsiness in the trees around the
fence line.

Before his accident, Aubrey knew he would have completed
the challenge without difficulty, even though, at
the age of seventeen when many others were filling out
and taking on their adult strength, he was still slight. He
had pale skin, black hair and dark-brown – almost black
– eyes, and he looked frail, a poet rather than an athlete.
But he'd always managed to surprise people with his
determination in running, boxing, or games. Boys much
larger than him had learned that provoking skinny
Aubrey to fight could be a poor idea. He could drag
himself over broken glass if he set his mind to it.

But since the disastrous magical experiment, things
were different. Balanced on the edge of true death as he
was, physical strain – even emotional strain – could tip
him over. He only kept the semblance of a normal existence
by a combination of arcane spells and strength of
mind. If his magic failed, it would be the end for him.

I'll just have to make sure I don't let that happen
, he
thought. He adjusted his shoulders.

'Step lively, now!' Atkins said. 'The clock's running!
Don't keep us waiting! Remember, no magical assistance!'

Aubrey set off, grinding his teeth.
Steady on
, he told
himself.
He was probably bullied by his older brothers. And
sisters.

The heavy woollen uniform itched, but Aubrey had no
time to scratch under the khaki. With the weight of a full
field pack on his back, it was all he could do to retain his
balance as he shuffled along as fast as he could in a shambling
gait that resembled a drunken sailor more than a
well-trained soldier.

Heat hammered down from the cloudless sky and
radiated from the hard dirt path. Aubrey staggered up the
first hill that gave the course its name. His breath rasped
in a throat that felt as if it was made of sandpaper.

Dimly, he could see Atkins and his cronies standing in
the shade of a row of elm trees. They were sniggering and
pointing, but Aubrey was pleased to see that they became
more circumspect when George Doyle sauntered over.
With his massive shoulders and height, George looked
more like a wrestler than a student. For years, Aubrey had
seen George stop arguments and make fists drop simply
by appearing on the scene. It was an ability that Aubrey
had used, on occasion, to his own benefit. After all, what
were best friends for?

Aubrey's forearms ached as he held the heavy Symons
rifle in front of him. The wretched thing was thirty years
old, if it was a day, but – thanks to Aubrey's meticulous
maintenance – was in perfect working order, even if it
hadn't seen live ammunition in decades. Aubrey had even
replaced the bolt action, using a spare part he'd found in
one of the outbuildings at Maidstone.

Whatever gets me there
, Aubrey thought and he gritted
his teeth again.

He felt the webbing straps of his pack cutting into his
shoulders and decided, not for the first time, that his
desire for promotion to Warrant Officer was one of his
more stupid ambitions. He'd sailed through the written examination
and the interview from two army majors was
straightforward. All that remained was the physical test.

Aubrey reached the next hill and stumbled. He heard
laughter. 'Come on, Fitzwilliam! You want to fail, like
your old man?'

Uneasy laughter greeted this jibe. Aubrey tightened his
grip on the rifle and slogged up the slope, cursing the
varying height of the hummocks that made it hard to
maintain a rhythm. His pack threatened to topple him
backwards, but he was prepared. He leaned forward, bent
at the knees, and forged up the hill.

When he reached the summit, Aubrey tried to shake
sweat from his brow, but just managed to make his helmet
slip. It hung there askew, and he tried to nudge it back
with his shoulder.

For a perilous moment, he was on the brink of going
headfirst down the slope. He caught himself and fought
momentum as he descended. His boots threatened to skid
out from under him and every step jarred his teeth, but
he made it to the bottom.

The next hummock was a short trot away.

Through a combination of doggedness and good
decision-making, Aubrey endured for nearly half an hour,
but by then he felt as if he was wandering in the bowels
of a furnace.

His rifle was a mass of hot iron and wood. He could
feel blisters sprouting every time he moved his grip. His
helmet seemed to think it was an oven and his head
was the Sunday roast. He could feel the sunlight on his
back as an actual weight, as if it were heavy rain. His
breath was ragged, each sip of the hot air searing his
throat.

His head sagged. His gaze was on the yard or so of the
path directly in front of him.
If I can manage this step
,
he thought,
and the one after that. Then the next . . .

That was all he had time to contemplate. The ground
suddenly fell away from underneath him and he realised,
a little too late, that he'd reached the top of another
hummock and he should have been easing down the
other side.

By then, his balance was completely upset. His right
foot insisted it was still climbing, while his left knew
perfectly well that it was time to start heading downwards.
The weight of the pack, however, had no time for
Aubrey's feet to sort out their dispute, so it took over.

Aubrey had time for a startled yelp, then he pitched
forward.

There was a fraction of an instant, a moment where all
the forces conspiring against him were in balance and he
knew that if he could angle his hip left, and flex his right
knee while striking the ground just
so
with his heel, he
could catch himself and all would be well.

Then his helmet slipped over his eyes and gravity was
in charge.

Aubrey flew forwards, somersaulted once, then landed
on his chest. He slid the rest of the way down the
slope on his chin, his arms stretched out in front of
him, still holding his rifle with both hands, according to
regulation.

Atkins and his cronies were helpless with laughter. 'Oh,
lovely style, Fitzwilliam! Lovely! Do it again!'

Despite the heat, a shiver ran through Aubrey. The
perspiration drenching his body turned chill and he
closed his eyes. The blackness behind his eyelids rippled
and he knew that he was in trouble.

His control was wavering. The heat, the exhaustion, the
physical strain had taken their toll. He was on the verge
of losing his grip.

Hold on
, he thought and he looked within himself for
strength.

A voice nearby came to him. 'Aubrey.'

'George,' he said without opening his eyes. 'Wait. I must
concentrate.'

'Your shadow,' George said. 'It's fading.'

It's worse than I thought
, Aubrey decided. He breathed
deeply, carefully, looking to stabilise his condition. He
muttered one of the web of spells that was keeping him
from the true death. He strove to pronounce each
element as crisply as possible, particularly those dealing
with duration, trying to re-establish their power. The
strain of preventing himself from dying was a constant
pressure, and he was still searching for the best combination
of spells to counteract the implacable tugging on his
soul. If the spells collapsed, his soul would pass through
the final portal into the great unknown. Not for the first
time, he cursed his own foolishness for putting himself in
this perilous position.

Heavy footsteps made him open his eyes.

George was squatting next to him, shading him from
the sun. Next to George, Atkins stood, hands on hips,
a silhouette against the blue sky. His cronies stood around
him, a straggly group of supporters. 'On your feet,
Fitzwilliam,' the WO growled. He nudged Aubrey in
the side with his boot. 'Your old man isn't here to help
you now.'

Aubrey didn't move.
A minute
, Aubrey thought.
That's
all I need. Then I'll stand, brush myself off, salute, apologise for
my poor form . . .

George straightened and dusted his hands. 'I don't
think you should say things like that,' he said to Atkins,
his voice low, his face mild. 'It gets him angry.'

'Hah!' one of Atkins' cronies said. 'So?'

'You should be afraid of getting him angry,' George
said. '
I
get afraid when he's angry.'

The guffaws died down as they waded through what
George had just suggested. Aubrey could see their
laboured brain processes as they squinted and took in
George's size, and wondered what on earth could make
him afraid . . .

Atkins cleared his throat. His slender grasp of military
authority and decision-making was apparent on his face.
He was groping for the best course of action that would
allow him to keep his dignity, while maintaining that
Aubrey was a worthless piece of cadet trash unsuited for
officer training.

'I think I should get him to the infirmary,' George
suggested.

Atkins nodded. Slowly at first, then more vigorously as
the idea took hold. 'Yes. Quite right. See to it.'

He tried to gather his cronies with a glance. They
stared at him, then he pushed the nearest in the direction
of the gate. He strode off; they trotted in his wake.

Aubrey lifted his head and tried to prop himself on an
elbow. After three attempts, he was successful. 'George,
can you get this bloody pack off first? Might make things
a little easier.'

George slung the pack over one shoulder. Balancing
the load, he reached down and helped Aubrey to his feet.
For a moment, Aubrey's head swam and his knees threatened
to buckle. George slipped an arm under his.
'Ready?'

'Of course. I should be, after that nice lie down.'

Blood dripped from Aubrey's chin and onto his
uniform. He took a half-hearted swipe. It smeared.

They limped to the gate, past the glowering Atkins,
past the snickering cronies.

'He's failed, you know that!' Atkins called. 'All his
father's influence can't change that!'

Aubrey let out a bitter snort of laughter. 'That's the last
thing in the world I want, favours from my father.'

George sighed. 'I know, Aubrey. I know.'