Messenger of the Dark Prophet (The Bowl of Souls: Book Two) (7 page)

“Does that mean that I can wear my regular clothes while running along the wall?” Justan asked.

“If you got permission from the right person.”

“Who would that be?”

“Why, me of course,” the professor said and leaned forward. “I might be convinced to let you do this, but there is a condition.”

Justan’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “And what would that be, Professor?”

“Let me be frank with you, my boy. This school has a problem. The students and the faculty here are, on the whole, rather unhealthy. It is a trend that I have noticed with increasing distress over the last few years and even I, as you can see-.” The wizard patted his belly. “Have fallen prey to it.

“Magic is a very taxing endeavor and takes much of the body’s natural energy. The students are often falling ill and seem to have problems paying attention in class. This is due, I believe, to a lack of exercise and proper diet.

“I have spoken with the cooks on this matter and they are doing their best to provide more healthy food in our meals, but that is only part of the problem. I was hoping that you, Justan, could be part of the solution. You see, I am impressed by your energy and your willingness to put forth good effort to keep your body in good order. I was hoping that you would help others do the same.”

Justan looked askance at the pudgy wizard, “And what would you have me do, sir?”

“Oh, nothing much.
Not much at all, really.
A small thing.
All I ask is that you allow others to run with you in the mornings.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

Justan reluctantly agreed. He really didn’t like the idea very much. Part of what he liked about the early run was that no one else was about. He enjoyed the solitude.

“Don’t worry, Justan. I can’t force this on the students without an order from the council,” the wizard said. “All I can do is
suggest
it to a few students that need it most. I doubt if I will be able to convince even one to do it.”

Within a week, he had half a dozen students running behind him.

Every morning after the run, Justan would come to the small training area behind the guard’s barracks and practice his sword forms. He became better and better as he was able to match his movements with the newfound agility that had come from his bond with Gwyrtha. As the group in his morning run grew, so did the number of spectators during his sword
practice.
A few of the guards even took up the challenge and sparred with him.

The guard force at the
Mage
School
consisted of forty men, but only half of them were actually academy graduates. The rest were local men from the guard garrison of the city of
Sampo
. These local men worked at the school for many reasons, but the biggest reason that they signed up was for the experience of working with the academy graduates. The populous of the
Kingdom
of
Dremaldria
looked up to academy-trained warriors as the best in the known world, so these local men were surprised to see a mere
Mage
School
student holding his own against them.

Some of the academy graduates were irritated at being shown up in front of students and fellow guards. Justan wasn’t oblivious to their grumblings, but he was so focused in his determination to improve, that he ignored them. Luckily, Riveren and Zambon were able to calm down their peers and keep the situation in check. There was one thing, however, that he couldn’t help but be nervous about. The stares and whisperings of the other students grew more intense every day.

After finishing his morning exercise and eating a quick breakfast, Justan usually had to hurry to get to his morning class. Since he had come to the school so late in the year, the wizards were doing one-on-one tutoring with him to get him up to speed. The morning class was always long and on some days lasted until lunch.

The teachers of this morning class rotated every week. It seemed as if the entire faculty had heard of Justan’s situation and every one of them wanted to try their hand at solving the puzzle of the interesting young man. Some of the wizards even decided that the best way to find out where his true abilities lay was to skip the preparatory training and try to teach him spells.

Offensive spells were the easiest to learn, so they started with those first. Offensive spells were any kind of magic that affected an object. Everything from healing, to making a storm, to lighting a single candle was considered to be a use of offensive magic.

Every wizard or wizardess that taught Justan came away impressed with his eagerness to learn and how quick he was to catch on to the most difficult concepts. They also left bewildered at his lack of magical control. No matter how hard he tried, he could not handle the simplest offensive spell. In fact, Justan hadn’t been able to produce any outward manifestation of his magic since the day that Locksher had tested him.

The wizards coaxed and teased and tried just about every tactic known to help Justan, but it was as if he had no offensive magic at all. Justan grew frustrated as well, for this was the type of magic that he had figured to be most beneficial. What good would he be on the battlefield as a magic user if he couldn’t strike an enemy with his power or even heal a friend?

Justan struggled until the wizards began trying to teach him defensive magic. Defensive spells were mainly used for negating or changing offensive magic. For instance, a wizard with powerful defensive ability could deflect a fireball or dispel an illusion.

Defensive magic was usually taught last because you had to have an understanding of the way offensive spells worked in order to counter them. Justan was once again the exception. Defensive magic came easy to him. He seemed to have a natural knack for looking at simple spells with his mage sight and knowing how to block them. He didn’t even know how he did it. It was instinctive.

He wasn’t able to counter anything complex yet, but the professors told him that it was only a matter of time. Justan didn’t like that answer. He never had been patient and his time was limited.

Justan's volunteer work in the library began just before or right after lunch depending on when his earlier classes ended. He was one of five students working under Vincent and it soon became evident to Justan that the absent minded gnome’s other assistants took advantage of him. Vincent would send the students off on some errand, and they would just wander off and do whatever they wished, knowing that the poor gnome would completely forget where he had sent them.

This annoyed Justan. He made it a point to be completely honest with the librarian. He always finished every task for the gnome with precision and never took advantage of the gnome’s lack of memory. Vincent noticed this and soon they developed a good friendship. This was beneficial for Justan, because Vincent knew every inch of the library and every book in it. If Justan needed to know where to find something while he was studying, the gnome was more than happy to help. Besides, Justan didn’t find his time assisting the gnome to be any bother at all. Most of the errands that Vincent sent him on were research oriented and Justan found it fascinating.

After their “volunteer” work was over, the students were all given free time before their next class started. Justan usually stayed in the library working on personal projects. He took particular pleasure in reading their books on battle strategy and warfare. Justan also made it a point to study the books that Vincent told him his father, Faldon, had read when he had visited the school years ago. Every one of those books had something to do with the Bowl of Souls and becoming a named warrior.

It was intriguing information. The bowl used some kind of process to delve into the mind of a person and take measure of their soul. One thing that stuck out to Justan was that whatever magic the bowl used to recognize a named warrior or wizard, it did not use any of the four elements to do so. There were many eyewitnesses that had watched the entire naming ceremony with their mage sight and none of them could see the magic of the bowl occur.

One day Justan came to the last book that his father had read before leaving the school. It was about the history of the naming ceremony. He found several passages referring to the first appearance of the bowl. The Bowl of Souls was not just a regular magic item, but a gift from the Prophet himself.

As soon as he read that, he understood why his father had never undertaken the naming ceremony. Faldon had once met the Prophet. Justan remembered the night his mother had told him the story.

It had been a cold evening and Faldon the Fierce had been away on academy business for an entire month. They had both missed him dearly. Justan, who was only eight at the time, had been bored that night and begged his mom for a story. He was always begging her for stories.

Darlan was a great storyteller. She spoke with emotion and had voices for all the different characters. Often times she would invite the neighboring children in and give out cookies. The kids would fill their front room and eat while she told her tales. Justan had fond memories of those days. When Darlan was talking, nobody picked on him or bothered him about being clumsy. Those were the only times Justan felt like he had friends.

That night, he had begged her for a story about his father. She had been reluctant at first. Justan wanted tales of Faldon’s heroism and daring and his mother did not want Justan following in his father’s footsteps. She didn’t want to worry about him running off to war. But for some reason that night she had relented.

“When your father was a young man just starting to make a name for himself as a warrior, he had been little more than a talented ruffian. Sure, he took on the evils of the world like goblins and orcs and their like, but he also took advantage of his skill and charged heavy fees for his services. If he ran a monster off of someone’s land and the owner wouldn’t pay, your father would more often than not just take the money. No one dared stop him.”

“No way!”
Justan had said. “Dad would never do that.”

His mother smiled and patted his cheek. “Oh sweetie, of course he wouldn’t now. But we are talking about young Faldon, before he became the man he is now.”

She went on with her knitting and continued the story, “Your father’s existence went on this way for several years until he grew restless. His work was profitable, but his reputation didn’t grow as quickly as he wished. He began looking for other ways to gain it. Soon he became obsessed with finding a worthy weapon to help him build his name.”

“The Monarch!”
Justan had cried with excitement. He knew the sword
well,
he had helped his father polish it many times.

“Yes, yes. Now don’t get ahead of me, sweetie. Faldon undertook a journey to the vast reaches of the northern wilds and was gone for a long time. Most people who knew him assumed him dead, and to tell you the truth, not many missed him. But one day he came back with what would become his famous sword, The Monarch. He returned from the journey wilder than ever and people began to call him a name worthy of the warrior he wanted to be. That was when they started calling him Faldon the Fierce.

“Now that he had a reputation, his fees grew as did the danger he placed himself in. With his powerful sword in hand, he did not believe he could be defeated. But not long after finally gaining the reputation he so craved, Faldon grew bored once more.”

“But he was famous now, right?” he had asked.

“True, but he was restless. Once again, there was something amiss. Finding out what was missing in his life became his new obsession. Now, Faldon’s parents had always taught him that the Prophet was a wise man with all of the answers to life’s questions, so he quit his freelance mercenary work for what would thankfully be the final time and he took off on a journey to find the Prophet.”

Justan had listened with rapt attention. The idea of his father meeting the Prophet was something he looked forward to bragging to the other kids about. All the children in Reneul knew about him. In fact, just about every man, elf, dwarf, or gnome in the known lands had heard a story or two about him. Some loved him, some feared him, but all respected him.

It was well known that what he did shaped events, but he moved quietly taking care to avoid drawing attention to himself. The only time that he had ever taken a position of prominence was during the War of the Dark Prophet when he led a small troop of people to the Dark Prophet’s lair and destroyed him. Since then, years at a time would go by when no one would hear of him.

Scholars had written volumes upon volumes about the Prophet and his name showed up in all the histories. Some said that he had been alive from the beginning when the world was created. Others felt that the prophet was not just one man, but a series of men that passed the mantle down from generation to generation. Some thought that he was a scoundrel and a con artist, while others saw him as a savior to the people.