Chapter 2: Chapter 1 - Trailside Lessons

The walking stick in Cliff’s hand bounced along the rough terrain with each step, keeping the beat more than helping him balance. His intermittent hums and whistles filled the air, lost in the noise of the caravan’s lumbering along the road. He eyed the train of wagons appreciatively, four broad, flat, canvas-covered trailers loaded up with people and goods, dragged along by a massive Magetool vehicle somewhere between a truck and a tractor. It had four huge tires, their treads thickly ridged to deal with the Federation’s shoddy roads, little more than swathes of torn up terrain that wove through the hills of the region. It was a larger version of the one that he’d ridden through the countryside to Minton.

He hadn’t had the cash to pay for a seat on a wagon, but that was fine enough for him. They let you walk alongside for free, and he was too jittery to stay in a seat for the five-hour trip – besides, the people in the wagons looked downright miserable from the bumps and bounces, so he was more than happy to stroll on the road. A bruised ass was hardly the memory he wanted from his first arrival to the Academy.

“Never seen a trail trolley before?” the man beside him asked. Cliff looked his way, giving him a quick once over. He was stout, with olive skin, a bald pate, and dark, graying hair. One of the caravan’s guards, he was maybe the age of Cliff’s father, and where Cliff had a walking stick, he had a long spear loosely held in a gauntleted hand.

Cliff eyed the gauntlet for a moment before he remembered to respond. “I’ve seen a smaller one,” he said, “it runs through the countryside by our farm, just outside Minton, once every week.” He waved a hand appreciatively at the hulking vehicle beside them. “Never seen one this big, though.”

“You think this is big? Spoken like a true house pet,” the guard said, showing his teeth.

Cliff raised an eyebrow. “House pet?” It did not sound like a term of endearment.

The guard hissed an amused breath. “It’s a name us trailwalkers like to call you folk that are bound up in one city. Don’t take offense, though. Nothing wrong with appreciating the safety of home.” Trailwalkers, Cliff knew. That was someone who traveled between city states, risking the dangers of higher pressure areas.

“Well I’ve left Minton now, haven’t I?” Cliff said, “That makes me as much of a trailwalker as anyone else in the caravan, right?”

The guard let out a broad laugh, earning a few glances from the folk around them. “Boy, you’re a trailwalker, and I’m a holy hierophant.” Cliff frowned. “Spend at least one night outside the safety of one of the cities, then we’ll start to think about calling you a trailwalker.” Noticing the look on Cliff’s face, the guard smiled, embarrassed. “Come now, son, I don’t mean nothing by it. Nothing wrong with being young and eager. I was just the same way, when I was your age. You’re, what, eighteen?”

“Nineteen.”

The guard nodded. “Nineteen, then, and traveling alone – headed towards Westholden, hm? And your first time leaving home?”

“Right,” Cliff said, slightly irritated at the confidence the guard had in reading him.

“Let me guess, then. You’re headed for the Academy, no? And on scholarship, I’d guess – you’re walking, after all, so you must not be flushed for cash.” The guard raised a bushy eyebrow confidently.

“I could be a merchant,” Cliff protested.

“With just a bag on your back? No product in the caravan for selling?”

Cliff shrugged his shoulder, adjusting the weight of his pack. It didn’t have much more than a spare set of work clothes and the clothes he wore to the weekly sacrament, but the guard didn’t know that. “Maybe I’m the son of a jeweler and the bag’s full of gems that I want to sell in Westholden.”

Laughing again, the guard shook his head. “That confirms it for me, son.” He stuck a chiding finger up at Cliff and began to explain. “First, no self-respecting jeweler would trust their son to walk along a trail trolley to sell goods in the next town over. Second, any proper merchant would know that there’s a much bigger market in Minton, especially for gems – not much in Westholden besides the academy, and students don’t have much use for jewelry, do they? And third, of course, you already mentioned that you’re from a farm, so no point in puffing some story about being a jeweler’s son.”

Cliff blinked twice before breaking out into a grin. “Do you always interrogate innocent boys walking alongside caravans?”

“Only the ones who are looking particularly wide-eyed and cocky,” the guard said, “The names Barry.”

“Cliff,” he replied, extending a hand that Barry grasped in a hearty shake. “You looking to answer a few of this house pet’s questions?”

Barry grinned. “Anything would be better than listening to another note of your tone-deaf whistles.”

Cliff clicked his tongue. “So that’s the reason you started talking to me,” he said with false hurt, “my momma says I whistle like a songbird.”

“Nothing more insufferable than a shrieking songbird to ruin a peaceful morning,” Barry replied, bringing another smile from Cliff. “Now go on, ask away. It’s another three hours to Westholden, and I got bored of looking at hills fifteen minutes after we left Minton.”

***

“It was ten years garrisoned in Crestfall, fifteen more guarding supply lines, and then an honorable discharge. Been guarding peaceful caravans like this ever since,” Barry said. He’d spent most of the last hour and a half spiraled off from Cliff’s questions into a detailed rundown of a particularly eventful trip over a mountain range. His unit’s trolleys had broken down, and their technician had gotten his position from nepotism, so they were stranded for a week in the middle of a Rock Hawk roosting area. He shrugged. “It’s a peaceful living, but I do miss the most exciting bits, sometimes.”

“No wife or kids?” Cliff asked. That was the type of question his mother would swat him on the head for asking a stranger, but she wasn’t here, and Barry didn’t seem like the type to take offense.

Barry shook his head. “No wife – I’ve never been much for long-term commitment.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Might have a few kids, though – went through a lot of cities, son, and house pets take to trailwalkers like flies on honey.”

“Noted,” Cliff said with a grin. He hadn’t applied to the academy for the specific purpose of impressing girls, but he had to admit that he couldn’t forget how the few trailwalkers he’d met had enjoyed more than their fair share of fluttered eyelashes from his sisters and other farm girls.

“Enough about me, though,” Barry said, “tell me son, why the academy? Your momma and poppa are farmers, no? They can’t have much liked sending their baby boy off to learn the ways of warfare.”

“It was their idea, actually,” Cliff said, “Momma always said I was special, and Poppa doesn’t want me to waste my talents.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I have a Gift.”

Barry looked genuinely surprised. “Oh? A Gift? The son of a pair of farmers?”

Cliff nodded with a smirk. “The genuine article.”

“You want to show me?”

Cliff clicked his tongue and shook his head. “It’s not so easy.”

The guard looked suddenly incredulous. “Oh really? What’s your Gift, then?”

“Yes, sir, really,” Cliff said with a nod. He raised his finger and tapped twice on the side of his head. “Can’t very well you show my intuition.”

Barry let out a belly laugh, shaking his head. “Cliff, my boy, you are in for a rude awakening at the academy if you think a quick wit qualifies as a Gift.”

Cliff shook his head, still smirking. “I’ve got a quick wit, yes, Barry, but that’s a separate thing entirely. One look,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of his face, “and I can understand something.”

“Uh-huh,” Barry grunted, clearly unconvinced.

“It’s true,” Cliff said, “When I was thirteen, I accidentally broke my poppa’s lamp. Fearing a scolding, I took the thing apart and put it back together, good as new. Poppa only noticed when he saw that I’d replaced the switch with a bent up nail.”

“Alright, but-”

“Our tractor broke down a few years back, and the tech couldn’t get out there for a month. I convinced Momma to let me take a look at it, and I cobbled up a fix in an afternoon. When the tech finally made it out, even she had trouble understanding my handiwork and swore our old tractor would be a pile of scrap by the end of the season. It’s run smooth ever since.”

Barry put up a hand. “Listen, Cliff, I’m not saying you don’t have a knack for technology, I’d believe you do – in fact, it sounds like we could have used you when those rock hawks were dropping stones on our heads those years ago – but that’s a mite different than a Gift.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen men who could bend metal with no more effort than you or I might use to snap a twig; a woman who could split eardrums with a whistle – hell, the head of the Federation’s intelligence bureau can fly. A knack is one thing, genius is another, but a Gift. That’s a different beast.”

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“It’s not just technology,” Cliff explained, “It’s science, or farming, or biology, or really anything – show me a single step, and I’ll be able to tell you the whole process. It’s a Gift, Barry.” A strained look came to the guard’s face. It was clear he didn’t agree, but also that he didn’t want to argue the point. Cliff shrugged broadly. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll prove it to you.”

Barry sighed, but some of the humor returned to his voice. “Oh? And how will you do that?”

“Your Personal Magetool,” Cliff said, pointing at the thick gauntlet on Barry’s left hand, “pop open the cover and I’ll tell you exactly what it’s tuned for.”

Barry looked down at his hand. The Magetool had probably been shiny once, but Cliff knew the look of a well-used tool when he saw one. The scratches and nicks in the metal of its cover were as good an indication as any of Barry’s experience.

“You ever see the inside of one of these things?” Barry asked, holding the tool out in front of him.

Cliff shook his head. “There were a few simple diagrams in my readings, but yours is the first that I’ve seen up close and personal.” In fact, if not for the academic primer sent to him by the Academy – a thick sheaf of paper currently tucked away in his pack – he might not have recognized the Magetool as anything more than an overwrought piece of armor. Certainly, nothing about its simple, metal cover betrayed the magical circuitry beneath.

Barry snorted. “I remember those diagrams – a few lines and circles on a page aren’t a shadow of what’s in here, son.” He tapped a heavy finger on the cover with his other hand. “Magetool engineers are paid handsomely for their expertise – no amount of intuition will get you that far.”

“Even better,” Cliff replied smugly, “If I can understand your tool, It’ll have to convince you.” He’d been itching to get a look inside one – personal Magetools weren’t exactly commonplace out in the cornfields. Gingerly, he moved his hand towards the gauntlet only for Barry to swat it away.

“No touching,” he said stiffly, “I’ve got her calibrated perfectly, and I’m not about to let some beanpole use his spindly fingers to ruin that – these things are liable to explode if you mess with them too much, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cliff replied. He’d heard as much before about just about every type of Magetool he’d tinkered with – once or twice things had gotten a little hot, but he’d never suffered worse than a few singed hairs. “I won’t touch anything, I promise. Now open her up.” He could just about feel his eyes twinkling, and eagerness bubbled in his stomach. He’d wanted to crack the gauntlet open as soon as he saw it on Barry’s wrist, and this silly wager was just the excuse he needed.

Barry sighed, muttering something about uppity brats before he reached over with his other hand, popping the cover open with a practiced movement and swinging it free on a hinge Cliff hadn’t noticed. “One minute to prove your so called Gift,” he said, “any longer than that and we’ll agree it’s just a quick wit.”

As the cover swung free, Cliff felt his eyebrows rising involuntarily. Barry was right, the inside of the gauntlet was nothing like the diagrams in his readings. To compare the two was like comparing the shaky stitching he used to patch a hole in his pants with his mother’s embroidery – the fundamentals were the same, but the details elevated one into an art-form.

Noticing the shock on his face, Barry grinned, “one look and you’re ready to give up?” But Cliff could hardly hear him.

“That’s the prime stone,” Cliff muttered, pointing a finger idly at a slim, smooth rock at the center of the circuitry. It was about the size of an acorn and seemed to glow, though he couldn’t tell if it was a real thing he was seeing or simply his internal understanding of the power in the rock. The magic within that rock was the fuel for the rest of the circuitry. “There’s the feedback loop,” he continued, pointing quickly at the thick spiral of metal that jutted out the bottom of the prime stone. It pulled magic in from the air, constantly refilling the stone’s natural charge.

Oddly colored filaments spun off the stone like spindly insect legs, connecting to various little circuits of their own. Each circuit had a symbology to it, and he felt his internal understanding, his Gift, straining to fill in the blanks. “Fire,” he muttered, analyzing one part of the circuit. The version in his reading had been much simpler, the primitive point-and-shoot fireball variety. The circuit in Barry’s gauntlet was much more complex and layered. It was versatile, and his mind brushed on a dozen different functions set into the dense circuit less than three fingers across. He couldn’t put a finger on how he knew it controlled fire, but he knew it did. There was another, similarly dense circuit that seemed built to manipulate earth, but the third, largest circuit within the magetool, he was having trouble parsing out.

Suddenly, the cover snapped shut and Cliff yelped in surprise. “Come on – I nearly had it!” he complained.

“Your minute’s up, boy,” Barry said, “that was the agreement – what’s it keyed for?”

Cliff huffed an indignant sigh. “Sure, I’ve gotta duplicate years of schooling in one minute – fifteen more seconds and it wouldn’t be amazing,” he muttered before shaking his head. He thought back to the innards of the Magetool, allowing his intuition to guide his explanation. “It looked like there were three main functions wired into it. The first one had to do with fire – from the look of it, you can control the intensity, shape, size, and a few other things about the fire that it makes.” A particular bit stuck out in his memory. “Oh – also there’s a function in there to put out the fire. Not something I’d have thought of, but darned practical for guarding a caravan, I’d guess. You’d hardly want to burn down the thing you’re trying to protect, hm?”

He shook his head, continuing the explanation. “Next there was earth, with some of the same functions as the fire, but if I had to guess, you don’t use that one for combat as much as the other one.” His head tilted slightly as the pieces fit together in his mind. “My money’s on you using the earth part of your Magetool to clear the path in front of us. Using magic to clear out rocks and dirt from a landslide would sure beat using a spade.”

He glanced at Barry, whose eyebrows had climbed nearly to his receding hairline. With a sheepish laugh and a shrug, he finished his explanation. “The third, biggest circuit, I couldn’t quite figure out. If I had to guess, and this is much less confident than the other two parts, mind you, I would say it has something to do with – hmm – enhancing something? That was the feeling I got from what little I could pull from the circuit.” He shrugged again. “Like I said, it’s just a guess.” He tapped his walking stick on the ground twice to punctuate the explanation. “Well? How close am I?”

Barry stared at him for an uncomfortable amount of time before the caravan guard finally managed a response. “You said this is your first time looking at the inside of a Magetool, right? You’re not just lying to make yourself seem brighter?”

Cliff scoffed. He would have been offended by the question if Barry didn’t look so serious. “My momma didn’t raise me to lie, Barry. On her honor and my own, it’s the first time I’ve seen the inside of a personal Magetool.”

Barry stared at him a moment longer before he let out a single, sharp bark of laughter. “Well, color me shocked and awed – that may well be a Gift.” He shook his head. “It’s impressive, Cliff, damned impressive.” He reached out his wrist and popped tone cover open once more, Cliff leaning in giddily while he explained. “You got the fire and earth parts damned near perfect – I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, but those are mostly the other functions put together. This-” he said, gesturing to the largest circuit, the one Cliff had struggled with, “Is what we call a martial node – it’s a pretty standard circuit to amplify your physical abilities – strength, speed, endurance – it’s the bread and butter of Augments, and even most Naturals have their personal Magetool keyed with one.”

“Hmm,” Cliff said, taking a second look at the circuit. Hearing its function, a handful of the different parts clicked together in his head. “I see – this part here amplifies – and that one redirects, I wonder how-” He cut off suddenly when Barry snapped the magetool closed once again. He glared up at the guard. “Hey! I was still-”

“Shush, boy,” Barry snapped, looking around with new seriousness on his face. Surprised by the sudden change in attitude, Cliff clamped his jaw shut, and realized that things had gone quiet. From somewhere ahead of them, a harsh, loud whistle abruptly rang through the air. The trail trolley had stopped its slow lumber forward, and all around them people – the other folk walking alongside the caravan, like Cliff, too poor to afford a seat – were scrambling onto the big wagons and tucking themselves into covered compartments.

“What’s going on?” Cliff whispered. He looked around the caravan, trying to spot whatever had forced them to stop. He’d hardly looked at the landscape since they set out, but it was still those same rolling hills, spotted with the occasional copse. There was nothing in front of the trolley to stop their movement – well, nothing beyond the normal rocks and mud of the road, but they’d been rumbling through that since they left Minton.

“On the caravan, Cliff,” Barry said, his voice severe, “that’s a warning whistle, there’s monsters about – and I don’t want to have to worry about some gawking house pet while I’m putting them down.” With a few quick movements, he shoved a stumbling Cliff towards the caravan, spinning so he had his back to the big vehicle.

“Monsters?” Cliff murmured to himself as a nervous jolt of excitement shot down his back. He’d dealt with marmots and foxes before, some bigger than they had any right to be – an effect of magic, his momma swore – but he’d never seen a real, bonafide monster.

He strained his neck as he climbed the stepladder, trying to spot any of the monsters as he pulled himself onto the cart. Two dozen people were crammed into the dim, canvas-covered wagon, between and on top of the piles of goods for shipment. There was a range of expressions on their faces, from apathy to terror. Cliff figured his own fell somewhere in the middle.

Everyone seemed to be engaged in some muttered conversation, so Cliff leaned over to one particularly apathetic looking woman. “Are monsters common on the road? I thought the pressure wasn’t high enough to worry about.” In the countryside where his family lived, the magic in the air was far too thin for anything too big or nasty to come through. Occasionally they dealt with some ornery monster that wandered onto their lands, but after a couple weeks they usually moved along themselves, or the Couriers would sweep through and do an extermination.

The woman gave him an amused look. “You don’t do much traveling, son, do you? Why do you think there’s no one living out here?” Her head tilted slightly. “Besides that – can’t you feel it?”

Cliff blinked. “Feel what?”

She shook her head. “The magic pressure has doubled, at least, since we left Minton. If you can’t even feel it here, you must have some talent.” Cliff blinked. He knew that, for some people, high pressure areas were uncomfortable to even travel through. He had never felt it himself, but his momma described it as an almost nauseating vibration in the back of your head, like flies buzzing on the backs of your eyes.

“It’s that bad here?” Cliff asked.

“Look around you, boy. The pinched up faces ain’t from the bumpy road, that’s for sure.”

Cliff spared a glance around the cart, and sure enough, about two thirds of the people crammed into the space seemed to be on the verge of losing their lunch. “I figured it was the monsters,” he murmured.

The woman scoffed. “The guards’ll take care of the monsters in another minute or so – it’s nothing to worry about. The pressure, though, that’s half the reason folk don’t like traveling much.”

Cliff hummed thoughtfully, and the woman breathed a silent chuckle before leaning back into a sack of potatoes, shifting until she was comfortable. He watched her for a moment more until a sudden noise from outside the wagon drew his attention. He felt himself swallow involuntarily. Yelling and growls.

Suddenly seized by curiosity, Cliff inched towards the back flaps of the wagon. He just wanted a glance of a monster, then he’d wait with the rest of them. Before he had the sense to second-guess himself, he pulled the wagon’s flap to the side and stuck his head out, squinting at the brightness. He looked from left to right, trying to catch a glimpse of the monsters – he could hear them, men running and – something clicked in his mind – the sounds of magic being used, fire and earth and air. It was coming from beside the cart.

Leaning further outside, he strained his neck, trying to get a look. Suddenly, something burst into view, being chased by a pair of the caravan’s guards. The monster looked like a cross between a badger and a wolf. It had a conical snout, gray-streaked brown fur and ears that pointed straight back. Its hackles were raised, and as it growled at the pair of guards, thick drool pooled on its lips, heavy drops flying free as it shook from side to side. The guards were trying to get around it, to flank it or scare it off. Barry was there with his spear, along with another of the guards, a woman with a Popstick in her hand. His poppa had a similar one, a short, stout rifle that could fire a few shots before it needed to be replaced. The guard’s looked more military-grade than his poppa’s, though, and from a glance, Cliff could tell it packed a much stronger punch than the one he used to scare off coyotes. She spotted him watching, and her eyes widened.

The monster suddenly leapt towards the woman with a rabid growl, clamping down on her arm before she had a chance to react. Cliff blinked in surprise – he hadn’t even seen the thing move until it was latched onto her. She yelped in pain, shaking her arm until the monster wrenched free, rolling along the ground till it came to a stop just below where Cliff was watching from. He stared down at the top of the beast as Barry and the just-bitten woman cornered it against the cart. The monster was growling still, a wet, angry sound that sent goosebumps flaring up his neck.

He watched the standoff a moment more before he realized he could help. Seizing his walking stick in his hand, he lined it up and, with a prayer for his accuracy, threw it like a javelin at the beast. The stick-turned-missile caught the monster on the side, and Cliff grinned as the beast was momentarily stunned. His grin faded, however, when the monster looked straight up, staring at him with angry black eyes. He was just about to scramble back into the cart when a soft pop rang through the air, opening a hole in the beast’s neck. It yelped in pain, and a moment later was stabbed through with a spear.

“Nice one,” Cliff called down with a smile, “you’re welcome for the assist.” He glanced around, but there didn’t seem to be any more of the monsters about, and the sounds of violence were gone. With a shrug, he climbed down off the cart, dropping to the ground and walking up to the dead monster. The spear and popstick had torn the thing up good, and thick, sticky blood covered its fur. Now that he was closer, the beast’s face looked even more monstrous. He leaned in to get a better look.

“Don’t touch it,” Barry snapped. Cliff blinked, turning to the man, who was fussing over the other guard’s arm where the monster had latched on. A moment more and he turned to glare at Cliff. “I thought I told you to get in the cart. That doesn’t mean ‘stick your head out and lob your walking stick at the monster to get its attention,’ you damned fool.”

Cliff was a bit taken aback by the legitimate anger in Barry’s voice. “It worked, didn’t it?” he said defensively.

“You are lucky it did,” Barry growled, “if you had missed, if Shel had missed, if that bite had broken the skin-” He shook his head. “This is why I never had kids,” he muttered, “no damned respect for what others say.”

“What’s the problem?” Cliff complained, “it’s dead, and, well, I’ve dealt with bigger pests in the fields back home.” Sure, the thing was ugly – fast, too, if that bite was anything to go by, but he couldn’t figure why Barry was so angry.

“The problem is that’s an Acid Mongrel,” the other guard, Shel, said. She shook her head bitterly. “It nearly caught me because I spotted someone’s face sticking out of the cart. If it had, the venom in its bite would have killed me in minutes, and the pain would have dropped me in a second. I wouldn’t have been able to take that shot. After your hare-brained stick toss, it spots you and leaps onto the cart, and we’ve got a few dozen dead bodies on our hands.” She spat to the side. “It wouldn’t even have to bite. That venom is in their drool, and it absorbs through the skin. Even if you survive, it’ll be weeks of fevers and vomiting – not a good way to spend the next month.”

Cliff’s eyes widened as she explained, and he glanced down at the dead Acid Mongrel, shuffling away involuntarily. “Is it really – I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“You didn’t know,” Shel hissed, interrupting him, “that’s the point. Never underestimate an unknown monster, boy. Learn some respect now, or you’ll be dead before you get a chance to.” She glared at him a moment more before turning to Barry. “I’ll go check with the others, make sure the perimeter is clear. Deal with the body.”

Cliff watched her stomp off with wide eyes, looking between the corpse of the monster and her angry, hunched shoulders. When she was out of view, he turned to Barry, who was watching him with a neutral expression. “I’m sorry-”

“You didn’t know, or else you wouldn’t have done something so stupidly reckless – yeah, Cliff, I understand,” the guard said coldly. Cliff awkwardly scratched at his neck. Barry stared at him a moment longer before sighing. “It’s alright – I don’t even think Shel is that angry, she’s just scared. She nearly died there, you know?” Cliff swallowed – if she had died, it would have been his fault. “Let this be a lesson, at least, not to overestimate yourself or underestimate a monster.”

“Right,” Cliff mumbled. He mind was lost in the possibilities of how many people could have died due to his stupidity.

“Good,” Barry said with a nod, “if the lesson’s learned, there’s no point in dwelling on it.” He grinned suddenly. “Look at you – not even at the Academy yet and already learning lessons.” Cliff tried to force a smile, but he wasn’t quite in the mood anymore. Barry caught this failed attempt and sighed. “Come on, help me with the corpse – you help killed the thing, might as well help me get it off the road. Oh, and watch the blood. It’s not so bad as the drool or the bite, but even touching it will give you the runs like you wouldn’t believe.”