Three long hours of work and Draken has finally brought the last swirling ball of intertwining magic to an even flow of parallel lines. Morro’s slow clapping draws him from his concentration and the same slow, unpleasantly stony grind signals the dais’ retreat back into the recesses of the floor.

“If only there were a better place for it.” The sorcerer mumbles, shaking his head. “This house just wasn’t built with that sort of thing in mind and the basement barely holds it.” He shrugs. “I’ve had to hire a storage building in town, you know.”

“Why not use sorcery to make another space?” Draken asks.

Morro snorts. “This whole house was made by another’s sorcery. If I start messing with it too much I might destroy it.”

“Why didn’t you build your own cottage?” Draken asks.

Morro sighs. “Building something like this takes a lot of careful work or a lot of risk and I was young when I moved out here and Old Copperhead was dead three months and his apprentices with him … victims of a feud.”

Draken opens his mouth and is cut off before a word can emerge.

“No, it wasn’t started at the ball!”

His words are punctuated by a clap of thunder. The storm seems to have picked up a lot and Draken is for once glad to be studying indoors.

Morro walks back to the table and smooths out the wrinkles in the map.

“I’d judge you’ve got the hang of it, so it’s time to put you to work.”

“Put me to work?” Draken asks, not liking the sound of what he’s hearing.

“A sorcerer’s primary job if your recall is keeping the magical energies from creating monsters and mayhem.” The map seems to cover several miles surrounding the cottage. Draken doesn’t know much about maps but this one appears fairly detailed upon close inspection with representations of rolling hills, forests and rivers extending as far from Goldseal as the farmlands and as close to the city as Lord Grisham’s estate. He has to hold himself from spitting at the sight of his father’s name.

“All of this is the territory I've been responsible for and as of now, so are you.”

Morro taps a spot on the map. “We’re looking at a disturbance about a league to the east of here, shouldn’t take you more than three hours.”

The wailing of the wind is like a chorus of banshies, howling so loud as to put any wolf to shame.

“You want me to march out in that miserable gale for three hours?” Draken askes as much afraid as he is angry. The sorcerer pours himself some warm cider.

“You’ll want to bundle up.” The old man says, blowing intermittently on his drink.

“Maybe I should wait for it to clear up?” The boy ventures, feeling chilled to his core at the thought of trekking back out into the biting wind.

The sorcerer shakes his head.

“Without our intervention that storm will run wild, spewing magic all over the country. One of us has to deal with it and I'm far too old to be traipsing around in weather like this.”

With a snap of the old man’s fingers and the click of a metal lock, no sooner does the wooden chest fly open than Draken is stumbling to the floor in a tangle of wool.

“What in the ...” His speech is muffled by a warm, itchy mass wrapping around his face. As he pulls at it he feels his boots come off and some kind of furry feeling climbing up his feet.

He feels his trousers pulling past his ankles as the floor recedes beneath him.

“Wait just a damned mmmmf...” The scarf tightens around his mouth. As he hangs upside down warm, itchy woolen leggings squirm up his exposed calfs.

“Do stop struggling.” The sorcerer says, “You’ll only waste time.”

Panting his frustration, Draken lands roughly on his hands and feet, his body laden from head to toe in wool and fur. Pulled to his feet by invisible strings of psychic manipulation the boy feels a large bag land in his hands before he can blink.

The litany of curses flows from Draken’s mouth as ceaseless as the flow of a river.

“... fucking goddamn asshole son of a cocksucking bitch...”

Morro suppresses a chuckle with a cough and hands Draken the map.

“You might not have liked it but it saved us maybe ten minutes. Time is important, every moment that we waste is a moment people could be hurt. ”

The sorcerer's bony hand grips Draken’s back, rubbing his shoulder. The boy bristles at the personal contact, not liking the feel of the old man’s hands or the musty odor of his clothes.

The door opens before him and a wall of icy wind blasts him back, his eyes water and he squints at the onslaught as it shoves him back into the firm grip of the sorcerer.

“Don’t hesitate, time to put your skills to the test.”

The hand at his back shoves Draken forward and as he stumbles he hears the door close behind him. Draken finds himself alone against the buffeting power of the wind, his path illuminated by the flashing wild magic in the distance.

The first few steps into the wind are like walking neck deep in mud. The next few are much worse. He is grateful at least that the powerful blasts of wind are mostly blocked by his layers of clothing, yet the places where it seeps through are numb beyond feeling.

***

Shun’s whole body is numb and his ears ring out like church bells. Everything around him is a swirling darkness and he shakes with coughs as he tries to pull himself up. At first there is nothing but shadow as the smoke and dust stubbornly hang in the air.

Past the loud ringing of bells he makes out the sound of screams and moans. The part of his mind buried beneath the shock and fear is thankful that so few people were in the senate chamber at the time of the explosion. Yet gods, General Armstrong was right at the center he must be dead!

Before his mind can process that disturbing thought he spots movement down on the senate floor.

A large shadow moves slowly through the dying flames. It stops midway through it’s stride across the chamber and blades of sunlight cut through the dust to reveal the gleam of armor.

General Armstron stands unharmed, at his feet bleeding and broken is The Commander.

“What a waste.” The general says, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife.

His body shifts in the light so that Shun feels he’s staring right at him.

“A complete and utter tactical failure, absolutely unforgivable.”

The Private finds himself in total agreement. What a complete clusterfuck, how the hell could they let this happen? Yet something in Armstrong’s cold voice fails to connect, it’s as if the unreadable nature of that strange baritone has been compounded with something else.

“Your magic kept you completely undetected, even by me and in doing so you heard certain pieces of intelligence.” Armstrong says, taking several steps forward.

At first Shun doesn’t understand who Armstrong is talking to in this strange dialog. Everyone around him is dead but the general is clearly talking to someone and as he stares directly at Shun a part of his mind screams in terror.

“Had you taken that information you could have dealt us a serious blow, but instead you chose to assassinate me. Even had you succeeded I would have simply been replaced, what kind of fool are you? ” Armstrong releases the tattered cape from his cuirass and lets it flutter to the ground.

“Now I stand here unharmed and you have revealed yourself to my many senses. On behalf of your cause I am appalled.”

All Shun sees is a sudden flash of light before the floor quakes with a thunderous impact. He is thrown from his feet once again as Armstrong lands from his mighty leap barely an arm’s breadth away. Eyes wide and mouth agape the private trembles from head to toe as the general towers above him, more monalith than man.

“Do not move a single muscle.” The general says to the petrified soldier. Shun couldn’t move a muscle if his life depended on it, which for all he knows it might.

Armstrong’s hand moves with the speed of a striking snake and Shun hears a choked cry as a man who wasn't there a moment ago appears just behind him. A bejeweled crossbow clatters to the floor as the general’s massive hand tightens around the assassin's neck. He doesn’t look much like an assassin, just a well built kid really. Can’t be older than sixteen or seventeen but his eyes have that hard stubborn warrior’s look in them and his body has more than a few battle scars.

“The attempt on my life, while disruptive is forgivable.” Armstrong says as he lifts the lad. “But as a man who demands perfection from himself and his subordinates I cannot forgive incompetence even in an enemy. Acting in place of your superiors I feel it is my duty to execute you for this spectacular failure.” For all his struggle the assassin cannot budge Armstrong’s iron grip and is helpless as he is hurled skyward. For a moment that seems to last an eternity he spins around like a child’s doll, utterly helpless and then as his body begins to fall the general’s sword is suddenly out. Shun doesn’t see the cut, he only sees the blood in the air and the bisected body falling in two directions. He wants to throw up but is too stunned even for that. Shun asks himself for the hundredth time if Armstrong can possibly be human. But if he isn’t human, then what the hell is he?

“Rise.” The general says and Shun can’t deny that the word is directed at him. With shaking legs and a spinning head he makes an effort to stand at attention.

“You are Lieutenant Shun, one of the more successful Rocket Troopers the late Commander wanted to bring to my attention, correct?”

Shun nods nervously not knowing how to correct the general about his lowly rank without ending up diced to pieces.

“Good. I am placing you in charge of squadron of next generation rockets aboard the Mobile Battle Fortress Gilgamesh.” Armstrong turns on his heel and slowly stomps toward the door before stopping without turning around. “If you fail me Lieutenant, you’ll be too envious of our late assassin to regret this promotion. ”