Swords & Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery

Casimir reached into a belt pouch, drew out a small container of greasy white paint, and began to quickly sketch designs on the floor in front of the pulsing glass column. Laszlo frowned as he studied the symbols—he recognized some of them, variations on warding and focusing sigils that any first-year aspirant could use to contain or redirect magical energy. But these were far more complex, like combinations of notes that any student could puzzle out but only a virtuoso could actually play. Compared to Laszlo, Casimir was such a virtuoso.

“Caz,” said Laszlo, “what exactly are you doing?”

“Graduating early.” Casimir finished his design at last, a lattice of arcane symbols so advanced and tight-woven that Laszlo’s eyes crossed as he tried to puzzle it out. As a final touch, Casimir drew a simple white circle around himself—the traditional basis for any protective magical ward.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry, Laszlo. You’ve been a good chambers-mate. I wish you’d just left with the rest.” Casimir smiled at him sadly, and there was something new and alien in his manner—condescension. Dismissal. He’d always been pompous and cocksure, but gods, he’d never looked at Laszlo like this. With pity, as though he were a favorite pet about to be thrown out of the house.

“Caz, this isn’t funny.”

“If you were more sensitive, I think you’d have already understood. But I know you can’t feel it like I do. Yvette felt it. But she’s like the rest of you, sewn up in all the little damn rules you make for yourselves to paint timidity as a virtue.”

“Felt what—”

“The magic in this place. The currents. Hell, an ocean of power, fermenting for a thousand years, lashing out at random like some headless animal. And all they can do with it is keep it bottled up and hope it doesn’t bite them too sharply. It needs a will, Laszlo! It needs a mind to guide it, to wrestle it down, to put it to constructive use.”

“You’re kidding.” Laszlo’s mouth was suddenly dry. “This is a finals-week joke, Caz. You’re kidding.”

“No.” Casimir gestured at the glass focus. “It’s all here already, everything necessary. If you’d had any ambition at all you would have seen the hints in the introductory materials. The index enchantments are like a nervous system, in touch with everything, and they can be used to communicate with everything. I’m going to bend this place, Laz. Bend it around my finger and make it something new.”

“It’ll kill you!”

“It could win.” Casimir flashed his teeth, a grin as predatory as any worn by the vocabuvores that had tried to devour him less than an hour before. “But so what? I graduate with honors, I go back to my people, and what then? Fighting demons, writing books, advising ministers? To hell with it. In the long run I’m still a footnote. But if I can seize this, rule this, that’s more power than ten thousand lifetimes of dutiful slavery.”

“Aspirant Vrana,” said Astriza. She had come up behind Laszlo, so quietly that he hadn’t heard her approach. “Casimir. Is something the matter?”

“On the contrary, Librarian Mezaros. Everything is better than ever.”

“Casimir,” she said, “I’ve been listening. I strongly urge you to reconsider this course of action, before—”

“Before what? Before I do what you people should have done a thousand years ago when this place bucked the harness? Stay back, Librarian, or I’ll weave a death for you before your spells can touch me. Look on the bright side…anything is possible once this is done. The University and I will have to reach…an accommodation.”

“What about me, Caz?” Laszlo threw his tattered cloak aside and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Would you slay me, too?”

“Interesting question, Laszlo. Would you really pull that thing on me?”

“Five years! I thought we were friends!” The sword came out in a silver blur, and Laszlo shook with fury.

“You could have gone on thinking that if you’d just left me alone for a few minutes. I already said I was sorry.”

“Step out of the circle, Casimir. Step out, or decide which one of us you have time to kill before we can reach you.”

“Laszlo, even for someone as mildly magical as yourself, you disappoint me. I said I checked your sword personally this morning, didn’t I?”

Casimir snapped his fingers, and Laszlo’s sword wrenched itself from his grasp so quickly that it scraped the skin from most of his knuckles. Animated by magical force, it whirled in the air and thrust itself firmly against Laszlo’s throat. He gasped—the razor-edge that had slashed vocabuvore flesh like wet parchment was pressed firmly against his windpipe, and a modicum of added pressure would drive it in.

“Now,” shouted Casimir, “Indexers, out! If anyone else comes in, if I am interfered with, or knocked unconscious or by any means further annoyed, my enchantment on that sword will slice this aspirant’s head off.”

The blue-robed Indexers withdrew from the room hastily, and the heavy door clanged shut behind them.