Fire!
1724 Words
Alfonso shifted in discomfort as Larne led the students in shouting, “FIRE!”
“FIRE!”
“FIRE!”
He glanced at Harold and the Headmaster shrugged, “Most of the townspeople are not here yet. I believe we have time for one more spell.”
The students cheered in excitement.
“Okay,” Alf gave in. “But there’s no target.”
One of the students ran up, grabbed the last of the training dummies lying alongside the field, and threw it as hard as he could.
The scarecrow landed in the middle of the training field and skidded until it came to a halt against a group of ice spikes. “Now there is,” the boy Alf recognized as Jack Lieberman shouted, then darted back towards the observation line as the protective shield flashed, allowing him through.
Alf grinned at the stick figure standing on its head. “All right," he said, "here goes nothing."
Alf shook his hands, crouched, and began shaping a circle off to his right side. Then he remembered Mrs. Cleaver’s gentle warning.
Taking a step forward, he quickly charged an extra shield and cast it behind him, covering Harold, Olivia, and the students. It wasn’t a strong one, but with the pillars active, it should suffice.
Once again, he crouched and rounded his hands in a circle to the right of his stomach.
The fire spell lit up inside his mind, and a flame sprung to life between his curled fingers. Driving energy down his arms and into his palms, he fed the spell. Tendrils of shimmering frequencies streamed from his fingertips, liquefying the surrounding oxygen and feeding into the flames.
As the fireball expanded to the size of Alf’s head, the tips of his tawny gold hair curled back, and the front of his shirt started to smolder and smoke. Spreading his hands wider, he extended his arms.
The flames boiled, hissed, and popped as they danced upon its liquid surface. Then a tongue of fire lashed out, barely missing Alf’s leg. With a hearty grin, Alf shoved his hands forward and launched his creation.
The fireball blasted towards the dummy: it's swift shadow flashing red against the pale snow.
With a tremendous roar, the fiery globe careened into its target and detonated.
Air, dust, and wind raced past Alf, nearly tearing him off his feet as the fireball imploded. The raging fire sucked the training dummy into its vacuum and incinerated it. Then, with an ear-deafening boom, the implosion collapsed, and a wave of fire exploded outwards, throwing Alf into the sky and slamming him into his shield.
As the fire reached out across the training field, it cascaded around his barrier, l*****g at his feet and singeing the hairs on his arms and legs.
Alf looked on in awe as the explosion erupted and rose skyward, forming a giant mushroom cloud overhead. Fire and snow blended in hues of red, orange, silver, and blue. Green leaves whipped past his cheeks as the wind stripped the trees bare, and time seemed to pause as he lay against the pulsating blue shield, attempting to take it all in.
Then gravity took over as his shield shattered beneath him, and Alf fell tumbling to the ground. Seconds later, the sound of sizzling snow washed over him as the ice evaporated into steam hot enough to melt skin off.
The steam rose and billowed around the pillars, and the protective gems embedded within their depths cracked under the intensive heat. Like a twinkling star in the night, the shield winked out of existence, and black soot rained down, covering the children and townspeople in a blanket of ash.
Coughing and gagging rent the air as the people crawled into the courtyard in an attempt to escape the scalding mist.
Slowly, the smoke drifted away, revealing a land of molten lava and charred rock.
Alf scrambled on all fours and pulled himself to his feet. His eyes glazed over as he gazed at his handiwork, and his skin smarted from the hot steam. I can't believe I just did that.
Bit by bit, Alf's hearing returned, and the sound of moaning penetrated his stupor. He looked around in fright, concerned for his friends.
Harold sat Indian style on the ground, healing a small burn on his arm. His mustache looked singed, and his eyebrows lay frozen in a perpetual state of astonishment.
Olivia stood beside him, blankly staring at the barren wasteland he'd created, her hair whipping about her.
Throwing out both of his arms, he placed a shield around them, then glanced back at the students.
Drakovian pushed another student off of him and massaged the back of his neck. “By the flames of the great Lord Eldrin. It’s a good thing that was not a level seven fire spell. A meteor of that magnitude and power would've killed us all.” The prince had forgotten to act his part as a child, but with the present chaos, no one else noticed.
Wiping soot and ash off his face, Alf admitted, “I think I went a little overboard.”
A student shouted in anger, “You think!? You completely destroyed my silk nightgown, you big oaf.”
Guilt and shame consumed Alf. He had definitively overdone it, and his thoughtlessness had put himself and those around him in danger. The land had also suffered from his foolishness; the trees smoldered, their branches stripped bare; the field bubbled and burned, glowing reddish-black. Alf sighed. It would take weeks to undo the damage.
The wind shifted, and another wave of ash and soot blew their way. Before it could arrive, Alf raised his arms and formed a gentle breeze, redirecting it.
Danarc climbed out from underneath the table in the courtyard and shouted, “That was awesome! Cast another, cast another.”
Alf smiled. At least not everyone was mad at him. Though, on further thought, wasn't Danarc supposed to be in bed. That little rascal never learns, does he? Alf thought, grinning to himself.
“I want to see dark magic this time,” the boy cried.
Alf’s smile vanished and his spell faltered. A mighty gust of wind burst from his fingertips and pelted the crowd, blowing Mister Dinwiddie’s nightgown up and into his face.
The old man pushed his nightgown back down with both hands and hollered, “Enough of this tomfoolery! I demand you tell us why you dragged us out of our beds at once."
Alf reduced the energy to his spell and said, “I’m sorry.” He tried not to smile at the older gentleman’s outrage; he just couldn't take him seriously with that fluffy pompom swinging back and forth in the wind.
Before the pawnshop owner could reply, Danarc started to chant, “Dark magic! Dark magic!” in an endeavor to match the students' earlier shouts.
“Would someone please shut that runt up,” Mister Dinwiddie spat.
Mrs. Allender glared at him, her rich mahogany skin blending into the night.
“Oh, don’t give me that self-righteous look. I am tired and covered from head to toe in soot."
Mrs. Allender turned her back on the grumpy man and pushed her way through the crowd to the still chanting boy. Kneeling in the burnt grass beside him, she said, “Alf can’t cast dark magic.”
Danarc crossed his arms and pouted. “And why not?”
“Well, for starters, he doesn’t know any. And it’s a good thing he doesn’t because it’s illegal. Not only that, it’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” the little boy's eyes widened.
“Yes, both dark and holy magic are much stronger than the other five magics. Their first spell is equal to the third level of the others. If Alf were to cast something that powerful here, there would be nothing left of you.”
“Oh.”
Danarc thought about it for a moment, then asked, "But why is it illegal?"
Mr. Dinwiddie snarled, "Because dark magic feeds on peoples' life energy like a pack of piranhas until nothing is left. It leaves its victims as dry, lifeless husks, and the caster is no better off. It nibbles at their soul till they go insane and lose their mind. In the end, it drives them stark, raving mad."
He shook his bony finger at the child. "Only a fool messes with dark magic. That's why it's illegal, why the empire has banned it. Never ask for someone to cast it again? Do you understand, boy?"
Darnarc shook his head up and down, his face pale with fright, his fingers tightly clenching Mrs. Allender's shirtsleeve.
"Aren't there myths that dragons destroyed an entire continent long ago because the people were dark magic users?” a student called out to Mr. Dinwiddie.
Pleased with the extra attention, the old man said, "That's right. The great Dragon, Lord Eldrin himself, wiped them all out. They were a b****y, vicious race of people who bowed down to false gods and burned their babies as sacrifices."
His audience gasped.
Alf shook his head. Maybe he should stop him before he mixed more facts with fiction.
"Then what about holy magic? Where does holy magic come from, and why don't we see it very often?" Qiao asked, redirecting the conversation.
"Hmph, I don't have all the answers," Mr. Dinwiddie said. "Ask the oversized oaf," he motioned to Alf, and then turning his back, he hobbled away, searching for his lost cane.
The children's eyes turned to Alf, filled with eager expectation.
Alf shrugged. “I'm sad to say I don't know much about holy magic. It's practically a lost art. All knowledge about it is a closely guarded secret, and only those with special white blood cells can use it, which means I can't show you.”
Believing that was the end of the conversation, Alf dropped the shield around Olivia and Harold so the Headmaster could address the gathered people. But as his shield faded away, Olivia stepped forward and declared, “I will show you.”
- Writer
