Strength Based Wizard-Chapter 46. Country Roads

Chapter 46

Country Roads

The road to La Galcia is dust and dirt, dry and sun-baked, the color of cinnamon and dead leaves. It snakes its way through the countryside like a lazy earthworm, bumping and jostling the carts every few feet. To the left and right, the world unfolds in patches of farmland. Golden fields of wheat sway lazily like they’re dancing to some slow, invisible tune. The wheels of our carts creak, the stag beetles chitter softly, and the occasional gust of wind carries the smell of manure from farms we pass along the way, wildflowers, and something else I can’t quite place—something metallic, I think.

The road widens eventually—enough that the two carts can roll alongside each other without any beetle-based collisions. Clyde, who has since regained his composure, sitting back in a relaxed fashion alongside the farmer, interrupts Baptiste’s whistling tune.

“So… dragons.”

The word hangs in the air, awkward.

Eventually, Farmer Baptiste chimes in. “What about ‘em?”

Clyde clears his throat and continues. “Do either of you know anything about them?”

Baptiste barks out a laugh so loud the beetle pulling his cart twitches anxiously. “Sure as hell don’t, and don’t intend to.”

Clyde raises an eyebrow. “That’s not what you said last evening when you told us your golem was supposed to ward off ‘giant flying reptiles.’ That certainly sounds like dragons to me.”

“Nah,” says Baptiste, rolling his eyes like he’s been through this before. “Thems just Carrion Wyverns. Scavengers and pests, that’s all. Ain’t nobody ever mistake a Carrion Wyvern for no dragon, son.”

“Carrion Wyvern are simple monstrosities. Dragons are magical beasts capable of massive destruction. Most people choose to avoid the need to interact with them, if possible,” Vultog says.

“Though Carrion Wyvern still ‘bout the size of this here wagon, and spit acid, so I ain’t too fond of thems either,” Baptiste adds, calmly, like that’s a normal thing to say.

“Oh,” Clyde mutters, visibly recalculating several life decisions. “What about actual dragons?”

Vultog tilts his head, thoughtful. “What do you need to know?”

Clyde’s eyes grow a little brighter, which isn’t saying as much because they still appear absolutely exhausted. “Can we find them anywhere near here? Near La Galcia?”

Baptiste shoots him a look like he just declared war on the concept of common sense.

The orc, however, is more composed. He pauses, stroking his chin slowly with those massive, calloused fingers. “There are dragons in these lands,” he says finally. “But I cannot say exactly where one would go to find them.”

He shifts in his seat and glances towards the other cart and Clyde, his tone going from informative to grim real quick. “There’s a saying among my people: Those who go looking for dragons often get burned.”

Clyde grins. “Noted.”

I don’t like the glint in his eye. That’s the same look I get when I see a squat rack and think, I can definitely PR today, right before I proceed to pull a hammy.

“Is there somewhere in the city someone could go if they did want to find out that kind of information?” Clyde presses on, undeterred.

Another pause. Vultog’s brows lower like storm clouds.

“A Monster Hunter’s Association outpost would likely be the best place to go. They often service monster execution contracts and keep a repository of information on all local monsters. They will likely have a lot of useful information on any dragons in the area.”

I think back to the countless Swords & Sorcerers live play podcasts I’ve listened to over the years, imagining the pub where the heroes inevitably received their quest, and often times started a brawl and pickpocketed innocent bartenders while doing so. I feel a smile tug at my lips.

Clyde nods like he’s filing that information away somewhere into the archives between his ears.

Veronica leans forward from behind me and mutters, “Seems a little too easy.”

I can’t say I disagree with her, but I don’t respond. I don’t say that even if we find the Monster Hunter’s Association and get all the information on the whereabouts of a dragon, we still have to eventually fight the damned thing. The thought stirs something dreadful in my gut.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

I turn to Vultog. “And this Association… They don’t hunt orcs, right?”

His frown deepens, extenuating his tusks. “They do not, no. As an official policy. But there are individuals who do not differentiate a monster, such as a Carrion Wyvern, and a Gate-borne, such as an orc. As such, I am not fond of the name of the Association.”

“That’s fair,” I say, rubbing the back of my head awkwardly.

The carts rumble onward, the beetles clicking their legs in rhythmic unison, pulling us closer and closer to the City.

I lean back in my seat, the sun warm on my face, the road stretching ahead. I glance over at Vultog. The guy looks like he’s carved out of jade and patience. The glass of his spectacles catch the morning light. He reminds me of a moss-covered boulder in his calm stillness behind the reigns.

“Hey,” I say, nudging him with an elbow. “Thanks again. Y’know, for letting me help out with the morning chores. And for the ritual.”

“I should thank you for lending me your assistance,” says the orc. “Assisting you with your ritual in return was the least I could do.”

I scratch my chin, thinking. “Actually, now that I think of it, why did you help me out with my ritual so willingly? I assume it’s not every day a complete stranger comes by and asks you to donate your mana in their ritual spell?”

Vultog turns his head slightly, his tusks catching the morning light. For a second, I swear I see something like amusement flicker across his face. And then he actually smiles, revealing his tusks in a lopsided grin.

“I am not so trusting of strangers, as you might be thinking,” he rumbles.

I blink. Okaayyyy…?

He shifts in his seat, the leather reins loose in his hand as the beetle meanders along the path. “There were three reasons I agreed to help you. Despite you being a stranger… And an outworlder at that.”

Oho! I straighten up, curious now. Vultog counts off on thick, scarred fingers.

“First, unless you are a high-level mage pretending to be a novice and exceptionally skilled at suppressing your aura, I would have sensed any ill intent in you when you made your request.”

“Aura?” I ask. “What do you mean by that?”

He nods, satisfied that I asked. “Your aura is your life force. It is the essence that exists in all living things. Everything that breathes or grows carries it.”

I glance down at my open palms, focusing as hard as I can, as though I might see neon light explode from my fingertips. But they’re just my plain, old, ordinary hands.

“And you can sense it?” I ask.

“Indeed,” he says, with a slight nod. “Many who have power can. It is a fundamental skill, taught early and mastered over decades as one journeys down their Path.”

“Their Path,” chimes in Veronica from her seat behind us.

“Indeed,” says Vultog. “The Path is what all those who seek mastery of their power must work to understand. To understand the universe, and thus yourself, is the key to unlocking higher levels of power.”

“That sounds a lot like Taoist philosophy,” Veronica says. Jelly Boy vibrates in her lap, as though agreeing with her observation. I don’t know anything about Eastern philosophies or religions, so I just nod my head as though I do.

“I do not recognize that word,” Vultog says, deep voice rumbling. “But you all have power without being able to sense even your own aura?”

I shake my head, then look over my shoulder at Veronica. “Can you see energies?”

She chuckles. “Nope!”

Vultog stares off into the distance, thinking for a long moment before speaking again. “Try to close your eyes… Quiet your thoughts, and focus on the power within you. If you are able to cast magic, there are threads of power throughout your body.”

“Wait… Is aura another term for mana? Kind of?” I ask.

“No, they are two different things. Aura is the underlying force behind all power. Mana is a fuel source for spells,” says Vultog.

For some chumps that is, I think.

I close my eyes and slowly exhale through my nose. Then the cart hits a dump in the road, nearly flinging me off the bench and off the cart entirely. “Er… Maybe, I’ll try that some other time.” I cough, and adjust my pointy wizard’s hat. “So, what were the other reasons for helping me with my ritual?”

“Second,” he continues, “among the Orcish Scholars, there is a very similar ritual. We pass our magical knowledge through binding rites, not unlike yours. It has… academic familiarity to me.”

Huh. That actually makes a whole lot of sense.

“And the third?” I ask.

He pauses. Looks out over the passing countryside as if searching for the right words. “Curiosity,” he says at last. “I am older than I look. Worn down by battle and study, and many hard years. These days, I allow myself… indulgences. Moments where I follow curiosity instead of duty. You intrigue me, Joseph. Not many would willingly rise early to offer assistance doing such menial tasks.”

I laugh. “I was just looking for a good workout. It’s a slight obsession of mine.” I flex a bicep. “I wasn’t always this ripped, you know.”

“Are you saying there’s a personality under all those muscles?” asks Veronica.

“Hey!” I exclaim. “Ouch…” I place a hand over my heart, feigning injury.

“I kid, I kid,” she says, playfully shoving my shoulder.

“I actually used to be a fat kid and am still very insecure about my body image, thank you very much.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says.

I shrug. “Eh, I got over it… Clearly.” This time I flex the other bicep.

Veronica rolls her eyes before flicking me in the ear, real hard.

“Ouch!... Hey!” I rub at my ear.

I don’t want to admit that I didn’t really get over it. Actually, it’s probably the source of a lot of my issues. But this isn’t therapy. I’m sitting next to an orc for fucks sake.

Time to change the subject.

“Uh… You said you could sense auras. I’m assuming that means other things can sense auras too. Last evening you said something, about that Giant Bat.”

I see Clyde lean forward and lock eyes with me from the other cart. His face screams ‘Don’t go there dude!’ as though he’s read my train of thought. I ignore him.

“Could it have been drawn to… or searching for, our auras?”

“I don’t think that’s what happened,” says Clyde. He turns to Farmer Baptiste.

The elvish farmer, for his part, sighs and puts a gentle hand on Clyde’s shoulder. “Look here, son… I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but my ears work just fine. I heard what the orc said last night.”

Clyde opens his mouth, but is cut off by Baptiste. “And I don’t care. Can’t change what happened… And as far as I’m concerned, ya’ll didn’t hesitate to help save my boy. I think you’re good people. For me, that’s enough.”

I notice Clyde visibly relax.

“And we cannot be certain why that creature came to the farm,” says Vultog. “Though the timing of its appearance is… Curious. All auras have unique signatures. And that can be used for tracking.”

“Oh, great… Good to know,” I say. “We’re sharing our locations with the world and have no means of turning it off.”

Yet, I silently add. Learning to perceive and control my aura suddenly became very high on my Junior Wizard’s Guide to Mastery To-Do List.