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DECAYING FRAGMENTS on the beach adhered to Waylen’s cloak as he followed the other sorcerers toward the dunes. Despite their glares, he had promised to do his part faithfully. Their mistrust was not unfounded, though, for they were right in their suspicions. This collusion curdled his gut, and he wished he had never volunteered to help.
Silt wet from the fog pulled at his feet. The odor of rotting seaweed, shellfish remains, and mud clung to him. He glanced over his shoulder. The cloud that enveloped the group of thieves acted as a barrier from the rest of the world, but he could still hear the drone of the surf in the distance, and the groan of the ships where the admiral waited for their return.
How do I get myself into these situations?
Waylen walked barefoot, wincing as the sharp shells and jagged rocks dug into his feet. The sorcerers strutted as if they were calloused and felt nothing—not the damp and chilly atmosphere, nor the bruised feet, nor guilt or remorse for what they were doing. Here he was, following them around like a lamb, bending to their will and bearing all the pain.
When they reached a clearing free of driftwood, the man and the woman in the lead set a box and a gilded chest on the ground. Those two alchemists had been less hostile than the sorcerers, and Waylen wasn’t sure if they came from the Neverworld or not.
They opened the box, took out an assortment of tools and parts, and assembled a funnel-shaped machine that stood equal height to a man’s chest, four legs made of poles, and a gearbox that supported a copper funnel. They screwed in a brass tube to the bottom of the funnel and, after lifting the lid to the gilded chest, lay the other end of the tube into it.
The other seven encircled them. Once the machine was assembled, the sorcerers held their hands over the coffer, casting magic from their fingertips as the alchemists stepped back and looked at Waylen.
It was his duty to call out the incantation while the others gathered the magic and directed it into the machine.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hating every second.
“Why leave the reaping up to him?” someone whispered.
“It’s his talent.”
“And the admiral’s orders.”
“If I had my way, I’d shove sand down his throat.”
“Quiet!”
Unable to respond to their whisperings, for the charm had already vibrated inside of Waylen, he had no choice but to submit to the power within him. His skin prickled as the chant leaked out of his pores. Every cell in his body echoed the monotonous tone, creating a wind, billowing his robe, jetting his hair into the air. Feet of the sorcerers shuffled across the sand as if floating on the sound. Swishing of robes heightened his senses as the gust sucked, then choked out air, beating to the rhythm of an unseen drummer. The chant grew louder, his muscles trembled uncontrollably as flashes of lightning brightened his closed eyelids.
Why does it have to work every time? I’d be a lot less miserable if my chants failed.
The seas responded to the reaping, lashing at the beach with angry surf. The tide rose, clapping at the sand. A shrill whistle in the air gave Waylen a start and he opened his eyes. Repelled by the chant, the fog had formed into a thick dark cloud, encircling the sorcerers. Sand flew into the air stinging his feet, his cheeks, his eyes. He could see nothing but the opened chest, the machine’s gears sending sparks as it spun, the sorcerers, and darkness around them.
“Don’t stop!” someone cried out.
Waylen raised his voice, his throat aching, the power lifted him off the ground and he gulped. As the machine sucked in the clouds, a marble of white liquid entered the funnel with them.
“What is that?” an alchemist asked.
“Curses!” the sorceress Airmed groaned. “A taint of goodness the natives sealed into their magic. I’ll have to sift it out. Continue, Waylen!”
Airmed’s witchery burned the shining ripples away. Cries of foreign voices filled their ears as if the natives themselves were ablaze under her spell. The sorcerers captured the rest of the island magic, wringing the dark and terrible clouds into rope that twisted and churned into the machine, the gears of which whirled and smoked; steam puffed through its vent. As it traveled through the tubes, the magic transformed into liquid metal and dripped dollop by dollop into the chest.
Waylen shivered. More raw power streamed into that vault than he had ever seen in his lifetime.
“This will take time,” Airmed prompted, weaving in and out of the sorcerers now sweating from the labor. “Get it all. There’s much magic here. The chest must be filled. Don’t falter, Waylen!”
Waylen’s voice cracked, and his throat burned. He wouldn’t be able to speak again for weeks. He kept his word, though. Maybe he could leave these vagabonds to their own evil endeavors and use his talents for something more useful when this is over.
“Louder!”
Waylen raised his voice as best he could and closed his eyes again. At least if he didn’t watch what they were doing he wouldn’t feel so guilty. What an atrocity! Stealing magic!
Just do what I’m told. That’s why I’m here. To do what I’m told.