A Darker Shade of Sorcery - - (leveled readers .txt) 📗

stranger, yet it felt like she’d known him for a long time.

“Have we met?”

The words were barely out of her mouth when a preposterously plump man, with custard-yellow hair and a hairline that’d started running away from him, bustled into the corridor. He had round spectacles and clear as glass cat-whiskers where a moustache should be.

After he’d spoken with the dwarf, and the dwarf left with the other Novices, he turned to her.

“Brooke Carn is it?” he asked in a musical voice.

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“Yes,” she answered.

“I’m Gettelung, Master of the Archives. I’m here to guide you on your first day of magical training.”

“Oh, right.” She remembered Padrake mentioning him.

“Now, have you been informed on the basics of sorcery yet?”

“Um, no, sorry.”

“No matter,” Gettelung beamed. “Magic is mainly willpower and gestures. Think of your hands as conductors. Raising your hands whilst visualising fireballs shooting from them will cause your sorcery to create it. Obviously, it’s a little more complex than that. You’ll need training to attune your mind to sorcery and even then you’ll be lucky to produce anything other than smoke at first. But you’ll grow stronger in time, and soon be able to produce fireballs with a flick of the wrist.”

Brooke nodded mutely, understanding his words but still doubtful sorcery could exist.

“Come along then,” Gettelung said without further ado, leading her through the castle.

It was scarcely past dawn. Brooke supposed the other Venators had the luxury of lying in bed for a couple more hours. Gettelung led her deep into the castle, descending many flights of steps and colourful escalators, until she was sure they must be underground.

Gettelung left her by a huge set of purple doors, saying he would be popping in and out all day to see how she was getting on.

Brooke stepped through the doors on his instruction and found herself in the biggest kitchen she'd ever seen. It must’ve run the length of the entire castle.

She'd been wrong about other Venators getting extra sleep. At least three dozen Novices scurried around, pots and pans in their hands. Some were stirring large vats, a

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few others chopped food, and more were washing dishes or taking orders from a team of chefs.

An unbelievably high voice was shouting amongst the din, and Brooke received a surprise when the owner of the voice waddled into view.

The gnome was no taller than her waist. He had a baby face and was rather portly, but it was his yellow skin and shock of electric-blue hair that stunned her. A large chefs hat perched lopsided on his round head. Brooke would have found it comical if she wasn’t so bewildered by his appearance.

“I’m Sniglog, Head Chef at Veneseron,” he introduced himself, speaking very fast.

Sniglog directed her round the kitchen, explaining all the various equipment and the basics of cooking here, before having her deliver plate after plate of strange food across the corridor into the gigantic Banquet chamber.

An hour later Gettelung returned and as he led her out of the kitchen he explained that Novices were expected to clean as well; without using sorcery, to build character.

As Gettelung led her through a plethora of peculiar corridors he explained the various abilities a Venator could potentially wield. Brooke was nonplussed by the time he'd finished his list.

They could control the elements: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Other abilities were performing illusion, using magical forces of pure energy, healing, transmutation, enchantment and various other spells too numerous to mention. Brooke counted twenty different types of sorcery training, but some powers, like Astral Embodiment and Dreamwielding, were only available to the higher ranks, Gettelung said.

He continued to explain that Venators trained based on their different talents. Some could control every element, but not be able to read minds or perform illusion at all.

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“Every Venator is different. One Venator might be able to heal from a fatal wound while another wouldn’t be able to heal a scratch.”

Brooke knew she couldn’t do any of the things Gettelung was rattling on about, they were just too stupendous. Manipulating the Earth, changing your arm into a sword, or seeing through the eyes of an eagle, it was all unbelievable.

The first day of her magical training proved to be the most terrifying and downright surreal of her life.

The few trainers she met were awe-inspiring, like Master Salamand, who threw fireballs the size of boulders across his training chamber. The Master of mind reading, who greeted Brooke by speaking to her inside her head. Then Padrake, who gave her the illusion she was falling from a cliff as a greeting, scaring her silly. All in the name of a joke, he insisted.

Afterwards, Gettelung took her through brief tours of the Alchemy and Anatomy training rooms, and a quick look at the weaponry courtyard.

The training chambers themselves were incredible. When Gettelung led her through two normal doors she was amazed that they were suddenly outside, standing on the edge of a rushing waterfall and long snaking stream, which the Mistress of water controlled, making the current flow the wrong way.

All the things she saw, all the things the Masters were able to do, blew her mind.

“Of course, today is just a taste of what’s to come,” Gettelung said towards the end of the trip. “We don’t expect you to be controlling the elements on your first day, we’ll guide you in slowly.”

Brooke was thankful for this; and that none of the instructors had asked her to do anything magical. That was, until they entered the healing chamber.

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The Healing Mistress had butter-blonde hair flecked generously with silver, and eyes of a pale blue. Brooke couldn’t make out her age as she appeared at once both young and old.

Many Apprentices were training when Brooke entered, but the Healing Mistress greeted her warmly, introducing herself as Taretta.

Taretta briefly explained the art of healing before asking Gettelung, “And what are her talents?”

Gettelung shrugged his flabby arms. “It’s only her first day, we don’t know yet.”

Taretta peered at her intently. “Have you performed sorcery before?”

Brooke shook her head. All the instructors had asked her this today.

“Hmmm,” Taretta pursed her lips, “I have a feeling.”

Taretta took her hand and before Brooke could move she felt a light pressure on her palm. She looked down to see Taretta had caused a tiny cut with her nail. The thin line of laceration bled a single drop.

Before Brooke could say a word, Taretta said, “Look at the cut and picture it healed in your mind’s eye as hard as you can.”

Dazed, Brooke stared at her palm and imagined the cut knitting itself back to normal. Nothing happened.

“Don't just imagine, really believe it will happen,” Taretta encouraged.

Brooke focused as hard as she could, wishing the cut would just go away. So slowly that at first she thought it was a trick, the wound reversed itself. The drop of blood sank back into her palm and the flesh sealed itself, leaving no trace of the scratch at all.

Brooke was stunned.

“Bravo,” Gettelung clapped.

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Taretta beamed at her. “It seems healing will be one of your talents.”

“But how come nothing like this ever happened to me before?” Brooke gulped down oxygen in shock, her brain attempting to tell her this was impossible.

“Have you ever tried to heal yourself by simply believing it will happen, hmm?

Few Venators use magic before we find them and even then don’t realise what they’re doing. Luckily most are unaware and have not caused any harm to themselves, or others.”

Brooke couldn’t believe it. All the way back through the castle she stared at her palm in amazement. She could do magic, it was real, this was real. She'd been taken for a reason. She didn’t feel as scared anymore. Instead, she wanted to learn more.

*

Evan stood hunched over, gasping for breath. His chest heaved and sweat poured down his hair to sting his eyes. The other Novices were in similar condition. One of them had nearly keeled over from exhaustion.

It had taken them two hours to run around the whole of Veneseron Fortress, climbing over steep hills and struggling through long grass. Apparently dwarves had far better endurance than humans and could run for days without stopping. Arnvar wasn’t even out of breath.

“Humans your age should never be this unfit. Taking two hours…” Arnvar trailed off, grumbling.

It might’ve only been one lap, but one lap around Veneseron Fortress was no easy feat. Acres and acres of grassland surrounded the five castles, ending at the city on one side and the forest at the other.

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“You’re unfit to even think of the trials a Venator must face in the demon realms.

You shall all repeat this lap daily until you can make it in one hour, then half an hour.

Then you shall do two laps, and so on. Your endurance should be almost as good as mine before we put a weapon in your hands.”

Evan moaned feebly, dreading the prospect of another lap tomorrow.

“That’s half the training for today,” said Arnvar.

Half, Evan was incredulous.

“Next will be a test of strength.”

After designating each Novice a job in Veneseron that required strength, Arnvar addressed Evan last.

“Over there,” Arnvar pointed to a gigantic black wall in the distance. “Help Jed, he’ll tell you what to do.”

Wondering what he'd done to deserve such punishment, Evan ambled over towards the huge wall. As he arrived, he saw a pile of rocks sitting atop a hill. Seconds later, Evan realised the rocks were actually dark-green pods filled with liquid.

“What the hell?”

Another pile, three times bigger, lay at the bottom of the hill. One boy was already there, grumbling under his breath. He smiled however when he noticed Evan.

“Hey dude, how’s it going?”

“Umm, okay,” Evan replied.

The boy scowled at the pods he had to shift, then back to Evan. “What did you do wrong then?”

“Nothing- I think.”

The boy laughed merrily.

He looked about fifteen like Evan, but he was shorter and stockier.

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He had blond hair, a small button nose and chubby cheeks, his jovial face accentuated by lime-green eyes. He spoke with a slight Australian accent and looked it too, with a golden tan.

Evan traipsed down the steep slope and the boy thrust out a dirty hand. “Name’s Jed, Jed Jagger.” He smiled warmly.

“I’m Evan. Arnvar said I was to help you.”

Jed’s face darkened. “The old dwarf’s had me up since the crack of dawn lugging these things up the hill.”

“Why?”

“No reason, except to build up my strength. Oh and maybe because I took a shortcut in the Fortress lap yesterday, he wasn’t happy I can tell you,” Jed smirked. “Man, why did we get stuck with that grumpy ass? I’d rather have the tribal woman, she’s well hot. She could train me in everything physical.”

Evan’s smile quickly vanished as he glanced down at the many pods they had to carry. They looked too heavy to carry up the hill.

“What are these things?”

“Vessels from the Iserhian aliens,” Jed grimaced, “full of Mavla. Arnvar said