Majutsu-shi no Chikara
looses translates to "Sorcerer's Power".
CHAPTER 1: Finding Talent
Wizards are powerful beings, wielding arcane energy through rigorous study and discipline. The nature of that study can take many forms, though often leads to things like civilizations -- large cities, colleges, academies, and guilds... these places develop standardized practices of magic, books of spells, magical items, and all manner of technology.
In another world, these Wizards might be called Scientists. Maybe. If Wizards' accomplishments weren't so damnably remarkable.
Of course, Scientists never had to fight-off a bored, centuries-old dragon or horde of resource-raiding giants... so, there's a certain urgency to the methods that Wizards use that no otherworldly Scientist would ever dream of using... at least, not without suffering some serious public relations nightmares or literally world-shattering consequences.
In the wilds of the world, Wizardry is far less codified... less "formal". This gives rise to arcane wielders called Shamans, Sorcerers, Hedge-Wizards and Magicians. Often seen as "lesser Wizards" by the more elite caste of Wizard, they are no less determined in their study -- if somewhat more preoccupied with survival (large cities, while tempting targets, are not so easily raided as a smaller town, village, or solitary tower). These arcane scholars in the more remote areas of the world often develop their own unique style of magic, their own signature... and can still twist the fabric of reality into knots alongside the best "classically" educated big-city Wizard.
In another world, perhaps, these more... rural Wizards, or "Wild Mages" would likely be seen as crackpot visionaries with barely-working "prototypes" or small-scale wonders and miserable marketing campaigns. Still, that doesn't mean that word of a powerful Sorcerer can't attract attention from any other corner of the world.
When considering all the fantastic, wonderful, and terrible creatures, powers, and planes of reality such a world may face -- it's easy to forget the small, seemingly insignificant creatures and events churning along without cosmos-altering abilities... creatures only looking to "evolve" or plants struggling to "grow".
"When the seeds ripen in the ground, they will sprout." Elder Matta said for the dozenth time, that planting season. "Only then will the soil be embraced by the root."
"Ser, I know." Damon groaned, his back complaining from trenching furrows the entire morning. "But nary a drop of rain in two ten-days: I don't think the
seeds
are the problem, Elder Matta."
"Now, now." Matta tutted, his wizened, tattooed, bald head covered by his pale hood and shawl. "It will rain. My rain-calling spell has never failed... I do this the same way every season, and the rains always come."
Damon sighed wearily, wondering again how quickly Matta was losing his mind, as his own parents had often worried. Wielding magic was not a task for the venerable, so it was said... it wasn't a good idea for the young to meddle in magic, either, but Matta was old. Two of the oldest Elders of the Village were easily years younger than Matta, and one of those Elders was Bhosti, Damon's great-grandmère, who had already seen more than seventy winters (if Bhosti could be believed, it was nearer eighty). Now, after three winters of drought, Matta's rain-calling was the only thing between the village crop and starvation. Irrigation efforts were draining their reserves, and a new water-wheel wouldn't be finished until late autumn -- long after harvest and well before it would be safe to plant again.
Damon was a grown man nearing twenty winters, with long, straight black hair, and broad shoulders. Solidly built, his body was the red-brown of the plains folk -- with broad cheekbones and a narrow, long jaw. His eyes were likewise narrow against long days in the sun and so brown as to be nearly black. The ridge of his nose was like a mountain peak above other mountain peaks, contrasting the lines of his brow, cheekbones, and chin. He still had all his teeth, and they yet shone brightly in the light or reflected firelight when he smiled -- which was often. More than eight handspans in height and nigh on fourteen or fifteen stone -- his body had a smoothness of limb that belied the strong sinew beneath.
He was also skilled enough at hunting and planting that he could lead the other men in his father's stead; and he respected his elders (especially the Village Elders) enough to not question them outright... still, there was no denying that twenty days after Matta's rain-calling spell had been met with no rain -- for the second time in as many seasons -- anyone could have guessed that the aged Sorcerer had lost his touch with magic.
Perhaps just as well, Matta had been leaning heavily into the mentoring of his responsibilities: talking with several of the villagers about testing the young of the village for magical aptitude. Matta called it "sensing", with a special emphasis in his voice, tilting his head forward meaningfully and wiggling his fingers cryptically. Damon didn't care, as long as there was a good crop and fair hunting: the Village would prosper. He wasn't interested in the arcane -- beyond what it did for the Village. What mattered to Damon was Ginga, the Tanner's oldest daughter, who was only a few seasons younger than him. They were a good match and she'd give him plenty of healthy babies. Her parents weren't opposed to the match, as Damon had already proven himself several times in the last five winters: fending-off ork or goblin raiders, leading hunting parties into the wild-lands, and demonstrating a mastery of cultivation... His family also had a ready path to the Elder council, and Damon had made no bones about bending Bhosti's ear when it suited him.
Damon intended to talk to Bhosti that evening about Matta's decline. Sorcerers, especially old Sorcerers, were a serious risk to a small community like the village of Southwold.
"There... thunder." Matta brightened, his crooked back straightening slightly. "I told you..."
"It's a horse, Ser." Damon sighed again, rubbing sweat from his brow as a runner came jogging over.
"Rider coming this way, Damon." Jatheb barked as he ran by to notify the Elders. "Big fella, heavy armor."
"A rider?" Matta scowled, turning back the way Jatheb had approached.
"S'what Jay said, Ser." Damon walked several paces to a split-rail fence and tilted his trenching shovel against the cross-brace. Turning his right hand up to his lips, he tucked his thumb and forefinger into his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. He grinned to himself when he heard the complaint of the approaching horse, but waved to the other field-hands to gather together. Riders never meant good news, and it was always best to get it to as many ears as possible to prepare for whatever horribleness was coming. The last rider had brought warning of drought -- five years ago.
As the field-hands gathered, some younger folk of the Village were also milling closer -- beckoned by Damon's call.
"At least that works for any ear." Damon grumbled, glancing up at the cloudless sky and turning his own ear to the fast-approaching horseman.
Ginga strode out from her family's house across the main path, tucking a long-knife into her skirts and straightening her belt before grabbing a stave from beside the doorway. Damon looked at her appreciatively. Ginga's smile was a little crooked, but her body was very healthy and broad. He liked the curve of her arse and the thick meat of her legs, but Ginga's skirts only outlined the pleasant upper mound of her flanks. Ginga's breasts, young and full though they were, were done no favors by her shirt -- but Damon's mind recalled a more intimate time not long ago when Ginga had surprised him in the creek while he was bathing. She had healthy dark skin, like fresh soil, and thick, raven hair that she kept cropped close to her scalp most of the year. In winter, she would grow her hair out into a wild nest of fuzz in all directions, and Damon loved the tree-like beauty of it.
"Rider comin'?" Ginga walked over, glancing about quickly before brazenly grabbing Damon's crotch with a deliberate squeeze and kissing him full on the mouth before whispering right to his face. "Fancy a dip in the creek, later?"
Her gray-blue eyes twinkled bright with lust, contrasting her dark skin most pleasantly to Damon, and her smile -- crooked as it might be -- struck the song of his heart... and his loins. He savored the taste of her mouth for a moment.
"More than anything." Damon growled, his teeth baring as their lips parted. "Tell yer da you're gon' huntin'."
Damon thought back to yesterday morning, when they were bathing in the stream and Ginga had taken to riding him in the water until he'd spent himself inside her. Her ample breasts, each nearly the size of a honeydew, would clap together lustily with each down-stroke and the water splashed all about her in a delightful spray. The thought of another tryst that night hardened his cock -- which Ginga noticed with a toothy grin.
Several children, some only four and five winters, scattered noisily from where goats were being herded away from the path. The cloud of dust from the rider, whose horse had slowed to a weary trot, rolled over the village before the rider made it to the large gathering. Midday sun beat down upon the dusty paths of the village, cracking the over-dry soil and withering the already fading grasses. Hot gusts from the south would occasionally taunt them with dreams of respite, only to blast more dust about them and scour the fields of carefully irrigated water.
The horse was a strong mare, well-kept and healthy. Her brown mane was close-trimmed and the heraldry bore markings of the large city-state of Renks Cairn, which was easily twenty or thirty miles away. The rider was likewise an imposing figure: heavy of shoulders; heavier still of arms and armor. Damon took him for a warmaster or mercenary, else a Knight of the Tower -- the soldiers of a Wizard's guild. The man's face was that of a weathered northerner (pale with pink-red flush or burns from the sun) with a thick matting of blond mustaches, easily in his thirtieth winter, if not nearer to forty, and he gathered the dust from his mouth and spat it casually to the dirt beside him before addressing the Village. He doffed his helm with some decided slowness, revealing a mop of short, blond-gray hair -- neatly trimmed some days ago -- plastered to his scalp by the sweat of riding. Damon thought he looked far to heavily armed to be a courier.
"Message for Wizard Matta." the man sneered, his cold blue eyes narrowing as he looked down at the only person in town with a pale cloth hood and shawl wearing anything that looked like arcane markings.
"I am he." Matta stiffened his spine proudly, with a creaking of joints and faint breaking of wind. "What missive?"
