Date: Sat, 27 Oct 2012 21:04:38 -0500 From: Matt King Subject: Mages of the White City Part 1 Please note that all characters who may be involved in sexual activities in these stories are over the age of 18. All characters, situations, and names are fictional and any resemblance to real people, situations, or names is unintentional on the part of the writer. This is meant to be a good, old fashioned fantasy romp with gay characters. If you're looking for lots of sex you're in the wrong place! If you're looking for a fun adventure, keep reading. Samick hadn't been able to take his eyes off of the bard all evening. Although it was only about two miles from the walls of the city of Arema, Samick's sleepy little village didn't get many visitors. The city of Arema was smack in the middle of the trade route between the White City, which was the capital of the Free Lands, and Seastead, the bustling sea-side trading town. Arema was always packed to capacity with merchants, traders, entertainers, and all kinds of interesting people, but they never came to Samick's village. But this bard had come, and of course it had created quite a stir. Only a few bards ever came through, and usually a trip to Arema was required if you wanted some entertainment. But the city's gates shut at sunset, and staying in the city was expensive if you didn't want to sleep on the streets or stay up all night, and the streets were often dangerous after dark. A trip to Arema was a rare and expensive treat, but also a risk. The bard was talented, and handsome. Incredibly handsome. Not more than Jaim, the boy all of the girls in the village swooned over, but... different. The bard must have been in his 30's, and Samick saw lines of age around the bard's full lips, and the faintest of crow's feet around his deep, grey eyes. But somehow it only made him seem a little more rugged, and all the more attractive. He was not growing fat like most of the men in the village became by the time they were 30, but his lean frame was tightly packed with muscle. He was average in height, but had a presence that made him seem to be the largest thing in the room. He must have been from Seastead, or had some heritage there, because he had the lightly tanned skin of a shore-man. A shading of dark-blond stubble made Samick's fingers tingle with a desire to touch the bard's cheek. Samick felt a twist in his stomach, watching the bard's supple fingers slide across the strings of the harp in effortless circles as he worked his way over the instrument's small range to provide an accompaniment for his singing. The bard was so handsome that all of the girls in the bar had crowded in close and were staring with unabashed ardor in their eyes. Cecily Shingler in particular was batting her eyelashes and heaving appreciative sighs of unrequited love that set her impressive breasts to jiggling. Some of the men in the bar were watching the bard with jealousy over the attention lavished on him, and some were too busy observing the jiggling of Cecily. Earlier the bard had shown off his gymnastics skills, balancing in a one-handed handstand on the rush covered floor, and flipping and rolling easily from place to place as he desired while neatly managing not to hit the low roof of the building. His arm had been half bent to manage the handstand, and Samick marveled at the strength the bard must have. The bard had also recited "The Emperor's Folly," in such dramatic, full tones that the entire bar had fallen silent, he had sung some of the High Riddles the nobles in the White City loved so much and challenged anyone to solve them (no one had been clever enough yet), he had played some merry tunes on a flute that set everyone dancing, and now he was playing the harp and singing. If there was a form of entertainment the bard did not excel at, Samick would've been shocked to discover it. Patrons were slowly trickling out of the bar. It had been a good two hours since sundown, and everyone had work to attend to before the sun rose again. Despite the need to sleep before they had to work the next morning, most of the men left with reluctance to miss any of such a marvelous performance. If the men left with reluctance, the women left with twice the hesitance. The bard was mesmerizing, and his rich baritone voice seemed to beckon you ever closer to his full, red lips. Samick felt a little thrill of satisfaction. He had to watch the sheep, but would not go out to relieve his father of that duty till the moon had sunk, which was hours away yet. Because he'd watched the sheep the entire night before, Samick had slept during the day and was well rested. Surely the bar would close down soon, but Samick wouldn't leave till it did and he could watch every moment of the bard's performance. The bard played and sang on, his voice filling the room and melding with the graceful notes of his harp, and singing a long poem that Samick thought he had heard a few verses of before. The whole thing was about a wanderer, lost in the mountains, and thinking of his family and friends back home. The song was sad, but beautiful too, and Samick nodded slightly to the rhythm. Soon only a few patrons remained: those young enough to have no real responsibilities the next day, or those lazy enough not to care. Samick desperately wished to be alone with the bard, although he knew it was impossible. In his head, he was the last one to remain and the bard would invite him to come closer. Then maybe Samick would offer to play his own flute for the bard. Although Samick only ever practiced for his father's sheep and certainly was nothing compared to the bard's talent, somehow he would manage to play so well that the bard would come even closer to him and... and... Samick wasn't quite sure what came after that. It was as though his imagination had hit a stone wall, and only the vaguest notions of what should happen next fluttered through his mind. Although he knew what he wanted, he couldn't make himself imagine it. While Samick struggled with the twisted knot of thoughts in his head, the bard wound his final song down, a few shimmering notes from his harp ringing through the close air of the bar, and seeming to lift Samick's heart at the same time that it brought a crushing disappointment. The performance was over. Tomorrow the bard would leave and never come back, and everything would go back to exactly how it always was. The last patrons offered the bard their effusive complements and began to leave. Samick waited, his heart pounding with uncertainty. He wanted to say something to the bard, but his legs felt heavier than anvils even though he could feel the blood racing through his body. The bard glanced around the nearly empty bar, his eyes passing right over Samick, and then he turned to the bar-keep to discuss something in quiet tones. Everyone was gone but the barmaids and a few slumped over drunks that would be tossed out by the bouncer. Old Fred, the bar-keep, nodded and grunted at whatever the bard was saying to him, and the bard laughed a rich, melodious laugh before continuing his quiet conversation. Samick continued to watch the bard, feeling entranced. There might have been other men in the village prettier than the bard, but Samick came to the decision that there was no man handsomer. Now that he was standing and leaning over the bar to speak to the bar-keep, the bard's muscular thighs were outlined by the blue and green colored hose he wore. Samick glanced at the bard's legs, and found his eyes drifting away. It wasn't polite to stare, no matter how much he might want to. And it invited confusing thoughts that he couldn't even seem to fully form. After another moment, the bard turned away from the barkeep and headed towards the back door after exchanging a friendly handshake and a hug. Samick realized that the bard and Old Fred must be friends. Once the bard left, Samick felt a lump of disappointment settle in his stomach, and the bar seemed smaller and meaner somehow. The bard's presence had filled it with something new and exciting, and now that was gone. Standing, Samick moved to help Old Fred clear the bar of empty mugs. He had nothing to do till the moon went down, and maybe Old Fred would even toss him a copper penny for the effort. In any case, he had a few questions for Old Fred. Old Fred smiled and grunted at Samick. "Quite a performance, eh Samick? I noticed you couldn't get your eyes off the man all night. A bit different from that squeaky lass who wandered through last spring and could hardly hold a tune, eh?" Samick felt himself blushing furiously and mumbled, "It was incredible. I've never seen a bard so good... why didn't he go to the city, Fred? There must be some concert hall better than our village that wants him." Touching his nose with a fat finger, Old Fred smirked and replied, "Ah, but I had asked him to come. He's a friend of mine... well, the son of a friend. He owed me a favor and I thought I'd call it in." Samick shook his head in amazement and said, "I can't believe it! How do you even know him, Fred? Where is he from? He looked like a shore-man." "A shore-man? No, lad. His parents are island folk from across the sea, but he has always lived in the White City. He's a man of the king's court... `s why he's so good," Fred snorted a laugh, "growing up in the court with all of the best teachers and performers to imitate. Of course his parents wanted something else for him, but he's got a mind of his own and couldn't be tamed." Frowning, Samick shook his head again. "Fred, how on earth could you possibly know him if he's a member of the king's court? And how could you possibly be owed a favor by a king's man?" Cuffing Samick roughly across the back of the head, Old Fred scowled with mock-anger and said gruffly, "I wasn't always a bar keep in this village. I was a king's man myself, once. I was a guard in the citadel and I saved Orrin's parents from assassins more than once... he owes me his life, although he was only an infant I suppose." Samick immediately latched on to the name and said quickly, "Orrin? His name is Orrin? Is that... is that an island name?" Old Fred snorted and rolled his eyes. "Island name my arse. It's a miner name, from the northern mountains, but his parents thought like you and decided it was a bit exotic and exciting, so they named the poor bastard Orrin. He's got the name of one of those red-headed, pasty miners and the looks of an island man." "Why is he here? What favor are you asking him to do?" Samick asked, begging for more information about the handsome bard, Orrin. Samick detected a sudden, slight shift in Old Fred's mood and the bar-keep seemed to be forcing his cheerfulness suddenly. "An important message for my old friends back in the citadel, lad. I was taxed double by the king's men, I'm sure by accident, and I'm asking him to petition for my money to be returned." Samick blinked, not quite sure he understood. Why would Fred ask a bard to petition the tax collectors to get his money back? Old Fred could just as easily have sent anyone. "Ah! Time for you to get out, Samick my boy. I'll finish the cleaning in the morning... here's a copper for your troubles, lad, but don't spend it all at once," Old Fred laughed, flipping a copper coin handily from a pocket in his grubby apron into Samick's right hand, and easily herding the young man towards, and swiftly out, the door. As he found himself standing outside the bar in the darkness and chilly night air, Samick shook his head at the suddenness of his forced departure and felt suspicion rising at Old Fred's strange conversation and actions. It made no sense, but then what did he know about the White City? It had almost escaped his attention, in the midst of the conversation about Orrin, that Old Fred had apparently been a member of the king's guard. That would have been interesting enough in itself to consume Samick's imagination for a week on a normal day, but Orrin still filled Samick's thoughts. He felt a sudden, crushing disappointment as he realized he had forgotten to ask where the bard was spending the night. Not that it mattered, but... A glance up into the night sky showed the moon was headed towards the horizon, leaving a million shimmering stars in its wake. The chilly night air made Samick's breath into a steam that twisted eerily in the bright moonlight. The moon was so bright that Samick could see easily about the village as he began his way down the dirt road, although everything was blanched to pale shades of white or grey in the moonlight. Deciding he might as well go relieve his father early, or maybe sit and talk with him about the bard, Samick started on his way outside the village, headed towards the pastures where his father kept the sheep to graze. He had his flute in his coat pocket, and his fingers itched to try to play it. The bard made him want to work harder at playing, but even as he thought about it Samick felt a sinking in his stomach and knew he couldn't achieve the sort of performance that was in his head now thanks to the bard. For that matter, the bard's flute had been a fancy thing gleaming with etchings and oiled wood. Samick's was a cheap flute he'd bought from a merchant in the city, and it had acquired a crack that made it sound not quite as sweet as it once had. His head filled with all of these disappointing thoughts, Samick took longer to register the strange noises than he should have. He had hardly left the village out of sight over a small hill when he heard a sound that set his heart pounding. A voice cried out in pain or anger, unmistakably the rich baritone of the bard, and there was a ringing sound like steel striking steel. It was coming from around the bend in the road as it bent around a large hillock. Samick found himself running towards the sound as there was another cry and more ringing of steel, and this time there was a definite flash of light, like lightning flickering across the sky. Had bandits ambushed the bard, so close to the village? Why had the bard left the village instead of spending the night? Even as Samick rounded the hill, the moonlight illuminated a fearsome battle unfolding. The bard was holding his own against two opponents, and a third lay a good thirty feet away from the bard. There was a charred scent in the air, and smoke rose from the body on the ground. The two remaining bandits were struggling with the bard, trying to pin him or beat him into submission, but the muscular bard was giving them a harder fight than they had bargained for. There were weapons on the ground; two swords and shields, with smoke rising from their blades, and the bard's attackers were trying to punch and kick him. Before Samick could make up his mind whether to charge, run away, scream, or do anything, several things happened all at once: In a colossal effort, the bard shrugged both of his attackers off and shouldered one so that he knocked the other over. The bard cried out as he had before, but this time Samick realized it was not in pain. Orrin clapped his hands together as he yelled, and the sound was like metal on metal, and this time Samick detected a sizzling, cracking noise. Then a flash of white lightning burst from Orrin's hands and struck one of the attackers, lifting the man up off of his feet and tossing him to the ground ten feet from where he had stood. Samick simply stared, unable to think or make a noise. Orrin, the handsome bard, was a mage. Magic was illegal, unless you were a member of the King's Cotiry, and they had to be marked at all times with the face tattoos that revealed their rank. Orrin had no such tattoos, and could only be a Wild Mage. A thousand stories flashed through Samick's mind all at once, reminding him of the horrors that Wild Mages rained down on villages they passed through. Every word he had ever heard about Wild Mages rang in his ears: Illegal. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Orrin's final attacker seemed undaunted by the bard's display of magic, and scrambled towards the body of the first fallen bandit, who had already been on the ground when Samick appeared. Orrin tried to charge his opponent, but stumbled over a rock, losing his balance in the darkness and confusion. In that moment of advantage, the bard's attacker yanked an object free from the clutch of the dead man and yelled something strange. He had picked up a short metal rod, about the length of his forearm, and was pointing it at Orrin. Samick saw Orrin flinch, and throw his hands up. There was a pulse of light between the two men and Orrin was thrown back as though he had been struck by a large hand. The bard groaned and rolled onto his side, clearly dazed and struggling to regain his feet, and Samick felt a wave of dread wash over him as the bandit charged Orrin with the bar raised overhead, clearly intending to bludgeon Orrin. Without willing himself to, Samick found himself running silently forward. In the bright moonlight he was immediately obvious as he came fully out of the shadow of the hill, and the bandit turned to face him, halting his run towards Orrin and turning the rod towards Samick. In that moment, Samick knew he was going to die. The moonlight gleamed off of the metal rod, and a sick light seemed to shine in the bandit's eyes; a total knowledge of Samick's fate. The rod flashed and Samick instinctively threw his hands out to protect himself. But then there was a strange sensation and Samick found himself moving backwards, wind screaming in his ears. It felt as though a giant hand had snatched him up and was pushing him backwards. An involuntary scream tore itself from Samick's throat as his heart raced so fast he thought it would explode, and the last thing he saw was another brilliant flash of light, and then sudden darkness swept over him as incredible pain drove the world away. Please feel free to send me messages at nifty.matt.king@gmail.com. I love to hear from my readers! Copyright Matt King, 2012. All rights reserved. You may not use, or reproduce any portion of this story without the express permission of the author, Matt King.