 
The Hollow

By Andrew Day

Copyright 2014 Andrew Day

Smashwords Edition

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Contents.

The Hollow.

About the Author.

Bonus

Also by the Author.

The Hollow.

On the third day of his training for the Imperial Legion, Serrel Hawthorne found himself about to become a mage.

He was still unsure exactly why this had come about. He'd never had any inclination towards the arcane before. When he had signed up at the recruitment tent a week earlier, the recruiting officer had asked him to hold a strange copper device in his hand, full of clockwork with a large compass-like needle on top. Serrel had held it in his palm for a few seconds, watched the needle turn ever so slightly, and then the recruiter had snatched it off him, handed him the bronze coin denoting service to the Legion, and screamed "Next!" very loudly.

No one had bothered to explain what the exact selection process for battlemage training had been, but that clockwork thing, that may have called an aurometer at some point in passing, was probably the reason.

And so Serrel found himself dubbed with the rank of Caster, and relocated to the underground training hall beneath Fort Amell with seven other recruits, holding an old and worn training staff, ready to "tear asunder the veil of ignorance", as the sergeant in charge had sarcastically put it. He was nervous, but not as nervous as the boy next to him, a somewhat podgy farm hand named Edgar Paum, who wore an expression like he was about to meet his maker, and he'd heard in advance of his maker's deep disappointment in him.

"I didn't even move the needle," Paum muttered to Serrel. "It was the wind, I'm sure of it."

Serrel looked down at the staff in his hands and nodded in agreement. He had the overwhelming feeling that the only thing being torn asunder today was going to be, if he was lucky, his dignity. If he was unlucky, probably something more vital and full of his insides.

The training officer was a tall imposing man with a shaved head. His bare arms were covered in tattoos of strange arcane designs, and a few more traditional ones denoting famous battles he had fought in. Instead of a staff, he had a long, thick wooden rod in his belt, along with a large curved dagger. Serrel wondered if the rod was a kind of wand for weaving magic, or more for whacking errant students in the head with. Then again, he reasoned, there was no reason it couldn't perform both tasks efficiently.

The officer pulled the rod from his belt and began to walk up and down the line of recruits slapping it into the palm of his hand. He began the session in the traditional way of all armed forces:

"What a bloody shower," he commented. "Farm boys and chambermaids. They couldn't have given me a worse lot of hand wavers if they'd just picked a few stray dogs off the street. Bloody typical... What?"

He rounded on one of the recruits suddenly, a tall, well groomed young man with an air of aristocracy about him. The boy had opened his mouth as if to say something during the initial tirade, and had been spotted before he could wisely close it again.

"Name?" the officer demanded.

"J-Justin Tremmel."

"Something you would like to add, Tremmel?"

"No."

"No, what?" The officer jabbed him hard with the rod.

"No, Sir. I was just-"

The man hit him in the gut with the rod, and walked away as the boy doubled over gasping.

"My name is Sergeant-Magus Reage Holland. You will respond to all questions with "Yes, Sergeant" or "No, Sergeant". If I want you to tax your tiny brains and elaborate, I will ask you to. Otherwise you will shut up and listen. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant," the group intoned.

"Louder!"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

"From now on, you lot will be referred to as Pond Scum, until you prove that you are capable of extending more intelligence and arcane talent than real pond scum. When I call for you, Pond Scum, you will drop whatever you are doing and come running. Understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

"Any of you primordial life forms have any experience with weaving? And the first person to ask if I mean baskets gets set on fire. I mean real weaving: using the higher energies to shape the world? Any of you idiots performed any real magic in your short, pointless lives? Raise your hands."

No one moved. Then Justin Tremmel tentatively raised his hand. Sergeant-Magus Holland immediately whacked his arm with his rod.

"WRONG!" Holland snapped. "None of you pond scum have weaved before. You may have shot sparks from your arses, or snapped flowers out of your sleeves, but you have not. _Ever_. _Weaved._ As of this moment, you are all novices, no, actually you are not even that. What are you?"

"Pond scum," Serrel muttered.

Holland heard him, and nearly smiled. "It speaks. Perhaps pond scum can evolve into something more useful. Let's see if you lot of useless, slimy tossers can do any more tricks."

He gestured behind him, where a short wooden pylon was set in the ground. An old and ragged flag bearing the Legion's insignia was tied to it.

"I see you have all been issued training staves," Holland continued. "They are pieces of shit compared to real staves, but in the wrong hands, and at the moment they _are_ in the wrong hands, they are weapons of mass destruction. Still, you've had them this long, and so far have managed to avoid ripping a hole in the fabric of reality. Again, congratulations. You are still pond scum, but at least pond scum with slightly more self preservation than most idiots given a staff. Soldiers get swords. You are mages so you get staves. There are less sharp edges, thankfully for you lot, but the idea is still the same. Eventually, you will be issued with real war-staves. Until then, this is the only tool you will ever need. It is your weapon. It is the greatest friend you will ever have. It goes everywhere you go, and it is always within reach. Now, have any of you ever used a training staff before?"

Justin Tremmel made to raise his hand, but thought better of it and lowered it back to his side. Holland noted this with an amused twitch of the mouth.

"Better. No, you haven't ever used a real staff before. After today, you still won't have. These are training staves, and are no better for real weaving than a wooden sword is for killing a dragon. A real mage needs no instrument to weave. His aura attunes to the ether of the world, and it flows into and through him. A real mage can make fire dance to his tune with a crook of the finger, make a mountain tremble. A staff is merely an aid, but an important one.

"You see, Pond Scum, the ether of the world is like water. People are like rocks. The ether shapes them with its energy, but cannot enter them. Us mages, we are a different kind of rock. I believe the word is "permeable". Those who can read can look it up later. Basically, some of the ether flows into you, fills you up. What I need to do is somehow teach you all how to release that energy at will, and shape it to your liking. The energy you release will be, at best, a trickle. All the staff does is act as a tap. It opens you up, acts as the path of least resistance, allows all that energy to come rushing out..."

Holland waved his rod in the air and a geyser of flame erupted from the end of it. The recruits all took a step back as fire filled the air, and began to roil and twist before them, taking on the form of a huge, roaring dragon. Then with another wave, Holland doused the flames, leaving the air smoky. Serrel patted his face to see if he still had his eyebrows.

"The best staff," Holland went on, ignoring the recruits shocked expressions, "is the one made by the mage who wields it. It is attuned to his aura and his alone. Another mage will never use it as efficiently as he will. Needless to say, it is bad form to use another mage's staff. Not to mention extremely dangerous. So you will not share your staves with anyone else, and if you even think about taking another mage's staff, it will go extremely hard on you, especially when I find you.

"Any questions so far?"

Justin Tremmel raised his hand, and yelped as Holland struck him a third time.

"If you have a question, Pond Scum, it was because you weren't listening!" Holland snapped. "First exercise for today: you will make this flag move." He gestured to the makeshift "flagpole" behind him. There were half a dozen buckets of water arranged on the ground off to the side, which Serrel found suspicious.

"Firstly," Holland went on, "you are to clear your mind of all distractions, which shouldn't be too hard for you lot. You must turn your thoughts inwards, ignoring the outside world around you and concentrating only on the energy residing within. It's there. You've been sponging off of the ether your entire lives, so most of you will be filled to the brim with energy. You don't notice it the same way you don't really notice your arms or legs. They're just there.

"Second, you will focus on drawing this energy out. This will be easy. With a staff in hand, the energy will want to flow outwards. The trick is to make sure the energy comes out in a form you can use.

"Third, you will say the word of power _Soa_. This is an ancient Ithieric word meaning force. The word is only a guide. It helps you focus on one single aspect of the weaving, force in its simplest form. You must think only of _Soa._ Anything else will only weaken the spell. Those of strong mind and concentration do not need words of power to weave. They can visualise the energy within and shape every aspect of it without making a sound. Other people invent their own words of power. Some people sing. This takes years of practice and dedication, so you, Pond Scum, will learn the words of power as I tell you, and you will remember them.

"Now, say it aloud. _Soa_."

" _Soa_ ," the group intoned together.

"I've heard better pronunciation from death worms, and they don't have lips. Again: _Soa._ "

The group repeated the word of power over and over until Holland was satisfied, until Serrel felt the word rolling around and around in his head, which he supposed was the point. Holland pointed to the first recruit in line, and ordered him to the post.

The recruit's name was Timony Glease, or Greasy Tim. He was a short, wiry boy, who looked far below the recruitment age of sixteen. He stood near the post, pointed his staff at the hanging flag and screwed up his face in concentration.

"SOA!" he cried out in a dramatic voice. "Soa! So-AH! S-OA! SOOAAAH!"

He tried for a full minute. Nothing happened. When he finally stopped shouting, his voice horse, he looked as if he had ran a full marathon. Sweat was pouring off his head. He looked sheepishly at Holland, who just rolled his eyes.

"Fall in," Holland said. "Next!"

The next recruit was Jedron Bullock. He was the opposite of little Greasy Tim, standing nearly a head over the other recruits, with wide shoulders and the large muscular arms of someone who had spent most of his life working the fields. Naturally, his uninspired nickname upon arriving at Fort Amell was Bull.

Bull stared blankly at the post, the staff in one hand looking tiny and ineffectual in his huge fist. He pointed the staff at the flag and grunted, "Soa."

Green sparks shot from the end of the staff with a sharp bang, accompanied by a smell in the air like that following lightning.

"You weren't concentrating," snapped Holland. "Empty your mind of everything."

Bull's brow furrowed. He tried again. "Soa."

There was another crack, but amazingly the flag twitched, ever so slightly.

Holland sniffed. "Again."

Bull weaved the spell again and again. At most all he managed to do was make the flag flop from side to side. Eventually Holland dismissed him when his seemingly endless stamina began to wane.

"Fall in. Next!"

Up went Justin Tremmel. He practically sauntered up to the post, cleared his throat and said with perfect flair, " _Soa_."

A gust of wind unfurled the flag to its full length. It stood there it all its grubby glory for a brief second, then fell back into place. Justin shot Holland a smug grin, then wiped it off as the sergeant began slapping the end of rod into his palm. Holland's glare followed Justin back into line.

"Next."

Next up was Victor Blackwood. He was a tall, dark haired boy of about eighteen. He walked purposefully up to the pole and started weaving without ado. It took him three attempts to get the flag to move, another dozen before it stood up as Justin had managed. By then he was spent, and retreated wordlessly back in line.

After him came a blonde girl who had introduced herself to Serrel earlier as Kaitlin Astral. He didn't think that was her real name. Kaitlin practically bounced up to the pole and started weaving enthusiastically. It took her only three tries to get the flag up, and then with extreme concentration she held it there as long as she could.

"No one likes a show off, Astral," Holland told her.

Kaitlin let the flag drop, and then rejoined the others. She wore an extremely broad and self satisfied smile.

After her was the girl everyone called Mouse. Her name was actually Jilla Freman, but Mouse seemed more apt. She was a small girl in her teens, who somehow managed to almost contract into her clothing and appear even smaller. She regarded the pole with something approaching abject terror. She held up her staff and whispered, "Soa."

"Louder," Holland snapped.

Mouse seemed to contract further. She tried again, her voice barely audible. Eventually Holland lost patience and sent her back.

Then it was Serrel's turn. He swallowed as he stood before the post under Holland's glare, wondering once more how it had come to this. He had expected a sword. An axe. Something pointed at any rate. He was a carpenter's son. He knew his way around things with sharp edges. In his brief years he had never once even daydreamed of becoming a mage.

His father had liked to tell him, "A wise man knows his limits, son." Serrel thought he knew his limits, and had thought that they ended far, far short of weaving the ether and messing about with the fabric of reality. A man could get hurt doing that.

"Sometime this century, Hawthorne," Holland said wearily.

Serrel raised his staff. What was the worst that could happen, really? He would try and fail, Sergeant Holland would make some belittling remark about how he was even dumber than pond scum and then he would be sent back to the regular infantry to hit things the normal way. He just had to get it over with.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He tried to empty his mind of failure and looking like an idiot. He tried to feel something inside him, some hidden power that had always been there waiting.

The staff in his hands began to feel slightly warmer, and a strange sensation grew throughout his body. Another feeling took over him, his nervousness slipping away. Despite his efforts to clear his head, memories of his old life came rushing back. Days spent sanding wood in his father's workshop. The day his father finally finished the lathe so they could carve table legs that were actually symmetrical. All those lumps of leftover wood he would take, seeing something within them that was more than just leftover rubbish from someone's new chair. Hours spent under the old oak tree whittling those scraps of wood into new shapes and forms with such ease and artistry it was almost... magic.

That feeling came back to him, the one he had when he was carving under the tree, dead to the world around him, the passage of time forgotten. The feeling that rose in his chest and tightened his heart as he cut and chiselled the block of wood in his hand again and again. He called it confidence, self assurance of this mysterious skill that came so naturally. But now he began to think of it more like awareness. Knowing with each stroke of his knife that the hidden figure in the block would appear piece by piece. He never had to think about the cuts, or even stop and plan his design. He would just whittle, and then there would be a perfect wooden figure in his hand, a horse in full gallop, a knight weary from battle leaning from his sword. Perfect to the last detail.

As the feeling grew in Serrel, the staff began to grow even warmer. Its shaft began to tremble in his hands as the hairs on the back of his arms began to stand on end. He smelled lightning and spring rain, and the memory of sawdust. He thought: _Soa. Force_. _Soa_.

He felt a shudder pulse through the staff. The flag fluttered slightly and fell back. Aloud, he whispered, " _Soa_."

He had been thinking of force, but with the memory of the oak tree, the scrap of wood in his left hand, the knife in his right, and hidden shapes buried within, he weaved the ether around him.

The flag lifted in the outburst of energy, so there was that. But the force hit the wooden pylon, and ground off the top layer of wood, sanding it down and sending out a cloud of sawdust that choked and blinded everyone there.

Holland waved his rod, and a gust of wind cleared the air. They all stared at the wood pylon, which now had a perfect carving of a galloping horse etched into its surface.

Holland snorted out sawdust. "Yes. Very pretty. This is what happens when you don't _concentrate_."

Serrel coughed once, and fell back in line. He felt exhausted. More than that, he felt emptied, like there was nothing inside him. Something that had always been there was now gone. Oddly, he had felt sensations like this before after long sessions in his father's workshop, or while carving. It had never been this pronounced before. Now he felt truly depleted.

It was finally Edgar Paum's turn. The chubby boy looked absolutely terrified as he went before Holland. He lifted his staff, and started to utter, "So-"

Before he could finish, a bright red flash of fire burst from the end of his staff and set the flag aflame. He shrieked and gaped in panic.

Holland merely rolled his eyes, scooped one of the buckets from the ground and doused the flames with water. He regarded the black and ruined flag with disdain.

"Again," he said slowly, "this, Pond Scum, is why I said to _concentrate_. Look, you even singed poor Hawthorne's pretty horse. And he wasted so much energy on it too."

"Sorry, Sergeant," Edgar muttered.

"Don't be sorry, Pond Scum. Be better."

Edgar stared at his feet, close to tears. "I don't belong here," he said quietly.

"Boy, you just started a fire with nothing but a thought and a big stick. This is _exactly_ where you belong."

Still staring at the ground, Edgar took his place beside Serrel in line.

"What a shambles," Holland shook his head. "Still, I suppose no one lost an eyebrow and no one ended up dead, which I must say comes as a complete surprise. There's usually at least one fatality on the first day. But I suppose the day's not over yet... You lot look terrible, though. Tired are you?" he added sarcastically.

The group was looking rather ragged. Despite her earlier enthusiasm, Kaitlin looked ready to fall over, and Serrel's feeling of emptiness had grown more oppressive. He felt like lying down and never getting up again, not just from fatigue. He felt despondent, like his very spirit was sapped.

"Most of you just used up all your energy on this simple task," Holland explained. "Most of you didn't even weave, you released the energy and let it dissipate. You wasted it. We are going to have to work on that. You completely emptied yourselves for nothing. It's normal to feel tired. I doubt any of you have ever exhausted your reserves like that in your lives. And it's not just exhaustion, you're all feeling is it?" His expression turned grim. "You feel this way when you overexert yourself. Especially when you weave for the first time. The sensation is something we call the Hollow. It is a feeling of emptiness, of having nothing within but a complete void. That you used up something else inside you, your spirit, maybe even your soul. It will most likely scare the ever loving shit out of you. Don't worry, it will pass. In very little time you will feel the power of the ether trickling in, filling you up all over again. The Hollow can only kill you if you let it."

Feeling as he did, Serrel did not find that last part terribly reassuring.

"Perhaps we'll break now before we do any lasting damage. Get something to eat, then return at the next bell. Caster Paum, refill these buckets first. And the next time you set fire to something without my permission, it had better be yourself..."

Meals were served in the fort's huge mess hall. It was full of tired and hungry recruits just back from morning exercises, but none were as tired or as hungry as Pond Scum.

"Never been this tired in my life," Kaitlin complained.

"Give me a chance," Justin leered. "Bet I could wear you out."

"Listening to you flap your oversized mouth wears me out, fancy pants," Kaitlin yawned.

The eight of them clustered around the cook and his assistant and their huge bubbling pot of thick porridge. Serrel could say this for Fort Amell: for the last three days, he had eaten well. Recruits needed their strength, after all.

The cook looked over the group with amusement.

"Wellee, wellee," he chortled. "It's ol' Holland's newest whipping boys. And girls, pardon your ladyships."

"Just ladle the slop, chuckles," Kaitlin replied.

"Oh, many pardons, your ladyship," the cook cackled sarcastically. He had an unpleasant cackle, like an old hag's. It grated. He ladled a dollop of porridge into a bowl and pushed it into Kaitlin's hands. "Enjoy, your ladyship."

Kaitlin didn't move.

"What yer want, a side dish? Maybe a nice choice of cereals and goose livers? Move girl, yer blockin' the line."

"We're the apprentice mages," Kaitlin told him.

"Ask if I care."

"That's right," Serrel remembered. "Mages get double ration."

The cook blew through his lips rudely. "Bloody mages. Think yer bloody lords or somethin'. You get what everyone else gets, and bloody well like it. Now bugger off, girl, afore I get the sergeant to deal with you."

A shadow loomed over the cook. He looked up at Bull's red face.

"Mages get double rations," Bull rumbled.

"You don't scare me, boy," the cook lied. "What're you gonna do?"

Bull's brow furrowed. He cracked his huge knuckles in thought, then said, slowly and carefully, "Tell Holland."

"Yer gonna tattle on me, boy?"

"Well," Victor joined in. "I'm sure that Sergeant Holland will understand why you're refusing to give us our proper rations. He seems like such an understanding person."

"Him and his bloody stick," Justin muttered.

"In fact," said Victor nastily, "we should tell him about this anyway. Greasy Tim, run off and find the sergeant..."

"Alright, alright, there's no need for that," the cook said quickly. "You can have yer bloody double rations. Pfft. Bloody mages. When everyone else is starving for lack of food, I'll tell 'em, sorry lads, but our precious mages wanted double rations." He splattered another serving into Kaitlin's bowl. "Happy, your ladyship?"

"Ecstatic," she replied coldly.

The cook served them, muttering under his breath. Eventually he asked, "So what's ol' Holland monikered you lot with then?"

"Moniker-ed?" Serrel asked.

"You know, called. Last lot was Dead Maggots."

"No that was the lot before," his assistant pointed out.

"That's right. Them was Dead Maggots. Last lot was Wet Turds. They were a right load of tosspots. So what're you?"

"Pond Scum," Justin said with an eye roll.

The cook cackled again. "That Holland! He gets it every time. HA!"

"Oh yes," Justin sneered. "Ha, bloody, ha."

The recruits took their seats at one table. No one ate for a moment, they just glanced up and down at each other. Except for Mouse, who stared at her porridge and refused to make eye contact with anyone. Serrel realised he had not actually properly spoken with any of the group before.

"Well," he started. "Did anyone else think life in the Legion would be this exciting?"

Justin shrugged. "Pretty much what I was expecting."

"It's bloody awful," piped Greasy Tim. "But the chow's brilliant. I 'aven't eaten this good in years." He started on his porridge with gusto.

"I suppose when your main diet consists of stray cat and whatever you can find floating in the gutters, slop's a step up," Justin said.

"Stray cat? Bloody 'ell, it was a good day when someone got their 'ands on stray cat. Can eat for a week on a cat, matey."

"I'll have to remember that," said Justin. "Or not."

"Not all of us could eat liver pate off a silver spoon, fancy pants," Kaitlin told him. "And the food here isn't that bad. You can hardly taste the spittle."

"I'm sure you're well used to spittle," said Justin. "And stop calling me fancy pants, tavern wench."

"Yes, be fair to Justin, Astral," Victor joined in. "Everyone knows the Tremmel's had to sell all of their silver years ago. I doubt young Justin's even seen a real silver spoon in his life."

Justin shot him a hateful look.

"So I've been meaning to ask," Serrel said loudly, before the mood could sour further. "Your name isn't really Kaitlin Astral, is it?"

"Course it is!" Kaitlin said with feeling. "It says so on my recruitment scroll and everything."

"But your parents didn't actually name you Kaitlin Astral. Like at your naming ceremony?"

Kaitlin sniffed in irritation. "Well if you must know, Astral was my mother's maiden name. But there was no chance in hell I was going to put Katey Marta Moss on my recruitment scroll. That would just be ridiculous. Imagine, years from now when I'm a great wizard: "Behold, the great and powerful Katey of Muck!" That really inspires awe, doesn't it?"

"Muck?"

"Oh, it's just a town on one of the main trading routes. My father owns a tavern there. The Sorceress and The Serpent it's called."

"So you are a tavern wench," Justin gloated.

"I bloody am not! I use to work the bar, clean the tables, cook the food. Beat off the drunken merchants with a broom. I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life doing _that_. I knew the moment I inherited my mother's gift for magic I was going to be something great. Someone great. She was a famous sorceress you know. You've probably heard so many stories about her. Celia Astral was her name."

She looked expectantly at the others, but got only blank looks in return.

"Never heard of her," Justin replied.

"You must have. She's dead famous."

"She killed the Serpent King," said Bull without looking up from his food. They looked at him for elaboration, but he just went on eating.

"Anyway," Kaitlin went on. "As soon as I was old enough, I decided I'd join the Legion. Obviously they would see my skill at weaving and give me the proper training. And then at the end of my two years service, I'd join the College of Arcania in Northlok. With all my military training and experience I'm sure they'd just be dying to take me as an apprentice."

"I rather doubt it," Justin told her haughtily. "The school doesn't take just anyone. They do have standards."

"Of course they do. Isn't that why they kicked you out?"

"They didn't kick me out," Justin snapped. "I'm merely deferring my first year of study for military service."

"Because they kicked you out."

"My family has a long and illustrious history with the college, wench. We have an understanding. Obviously my experience in the arcane means I don't require the same, slow, hand-holding lessons as the other dullard initiates. I need a special, unique education, where my talent is allowed to grow and prosper at its own rate. The school council understood this, so they allowed me a period off for my own personal growth. I left happily, and of my own accord."

"After they kicked you out."

"I told you they didn't..." Justin gave up. He set into his breakfast, pointedly ignoring Kaitlin's victorious expression.

"What about you... Serrel, wasn't it?" Kaitlin asked.

Serrel nodded. "I don't think anyone in my family has ever been magical at all. My father's a carpenter. A good one. I suppose he always thought I'd join the trade, but..." He paused. "I just had this urge to see the world. I may have fallen for the recruiter's spiel."

"Serve the Empire and see the world!" Victor said with mock feeling. "Make your mark on history and be remembered forever. Ha! You poor sap."

"Yes... well. Why did you join then?"

Victor shrugged. "Die here, die somewhere else, what's the difference? Anything had to be better than sitting around that damned monastery."

"Were you a monk?" Kaitlin asked in amusement.

"With a name like Blackwood, he's an orphan boy," Justin said.

Victor nodded. "Raised in Blackwood Monastery. But religion didn't become me."

"Not the religion they practice in Blackwood, right, orphan? The stories about that place true?"

"I thought you didn't read stories, Tremmel?"

"He's a Lord," said Kaitlin, "He probably can't read. He pays someone to do it for him."

"Not the Tremmels," Victor gave Justin a slow smile. "Can't afford to. Not even after selling the silverware."

"What would you know?" Justin shot back.

"Tremmel, everyone knows. All us peasant types enjoy hearing about lordships being brought low. It gives us a warm, fuzzy feeling inside."

The two stared at each other along the table. Serrel thought one of them was going up in flames any moment.

"Wish I'd 'ad someone to read for me," Greasy Tim said quickly in the tense silence. "When I realised what was written on that scroll I'd made me mark on, bloody 'ell I was livid. Two bloody years in the Legion, I thought to meself, they must be 'aving a laugh."

"Why sign in the first place?" Serrel asked.

"That's the thing, innit. I was minding me own business down inna Market when this ugly bloke grabs my arm and says, "Ah ha, gotcha, squire." He was a recruiting sergeant he was. I swear that ugly git knew I was gonna take his purse. I bet he was waiting for me to take it. I call that bloody cheek. "Ah ha," he says, "Now you listen, squire. You can either sign for a glorious life in Her Imperial Legion, or you can take a short drop with a hemp necklace like the little thieving sod that you are." Well, what was I gonna say? I like my neck the way it is, thank you very much."

The others laughed, but at least Tim laughed with them.

"What about you, Mouse?" Serrel asked the other girl. "Why did you join?"

Mouse retracted into her clothes and mumbled something inaudible.

Kaitlin was left to explain, "Oh, Mouse used to be a chambermaid for some fancy pants lord or other. Her whole family worked for them. But after her mother died things became... unpleasant."

"Wondering hands," Mouse muttered.

"Like all stuck up lordlings," Kaitlin said with feeling.

Mouse whispered something else Serrel didn't catch.

Kaitlin translated, "She says she joined the Legion so she could get a sword and learn how to use it, and then she wouldn't..." Kaitlin paused, then went on in a low voice, "Then she wouldn't be afraid so much. She didn't think they'd care about her being able to weave."

Mouse mumbled, "Thought they meant baskets..."

"Thought I'd get a sword, too," said Bull unexpectedly, making everyone jump. "Or an axe. They give me a stick instead."

"Why did you join, Bull?" Serrel asked.

"Ma and Pa dead," Bull said simply. "Horses dead. Cows dead. All dead. No point staying. Join Legion, they'd give me a sword. Or an axe. Didn't think a stick."

After an awkward pause, Kaitlin asked tentatively, "What happened to your... your Ma and Pa?"

"Plague. Killed 'em. And horses. And cows. Not me."

He scraped his bowl clean and then sat staring at nothing, in silence.

"Moving on," Justin said. He turned to Edgar, "What about you, fatty? I'm going to guess... pig farmer?"

"You are such an arse," Kaitlin told Justin.

"No, he's right," said Edgar with resignation. "We were pig farmers. _Were_." He shot Justin a hot glare. "Until Lord Pendleton decided he wanted our land for himself and kicked us off. Bastard took everything. I couldn't get any work anywhere else. So I joined the Legion. I'm going to be sending everything I make back home. I just hope it's enough. It probably won't be."

Justin squirmed uncomfortably under Edgar's obvious dislike. "Well don't look at me like that. I didn't take your blasted farm."

"You, Pendleton, you lot are all the same."

"Now, you look here, you chubby little oik-"

" _Oh, I do love to see such camaraderie between recruits_ ," came an ominous voice. The group looked over at Holland, who had seemingly just appeared out of thin air behind Justin. "Such a close knit and familial band of brothers and sisters you are. Well, if you're quite done with your bonding session, Pond Scum, I want the lot of you out in the courtyard right this second."

"But you said we had until the first bell-" Justin protested.

Holland's rod rapped him sharply on the arm with a meaty _thwack!_

"In the legion we are expected to be ready at all times. The enemy don't toll a bell when they plan on attacking, just so you have time to have a leisurely breakfast. And I did say now," Holland hissed. "And I don't intend to repeat myself. _Why are you all still here_?"

The recruits tripped over each other in their mad rush to escape. Nearby, the cook cackled at the display with undisguised glee.

"You show 'em, Sergeant. Pond Scum! HA! You sure can pick 'em, Sergeant."

Holland turned his cold glare onto the cook, who wilted. "Shut your rancid trap, Rat Turd."

"Yes, Sergeant."

Holland explained: "There are two kinds of exhaustion: that of the body, and that of the mind. Just because you're suffering from one, doesn't mean you get to stop and have a breather until you're feeling better. You can be stuck so far down the Hollow you can't see daylight any more, doesn't mean the Legion isn't going to expect you to still put in a solid day's marching. Likewise, if you've been marching from sun-up to sunset we're still going to expect you fighting fit and ready for war the second you reach the battlefield.

"To that end, we are going for a brisk and invigorating run down to the beach, followed by a nice refreshing run back uphill. We will then spend the remainder of the time practising our weaving skills until you either die, or I am satisfied that you aren't wasting my time. The first person to fall down or pass out gets cleaning duty for the rest of the week. And may the Gods have mercy if anyone of you even thinks of dropping their staff, because I sure as hell won't. Move it, Pond Scum!"

So Pond Scum ran, through the gates, and down the winding track to the edge of the cliffs. They followed the edge of the cliff south, the sound of the sea pounding endlessly against rocks on one side, the wrath of Sergeant Holland on the other, until the ground sloped downwards and they came to the long beach that ringed the great Bay of Amell. Serrel thought it would have been a nice, picturesque spot on a good day, with the fort towering over one end, and the town of Port Serenity at the other.

This was not a good day. The sky was dark and getting darker, the wind blew, the surf was wild, and an irate Sergeant-Magus was yelling threats at anyone who began to lag behind. When it started raining, no one was particularly surprised.

Most of the group had spent a large part of their lives performing some tedious and laborious task or other. Cutting wood, scrubbing floors, mucking out the pig sty, generally working long, exhausting days. They were not completely out of shape and incapable of exercise. But the morning's exertions while weaving, for some the first time ever, as well as the rapid pace Holland made them set, quickly sapped what little strength they had regained.

Serrel thought he was close to collapse by the time they reached the beach, and still Holland pushed them further. Kaitlin started strong, pushing to the front of the group with her typical desire to be ahead of everyone else. That didn't last long. She was soon struggling alongside Serrel.

Victor seemed to have limitless stamina, taking the lead at the start of the run and staying in front for the duration. His pace never faltered. Serrel found himself hating the other boy for that. At the other end, unsurprisingly, was Justin. He expended what little energy he had early on, not wanting to be outpaced by Edgar. By the time they reached the cliffs, he had fallen behind and was struggling. This did give Edgar unexpected reserves of energy.

They had just turned around on the beach and were halfway back to the cliffs when Serrel tripped and fell onto the sand. He tried to get back up, but his arms and legs were in open rebellion and refused to cooperate. The thought occurred that maybe Holland would just let him lie there and die.

The others at least were grateful, as Holland screamed them to a halt. He came and stood over Serrel impatiently.

"At least you kept a hold of your staff," Holland said with a sigh. "Thank the Gods for small mercies."

He pulled a small flask out of a pouch on his belt and unscrewed the cap. He tipped a small amount of fluid into the cap and knelt down besides Serrel. "Drink."

Serrel downed the tiny mouthful of liquid in one swallow. It burned on the way down, and tasted eerily like the vile moonshine the locals of his hometown used to cook up. A second later, his fatigue vanished, replaced by a soothing warmth that spread from his chest outwards. His head cleared, and the last remaining inkling of the Hollow was filled with what felt like liquid fire. He all but sprung to his feet, suddenly overcome with limitless energy, like the ether was shooting straight through him.

"How are you feeling now?" Holland asked.

"I feel like I just swallowed the sun, Sergeant," Serrel replied. His spoke very quickly.

"Poetic, Hawthorne. Do any of you Pond Scum know what this is?" Holland held up the flask.

There was contemplative silence, then Kaitlin said, slightly out of breath, "Is it the Elixir of Vorkeph, Sergeant?"

"Good to see there's at least one of you with an inkling of potential. Correct, Astral. This is the Elixir of Vorkeph. Also known as the Magi's Bane. It is a very complex and expensive concoction that contains the distilled essence of the ether itself. Many a mage has died just trying to create this potion. As you can see, even a tiny amount of the Elixir will restore the ether energy within you and then some. You'll feel like you can jump over mountains. Right, Hawthorne?"

Serrel was only half listening. He was watching his hand wave back and forth in front of his face with a blissed-out expression. He could just see a second ghost hand waving in time, appearing just a millisecond before he moved his real hand.

"Who else wants to try some?" Holland asked with a sly grin.

"Oh, I do," panted Justin. He made to take a step forwards, but Victor dropped a hand on his shoulder and held him in place.

"What's the catch, Sergeant?" Victor asked.

"What makes you think there's a catch, Blackwood?" Holland's grin broadened. It only made him look more malicious.

"Why is it called Magi's Bane?" asked Kaitlin. "It's dangerous, isn't it, Sergeant?"

"Well, aren't you clever little Pond Scum after all. Quite, correct, Astral. The Elixir is almost pure poison."

Serrel paused, hand in mid-air. "What?"

"It contains a piece of the ether in liquid form. No living thing was ever meant to ingest that. The amount of power in this flask alone could have the potential to sink this entire area into the sea. You took a capful, boy. Imagine taking a whole swig. Imagine downing the whole flask. You'd feel invincible. If you didn't simply disintegrate into the ether yourself, which can and does happen by the way, the amount of energy flowing through you would almost make you a god."

Holland gestured at Serrel. "Until you got distracted by something shiny, of course. Many a good mage has become addicted to the Elixir, that feeling of power and invincibility. They waste their lives just trying to get another sip. It changes them, physically and mentally. Just that small amount will probably have some permanent effect on Caster Hawthorne here."

"I have four hands," Serrel blurted out. "Did I always have four hands?"

Holland frowned, but did a quick count. "I'd say you're either hallucinating, or you're seeing the future. It'll pass. Probably. Stay away from anything sharp, and speak up if you start seeing dragons. That's an important lesson actually. Never stay quiet about dragons. Now, does anyone else want a taste of liquid damnation, or are you going to make it back to the fort on your own?"

Justin shrugged free from Victor. "I'll take some."

Victor shook his head as Holland poured Justin a capful of the Elixir. "What part of "liquid damnation" sounded palatable to you?"

Justin ignored him and downed the Elixir. His eyes bulged. "Wow. Oh... wow!"

"Yes, yes, all the pretty colours and all that," said Holland dismissively. "Who else? Astral? I see your mind working, girl. You just have to know what it's like, don't you?"

Kaitlin chewed her lip thoughtfully, then stepped forward and took the offered cap. She hesitated a moment, then delicately drank the Elixir. She made a face. "Ugh. Tastes like cheap booze."

"That would be the other ingredient," explained Holland. "Recipe calls for some form of strong spirits. The Legion being what it is, you'll have to settle for the cheapest rot-gut we can legally source."

"If that were a real drink, there would be no chance I would ever stock it behind the bar," Kaitlin commented.

"Well, Astral, should you ever be in a position to mix the Elixir for yourself, feel free to use some fine aged whiskey. Gods know we'd all prefer something that doesn't make your hair fall out..."

"I don't think it's working. I don't feel... Oh... Oh, I see. Wow."

"Indeed. Everything you'd hoped for?"

"And then some." A dreamy smile grew across her face.

"Anyone else? Bullock? Paum? Mouse? How about you Glease?"

"Never turn down a free drink, me," said Greasy Tim happily.

"My mother told me I shouldn't drink," said Mouse with unexpected volume and tenacity.

"So did mine," agreed Holland. "Good advice." The sly grin returned to his face as he turned to Victor. "Well, Blackwood? How about you?"

Victor carefully made his face neutral. "I think I'll decline this time, Sergeant. I still have energy left." He glanced at the rest of the group, and shot a pointed look towards Kaitlin. "I'll meet you fools back at the fort."

He turned, and jogged away. Holland watched him go with a interested look. "Well, since you're all back on your feet and raring to go, we'll double time it. And no lolly-gagging this time, Tremmel."

They made it back to the fort in good time, where Victor was already waiting at the gates for them. Those that had taken the Elixir were still practically bouncing on the balls of their feet, which was good, because Holland was true to his word and set them about practising their newfound weaving skills without delay. First they attempted to get the now singed flag to fly using the word _Soa_ , then when Holland deemed their attempts "Not nearly as contemptible as previous efforts" he made them weave the spell directly on him.

Justin threw himself to the task wholeheartedly. His spell, unfortunately, battered impotently over and over again with no real effect against the magic shield Holland had conjured before him. The air was charged and stank of ozone by the time he gave up.

"You're flailing about like a child in a bath tub, Tremmel. Concentrate, Pond Scum! I want a gale! I want a hurricane! I want, at the very least, a bracing wind. All you're giving me is a wet fart!"

Serrel stepped up. He didn't know why Justin had so much trouble. Having taken the Elixir, Serrel felt like he could have blown down mountains at that moment. He lifted his staff, and weaved the ether into a force that he threw with all his might at the Sergeant.

His first attempt shattered against the shield with no effect. But his second hit hard enough that Holland swayed slightly on his feet.

"That's more like it!" Holland roared, happy for the first time that day, and without even having to hit someone. "Again! Concentrate! I want to really feel it this time!"

Serrel didn't realise it, but he was grinning. He hurled another wave of force at Holland. Then another in quick succession. The energy coursing though his body felt limitless. He figured he could do this all day. The third spell hit Holland hard enough to make him stumble backwards a step. It was a small step, but, to Serrel, a giant victory. He felt like yelling in triumph. He was a mage. How could he have resisted this? Look out world, here comes Serrel Hawthorne, and you are but an insect to him!

Then, with utter suddenness, the feeling of power vanished. The fatigue of the day rushed back like a raging torrent and Serrel tumbled down into the Hollow.

It was even worse than it had been that morning. The shock of it, the sudden emptiness, and the sensation that he was being leached of his very being dropped him to his knees. He gulped air like he was drowning, overcome by the strange certainty that if he didn't he would stop breathing. He thought, _This is what it feels like to die_.

Hands held his arms and supported him, and voices asked if he was alright, but they seemed far, far away. After a few moments he finally noticed Holland looking down at him grimly.

"Ah, that would be the Elixir running out, I see. You can see why they call it Magi's Bane now, can't you? If you use up that energy too fast, it leaves you even worse than when you started. Empty, completely and utterly voided. You'll be lucky if you can even hold a staff for the rest of the day, forget about weaving. On the battlefield, you'd be completely useless. Now, you have two choices: lie there and die, or get up. You'll feel better for getting up, trust me."

Serrel didn't want to get up. His entire being was asking him what was the point in rising? He was going to die anyway, so why waste the effort? There was nothing worth getting up for...

"I told you before, Pond Scum, the Hollow can only kill you if you let it. But you need to climb out yourself. _Get._ _Up_."

It took all his remaining willpower, and in truth there was precious little of that left, but Serrel managed to somehow to wedge the end of his staff into a crack in the ground, and pushed himself upright. When he was back on his feet, the darkness within ebbed, just enough for him to think clearly and get his bearings.

"I hope you appreciate just how close to ending your pathetic mortality you just were, Hawthorne," Holland told him.

Serrel took a deep breath. "Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant."

"Don't be sorry, Hawthorne. Be-"

"Be better," Serrel finished. "I will, Sergeant."

"Good."

"Is that going to happen to us?" Justin asked, looking pale.

"Not to you, probably," Holland replied with a contemptuous look. "You don't try hard enough. Astral on the other hand..."

"You could have warned us!" Kaitlin snapped, momentarily forgetting herself.

Holland let that pass this time. "I believe in learning by doing. And Hawthorne here has definitely learned a valuable lesson here. You can never appreciated the edge of your limits until you throw yourself over them. Better you find that out now, rather than in the middle of a battlefield.

"I think that's enough hand holding for one day, Pond Sum. Back to work. The Hollow will be the least of your worries. You're in the Legion now! Oh, and Hawthorne? You fell twice, now. So get your breath back, because you're going to be on cleaning duty for the foreseeable future, boy."

"Yes, Sergeant," Serrel said simply. His voice was coming back, and he was beginning to feel slightly better. The yearning abyss of the Hollow was still there though, threatening to swallow him up. He spent the rest of the training session watching the others weave ineffectually against Holland. No one seemed willing to push themselves too hard now. Even Astral held back, which made Holland even more cranky.

And as they were dismissed, a tiny light flared in the dark within Serrel. It was a small thought, but one that began to burn away the near overwhelming oppression that came with the Hollow. It went, _I nearly knocked him over. I nearly knocked that loud, obnoxious sergeant right on his arse._

Next time, I will.

The day passed in a haze of weaving, strangely school-like lessons on the words of power, and for Serrel, over an hour spent mucking out the fort's rather extensive stables with several other recruits as punishment for his weakness of strength.

It was long after sundown by the time he had managed to clean off the stench of horse manure in the wash room and tramped wearily back to the men's barracks. The empty feeling of the Hollow was still there, but fainter now. Serrel learnt to recognise the sensation of the ether filling him once more with its limitless energies. That was a good feeling, a return to wholeness.

But the Hollow was still there. Like it was waiting.

Serrel had let a great many things beat him in life. He wasn't going to let his own body join in.

The men's barracks was a long chamber lined with simple wooden beds. When he first arrived at Fort Amell, his bed had been towards the doors. Sometime during the day, the other recruits had reached a consensus and the six trainee mages had found their trunks of meagre belongings shifted right to the far end of the room. They had been segregated from the regular recruits. And perhaps it was Serrel's imagination, but even the space between their beds and the other recruits seemed wider than the space between everyone else's bed.

Only a few of the other recruits bothered to look up as he walked past. A few he had been friendly with the day before pointedly ignored him. One even cast a hateful glare in his direction.

The other boys of Pond Scum were already there, killing time. Justin was snoring his head off. Edgar was slowly and carefully reading through a thin book, his lips moving as he silently sounded out the bigger words, forehead creased in concentration. Greasy Tim and Bull were playing cards. More accurately, Bull was losing at cards, and Greasy Tim was cheating and silently cursing that they weren't playing for money.

Victor sat cross legged on his bed, sewing something on his brand new Legion issue coat. He glanced up as Serrel sat down on the bed next to his.

"How were the horses?" he asked.

"I don't know what a sick horse looks like, but from what was coming out of the bloody things, I don't think they were well," Serrel replied. He nodded at the regular recruits. "Do they think we're plague ridden or something?"

"Rumour went around that sometimes mages set fire to things in their sleep. Personally, I think they just wanted to get away from Greasy Tim."

"What's wrong with me?" asked Tim.

"I credit Bull with being able to stand the smell. Do you ever wash?"

"I 'ave a healthy smell, I do. Keeps away the bad humours."

Victor just shook his head.

"Did they go through our belongings?" Serrel asked. He looked at his trunk.

"They wouldn't dare," Victor said. "Just touching a mage's trunk is a invitation for trouble. Serrel, we may not have the plague, but from the point of view of everyone else, we may as well have. Most people have a poor opinion of mages. Hell, I would prefer to be far away from you lot, and I am a mage now."

Serrel nodded in understanding. Then he asked, "Did Tim go through our belongings?"

Greasy Tim looked up, scandalised. "I never! Where I comes from, we 'ave a code, you know. You never steal from one of your own. Besides, it ain't like you buggers has anything worth stealin' anyway."

"Ah," said Victor with an amused smile. "So you did look."

"Course I looked. Not like anything was locked in any meaningful way. You should do a better job, if you don't wants no one looking. Nothin' worth looking at, anyways. 'Cept Vic, and all his knives. What you need all those knives for, anyway?"

"Knives?" asked Serrel.

"Shiny ones, too. Would have been worth a few bob back 'ome."

The expectant silence as everyone looked at Victor was broken only by Justin snoring.

"They were a going away present," Victor said, nonplussed. He didn't even pause his stitching. "From the Abbot."

"The Abbot at the monastery?" said Serrel. "An abbot gave you knives?"

"Knives are useful things. I am in the Legion, after all. Even Tim brought his own knife."

"Sure," agreed Tim. He pulled out his own knife, which was basically a small shard of metal, sharpened at one end and wrapped in cheap leather scraps at the other. "Never know when a purse string might need cutting. But what you need twelve knives for?"

"Different kinds of string," replied Victor.

"What kind of monks were at this place, anyway?" asked Serrel.

"They weren't always monks." Victor sighed, and stared intently at his needle and thread. "I thought everyone knew about Blackwood Monastery. It's a refuge for soldiers and warriors. Old assassins. Killers, looking for spiritual enlightenment somewhere other than on a blade. You can imagine what a cheerful place it was to grow up in. Old knives that have been drenched in human blood weren't exactly a rare commodity there."

"Still it's an... odd gift."

"Maybe for some. Not for someone at Blackwood."

Serrel decided that at the moment he was too tired to be bothered delving into Victor's dark, mysterious past. Especially if knives were involved.

"What are you sewing?" he asked instead.

"Pockets," said Victor.

"Pockets? You don't think you're going to have enough?"

"You can never 'ave too many pockets," agreed Tim. "Especially if you've got twelve knives. Put your 'and in a pocket with twelve bloody knives in it, you'd lose a finger."

"Apt," said Victor. "Which is why I'm not going on a battlefield without more pockets."

"You're quite the seamstress there, Vic. Always an underrated profession I thought, seamstressin'... You darn socks as well?"

"Don't start."

"I'm serious. Important garment, your socks. Wouldn't ever joke about the well being of my socks. 'Specially not to a bloke with twelve bloody knives in his trunk. You don't give them names do you?"

"Why, do you?"

"Course," Greasy Tim gave him a mischievous grin. "Call mine Percy."

"Cute."

"Purse-ey. Geddit?"

"I get it, Tim."

"'Cos it cuts purse strings."

"Yes. Very droll."

"So you gonna darn my socks, or what?"

"Are you going to wash them first?"

"What a thing to ask."

"You can do mine if you're doing his," joined in Serrel.

"Shut up."

"Darn my own socks," rumbled Bull. He laid his cards down. He had a winning hand.

"How did you manage that?" asked Greasy Tim in surprise.

"You didn't cheat," replied Bull. He reached over with one mammoth hand and plucked the hidden playing card from Tim's sleeve.

"Heh... How did that get there..." Tim chuckled nervously.

"Look at us," Victor said as he tied a knot and cut the thread with one of his excess knives. "A truly magnificent bunch of youths to be playing with the laws of reality."

"I always thought of laws as, you know, sorta optional," said Tim.

"We have noticed."

"Besides," Serrel said, lying back on his bed. "It isn't as though we have anything better to do."

"Speak for yourself."

"And I don't know about you lot, but I'm just starting to enjoy myself."

"You nearly died today," Victor reminded him.

"Nearly. But only nearly." Serrel closed his eyes with a small smile. "I'll do better tomorrow."

He did do better the next day. And the day after that, and the day after that. The memory of the Hollow still lurked, but though Serrel balanced on the precipice several times, he didn't fall again.

Pond Scum started their mornings with a run down to the beach, where they "warmed up", as Holland put it, by learning to fight with a staff or a dagger. That was all that they would be issued with as Mages, and if worse came to worse they had to be good with them. Victor, he of a dozen blood drenched knives, was, unsurprisingly, already adept at close combat. Holland was only slightly impressed, but not surprised. He just watched Victor with the same calculating look he always did.

When it came to fighting, Serrel was not bad, Astral swung her weapon with painful accuracy, Justin was bored and often reprimanded for not paying attention, whilst Edgar and Mouse were just abysmal.

Edgar swung his staff half-heartedly, like he was afraid of mortally wounding some invisible sparring partner. Mouse was worse. She barely moved her weapons at all, fighting the same way she weaved: as if she hoped the earth would swallow her up before anyone realised she was there. Holland yelling at her didn't help things. After a while at least, he gave up yelling insults and started whispering them to her out of earshot of the others.

Sometimes, "warm up" took a more literal meaning, as the recruits drilled their weaving with the word of power _Fieren_. Fire. They learnt to weave the energies of the ether into roaring flames that shot from the ends of their staves. They learnt to further weave the fire into different forms: a wall of flames, a ball of flame that could be thrown through the air with the aid of _Soa_. Kaitlin even managed to weave her fire into a thin lance of pure heat that burned a blinding white and melted the sand into glass. She was smug about that for the rest of the day.

There were more than a few accidents, but fortunately the rolling surf was close enough for a hasty run and dive. Replacement uniforms were rare, so Pond Scum wore their singed clothing with pride. At least Serrel did. He really was starting to enjoy himself.

On the fourteenth day, after lunch, the group assembled in the training hall and found an older woman with greying hair and white robes standing with Holland.

"Gather around," she commanded. "No lolly-gagging. I am Sister Altania, and I will be instructing you on the fine and much necessitated art of healing magic. Every mage in the legion is expected to know how to weave the ether into a healing spell, and I expect all of you to be masters by the time we are finished."

Justin sniffed and muttered, "Nurse work..."

"Can I have a volunteer?"

"Tremmel," Holland snapped. "Volunteer. Now."

Justin rolled his eyes and stepped forwards.

"Give me your staff, boy," Holland ordered.

Without thinking, as he often failed to do, Justin held his staff out to the sergeant. Holland grabbed his wrist in one hand and his forearm in the other.

"What," Holland hissed, "did I tell you about giving your staff to other people?"

"But I-"

With one quick motion, Holland broke Justin's arm. The boy screamed in pain and dropped his staff. Even Kaitlin cringed.

Sister Altania came over and examined the injury with interest. "Hmm. Both bones of the forearm. A nice clean break. Masterfully done, Sergeant, as always. Everyone gather around, and pay close attention now. Oh, stop snivelling boy. It's only an arm. You have another. Listen carefully, you lot. Healing magic is not like normal weaving. There are no words of power that can make flesh and bone knit. The word _Ilisolde_ will help. It aids in attuning your energy to another person's aura. You will no doubt use this word in other spells.

"Now, healing requires absolute concentration and willpower, and a more than passing knowledge of the human body. If you can't tell a knee cap from a bum, you shouldn't even contemplate weaving a healing spell..."

Healing magic, they learned, was dangerous. And best used in conjunction with proper medical aid. You could weave the energy into a form that made blood clot and flesh close, but if you didn't tend to the wound just right, or if the energy was used up too soon, the wound would simply open again. If you didn't know what you were doing, you could accidentally close arteries, or meld together healthy flesh. You could kill someone.

Sister Altania successfully demonstrated how to slip Justin's bones back into place, and with the most efficient weaving of energy possible made the bones regrow and knit together. She bound his arm in thick, stiff bandages to limit its movement, and told him to go easy. Once the energy holding the bone together dissipated he would run the risk of re-breaking it if he wasn't careful.

Justin ruefully picked up his fallen staff and glared daggers at Holland.

"Well, I think that was a rather spiffy demonstration," said Sister Altania happily. "Now one of you can try. We'll need another volunteer."

This time, Holland pulled out his dagger. The group took a step backwards, Justin making sure to hide behind Bull's bulk.

"No one? Come on now. I thought you were all soldiers. What's one tiny, little cut, really? Fine. You girl," Sister Altania pointed at Kaitlin, who paled. "Step forward."

Victor sighed. "Very well, Sergeant. I volunteer."

Holland looked pleased at this, but he relented. "Good to see chivalry isn't dead, Blackwood. At ease. I'll take this one. If any of you lot faints there will be trouble, though."

He pressed the dagger into his forearm, just below the crook of his elbow, and drew it down to just above the wrist. It was expertly cut, not too deep, but began to bleed copiously. No one fainted, but Kaitlin turned visibly green at the sight of blood.

"Alright, who wants to have a try at healing your favourite sergeant? Anyone? This is something of a timely issue, Pond Scum... Fine. Astral, you first."

Kaitlin made an attempt, but could barely look at the wound, let alone close it. Blood was clearly not her thing. Holland dismissed her before she could throw up on him. Victor tried next, and though he managed to get the blood to stop flowing, he had little success closing the wound.

"Advice, Blackwood?" said Holland. "You're better at making wounds than closing them, and you're better at sewing than at healing. Best stick to a needle and thread in future. Paum! You next."

Edgar swallowed, took a deep breath and walked up to Holland. Victor's efforts were for naught, and the wound was bleeding again. Serrel hoped Edgar wouldn't accidentally set the sergeant on fire... Well, mostly.

He needn't have worried. It took Edgar some time, but he worked on the wound with his brow furrowed in his usual expression of deep concentration, and in time the blood stopped flowing, and the flesh melded together before their very eyes. The rest of Pond Scum were surprised at Edgar's unexpected expertise.

And Holland was now extremely pleased. The grin on his face bore none of the usual malice or disappointment. "Looks like you finally found you niche, Paum," he said. "Not surprised. You farm types usually are the best healers. If you've spent your life looking after livestock, humans shouldn't be any more of a challenge."

"Th-Thanks, Sergeant."

"Just remember, if you wouldn't take any shit from a pig, that goes double for any human patients."

Sister Altania looked over Edgar's handiwork with satisfaction. "Good. Very good. With some practice, you'll go far, boy. Perhaps we shall take a break here, before the Sergeant passes out from blood loss."

"Blood loss?" Holland was annoyed again. "Listen, woman, I've been doing this for nearly ten years, and I ain't fainted yet. Push off, Pond Scum. I am so uncharacteristically pleased, I think I might give you all the next hour off. By the gates at next bell."

This was an unexpected turn up. Recruits rarely ever got any time off. Serrel was more enthused than the others, as what little time he did get to himself, he had to spend on cleaning duty thanks to his previous sin of fatigue. He decided he would visit Fort Amell's library and continue his own studies of the words of power. But he was distracted by Justin being an arse.

"Well done, fatty," Justin slapped Edgar on the back rather too hard. "You aren't as useless as I originally thought you were."

"Give it a rest, Tremmel," Serrel said irritably.

"Yeah," agreed Tim. "He got us at least an 'our off. You never managed that."

"An extra hour running in circles, yes. But never an hour off," said Edgar with unexpected boldness. "Just imagine the day Holland decides you aren't completely useless."

"That would get us an entire day I think," joined in Serrel.

"If ol' Holland didn't just drop dead of shock," suggested Tim.

"I think I would."

"Oh, piss off, the lot of you," snapped Justin. "Holland's an ass. He wouldn't know real magic if set him on fire."

Serrel had spent a fortnight listening to Justin run his mouth. It was a fortnight too long in his opinion. "What the hell would you know about magic? I've seen you weave. If I didn't know any better, I'd say they kicked you out of that fancy wizard school for chronic incompetence."

Justin turned red. "They didn't kick me out-" he started.

"Be fair, Serrel," Tim put in. "That's not why they kicked him out."

"Yes," said Edgar. "They kicked him out for being an arse."

"You listen to me, you stupid, fat pig," Justin said dangerously. "Just because Holland's suddenly swooning for you, doesn't make you a mage. You're just another useless farm boy with more fat than brains, and if you ever-"

His glare, previously directed at Edgar was suddenly blocked off by Bull's immense torso as the other recruit stepped right in front of him. Bull's posture wasn't in itself threatening, but he did loom somewhat. Bull was good at looming.

"You're loud," Bull told Justin simply. "And stupid. Go away."

Justin opened his mouth to ask "Or what?" but managed to come to the obvious answer by himself. Instead he turned and stormed off.

"What a git," said Tim. "If he 'ad lived on my streets, I reckon someone would've shanked him years ago." He slapped Edgar on the back. "You're miles better than that prat."

Edgar blushed. "Well I wouldn't-"

"I would," agreed Serrel.

"Better," said Bull.

Even Mouse nodded.

"No," said Edgar. "I mean I wouldn't... No, you know what? I am better than him. Leagues better. Not that that's saying anything, because I've had pigs that would've been smarter than that... that arse!"

"Well said."

Tim slapped Edgar companionably on the back again. So did Bull, but more forcefully. As they picked Edgar off the floor, a small voice said, "Um..."

They looked at Mouse, who went on, "Where did Kaitlin go?"

Kaitlin had been mysteriously quiet during the argument, uncharacteristically so because she never forwent the opportunity to insult Justin. She'd slipped off as they'd left the training hall, and she hadn't been the only one.

"Where did _Victor_ go?" Serrel said.

Greasy Tim grinned. "Don't know where he is, but I betcha I know who he's with, the cheeky sod."

The two absentees rejoined the group by the main gate after the next bell. No one commented on their disappearance, though Tim did call out to them, "'Ello, love-birds."

Both pretended not to hear, and neither bothered to look even remotely embarrassed.

Justin joined them last, looking sullen and ready to hit something, followed by Holland who immediately ordered them down to the beach.

On the beach, they practised defensive weaving. Using the word _Balvihs_ they learnt to weave a near invisible shield of energy from the ether. With enough willpower, Holland told them, the shield would protect them from swords, arrows, even enemy spells. With enough energy, a mage could drop a shield over an entire battalion. This would be an important duty for mages in a support role, and he meant for every member of Pond Scum to master it.

They were paired off, taking turns to weave a shield while the other recruit attacked them with a wave of force using _Soa_. Serrel was paired with Kaitlin, and though he never considered himself overly competitive, he did take some perverse pleasure at outdoing her efforts. On his second attempt, he created a shield at full impenetrable strength that Kaitlin could not break through or dispel. She became so annoyed at this, that at one point she gave up using force and tried to burn her way though using her lance of white fire. Serrel thought Holland might have noticed, and at least tried to stop her. The sergeant just watched, and nodded in satisfaction at the quality of their weaving.

It took up a lot of his energy, and left him sweating like hell, but Serrel's shield didn't break. Kaitlin ended the spell and leaned on her staff, close to exhaustion.

"How did you do that?" she asked. Her eyes narrowed. "Have you been practising on your own?"

"On and off, when I get the chance."

"You cheater. That's _my_ trick."

"You have been a little off lately. Distracted maybe?" Serrel said, as off handed as he could.

Kaitlin looked away. "I've just been... busy."

"With what?"

"None of your business. Just busy."

Serrel didn't push. As the two of them regained their strength, he glanced about the beach at the efforts of the others. The shield spell was a good way of demonstrating the different ways each of them weaved the ether. Serrel's shield tended to be shaped like a wall, thick and solid just as he visualised it. It took a lot of energy. Victor on the other hand, made only a small shield that projected just beyond his staff. It had less coverage than Serrel's but was easier to move, complementing Victor's fighting style. He liked to stay quick on his feet.

Edgar's was similar to Victor's but bigger, taking on the shape of a large kite shield, the sort old fashioned knights had been fond of using. He did like reading, after all. Mouse, meanwhile, tended to weave a shield around her entire body, like a large dome protecting her from all angles. This was probably due to the wariness to which she treated the world and everything in it.

Not that she didn't have good reason for that at the moment. Mouse had been paired with Justin, and he was taking out the frustrations of the day on her, throwing spell after spell as hard as he could at her shield. Mouse was using too much energy trying to cover too much area at once. It didn't take long for the shield to crumble under the attack. With the shield down, Justin should have backed off. But he was too busy venting, and his next attack lifted poor Mouse right off her feet and threw her through the air several metres before crashing her down in the sand.

"Tremmel!" Kaitlin was outraged. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What?" Justin asked. His expression suggested he knew he'd done something very stupid, but his personality wasn't going to let him admit to that.

Holland cuffed him across the back of the head as he pushed past. The sergeant went to Mouse and helped the girl shakily to her feet.

"Still alive, girl?" he asked her with unusual tact. "Just your pride. I'd be embarrassed too if I'd let that fool knock me down. Let that be a lesson-"

Mouse wasn't embarrassed. She shrugged off Holland's grip, hurled her staff to the sand, and stormed away in tears. The others watched her stand at the edge of the surf, stare at the grey ocean and cry.

Holland sighed, and picked up her staff. "You lot, behave," he told them, and went after Mouse.

Kaitlin turned on Justin in fury. "You stupid shit! You could have killed her!"

"Is it my fault she can't weave to save her life?" Justin protested. "That spell was nothing. She's just useless..."

"You say that about everyone, Tremmel," Serrel snapped at him. "Edgar's useless, Mouse is useless. I'm useless. You usually say it just as someone's out done you. The only time you've ever excelled is against someone defenceless. We all surpassed you days ago."

"The carpenter who faints every time he has to weave thinks he has surpassed me? The only talent you have is chipping wood and shovelling horse shit, Hawthorne. And that stupid girl can't even keep her shield up."

Serrel lifted his staff. "Let's see how good your shield is."

Justin lifted his own staff. "Just try it."

Kaitlin stepped in front of them. "Enough maleness. Calm down, both of you."

"Get out of the way, tavern wench."

"Will you do something?" Kaitlin snapped at Victor.

"Why?" Victor replied simply. "Tremmel wants to die, Hawthorne wants to kill him. It's nothing to do with me."

"A copper says Fancy Pants cries," Greasy Tim said evilly.

Justin shoved Kaitlin roughly out of the way, and threw a wave of force straight at Serrel. Serrel didn't even think, he just lifted his staff and weaved a small shield to batter the spell out of the way, then hurled his own at Justin. He didn't even bother with words of power. He weaved the ether on instinct.

The spell hit Justin dead centre and threw him backwards. Reeling, feeling like he had been punched hard in the stomach, he tried to lift his staff to strike back. Serrel focused his mind and energy on Justin's staff. He saw in his mind exactly where it was weakened through years of hard use. He saw the break clearly, before he had even made it, and with a simply lash of energy he snapped the staff cleanly in two.

Justin yelped in shock as his staff came apart with a sharp crack. He tripped over his own feet, and fell backwards.

Serrel just glared at him, feeling the energy flowing through him and into his staff.

"Look at you now," he told Justin.

The others stood and stared at each other in shocked silence. By the water, Holland was whispering quietly to Mouse. He gestured forcefully back at the group, then pushed the staff back into her hands.

Suddenly Mouse let out an angry shriek, and pointed the staff at the sea. A huge plume of flame shot across the water, sending up a giant cloud of billowing steam that could be seen from the other end of the bay. Holland noted the boiling sea with satisfaction and patted her on the shoulder gently before he made his way back to the group.

"Well, that's enough excitement for today. Move back to the fort."

"What did you say to her?" Justin asked he stood up.

"I told her to pretend it was you," Holland replied coldly. "Let me be clear. You are in the Legion. There are going to be many, many people over the next few years who are going to want to inflict copious, bodily harm on the lot of you. They aren't going to need your help to do it. So you will never, and I mean never, weave magic on one another. Clear? Hawthorne?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Tremmel, go to the master at arms and get yourself a new staff. You appear to have broken yours. The rest of you, push off. Hawthorne, a word."

Justin stormed away without a backwards look. The others followed nervously. Serrel stared at the sergeant defiantly.

"Am I going to be kicked out?" he asked.

"Anyone else might be. I don't kick mages out of the Legion. I can't afford to, no matter how pigheaded they are. I just whip them into shape as best I can, and hope." He regarded Serrel with a long, thoughtful stare. "You know, I'm having a hard time understanding you. I mean I understand the others, the reasons they signed the papers and took the Legion's bronze. Bullock's used to being told what to do. This isn't anything new for him, not really. Paum thinks this is the easiest way to provide for his family. Greasy Tim is just looking for the angle. Astral has allusions to greatness, and a legend she thinks she should live up to. She knows the destination, but she hasn't planned on the path she's taking. She's in for a shock. Mouse there," he gestured to the tiny figure still standing by the sea, oblivious to the tide now lapping at her feet, "I don't know exactly what happened to her in her previous life, but it's made her a tight coil of repressed anger. If she doesn't open up, the best I can hope for is to make sure she's pointed at some worthwhile target when she finally explodes. Hell, I even understand your friend Blackwood. He's a stone cold killer. As certain as I am standing here. You can see it in the eyes."

"Victor's not a bad person," Serrel protested.

"He's not good or evil. He just looks at the world a different way from most people. Some people are just born that way. And raised in that monastery by killers and men who have performed unspeakable acts, what else would he be? At least he's on our side. That makes him useful. Him and his dozen bloody knives. But we were talking about you, Hawthorne. Why are you here?"

"I had nowhere else to go."

"So I thought. I heard you were a carpenter. You struck me as the craftsman type. It's in the way you weave, that same careful attention to detail, the concentration. The pride when you know you've done the best job you could possibly have done. A good carpenter were you?"

"My father was better."

"But you would have been as good? In a few years perhaps, and then you would have taken over the business, or perhaps started your own?"

"Probably."

"And you would have given that up? For this? What happened?"

Serrel exhaled in irritation. He wasn't interested in having this conversation, especially not with Holland.

"There was a girl, right?" Holland guessed correctly. "That's not a new story. A lot of recruits end up here because of a girl."

"She was the daughter of a Lord. It didn't end well."

"What was her name?"

Serrel sighed in defeat. "Daphne Kraeter. My father and I did work for her father. We... liked each other. I thought I was in love. Hell, I thought she was in love. She wanted us to go off and start our own business away from everyone. A new life together. But her cousin saw us together and told her father. You can imagine his reaction."

"Seen it for myself on more than one occasion."

"He summoned my father and accused me of trying to defile his daughter. His exact word, defile. He decided to make an example out of me. I had to leave town, and never return. His idea of leniency. My family had no choice but to do what they were told. I can never go home. I joined the Legion because it was the quickest and cheapest way to get as far the hell away from there as I could. I honestly couldn't give a damn about glory, seeing the world, or any of that shit the recruiters were spewing."

"And now?"

"Now? Now I might not be a carpenter, but I have this." Serrel held up his staff. "I used to love working with wood, but this? That feeling I had when I finished carving was nothing compared to the feeling I get when I weave the ether. This is what I born for. And I am very, _very_ good at it."

"No arguments here."

"And that obnoxious twerp, Tremmel... He thinks he's better than me? Because he has more money? Better clothes? He gets to decide what's best for _me_? His lot's taken enough from me. This is mine. I keep this."

Holland nodded. "Obnoxious twerp he may be. Rich? Not so much. Powerful? Ha! Tremmel may act like one of the nobility, but you need to remember something. He isn't your old mate Lord Kraeter. Not the father, not the cousin. That annoying superiority complex is about all he has, and though he rightly deserves a good belt around the earhole every now and then, you are not the one to deliver it. Tremmel is not the enemy. He can't take anything from you that you won't lose for yourself if you act like he is. You understand what I am trying to tell you, Pond Scum?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"So when you see the obnoxious twerp again, you kiss and make up. And while you're at it, ask him why he really left the College of Arcania."

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Let's go back. I'm hungry, and I'm not missing out on a good meal for the likes of you, Hawthorne."

"Yes, Sergeant. What about Mouse?"

They glanced back at the lonely figure on the beach.

"She'll come back on her own, or she won't," said Holland simply. "That's up to her."

They made their way back to the cliff and the long walk back to Fort Amell.

"Ever see the girl again?" Holland asked.

"Not even to say goodbye."

Holland gave a grim laugh. "Same old story."

Serrel found Justin lying in his bed in the barracks.

Greasy Tim grinned when he saw Serrel. "Round two? I want to get my money back from Edgar- Oi!"

"Come on, you greasy little pillock." Victor took Tim by the collar and dragged him away. Bull and Edgar followed behind, shooing out any of the other recruits that were lurking around. Presumably for their own safety, should any mystical fire break out.

Serrel took a seat on his bed. Justin refused to look at him. When they were alone, Serrel summoned up the courage to ask, "So why did you really leave the College?"

Justin shot upright. "I never got the chance to leave. They never let me in in the first place! Those stuck up bastards wanted some exorbitant sum of gold before they would take me on as an apprentice. I could have joined as an initiate with the other new students but my parents thought that that was beneath me. Like this is somehow better." He swept his hands to indicate the Legion in general.

"You really don't have any money?"

"My grandfather had expensive tastes and little sense. He pissed it all away. All my father ever inherited is a great pile of debt, and a misplaced sense of pride. Happy now? I'm sure you and the others will get a great, big laugh out of this."

"Kaitlin, maybe. But I'm not in a laughing mood."

"I was meant to be better than this, you know. My parents have such high hopes. Like I'm going to be winning back the family honour. Why bother? The Tremmels are failures."

Serrel didn't know what to say to that outburst.

Justin waited in silence. "Aren't you at least going to pretend to placate me? Something like, no, Justin, you aren't a failure?"

"Not really. I don't particularly like you, and in case you haven't noticed we all have our problems. And you and your bloody attitude don't help."

"Piss off."

"Maybe your idiotic pride is still important to you, but take it from me, it's only going to get in your way. You should at least apologise to Mouse."

"For what?"

Serrel just stared at him.

"Oh, right. That. Fine, I shall humble myself and apologise to the little chambermaid. Will that satisfy you?"

"It isn't me you need to satisfy. And... by the way. Sorry I broke your staff."

"It was just a stupid training staff. It would probably have broken anyway."

Serrel thought that that probably wasn't true, but let it go.

"Funny thing," Justin said suddenly as Serrel made to leave. "When I went to the master at arms for a new staff, he said something strange. He said there was no point getting a training staff, because we were all going to be properly outfitted soon anyway."

"We are? That's good isn't it?" Serrel just wanted a better staff, but he thought about it some more. "I thought mage training was going take another month, possibly more since Holland hates us."

"That's what I thought. But the way he said it, I think he meant we were going to be outfitted sometime sooner than that."

Mouse did return to Fort Amell, and Justin did apologise, although this momentous and borderline mythical event was only witnessed by the two of them, so the others had to take his word for it.

And Justin wasn't the only one to hear rumours of their training being cut short. The entire fort was buzzing with outlandish stories that the Empire was about to go to war, but with whom no one was certain. Some said the Faelands across the sea. Others said the Free Cities to the south. Some of the more outlandish rumours suggested the Empire was about to be overrun by rampaging dragons.

Though training officers refused to confirm or deny rumours, the recruit's training steadily increased in strength. Now Pond Scum were expected to perform their morning exercise while carrying the equivalent of a fully loaded pack. They learnt new ways to weave the ether, such as into pure energy that could be used as a weapon. They learnt how to transfer their energy into another person, how to absorb energy, how to weave different spells together to make new spells. Holland drilled them mercilessly.

Soon they started training with other, regular recruits. They practised shielding large groups of soldiers with magic, getting the regular soldiers used to the idea that their lives would be in mages' hands. Whenever there was an unexpected injury, Pond Scum were expected to attempt to heal it magically first. The regular soldiers were absolutely thrilled about that. Especially after Kaitlin vomited on the first one.

The idea was that every soldier in the Legion would know how to work alongside, and often with, mages. It was slow going for some. Outright impossible for others. Pond Scum was sometimes met with outright hostility. In such cases they had to band together. They had no choice.

There was one group of recruits, five or so led by a big, mean and stupid young man named Fenton, who made absolutely no secret of their hatred of the trainee mages. Whether out of jealousy, or fear, or simply because mages got double rations, Fenton and his gang never gave up an opportunity to try beating one of Pond Scum, insulting them, or stealing their things. Fenton was too big and stupid to be intimidated by Bull, but instinctively knew better than to try starting a fight while Victor was around. Victor had finished adjusting his clothes to his liking. He started to carry around his knives along with the rest of his gear, hidden in a variety of hidden loops and pockets amongst his clothes. No one ever saw the knives. One could just appear in his hand, seemingly by magic.

That was actually impossible. You couldn't make something solid like that out of the ether. The regular recruits didn't know this. Victor scared the hell out of them. To be honest, Victor was starting to scare the hell out of the rest of Pond Scum as well.

Though presumably not Kaitlin, at least not that much. Whenever they had a free moment, the two of them had a habit of disappearing. To where no one was quite sure, and for what purpose became a topic of much discussion, mostly by Greasy Tim who made up a series of increasingly lewd and absolutely terrible limericks about the subject. He didn't share them with Victor, of course. You didn't do that sort of thing with someone who carried around twelve knives and could put a thrown dagger into the middle of a training dummy's forehead each time, every time.

Fenton didn't pick fights with Victor. Everyone knew, but no one said aloud, that Victor, if he ever felt the need, would probably just kill Fenton then and there, and feel absolutely nothing about it afterwards. But Victor and Kaitlin were usually elsewhere, and the rest of Pond Scum were fair game.

The situation came to a head one night, when Fenton and four others cornered Mouse by herself while she was on her way back to the women's barracks.

It was bad. Early the next morning the five of them were found, beaten half to death and badly burned. Mouse escaped suspicion as the sergeant in charge of the women's barracks swore on every god she could remember that the two female mage trainees had been with her all night, particularly during the time of the incident. She had little sympathy for the so called "victims" whom she felt didn't quite understand the idea that in this, the modern Imperial Legion, a woman stood as equal amongst her male peers.

Holland was just relieved that the girl had indeed managed to find a worthwhile target for her rage. For a while, he was starting to worry it would end up being him.

For Mouse herself the incident was almost... cleansing. Her own personal Hollow filled with fear and anger was vented, allowing something else to take root. Self assurance perhaps. She seemed more present in the days that followed, more substantial. She didn't hide away. She even spoke more than a sentence a day.

During lunch one day, just over a month since they had started training, Mouse told the others, "They're going to send us to war any day now."

It was still strange to hear her speak so casually, it took the others a moment to respond.

"How do you know?" asked Justin.

"I talk to the stewards and the other servants. They get everywhere, and they hear everything. Including what goes on in the officer's mess."

"So what did they hear?"

"That the Faelands declared war on us. They're going to cut short our training and send us across the sea to fight."

Everyone but Victor seemed to lose their appetite.

"They wouldn't. Would they?" asked Kaitlin.

"Why not?" said Victor. "It's what we're here for."

"But... Surely that's just a rumour, Mouse."

"We've been hearing it for weeks now," Victor said.

"How can you still be eating?" Kaitlin demanded.

"Because I'm hungry," he replied. He was not in the least bit fazed.

"Might be nice in the Faelands," Greasy Tim said with forced cheer. "I hear it's warm there."

"Warm, sure," said Justin gloomily. "And filled with monsters."

"Manticores," agreed Edgar. "And Satyrs. They live in the forests. I've read all kinds of horrible things live there. Things that have long died out in the Empire."

"And the elves," said Mouse with a shiver. "They ensnare you with magic and spirit you away."

"And eat you," said Edgar.

They looked at him.

"Elves don't eat people," Justin said, with a lack of conviction. "Do they?"

"Most don't. They used to be beautiful, magical beings. Nowadays they're twisted and evil. They'll eat anything, even each other."

"That's just fairy stories, Edgar."

"Keep telling yourself that, when you're being slowly digested with a side dish of roasted moon fairy."

"Look," said Victor impatiently. "If it happens, it happens. There's nothing we can do about it."

"Do you have to be so damn... stoic about this?" Kaitlin snapped at him.

"I'm trying to be pragmatic. Would it help if I ran around in circles, screaming? Would that make you feel better?"

"YES!" Kaitlin pushed her plate aside and stormed away in a huff.

"You made her mad," Mouse told Victor helpfully.

"Thank you, Mouse. I noticed." He sighed and pushed his own plate away, appetite finally lost.

"She's just being tetchy. Women are like that," Justin explained.

"Oh, really?" Mouse asked him. "How would you know?"

"Years of experience."

"Oh, just shut up, Justin." Mouse turned back to Victor. "Are you in love with Kaitlin?"

"What?" Victor stared at her.

"You are aren't you?"

"I'm... She's... It's complicated. Gods, I think I liked you better when you never talked." It was Victor's turn to storm away.

"I think he's in love with her," said Mouse.

"That's the impression we're getting, yes," commented Serrel.

The rumours were put to rest the next morning.

The population of Fort Amell assembled in the courtyard, where a tall imposing woman in impossibly bright and shining armour stood on a raised platform waiting to address them all.

"Who's that?" Serrel asked Kaitlin.

"General Dillaini. She's the new leader of the Imperial Legion. I think she's the Empress's half sister. She once drank at our tavern."

"Really?"

"She drank all her men under the table. They didn't realise I was serving her water."

"So she's our boss." Serrel regarded the General. She was quite scary looking, but somewhat younger than what Serrel thought a general should be.

While he waited, he asked Kaitlin, "Have you made up with Victor yet?"

"Not until he stops acting like a complete twat."

General Dillaini stepped to the edge of the platform.

"Legion!" she greeted them. "My name is Arch-General Jadia Dillaini. I am afraid that I bring grim tidings. Two days previous, in the city of Vollumir, the forces of the usurper Vharaes executed our ambassador to the Faelands. His death was prolonged and agonising, but with his last breath, he cursed the usurper as a demon and a false monarch. May we all remember such bravery in the face of death.

"Since then, the usurper's forces have laid siege the city. The fighting in heavy and brutal, and though the Patrician of Vollumir will never surrender, we fear defeat is at hand. As such, the Empress has declared our allegiance to the true rulers of Vollumir, and we are now in a state of open war with the usurper and his dark armies.

"Tonight we sail for the Faelands, to put an end to this madness. Two days hence you will arrive on the shores of the Faelands and in the name of the Empress and all that is light, we will cut down and vanquish all who stand in our way! We shall show the usurper that you cannot take with force what was given to us by the Gods themselves! As of this moment, you are all true members of Her Imperial Legion!

"We shall fight for justice! We shall fight for the Empress! Long may she reign!"

"Long may she reign!" intoned the crowd.

Serrel swallowed. "And to think we were worried."

The fort ended up in near chaos as the all the newest members of the Legion attempted to prepare themselves at the last minute. The veterans and the unit commanders did their best to keep control and ensure everyone was outfitted correctly and knew where to go. Pond Scum had an easier time than most, since there was only eight of them, and Holland had always keep them on a fairly tight leash.

They all received their standard issue legion gear, including a pack with limited supplies, the standard Legion dagger (which Victor declined), and a leather armour jerkin and skull cap that the master of arms assured them would be no protection where they were going, whatsoever. Then they were summoned to meet Holland for their most important piece of equipment.

They met in the underground training hall, which Serrel realised he would be happy to see the back of, and at the same time, felt apprehensive that he would be leaving it forever. Holland smiled at them grimly.

"Just so you know," he said. "If it were up to me, there would be no way in hell that you would be going off like this. You aren't ready, not by a long shot. But, there aren't enough mages to go around at the moment, and the Legion needs every able body they can for this joke of a campaign. I've done the best I could under the circumstances, and if I'm being honest, you lot managed to surprise me on more than one occasion. You might just make it. Just remember what I told you, follow your orders, and don't do anything stupid. Well, anything stupider than joining the Legion, anyway."

"Aren't you coming?" asked Justin.

"Possibly. Later, if I can manage it. I'm to remain here, to train the next lot of useless tossers who think they can weave. I can't say I'm confident. Mage recruits are getting fewer and fewer. We're a dying breed, we are. So, while I can still give you lot orders, let me give you one last one: don't get yourselves killed. If you get back... Hell, _when_ you get back, I'll even buy you a drink to celebrate.

"Here are you postings," Holland handed each of them a scroll with a Legion seal. "I'm sorry that you lot will have to be split up, but like I said, our numbers are too few. I used my not inconsiderable influence with them-who-must-be-obeyed to get you posted in units where you'll do the most good with what little talent you have, so no fear. You'll each do your part, in your own way.

"Anyway. Staves. Can't send you off to war with those glorified broomsticks. Hand them over."

No one moved.

"Are you going to break our arms?" asked Justin darkly.

Holland laughed. "No, Pond Scum, I will not break your arms. Promise."

They handed in their old training staves, and Holland handed them brand new war-staves. They were longer and better weighted than their old staves, made of thick dark wood sanded smooth, and properly adjusted for each individual's height. Serrel spun his through the air experimentally. He could already feel the energy pulsing through its length. It was perfect.

Holland next handed them a small leather pouch containing a small flask of the Elixir of Vorkeph, the Magi's Bane. Serrel took his with reluctance, but Holland was adamant.

"This Elixir could save your lives in the days to come," he said. He looked at Greasy Tim. "Don't sell it."

"I never..."

"Of course you never. Just don't sell it. I guess that's that. You could all pass for real mages. In the right light. I think I may actually get teary. Well? What are you lot standing around here for? You think the war's going to wait for you? Fall out, or you'll miss your boats. Go on. You don't like me _that_ much."

As they filled out the door, Mouse paused and muttered awkwardly, "Um... Thank you."

"Thank me by coming back. In one piece."

After a month together, Pond Scum found themselves being split up. It was bitter-sweet. Mostly bitter for Kaitlin who discovered she had been posted to the same magical support unit as Justin.

"Gods, another two years with you," she groaned. "It's going to be a nightmare."

"You know, Astral," Justin replied jovially, "we're going to have to do something about this seething sexual tension between us before it gets out of hand."

"I would. But I'd get into trouble if I stabbed you in the face."

"Cheer up, Astral," Justin said. "Support. We'll be working with other mages. And we'll be so far from the front lines, we'd need a telescope just to see any real fighting. It's the best thing for both of us. Just think about what we can learn."

"I suppose." She tried to sound disappointed, but she was relieved to know she wouldn't be directly involved in any fighting, mostly shielding and long range magical artillery.

"I'm just glad I'm being sent to the healers," said Edgar. "Gods, I could kiss Holland."

"I almost think he liked us in the end," said Serrel.

"Where are you going?"

"Forward scout unit. The Hounds."

"I think I've heard of them," said Kaitlin. "They go ahead of everyone else and scout for the enemy."

"They've been ambushed more times than anyone else in the Legion," added Victor.

"Oh," said Serrel. "I guess Holland didn't like me that much after all."

"Or he knew the best spot for you."

"What did you get, Victor?"

"I'm not sure. Another scout group I think. The Nightblades."

"Never heard of them," said Kaitlin.

"Me neither. But their rally point is at the local Tavern, not the docks. I suppose I should probably get going..."

"I...guess...."

The two of them shuffled uncomfortably.

"Just kiss her," said Mouse.

Everyone stared at her.

"I just thought you should kiss her," she explained undaunted. "Or, Kaitlin can give you a lock of her hair. They always do that in folk songs."

"Ugh. What utter, soppy drivel," Kaitlin rolled her eyes.

"Yes," agreed Victor. "I can do you one better." He pulled a knife from his coat and handed it to her handle first.

"You're giving me a knife?" Kaitlin said, unimpressed.

"My best knife. I think it's a lot more useful than a lock of hair and... And, well, it might come in handy." For the first time since they had known him, Victor appeared uncertain.

Kaitlin gently took the knife and tucked it in her belt. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. And... Stay safe."

"You too."

"Now kiss her," said Mouse.

"Oh, Mouse." Kaitlin gave the smaller girl a hug and kissed her forehead. "You are such an odd little person. Don't change."

When everyone looked back, Victor was gone.

The flotilla of vessels sailed for the Faelands at first tide. The rest of Serrel's unit slept in the hold, but Serrel couldn't relax. He made his way to the deck of the ship, and found a quiet spot out of anyone's way at the stern.

By the time the sun had started to rise, the land behind them was a rapidly diminishing smudge on the horizon. Serrel had hoped he might have at least seen something familiar, but there wasn't anything back there. Nothing to look for, or go back to. Not for him. Not anymore.

He turned his back on the vanishing land of his past, and looked forwards to the empty sea. He thought of the possibilities ahead, and the things he would see, and learn, and experience. He thought of his friends on other boats in the same position. And he tried to ignore the Hollow, lurking within.

About the Author.

Andrew Day lives in Brisbane, Australia. His hobbies include writing, avoiding direct sunlight, and coming up with ill-conceived plans for world domination.

You can contact him at: hollow.within.us@gmail.com

Bonus: Excerpt from _The Hollow: At the Edge._

Part 1: The Hounds.

Not for the first time, Serrel Hawthorne questioned the choices he had made that had brought him to his current predicament.

From the top of the tower, he could see the entirety of the city stretched out around him. The Legion had finally pushed through, and were making speed towards the fortress where he now stood. The fighting had been fierce, and fires had broken out in many places. The scent of smoke, and blood, and death was in the air. Serrel ignored it all, focused only on the elf in front of him who was, in all likelihood, about to kill him.

The elf smiled grimly. "Last chance, boy. Turn around and walk away."

Serrel swallowed, not even bothering to pretend he wasn't scared out of his mind. "I can't," he replied.

"This isn't your fight," the elf said sadly.

"I took the bronze."

"So? It's just a coin."

"How many people have died? I can't let you get away."

"You can't stop me. Whether you live or die, it changes nothing."

Serrel sighed. "Well, I have to try."

The elf shook his head. "Very well, then."

For a moment, there was silence. Neither of the two moved, as smoke swirled in the air, and the sounds of men and women fighting and dying drifted up to them.

Then the elf's arm snapped up, and Serrel's vision was filled with fire.

It had been... well, Serrel wasn't entirely sure, but it couldn't have been more than a week earlier when Serrel and his fellow recruits had parted ways. He reasoned that, since they were all in the Legion together, chances were they would meet again soon. But it was a sad occasion regardless. His fellow members of Pond Scum, as they had been dubbed, had irritated him, angered him, made him laugh, made him feel like part of a family again. He was going to miss them.

Well, maybe not Justin so much. He had been an arse most of the time. But the others, Victor, Kaitlin, Edgar, Bull, Mouse and Greasy Tim, even though he hadn't known them for very long, he had considered them to be his friends.

But they had gone their separate ways, off to different units aboard different ships to sail across the Dividing Sea to the Faelands. He couldn't help but worry about what fate had in store for all of them.

His apprehension shifted back to his own well being soon after he met his new unit.

They were called the Hounds. He had heard very little about them beforehand, and most of that was just rumours and stories. They were supposed to be trackers and hunters, people who lived in the most wildest of places. In the Legion, they were the most elite of scouts, leading the way far ahead of the main army.

In the hustle of Port Serenity, where the Legion was preparing to depart, Serrel spent a long time wondering lost along the docks until he finally spotted the Hound's banner flying besides a smallish cargo ship. He was greeted at the gangplank by his new commanding officer and his sergeant, a scarred woman with pale skin and dark hair braided into several thick plaits.

"Caster," said the man in greeting as Serrel handed over his orders and snapped instantly to attention. "I'm Lieutenant Snow-"

"Captain," correct the sergeant.

"Pardon?"

"Captain," she repeated patiently.

"Oh, right. Promoted. Captain. I'm still not used to that. I'm Captain snow," Captain Snow went on amicably. "Welcome to the Hounds. I'm glad to have you. We haven't had a mage with us for some time."

"I shall do my best not to disappoint, Sir," Serrel said.

"Good lad. Sergeant Caellix here will introduce you to the rest of the men. Sergeant, please show our young mage below and get him settled."

"Yes, Captain," said Sergeant Caellix. She gave Serrel an unfriendly grin that showed far too many teeth and went aboard the ship without waiting for him.

Serrel rushed after her to catch up. She walked briskly across the deck, weaving between the sailors making the ship ready for sail, and made her way down to the lower decks.

"What's your experience in the wilds, boy?" she asked without looking back.

"The wilds, Sergeant?"

"The woods. The forest. You look soft and well fed. Not like someone who's spent much time outdoors."

"I... When I was younger I would go with the men from town to catch rabbits."

"Rabbits. Well, you must be _so_ proud." Sarcasm dripped from her every word. "I'm sure small furry animals everywhere must quake in their burrows at your scent." She snorted. "Let me be clear. We don't want you. We don't _need_ you. We've gotten along fine without a mage for nearly a year now. If we were going to get one, I would have at least expected Holland to send us one who could tell his arse from a hole in the ground. The last thing anyone in this unit needs is a dead weight, tramping about, making noise and giving away our position. So you do what I say, when I say, or I will gut you and leave you for the scavengers. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"You aren't one of us. You want to survive what's coming, you better learn to move like us, sound like us, smell like us, or you won't last a day."

"Yes, Sergeant."

"What's your name again, boy?"

"Caster Serrel Hawthorne, Sergeant."

She snorted again. "Well, Fresh Meat, welcome to the Hounds. Don't get comfortable. I expect your stay to be short and messy, with a bloody end."

"Can't wait," Serrel muttered.

Waiting for Caellix below were two huge black and tan dogs. They bounded up and down and weaved around her legs playfully. Caellix snapped at them loudly in some language Serrel didn't recognise, and the dogs dropped to their haunches side by side, tails wagging and tongues lolling.

"This is Vost and Ripper," Caellix introduced. "Don't pet them, they will kill you. Boys, this is Hawthorne, our new mage. _Neillin ut._ "

The dogs looked at Serrel hungrily, and he hoped that last phrase Caellix had said was "No Eating." From what she had said to him so far, that seemed unlikely.

The rest of the men and women of the Hounds were at the forwards end of the ship, stowing their gear for the voyage, resting, playing cards, and generally killing time. They looked up briefly.

"Who's the Fresh Meat?" asked a man with a huge messy beard. He grinned, revealing black teeth.

"This is our new mage, Dogbreath. See he gets settled, and stays out of the way. Don't eat him."

With that, Caellix turned and left. Dogbreath rose from his seat and came over to give Serrel a closer examination. He poked Serrel roughly in the arm.

"Hardly any meat on him at all," Dogbreath said. "I bet he's all chewy."

"Leave the scrawny kid alone, Dogbreath," said a girl nearby.

"Just saying hello to the new Fresh Meat. Heheh," Dogbreath chuckled to himself. Up close, Serrel quickly understood the reason for the name. His breath was rank.

"Yes. Well. Hello," Serrel greeted the others, and instantly felt like an idiot. He could feel twenty pairs of eyes boring into him, quietly assessing his worth and judging him. He saw a couple of head shakes, a pair of rolled eyes, and more than a few laughs of amusement.

"There's a spare spot in the bow," said the girl helpfully, before she returned to sharpening her sword and ignoring him.

"Um, thanks." He stepped around Dogbreath, who had started sniffing him, and carefully wound his way through the mass of animosity that was his new unit to the very front of the ship. The Hounds had all seen their share of battles. Their weapons were all worn, but reliable, clothes frayed and patched. Most of the men were thick and muscular, either bearded or in need of a shave. The women were lean and athletic. Everyone had a look of a hunter, or a ranger. People who had spent the majority of their lives outdoors and knew what it meant to be a survivor. In his new and neatly cleaned uniform and with his polished new warstaff, Serrel felt so out of place.

There was an empty hammock right up against the curve of the prow. There was very little space to move, but Serrel made the most of it. These people didn't care about him, and would care even less if he made a fuss. He decided that for the foreseeable future, the best option was to just shut up and stay out of the way.

And Holland thought this was the best place for him?

Serrel shrugged off his pack, and sat down with his back against the hull. He held onto his staff. He had just got it, and was feeling protective. Then he noticed the man opposite him. He was neater than the others, with brown hair and a beard that was actually trimmed once a week, and sat cross legged on a large chest, hands on his knees, and a look of peace and harmony on his face.

Then man opened his eyes, and smiled airily at Serrel.

"Ah, the new mage," he said.

"Evening," Serrel said lamely. The man's smile creeped him out. "I'm Serrel."

The man ignored him. "You have any of the Elixir?" he asked.

"Vorkeph's Elixir?"

"Yes. Have any?"

There was a glint in his eye Serrel liked less than his smile.

"Just say no," said a man nearby as he secured a group of bows for transport.

"No," Serrel lied. "They didn't think we'd need any."

"Pity," said the man on the chest. He closed his eyes and went back to meditating.

"Ignore Morton," the second man told Serrel. "He's a bit..." He twirled his finger around the side of his head, "Weird. As long as he stays off the Elixir he's fine."

"Good to know." Serrel adjusted his coat, making sure the pouch containing his small flask of the Elixir was covered.

"I'm Brant. Brant O'Kellin," said the man, offering his hand. He was younger than most of the other Hounds, probably only a few years older than Serrel.

"Serrel Hawthorne." He shook Brant's hand. It was rough and calloused.

"I remember when I was Fresh Meat. This lot aren't exactly the most inviting, I know. Just let them get to know you."

"Sure. Then they can really hate me. Is it because I'm mage, or because I'm new."

"Mostly because you're new. We haven't had a mage since old Barnaby went and got himself et."

"Et? Something ate him?"

"We did tell him not to pet that jackalope. But he just wouldn't listen. "They're herbivores" he said. Ha! That's just what they want you to think."

"All right then," Serrel said slowly. "See, I just assumed Sergeant Caellix had killed him."

"Well," Brant looked about dramatically to see if anyone was listening in. "There are those of us that say the sergeant was seen talking to the jackalope moments before the whole unpleasant incident occurred."

"Uh huh." Serrel nodded.

"And she never did get on with that Barnaby. He kept trying to change her dogs into ferrets."

"Right. Is this part of the initiation? See how gullible I am?"

"No harm in trying," Brant said with a grin. "If you were a complete blithering idiot, better we find out now."

"So what really happened to your mage?"

"Werewolves. Get comfortable, Fresh Meat. The next two days are going to be mightily unpleasant. Hope you don't get sea sick."

In hindsight, Serrel figured he should have seen this coming. That a war would break out the second he joined the Imperial Legion... Well, that was just how his luck seemed to run lately.

The exact reasons for the war were sketchy. The Land of Elsbareth, known mostly as the Faelands, had long been at peace with the Empire. Mostly because they had only barely managed to avoid being decimated by the Empire during the last war, over a decade ago. When that war had ended the ruler of Elsbareth, some elven king Serrel didn't know the name of and probably wouldn't have been able it to pronounce even if he did, had been deposed and replaced with someone more... amendable to the needs of the Empire.

So the Faelands and the Empire had co-existed peacefully as a reluctant puppet and a domineering puppeteer respectively. Until the appearance of some elven warlord named Vharaes, who claimed to be some blood relative of the previous unremembered and vastly unmourned ruler of the Faelands. He managed to rally together a band of like-minded countrymen... or perhaps country-elves, and had started a rebellion.

Somehow, Vharaes had taken control of the elven trade city, Vollumir, and murdered the Empire's ambassador, which was apparently an act of war. The fighting was still ongoing, and the Imperial Legion were now on their way to aid the flagging forces of Elsbareth.

All this, Serrel knew in passing. It was mostly just a load of strange names to him, and a lot of big and important sounding words like "economics" that seemed like poor reasons to have to fight someone.

All of his life the Faelands had been only a legend, a place you told of in bedtime stories to young children. He knew this was the land of the Elves, an ancient and mysterious race of great power, and that many strange, wondrous, and horrifying creatures still existed there, and nowhere else on the planet. But he had never expected to have to actually _go_ there.

As the night progressed, the ship left port and set off out to sea with little or no fanfare. The rest of the Hounds took the opportunity to rest, and soon the hold was filled with the sounds of nearly two dozen men and woman snoring at varying volumes. But Serrel couldn't rest. His uncomfortable position and the rocking of the ship, an alien and disconcerting sensation in itself to a previously landlocked carpenter's son, combined with the apprehension stirring in his mind and kept Serrel awake. Eventually, he rose and quietly stepped around his sleeping companions to make his way to the deck of the ship.

The stars were growing dim in the night sky when he emerged from below-decks. He found a quiet spot out of the way at the stern of the ship and watched the sun rise in the east, directly in front of them. When he looked back, the land he had been born on, and not too long ago, had expected to die on, was a mere dark smudge on the horizon. He thought about the things he was leaving behind, and realised it was a very, very short list.

But ahead of him... Well, who knew what was out there? The idea that maybe, just maybe, something good would come out of this frankly, rather terrifying experience was almost enough to damp out the darkness of the Hollow that was starting to stir inside.

So engrossed in his own thoughts, he didn't realise he had company until he glanced to the right and realised his new commanding officer was standing next to him. He quickly snapped to attention.

"At ease," said the newly promoted Captain Snow.

"Sir. Is there something I can do for you, Sir?"

"No, Caster. I'm just taking in the view. Marvellous, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sir. I've never been out at sea before, Sir."

Snow took a deep breath and grinned broadly. "Ah, smell that sea air! Marvellous!"

"Yes, Sir."

"So..." Snow said in what he thought was a casual, just-one-of-the-men type of tone, "We left port a bit late last night. We seem to be lagging behind the flotilla a tiny bit."

"Yes, Sir," said Serrel. It seemed like a safe response.

"Can't have that," said Snow. "Can't have the Hounds _behind_ everyone else. What sort of scout unit would we be then, eh?"

"I'm... not sure, Sir."

"The others would be laughing behind our backs... Except in front of us... Which is where they are. In front. Far in front."

"Yes, Sir."

"A pity. Wouldn't you say so, Sergeant?"

"Yes, Captain," said Caellix, making Serrel jump. Somehow she had appeared next to Snow without making a sound.

"A real pity," Snow went on. "You know, some of these ships have their own mages on board. Someone to blow the sails as it were. Shame we don't have one of those."

Serrel kicked himself for being so slow. "You want me to... make the ship go faster, Sir?"

"You think you can?" said Snow, still grinning.

Serrel had his doubts. He had a vague idea of how boats worked. Wind blew into the sails and the ship moved forwards. Though he recalled something called ballast, and thought that maybe that came into play somewhere, whatever that was. Also keelhauling. That might have been important, too.

Though what he said aloud was, "I'll give it a try, Sir."

"Oh yes, Fresh Meat," said Caellix scornfully. "Do _try._ "

Serrel took his staff and approached the main mast cautiously. A few sailors looked over in interest. One pointedly spat overboard. Serrel ignored them. He regarded the sail, and the way it moved, the rigging that held it in place. He felt the wind on his face, and the way it fluttered his long coat.

He imagined the sail filling up with air, with wind and force, pushing forwards, making the boat cut through the sea. Not too much force, though. Uncontrolled, the sail would rip, the boat might be damaged. There would be shouting, most of it directed at him... No, you needed enough force, just enough...

Serrel felt the ether flow through him, through his staff, and weaved it into a form he could use. In his mind, he thought, _Soa_...

A wave of force struck the sail, and the ship suddenly heaved forwards with an unexpected burst of speed. Serrel focused on the force, on exerting the right amount of pressure on the sail, endeavouring to keep the amount of energy he used as low as possible. He ignored the sailors that now hurried around him, making adjustments to the rigging.

"What are ye doing?" a large burly man with an eye patch snapped at Captain Snow.

"Your job," Snow replied, still smiling. "We are so far behind the others, I half expect the war to be over by the time we reach landfall, Captain. At least bring us level with the nearest ship, if only to appease my wounded ego."

The ship's captain grumbled something about the bloody Legion and their bloody wizards, and went off to shout at his crew.

"Well done, Caster Hawthorne," Snow called to Serrel. "Well done. If the Captain requires any... further assistance, please lend it to him."

"Yes, Sir," said Serrel.

"Marvellous," Snow said again, before going back below-decks.

Sergeant Caellix just sniffed, and followed him.

Serrel smiled to himself. The motion of the ship, and the feeling of energy pulsing through him, just _weaving_ in general, made him feel better about himself. Whatever else life threw at him, he had this.

And when it occurred to him that he was, by himself, single-handedly moving _an entire ship_ , his smug self confidence all but clouded out the Hollow inside.

Not that that feeling lasted.

The rest of the Hounds treated him with equal amounts of indifference and outright disdain. In the close confines of the ship's hold he was regularly, and roughly, bumped back and forth by his fellow soldiers, and caught by a few unexpected elbows to the side when he least expected it. The best apology he got was, "Sorry, didn't see you there".

It was all rather childish, but Serrel bore it as best he could. Of all the Hounds, Brant O'Kellin seemed the most friendly. He was also the biggest mouth of the unit, and never seemed to shut up. He had a tall tale for every occasion, and the weird thing was that a rather large amount of them ended up being true. For instance, there had been a mage named Barnaby in the unit, and he had indeed been devoured by werewolves, though Serrel could never get a clear picture of how this had happened.

"Poor ol' Barnaby," was all Brant would say. "It's how he would have wanted to go."

"I bet he tasted stringy. Heheh," was Dogbreath's contribution.

"Oh, dear," was what Captain Snow said, before he had to go for a lie down to "calm his nerves", as he put it.

"I don't know," said Holly Wells, the girl who had spoken to him the night before. "Maybe he was too busy asking stupid questions and wasn't paying enough attention to his surroundings. Like all mages," she added pointedly.

After Serrel, Holly was the youngest member of the Hounds, and had only just managed to escape the stigma of being Fresh Meat herself, and wasn't eager to be relabelled by dint of association. Though she did grudgingly point him in the right direction when he needed it, for which he was grateful.

Serrel decided not to ask Sergeant Caellix about Barnaby. In fact he had decided to avoid her wherever possible, until the unlikely event that she warmed to him. Serrel figured this would happen somewhere between his term of service ending, and hell freezing over. Caellix made his old training sergeant, Reage Holland, look all warm and cuddly by comparison, and that man had once broken a trainee's arm, just so they could practice healing spells. Serrel had a mental image of Caellix painted blue, with an axe in each hand, screaming as she charged down a hillside to pillage a defenceless mountain village. He found out later he wasn't that far off. Not even about the paint.

After Caellix, Dogbreath was the longest serving member of the Hounds. Serrel had no clue just how old the man was, it could have been anywhere between forty and a hundred. He couldn't decide if Dogbreath was crazy, or had simply been hit on the head one too many times. His black toothed smile was bad. The way he barked and howled like a dog was weird. His laugh, usually following some comment about how tasty or unappetising he thought you might be when served in a stew was downright disconcerting. But what got to Serrel was the way he would turn around to find Dogbreath standing a few inches away, grinning maniacally. Then you got the bad breath in the face, the smell of wet dog, and a far too detailed view of an unwashed beard that Serrel swore had things moving in it.

Captain Tobias Snow was the complete opposite of Dogbreath. In fact, he looked almost as out of place in the Hounds as Serrel, with his fussy little beard always neatly trimmed, and his uniform clean and pressed. He smiled a lot, and everything he said was in a jovial and convivial tone. Orders often seemed phrased like polite suggestions that it would have been rude to ignore. He had the bearing and the air of superiority that Serrel often associated with stuck up lords, and yet the scruffy and all too common Hounds had nothing but respect for him. Apart from Caellix, whom Serrel heard muttering several times, "That bloody beard."

Then there was Morton. Like Snow, he seemed out of place in the Hounds, and the rest of the group tended to leave him to his own devices most of the time. According to Brant, he had been a mage himself at some point, but supposedly he had become addicted to the Elixir of Vorkeph, the magical concoction made with the distilled essence of the ether itself, and was no longer capable of weaving. The Elixir, also called Magi's Bane or more colourfully, Liquid Damnation, could replenish the energy within a mage, but if you weren't careful, and used that energy too quickly, it would also drop you straight down the Hollow quicker than you could blink. Serrel knew that from experience, and thought he might have understood the reason for Morton's creepy, glassy eyed expression.

The Hounds kept Morton because he still knew a great deal about plants and herbs. Out in the wild, it paid to know what species of mushroom was safe to eat and which would give you a long agonising death. He was also supposed to be especially knowledgeable on the flora and fauna of the Faelands, which was why Caellix endured him. Morton at least had a use, something Serrel at the moment failed to possess in her opinion.

It was going to be a long boring trip. There was little space in the hold, and the deck was was often filled with soldiers milling about and getting in the way of the ship's crew. Caellix tried to keep everyone busy by making them help out, tying rope and scrubbing the decks, but for men and women who lived for open land and dark forests, for long journeys and the hunt and the chase, it was only a matter of time before they began to grow restless. And Serrel suspected the game of choice was soon going to be "pick on the Fresh Meat".

Sometimes being right was no fun at all.

It was midday on their first day at sea. There was no land in sight, just the endless waves of the Dividing Sea and the huge blue expanse of sky that was broken only by a few wispy clouds. Serrel was trying to be helpful by coiling a long rope for some of the sailors. The crew of the ship, particularly the Captain, were rather old fashioned and still considered having a mage onboard to be bad luck, and Serrel was hoping to look as unthreatening as possible.

"Do you sleep with that thing as well?" asked a scornful voice behind him.

Serrel turned to find Caellix had again sneaked up on him in that way of hers. She was worse than Dogbreath. If you were downwind, you could at least smell him coming. He was relatively harmless in his way, as well. Whereas Caellix at that moment was holding a well made and most likely very frequently used spear at her side.

Caellix glanced at his staff, which was propped against the rail of the ship while he worked. Serrel took it everywhere with him. That was one of the first lessons Holland had drilled into the members of Pond Scum. Your staff never left your sight.

"I always keep it with me, Sergeant," Serrel said carefully. "It isn't much different from carrying a knife... or a few axes."

Caellix looked down at the sharp hatchet tucked into her belt. She nodded.

"I suppose so," she conceded. "If it were a real weapon. What good is a big stick in a real fight?"

"If he was fighting Dogbreath," put in Brant, who was watching a safe distance away with some other Hounds, "he could distract him by throwing it and yelling _fetch_."

"If only all our opponents would be so amendable," replied Caellix.

Serrel careful placed the rope on deck and picked up his staff. "I have to admit, I haven't been in many real fights-"

"Really?" said Caellix. "I _am_ shocked."

"But I imagine five feet of solid wood is better than nothing," Serrel finished.

"Only if you know how to use it, Fresh Meat. And only if you have trouble figuring out which end you were meant to hold a sword by." There were a few laughs. Caellix didn't join them. She wasn't being spiteful for the joy of it.

"I know how to use my staff, Sergeant," Serrel said irritably.

"Good," said Caellix. Without warning she lowered her spear and stabbed the point straight at him.

Serrel didn't always think the worse of people, but part of him saw that coming. The word of power _Balvihs_ had been floating in his mind, and now with little effort, Serrel weaved the ether into a shield directly in front of himself.

The spear tip hit the invisible barrier, and stopped dead. Caellix stared at him, and pushed the spear harder. It moved a fraction, then stopped again. After a moment, the air around it began to glow with a dim green light.

"And how long do you think you can keep that up?" Caellix asked him.

"Long enough," replied Serrel.

"I think you'll run out of strength before my arm does," Caellix said.

Serrel glanced at her arm, which had more muscles that he had ever seen on a woman, and wondered if that were true. He'd never shielded himself for long periods against a physical attack like this. At Fort Amell, they had practised defensive weaving against spells, and the occasional rock thrown maliciously by Holland. No one had ever broken Serrel's defence before, but then again, no one had ever tried to stab their way through his shield before now. Already he was starting to feel the strain, and the ether energy in his being trickling away.

"So, Fresh Meat, what happens then?" Caellix asked.

Serrel dropped the shield so fast, Caellix was momentarily caught off guard. Without the barrier holding it in place, the tip of the spear thrust forwards, and would have hit him had he not already been stepping to the side, and lifting his staff to parry it.

As the shafts of their weapons impacted, he threw a wave of force at the sergeant, a relatively low powered one, since he didn't actually want to hurt her, and piss her off more than she generally was. But Caellix was faster than he expected, and had already spun away. Serrel's spell missed her entirely, and washed over another of the Hounds instead, knocking him comically to the deck.

Caellix ignored the gales of laughter behind her, and stared daggers at Serrel.

"Um..." said Serrel. "Sorry?"

"I don't care how good you think you are with magic, Fresh Meat," Caellix said. "How well can you handle yourself in a real fight?"

The spear came hurtling at him again. Serrel parried her attacks as best he could, using his staff and throwing up shields whenever he needed to. He was out of depth somewhat. Holland had taught them close combat with a staff, but Serrel had not exactly proven himself a natural born warrior. Even with Caellix holding back, and she was holding back he realised, he only narrowly avoided being impaled over and over by the skin of his teeth.

With one final thrust, Caellix sent the spear flying to his throat. Serrel managed to cast his shield again, then felt a sharp prick right on his adam's apple. He weaved his shield too slowly, and instead of stopping the blow, it had formed around the shaft of her spear, giving it easy access. Part of Serrel noted with interest the way the shield didn't pass through obstructions, and just formed itself around them, and filed the information away for future reference. The rest of him focused on not moving a single muscle, or even breathing, in case he accidentally opened his own throat.

He did not have to worry. Caellix held the spear with extraordinary control, and kept it perfectly still, its tip just touching the skin of his throat.

"What's next, Fresh Meat?" she asked him. "What's your next trick?"

Serrel held up a finger in a _just-give-me-a-moment_ gesture. There were more laughs behind him.

"Do try not to make a mess, Sergeant," said Captain Snow, who was watching the fight from a spot near the helm.

"Stick him!" yelled Dogbreath. "Heheh."

With perfect timing, the whole ship suddenly shook violently. There was an ominous groaning of wood and the ship listed to port. Caellix lowered her spear quickly to avoid causing a messy accident, and the two of them fought to remain standing.

"What just happened?" Brant asked aloud.

"Snow!" the ship captain was yelling angrily. "What's yer bloody wizard doin' to my ship?"

"I didn't do anything!" Serrel snapped indignantly.

Caellix made a face. "Gods, I hate the sea," she muttered and turned to look out over the railing, their fight forgotten.

Serrel joined her at the rail. "What is it?"

"Do I look like a sailor to you, Fresh Meat?" She pointed to the surface of the water. "Maybe you can tell me what the hell that is."

Serrel saw a large dark shadow under the water, growing larger and larger. Then suddenly the sea exploded, and a huge black object almost as large as the ship they were on hurled itself out of the water and into the air. Serrel had a momentary view of fins and a huge tail, before the creature fell back into the sea with a giant splash, spraying up a great wave of water that drenched the pair, and sent the ship rocking again.

Caellix shook her head, spraying water from her dreadlocks over Serrel. "I hate the sea," she repeated.

The other Hounds and most of the sailors lined up at the rail.

"Wow," said Holly. "What was that?"

"Whales," said one of the sailors. "Great Blacks. Been a while since we've seen one of them. They don't usually come to these waters."

As they watched, more and more of the creatures began surfacing all around the ship. Some came up slowly, and blew great plumes of water into the air as they took a breath. Others leapt dramatically skywards as the first had done. In other vessels in the flotilla, soldiers and sailors were lining up to take in the sight as more whales appeared amidst the mass of ships.

The captain growled. "Blacks be bad luck," he muttered.

"Only if they land on you," said Brant, as the ship rocked back and forth from the force of the landing whales.

"Blacks be bad luck, you dosy boy," the captain repeated. "That's why we stopped huntin' 'em."

"They're just big fish," said Holly.

"Mammals actually," said Brant.

"Tain't the whales yer need to worry about," insisted the captain. "It's what comes after 'em."

Serrel looked over at him. "Why?" he asked. "What comes after them?"

The first sailor shook his head. "That's just a-"

He was cut off by another whale erupted from the sea. It was far too close to the ship for comfort, and it was the biggest one yet. Except...

Serrel stared in horror as the whale landed back in the sea, only just missing the hull of the ship. It wasn't just a whale. Something had been wrapped around it. He had a glimpse of what looked like... snakes?

Another whale came up, thrashing violently, its huge tail throwing a mass of water all over the onlookers strong enough to send a couple sprawling. And Serrel saw it clearly. Not snakes. Tentacles. Huge tentacles wrapping around the struggling whale and yanking it back beneath the waves.

"I told you!" roared the captain.

"What the hell was _that_?" Holly asked in shock.

"Krakens," the captain snarled. "A whole school of bloody krakens. They come up, chasin' the whales."

"Oh, well now. That's just _perfect_ ," said Caellix scathingly.

"How much trouble are we in right now?" asked Captain Snow calmly.

"Plenty," said the captain. "If we don't get clear o' the school, them Blacks will knock us to pieces. And if we're really unlucky, one o' them krakens might decide he wants a bite o' us..."

"Oh. Well, then. No worries."

"If ye have a god, Snow, I'd start praying to him."

"Good point," said Snow. He turned to his men. "Hounds! Off the leash. It's time to pray."

Without a word, the Hounds dashed back to the hold. Several jumped down below-decks, while others waited by the ladder. Soon, a long stream of weapons emerged on deck, passed up from below and distributed around the group. It didn't take long for everyone to be armed.

"What d'yer think yer can do with those?" the captain asked witheringly.

"We generally find a use for them in most situations," replied Snow, accepting an ornate sword from Brant.

Serrel was impressed at the speed and coordination of his unit. He stayed out of the way, and watched the sea seethe with monsters. Fleeing whales sped hurriedly through the water, while huge masses of red tentacles sped after them with alarming tenacity. He watched a giant kraken pass silently under the ship and disappear.

Beside him, Caellix gripped her spear tightly and pursed her lips. Her eyes danced across the surface of the water, seeking the next threat.

Then it happened. A large whale, masses of red tentacles coiled tightly around it, launched itself from the water and slammed straight into the ship nearest them. Serrel heard the sound of wood cracking, and breaking to pieces, then men screaming as their ship came apart around them. He watched in horror as the ship rolled over onto its port side and began to sink, men on its deck sliding down and landing into the sea.

"Hell," said Snow. "Come to starboard, we need to help them!"

"Belay that!" said the captain. "If there be men in the water, they be as good as dead."

"They aren't dead yet."

"There'll be a frenzy! The krakens will attack anythin' that moves!"

"Captain!" Caellix snapped. "There are Legion on that ship. So you can either come to starboard, or you can go _swimming_."

The captain scowled. "Bloody Legion... Fine! On yer head be it! Come about, lads, and tool up! We be in for a fight!"

Serrel held on to the rail as the ship veered towards the stricken vessel. He saw men and woman struggling in the water. Then he saw a vast red shape appear beneath them, and one by one they started being pulled underwater.

He wondered who had been on that ship. If it had held someone he knew.

The ship came upon the floundering crew, and the sailors quickly threw rope and barrels over the side. But anyone unlucky to be in the water was quickly dragged down and lost. The dying crew and members of the Legion aboard did their best to drag themselves onto the wreck of their ship, but it was sinking too fast to give them any real aid.

Serrel watched one woman in a Legion uniform struggling up the side of the almost vertical deck, as a long red tentacle slithered up from beneath her. She screamed as it wrapped around her leg.

"'Scuse me," Holly pushed past him, lifting a bow. She sighted down the arrow at the tentacle, and let fly.

The tentacle twitched in pain as the arrow drove into it. When a second arrow fired by Brant impacted, it let go of the woman and shot back underwater. But just as someone threw her a rope, the woman lost her grip and slid down to join it.

"Damn it!" Holly swore.

Serrel looked at the water, at the red shape beneath the surface. It wasn't too deep.

"Can you hit the body?" he pointed at the long, thick mass attached to the tentacles.

Holly and Brant lowered their aim, and fired. The arrows hit the water, but were slowed down too much and merely bounced off the kraken's thick flesh.

Caellix swore, flipped her spear over and impaled it blade first into the deck of the ship for safe keeping. She turned to the nearest sailor. "You! Harpoon! NOW!"

She held out her hand, and caught the harpoon he threw to her. Then she leapt onto the rail and balanced upon it in a crouch. Serrel reached up and grabbed a hold of her belt instinctively, and braced his feet. Caellix pulled back her arm, aimed, and hurled the harpoon with all her strength.

It sailed through the air, down through the water, and slid through the kraken's flesh. The monster thrashed in pain, tentacles lashing out and hammering anything unlucky enough to get too close. There was the limp body of a man still held in one, flung back and forth like a rag doll.

Serrel caught sight of the harpoon, still lodged in its body. He pointed his staff at it, and pictured in his mind a fist, no, a hammer, slamming down on the end of its shaft like it was a nail, and he thought, _Soa_.

The wave of force he cast struck the harpoon and cracked the shaft in two, but pushed the barbed tip deeper into the kraken's body, and by luck severed something important. Its tentacles continued to writhe and thrash even as it died, until one of the creature's brethren, perhaps sensing its sudden end, grasped it in its own tentacles and dragged it deeper into the sea.

Caellix jumped down from the rail. "Throw the ropes! Quickly, before-"

The ship rocked again, and this time Serrel stumbled and fell on one knee. He saw a flash of red, and threw up his shield, just a pair of tentacles slithered over the side of the ship and struck at him. One tentacle hit his shield and bounced off, giving Serrel a close up view he wasn't really looking for. It was as thick as his leg, its lower surface covered with huge suckers, each one with a vicious curved hook in its center.

He pointed his staff and said, " _Fieren_."

A gout of fire shot from the end of his staff, and burned the creatures flesh, giving off a foul chemical smell that made him light headed. He pushed himself upright, and weaved fire again. The tentacle jerked away, and retreated quickly back into the water.

He looked to his left in time to see Caellix hacking at the second tentacle with an axe until it fell in half and lay coiling on itself on the deck. Then he heard the ship's captain screaming, and spun around.

A second kraken was attacking from the port side. Gigantic tentacles were rising from the water, straight up into the air. They were almost as tall as the ship's mast. Then they dropped, landing on the deck hard enough to break several planks, and causing the ship to bob up and down.

As they slid backwards to the sea, one brushed against the Captain, and sensing him, quickly wrapped itself around his body and pulled him along with it. He screamed in terror as the Hounds and his crew hacked frantically at it, but he was soon lifted from the deck, and carried away.

Serrel ran across the deck, and reignited the flame from his staff. He weaved the fire into a form hotter and fiercer than before, and turned it on the next tentacle. Its flesh blackened and burned in seconds, causing it to lash out in pain. The Hounds hacked and slashed at it, filled it with arrows, until it slid from the deck and disappeared.

When they turned back to the sinking ship, it was gone. On a few pieces of flotsam drifting on the surface and just over a dozen survivors flailing frantically in the water. The Hounds and the crew pulled them out as fast as they could, but could only watch as a red shadow rose beneath the final man and dragged him under.

Serrel looked out across the flotilla, and saw that they were not alone in their battle. Kraken had attacked half the ships, damaging several. Before his eyes, the largest tentacles yet wrapped themselves around one ship and crushed it in half.

Slowly the fight wound down, as the Legion fought off the attacking monsters, and the rest of the creatures set off after the fleeing whales or settled for a meal of their injured or dying brethren. Eventually, the sea was calm again, disturbed only by the wreckage of broken ships. Anything remotely edible was taken.

"Gods," Holly breathed. She was deathly pale.

Caellix shook her head rapidly, and drenched Serrel for the third time. "I. Hate. The sea."

"Yes," said Serrel. "You mentioned."

Snow was barking orders, "Get those men someplace warm and dry. You," he pointed at one sailor who blanched. "You're the captain now, correct?"

"I... I don't know..."

"No? Fine. You," he pointed to the next man. "I hereby dub thee captain of the good ship _Dragonfly_. Congratulations."

"Yes, Sir," the man could only stutter.

"Good man. I know nothing about boats and ship building, so perhaps you would like to take a gander below and make sure we're still water tight and so forth. See about patching whatever damage you can. And take a look at this deck, it would be rather embarrassing if it were to collapse on us now, wouldn't it? Make us look like a right bunch of ninnies."

"Yes, Sir."

"Off you go. You lot. Might as well make ourselves useful. Set course for that vessel there. See if we can't drag any other poor souls from the sea. The rest of you, try to look busy."

"Sir, I can help with the repairs," Serrel said.

"Ship builder, were you?"

"Carpenter."

"Works for me. Good lad, down you go."

"What's that?" said a voice.

Everyone turned to look at Holly, who was staring at the sky. They followed her gaze.

The sun was dazzling, but Serrel thought he could just make out something in the sky, flying high above them.

"It's just a bird," said Brant.

"It's... big..." said a sailor.

"Is that a tail?"

It didn't look like a bird, at least not like any bird Serrel had ever seen. It circled overhead, around and around, then suddenly broke away and flew off, heading east.

To the Faelands.

"I love bird watching as much as the next man," said Snow. "But I don't feel like getting wet again today. Everyone knows what they should be doing, hop to it, chaps."

Serrel made his way below-deck, looking for something, anything to do that could take his mind off the previous moments of his life.

Also By the Author

The Hollow: At The Edge.

" _Well, Fresh Meat, welcome to the Hounds. Don't get comfortable. I expect your stay to be short and messy, with a bloody end_."

In the continuation of "The Hollow", a rebellion has broken out in the mysterious and magical land of Elsbareth, known by most as the Faelands, and Serrel Hawthorne, newly trained battlemage in the Imperial Legion, finds himself separated from his fellow trainees and on the way to a war with a group of battle hardened soldiers who mildly detest him, a sergeant who hates him, and two dogs that just might eat him. And the least said about the man called Dogbreath, the better.

The Faelands were always known as the home of elves and strange beasts. But no one is prepared for what's waiting for the Legion across the sea. Surviving his squadmates is only the start. Here there are real monsters, things that should not be. And soon Serrel has to face up to what he must do, and what he must become to not only survive the coming battles, but save the people he cares about. It will take all his skill at spellcasting, and that might not be enough.

And through it all, the Hollow waits within.

Loss and Sacrifice

This collection contains three short stories in the genres of horror, science fiction and fantasy, all about the things we lose: our humanity, our souls, even our very selves, through choice, through sacrifice, or by the passage of time. All stories published for the first time.

Contains:

_Loyalty_ : When his fields become mysteriously barren, a farmer makes a desperate bargain to save his land and his daughter, but he is unprepared for the new crop he must grow in his fields.

_Of Memories Lost_ : An old and worn out robot on an unfinished journey meets a strange creature on its travels.

_To Die in the Spring_ : They are the Lok'Chang, the Army of the Damned. They were sent against their will to a nightmarish world outside of their own, to find and bring back an item of immense power. They will do whatever it takes to get home again, even though it may cost them everything.

Shreiber and Tome: Unlucky Vamps.

Welcome to Chapter City. Where the undead successfully campaigned for equal rights. Where everyday human beings live alongside zombies, vampires and half demons, and no one really cares so long as no one makes a mess, and no one bites anybody else without permission.

When a serial killer nicknamed the _Vampire Slayer_ begins viciously butchering unlucky members of the blood drinking community, a member of vampire royalty enlists the help of private investigator Lil Shreiber and her partner Michael Tome (ex-warlock) to help track down the culprit. Lil and Tome aren't exactly strangers to the supernatural, and the money is too good to pass. But when the identity of the killer is revealed, the case takes a more personal turn for Lil.

Up against a powerful supernatural creature, with the help of an irate vampire "businessman" (Don't call him a crime lord. Just don't) and an angry FBI agent who really doesn't like them, things soon get bloody. If the pair are lucky, they might survive the case intact. If they're really lucky, they may even get paid too.

Vessels.

Welcome back to Chapter City, where the streets are clean, the nights are exciting, and human beings live mostly in peace alongside supernatural creatures like zombies, vampires and half-demons, and only rarely does anyone try to eat someone else.

After a dead man hires private investigator Lil Shreiber and her partner Michael Tome (ex-warlock) to track down his missing granddaughter, things get awkward when it turns into an unfortunate case of demonic possession. Pursued by angry police and angrier demons, the pair find themselves on the front line of a war against Hell, and in direct conflict with the Antichrist and his morally conflicted henchmen.

Even if she avoids being eaten by demons, shot by the FBI, or vapourised by Tome's incompetent spellcasting, Lil still has to choose between saving the life of an innocent girl, or seeing the world destroyed in an interdimensional war.

And either choice could cost her even more than she realises.
