July Short Story [Marchosias, Zaxis Story]

Hey peeps!

So, this is a short story I had started a while back. I decided to finish it!

Zaxis and his new eldrin are heading to Astra Academy to help with the assault on the abyssal hells!

Shami

Marchosias

Zaxis Short Story

            I have become an arcanist three times.

            The first time, I was a phoenix arcanist. Forsythe will forever live in my heart. Even in my dreams, whenever I glanced in the mirror, I was a phoenix arcanist.

            The second time, I was a god-arcanist. Vjorn was raw power, and gave me the strength to move on from Forsythe’s death. Sometimes, when the cold winds blow by, I wondered if it was the fenris wolf come to pay me a visit.

            Now, I was a senmurv arcanist…

            “Are you paying attention?” Illia called out, tearing me from my thoughts.

            We stood on the deck of the fanciest airship I had ever ridden on. It was some bloated, gigantic flying vehicle made from the bones of a wind fish—or whatever those flying whale creatures were called. The ship, the Midnight Blues, had five decks, several luxuries on board, including a pool, for some blasted reason.

            I ran a hand down my face, chasing away the last of my thoughts. The wind whipped through my red hair, and I scratched at my beard.

            “I’m paying attention,” I said.

            “It took you thirty seconds to respond.” Illia lifted an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “We’re supposed to be sparring.”

            She stared at me with two eyes. Yes, two—for a long time she only had one, as the other had been taken from her. But now…

            One wasn’t real. It was an artifact. The eye moved in time with her other eye, so it wasn’t completely noticeable that it was fake, but up close there was no denying it was made of metal and magic.

            Well, that and it glowed gold, slightly. That probably gave away that it was magical as well.

            Illia noticed me staring. She frowned as she ran a hand over her face, covering the artifact eye. “Are we going to spar?” she insisted.

            “Of course.” I motioned to my whole body. “I was born ready. Come at me with everything.”

            With a smile, Illia fell into an offensive stance. She wore tight, but flexible pants, a tunic that was secured at her waist with a belt, and thick gloves. Her brown wavy hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her boots were shiny. She looked prepared for adventure—which was her default attitude.

            It was one of the things I loved about her.

            “You’re totally not paying attention,” she muttered.

            I scoffed.

            Then Illia disappeared with a pop noise and a puff of silvery glitter. A moment later, after another pop, she was right in front of me.

            She threw a right hook while evoking white flames at the same time. They weren’t hot flames; they were the disintegrating flames that all rizzel arcanists had access to. She loved it when I taught her how to punch, and ever since then, she’s tried to incorporate it into her fighting style. Illia had learned that if she slammed her hand against something as she was evoking her magic, she could really tear it apart.

            Fortunately for me, I was a little faster.

            I dodged back and her white-flame fist passed by. Then she threw a strike at my body, and I side-stepped out of the way and grabbed her arm, almost as one swift motion. Her eyes widened as I threw my weight, and incredible strength, into flipping her over.

            I would’ve slammed her onto the deck of our luxury airship, but Illia popped out of my grip a second before it happened.

            “Damn teleportation,” I murmured as I shook my head.

            Several people were watching from a distance. This ship wasn’t only for Illia and me—it was a cruise through the skies for arcanists and wealthy families who wanted to take in the views. At least a dozen of the other passengers thought we were insane for sparring.

            Most of them weren’t warriors.

            However, since I had once been a god-arcanist, absolutely no one told me to stop. They let me do whatever I wanted, basically, so long as I wasn’t hurting anyone.

            “Is that man fighting his wife?” one snooty lady whispered. She wore a dress so fine, silky, and covered in gold chains, that I suspected it was worth more than a small nation. “How barbaric.”

            I rotated my shoulders and sighed.

            Everyone was so damn soft nowadays. Back in my day, there were pirates, and plague-ridden monsters, and—

            Pop.

            Illia appeared behind me. I whirled on my heel, but it was too late. She placed a hand on my shoulder, and with a coy smile she said, “I told you that you weren’t paying attention.”

            Then her magic flooded me.

            I tried to resist—I tried—but Illia had gotten too damn good at forced teleportation. I couldn’t even voice a quip before I was popped through space. And it never felt good. It always felt like I was being crammed through a tunnel three times too small for my body. Fortunately, teleportation lasted half a second.

            When I popped back into reality with a cloud of silvery glitter, I was twenty feet off the side of the airship. With a slight gasp, I tumbled through the air, heading straight for the ground below, picking up speed at an alarming rate.

            Fortunately, whenever I got into jams like this, my instincts kicked in. While my mind was frozen in panic, my muscles and magic seemed to work on their own. I had been through one too many near-death experiences—now my body acted automatically whenever I was in danger.

            I used my senmurv magic. Augmenting myself gave me the ability to fly. Not with wings, but just… through the air. The instant I activated my power, I gradually slowed and then just hovered midair.

            The Midnight Blues coasted leisurely over the clouds, its massive hull parting the weather as it soared toward the setting sun. The people on the deck of the airship were glancing around with wild eyes, searching for me.

            I flew over.

            It was a surreal sensation, soaring without moving much of my body. It was almost odd. Sometimes, I would fly at night, and close my eyes, and wonder if this was how Forsythe felt whenever he glided.

            Thankfully, I had been a senmurv arcanist for decades. My magic was strong, though not as strong as the fenris wolf’s. I flew at an impressive speed, and I effortlessly caught back up to the airship.

            When I gracefully landed on the deck, the other arcanists pointed and clapped, as though we were part of the ship’s entertainment.

            “Is that the Red Wolf?” Someone else whispered. “The mighty god-arcanist from the war?”

            “It is,” another chimed in.

            “Oh, how wonderful. He must be showing off.”

            I ignored their admiration as I glanced around for my wife. Well, I didn’t ignore them entirely. A small part of my ego—perhaps all of my ego—enjoyed their staring.

            Yes, I was the Red Wolf. How did you figure it out? Was it the mane of flaming red hair? The equally impressive red beard? My praise-worthy physique? The combo of all these things?

            But I said nothing. They didn’t want to hear me gloat.

            I’d just boast to Illia later tonight.

            Pop.

            She appeared behind me again.

            “You are so distracted today,” Illia playfully stated.

            When I whirled around this time, it was with my elbow out, hoping to catch her off guard. Illia narrowly dodged aside; her eyes wide as she did so. She didn’t think I would surprise attack, obviously.

            Then I held out my hand and evoked raging fire. It torrented out from my palm, the orange, red, and white flames so hot, they scorched the air. And the deck.

            All the onlookers gasped.

            Illia, however, ported straight out of my evocation. When I stopped, she was nowhere to be found. All I had done was blacked the deck a bit.

            Embers and flames still burned around me. Some of the other arcanists pointed and started calling for help. I waved my hand and all the fire died instantly.

            Senmurv arcanists weren’t afraid of a little heat. We could manipulate it as well as evoke it.

            I heard another pop, but when I turned on my heel, I didn’t see Illia. Instead, weightlessness came over me. My boots left the deck of the ship, and I began to float upward.

            “Illia,” I barked. “I told you I hate this!”

            Her chuckling emanated from behind a group of arcanists. She had hidden herself so she could manipulate gravity without me spotting her first. Rizzel arcanists were so annoying.

            The Midnight Blues continued to sail ahead, and I just went upward. It was leaving without me—and unlike last time, my augmentation couldn’t help. My flight ability seems tied to the wind and gravity.

            Which meant whenever my wife used her gravity manipulation, I was left stranded in the air.

            “Illia,” I shouted again.

            The airship sailed on, leaving me in the air. I sighed.

            Then I heard the flap of wings, and for a moment, I pictured Forsythe. Once I managed to twist my body around, I realized it wasn’t my first eldrin to come to rescue me—it was my third.

            Marchosias.

            Actually, I just called him Marc. It was easier, and… comfortable.

            He was a majestic mystical creature. He had the body of a wolf, and the wings of a red hawk. His fur was black and lustrous, and his wings large and mighty. He was a senmurv—a rare type of creature that was said to be a cousin of the phoenix.

            And I believed that.

            Marc flew over and then circled me in the air, his tail wagging.

            “My arcanist,” he said, flashing his fangs in a smile. “Do you require some help?”

            I exhaled. “Just get me out of this little gravity bubble.”

            “It would be my pleasure.”

            Marc flew around me, his wings outstretched as he elegantly made tight circles around the gravity-impaired area. His wolf ears and eyes were ever vigilant. It didn’t surprise me that he found me so quickly, even though he had been sleeping on the deck of the ship not but minutes before.

            Then Marc dove through the sky straight at me, his wings tucked tight against his body. He grabbed my jacket with his fangs and tugged me out of Illia’s magic as he soared toward the ground. The moment I was free, I augmented myself so that I could fly as well. Then Marc tilted upward, and we both took the clouds above.

            “Ah, this is no fun!” a familiar voice said.

            Nicholin poked his little rizzel head out of Marc’s black fur. He offered me a mischievous smile as he rubbed his ferret-like face.

            “What are you doing here?” I yelled.

            Nicholin waggled a finger. “I was tempted to trap you both in a little gravity well, but I’m feeling generous. I’ll let you get back to the ship, but only under one condition.”

            “You’re such a weasel,” I said.

            “Tsk. Tsk. It’s called strategy.” Nicholin stuck out his tongue and pointed at me. “I want Illia to take us to the dessert room on the ship! But she absolutely refuses!”

            With a laugh and a roll of my eyes, I angled toward the airship and flew back. Marc kept up, his wings beating hard. Nicholin held onto the fur around his neck, his ears twirling in the wind as we sped up toward our destination.

            “Marc wants to go, too,” Nicholin said, his voice being carried away by the wind.

            When I glanced at my eldrin, he gave me a sheepish dog smile. Marc definitely wanted to visit the dessert room.

            Marc, Nicholin, and I landed on the deck of the airship. A couple of arcanists applauded. That made me a bit happier. I bowed for them—even if that was preposterous. The clapping grew louder, so I bowed again.

            Pop.

            Illia appeared next to me. Her arms were crossed, and she was tapping her foot.

            “What’re you doing?” she asked.

            I stood straight and smoothed my jacket. “I could ask you the same thing. I thought we were sparring, not leaving me to float out in the middle of nowhere. Literally.”

            Illia smirked and then dismissively waved away my complaint. “You’re fine. Don’t be a baby.”

            Marc walked over to my side. He was at least six hundred pounds, and some people thought he was somehow one-third bear along with wolf and hawk. When he snorted, some embers burst from his nose and mouth. Then he shook his head and took a seat.

            I patted Marc on the head, scratching behind his ears. “We don’t need to keep sparring.”

            “Don’t you remember what Adelgis sent us?” Illia stared up at me, her artifact eye glowing brighter than before. “He said there’s a chance the abyssal hells could open. We might have another war on our hands.”

            “I remember,” I drawled.

            “We have to be ready. I don’t want our family to get hurt. Or anything we’ve built to be destroyed. I just… I couldn’t stand it.”

            I gave Marc one last pat. “It’ll be fine. We’ve dealt with worse.”

            That made Illia smile. She rolled her eyes. “Have we? I don’t think so.”

            I stepped close to her and wrapped both my arms around her waist. “Oh, we have. Pirates. Crazy people. Gods. Death itself. We can handle this. And I’ll make sure nothing happens to our family.”

            Illia wrapped her slender arms around me. She was so much smaller. It was adorable.

            “You need to trim your beard,” she whispered. My whiskers tickled the side of her face.

            “Maybe,” I said.

            Nicholin popped into existence on her shoulder. Then he hopped onto my shoulder and then onto my head. He was a little too big, though. His claws hurt my scalp.

            “Remember our deal?” he asked.

            “Deal?” Illia lifted an eyebrow.

            “We need to get dessert,” I said. “Or else apparently your fink of an eldrin is going to strand me in the sky again.”

            “Hey!” Nicholin barked. “You’re not supposed to snitch on me!”

            Marc wagged his tail. “It’s true, my arcanist. A pack sticks together. You can’t rat him out like that.”

            Ugh. I was getting berated from all sides now.

            “Fine,” I said with a groan. “I want to get dessert, and I need everyone to accompany me because I’m self-conscious.”

            That got everyone laughing. My eldrin leaned against my side, his hawk wings tucked tightly against his body. He looked much more like a happy dog when he glanced up at me… And he reminded me of Vjorn.

            I was an arcanist three times over…

            But I didn’t think I would change a thing.