When the Archmage descends from his tower, it usually means death.
The challenge rang out across the campus. Master Mage Loreili from Ireland was going to take over this rag-tag group of American mages, and bring the right order of the Rosicrucians, the secrets of the society, back into its dark ages. No more would there be books on secrets, of daemon summoning, out and about in any bookstore in America. No more would anyone of any stripe call themselves “mage” and cause horror and chaos in these United States.
Master Mage Loreili demanded the Archmage to come forth. So he did.
He was young, dressed in purple robes. His blond hair had been tied back with a thong, of which on its ends were braided feathers. His gray eyes took in the master mage.
“I hear you’ve been making noise,” said the Archmage. “Something about ‘You’re doin’ it wrong.'”
“You have betrayed the secrets of the order,” Loreili yelled, and the young Archmage rolled his eyes. “You have caused chaos!”
“Really, now. I don’t exactly see the city of Los Angeles fallen into the sea just yet.”
“You have no idea what you’ve done.”
“I have plenty ideas of what I’ve done. I’ve made us free.”
“Americans,” spat Loreili.
“Yup.” The feathers took wind as the Archmage nodded, lifting the thong’s ends, and then pulling away from the edges of the thong, to float in the air around him. “See, we are all free, mages and masters, daemon and spirits. All free to choose what we shall do.”
“You must control the daemon or they will destroy you.”
The Archmage smiled, raised his hands. The feathers floated to the ground, and as soon as they touched the earth, they shimmered – and what stood before him on either side were two large warriors atop two warhorses. Loreili began a spell, and the Archmage patiently let him finish it.
“Gentlemen,” said the Archmage, and one horse pawed the ground, leaving a furrow a foot deep. “Go to.”
The warhorses easily battled through Loreili’s shield, and repeatedly speared the hapless Master Mage until he was a pile of blood and flesh and bones in the ground. The warhorses feasted on the flesh, while the Archmage shook his head.
“Live free or die.”
(This could be a possible prologue for the Grimaulkin novel I’m rewriting…again…for the fourth time.)