“Unto humanity, the goddess bestowed twenty-one gifts, twenty one signs of power. Yet, for herself she kept the twenty-second—lest no man desire to make for themselves the hand of the goddess.”
- Book of Leithe, Verse 22
“Of all the esteemed guilds of combat loyal to the great emperors, the spellbreakers were the most proficient in battle; combining the brute strength of the gladiator with the prowess of the arcanist. Spellbreakers today are far removed from their ancient brethren; nothing more than sideshow spectacles, vaudeville acts, and the lowest form of televised ‘sport’.”
- A History of Combat Magic of the Great Empire
“Howdy, howdy, let’s get rowdy!”
- Colt “The Bolt” Tamberly, Spellbreaking Champion
They shouldn’t have been awake. Especially not at this hour of the night. Just as well, they shouldn’t have snuck out of bed—long after Sister Patience’s nightly prayers, her protective spells, spoken soft yet sharp. But most of all, the three boys—Sam, Chester, and Willy, should not have snuck into the caretaker’s office to watch tonight’s Professional Spellbreaking match.
St. Magnus Home for Boys was a cheerless and unattractive building, which was a downright shame, as it was also an orphanage, and orphaned young men tend to do better in more colorful, warmer environments. Or so consensus would tell you. The Home was situated under an elevated trainline that dripped runoff water from the highway onto the broken shingled roof, which in turn leaked into the building, which in turn leaked onto poor, young Sam’s head whenever it rained. Now, both the elevated railway and the orphanage sat at the lower end of Manhattan…but probably not the Manhattan you or I would recognize.
Many boys lived in the house, more than the Sisters could properly mind, in truth, but these were the days after the War of the Empires, and there were many parentless children. It was not exactly a unique predicament for a child to be alone in the world at that dark time.
But here they were, the three delinquents of St. Magnus’ Home for Boys, crammed into a moldy office, surrounded by cleaning implements, lit by the cathode glow of a jumpy TV set. Chester, Willy, and the mop-haired, blonde rascal Sam, whose nickname was Spike, named for a flea-bitten dog that used to eat scraps off the home’s back porch. The good Sisters were forever at odds with Spike’s untameable, stringy blonde, hair, and so often left the poor boy looking much like the ragged, old hound. Thus, the name stuck.
Now, back to the indiscretion.
Any electronics not deemed for ‘functional use’ were considered heretical by the church. The church, you see, was still greatly affiliated with the Alban Empire during the post-war years, and the Empire didn’t exactly like non magical sorts getting their hands on things that often rendered magic useless. Especially devices that could portray images of the truth and not the useful illusions once conjured by the powers that be. Thankfully—or not, depending on who you asked—the Mage Kings were now all dead or rotting in prisons, and the world was a much less mystical place; a world of televisions, skyscrapers, telephones, newspapers, radios, and the like. And, sadly, many orphans.
Still, America was an entire ocean away from the Empire, and the church had bigger problems to manage in the wake of the war. Besides that, the sisters of St. Magnus permitted Caretaker Lyle his vices. Perpetually reeking of whiskey and cigarettes, old Lyle did maintenance on the crumbling house.
The three delinquent boys—all of them ten-years-old—knew the bug-eyed goblin was likely down at the bars tonight, growing drunker by the minute. Chester, who had a keen ear for grown-up gossip, whispered that the man was fond of gambling on dice games.
“I hear the sisters have had to bail him out of the drunkard tank!”
Willy shut him up with a punch to the shoulder.
Now, this part of the story will be better enjoyed if you picture the children with affable, turn-of-the century New York accents—some real newspaper urchin kind of talk.
In any case, the three troublemakers jostled each other in front of the askew card table, where upon the television sat in front of a disorganized tool shelf and buckets of white paint.
“Shuddup—they’ll hear us!”
“You shuddup, dummy!”
“Ow!
Chester, pudgy and freckled, rubbed his sore shoulder while he watched Willy prop up a precarious stepladder for Spike, the smartest one of the three—which was really not saying a lot.
Willy, with watery eyes and a perpetual scowl, nodded impatiently at the shyest of the trio, the little blonde boy with the cherubic, red cheeks, looking more and more like he should be on a can of soup. “Well? Get a move on, Spike.”
Baby-faced Spike bit his lip. He was afraid of heights. Afraid of getting hurt. Afraid of getting in trouble. Afraid of most things, really. But tonight, the reward of Pro Spellbreaking outweighed the promise of any punishment. Spike took a deep breath, channelled the indomitable spirit of his favorite Pro Spellbreaker (who he was about to miss out on watching if he didn’t act soon) and climbed the two steps necessary to reach the table. Though his tiny legs trembled, and his corduroy pants nearly caught on a rusty nail jutting out from the tables’ edge, he reached the TV set with all the triumph of summiting Mt. Everest—which in this world had already been summited many, many ages ago, if you cared to know that.
Spike tuned out his reluctant, squabbling companions, instead tuning the dial to the proper station. This was a mission begun several days ago, when Spike had cleverly scouted Sister Harmony’s newspapers at breakfast time. He’d searched the TV listings for the right time and date, putting his competency lessons to good use. As the only one out of the bunch who could read (in part due to his late parent’s efforts and plenty of babying on behalf of the good sisters) Spike had secured his spot in this criminal enterprise by demonstrating his literacy. Otherwise, Willy and Chester, eternally battling for supremacy among the other boys, wouldn’t have given Spike—small, meek Sam—any notice.
Channels jumped one after the other in a monochrome shuffle. Spike settled the dial on the one he thought correct, but his mistake was apparent right away. A man, a news anchor with soda-bottle rim glasses, sat with his arms folded at a desk in front of a static picture of a grand palace.
“—New Versailles where President Margrave met with Emperor Adelstein to reiterate their commitment to truce. This comes as a great relief to Europeans everywhere devastated by the Empire’s magi assault. Though not present for the talks, the Empress of Japan sent along her envoy, a court onmyoji reporters have identified as a Mr. Ikari of Wakayama Prefecture, in Japan. Reports state that the gentleman gave the assemblage the Empress’ best wishes, as well as personal invitation to the palace in Edo, where negotiations might continue on Imperial turf. Whether or not the Alliance accepts these terms is yet to be seen. Such an event marks a well-received turning point, but the conspicuous absence of the Alban royal family was somewhat of an elephant in the room, as were the Tzar’s representatives from Russia. As discussed earlier in the night, the King’s policy remains that those outside the nobility with magical gifts must be registered under--”
Chester whined, “This is boring!”
Spike panicked and tried again, eager to skip past any mention of the war that had taken his parents. “Found it,” the angel-faced boy said as the picture stabilized, as did the two rambunctious boys, who quieted themselves at last.
It was hard to make out the crowd on such a cheap set. The cracked screen—supposedly the result of the caretaker’s fist after losing a bet—didn’t help matters much either. But as the camera panned over the arena, Spike saw it was packed house. It looked like the show was already underway, which gave Spike a fair share of anxiety—what if he had already missed his hero? Spike knew enough about spellbreaking that they handed out fight cards at these shows so people could schedule when to watch their favorite spellbreakers, but something like that wasn’t easy to come by in a house patrolled by nuns.
Such things poison the minds of young men! Sister Patience had lamented when Spike had once broached the subject. He recalled her confiscating action figures of spellbreakers from some of the other boys. Supposedly all contraband was locked away in a cabinet, never to see the light of day. These confiscations almost made Spike feel less sad about never receiving gifts as nice as figurines and toys. He didn’t need to feel so bad about losing something if he had nothing in the first place.
The camera centered on a ring squared by ropes alternating in blue and red. Though Spike couldn’t make out the runes woven into the ropes, the crystals embedded into the turnbuckles at each corner were more distinct. All, of course, for the purpose of safely containing the action within the ring and keeping the spectators safe—though Willy had casually mentioned that in the older days, the nastier fighters sometimes took out their magic on the crowd to earn the audience’s jeers.
“But they were just plants,” Willy said, to Spike’s confusion. Willy rolled his eyes. “No, not like trees, ya big dummy! Fakes. Actors. They probably had soma in them, so they didn’t really get hurt.”
Spike nodded along, remembering Willy had mentioned that all spellbreakers drank a special potion called ‘soma’ before the fights to help prevent any permanent injury. On TV, a sudden, dazzling display of lights radiated from the scaffolds. The commentors voice set the scene for the impending action. Spike felt a burst of adrenaline, no doubt some of it brought on by knowing he was committing a great misdeed—Sister Patience would be so disappointed if she found out!
If she found out, of course.
“Making his way to the ring. At 210 pounds. All the way from the Alban Empire—the Cold Hearted Killer; the Winter Wizard himself…Blizzaro!”
The arena became a dazzle of white and blue lights. The camera zoomed in on the entrance gate, a gust of arctic wind billowing the excited fan’s homemade signs, which they soon used as shields to protect themselves from waves of cold fury. Back in the moldy office, the three delinquent’s eyes widened, and widened more as it began snowing inside the packed colosseum. A masked fiend, in shocking blue and teal spandex, burst forth from the curtains on a literal wave of ice. Blizzaro, the ice-employing spellbreaker, flipped from his crystalline chariot and struck the frozen ground, fist first, shattering his icy wave into diamond dust, much to the amusement of the (now very cold) crowd.
Well, to some amusement. Half cheers, half boos. As slick, sinister Blizzard made his way down the aisle, he lunged at goggle-eyed young man with giving him the ‘thumbs down’. And to drive the point home that he was not to be adored, the fiend blew a cloud of frozen air at the camera, icing it over. At home, Willy and Chester quietly cheered on the ice-man, while Spike tried to drown them out with softspoken ‘boos’.
“Pipe down!” Chester snarled through gritted teeth. He balled his hand into a fist, all the message Spike needed. But the curly haired boy was much too absorbed in the action to process the threat. He’d already risked his good standing with Sister Patience to get this far. He wasn’t going to let Willy or Chester’s intimidation distract him now.
On TV, the ringside commentator muttered a half-hearted apology while Blizzaro slid between the ropes. “Folks, we’re gonna need to check in with that camera man in a second…”
The ice fiend growled at the referee, well protected by the magic-dampening bangles he wore on each arm, but nevertheless intimidated by the evil wizard’s hulking frame and magical prowess. Spike, with great care, looked to his fellow boys taking in the action, and watched them both shrink back in fear as Blizzaro sprouted jagged shards of ice from his meaty forearm, snatching the microphone away from the ref.
The masked menace looked directly into the camera and spoke in deep, cold tones befitting his fiendish character. “Ladies and gentleman of New York…for too long your proud, steel skyscrapers and skyways have made a mockery of nature. So TONIGHT, I’m gonna’ rain cold fury upon this worthless city and cover it in a thick sheet of UNFORGIVING ICE! I will FREEZE the heart of New York and turn this garbage heap into my frozen kingdom!”
Wicked Blizzaro pulled back the mic and chucked it out of the ring, just as he shattered the jagged ice on his arm, crumbling into snowfall.
“Booo,” Spike whispered, jeering along with the audience. Willy and Chester rolled their eyes. Spike knew they liked the action and the violence, but to him, Pro Spellbreaking was so much more. There were characters here! Heroes. Villains. Drama. And, of course, the innate wonders of magic.
“I like Blizzaro,” Chester proudly proclaimed, which didn’t surprise Spike in the slightest. The bully glowered at his useful companion. “I hope he kicks your guy’s butt.”
But Spike was too distracted by a sudden swell of country rock-and-roll music to bark back. To him, Willy and Chester were miles away right now, and Spike might as well have been ringside at the arena. His heart beat faster in anticipation for the emergence of his hero, his favorite Pro Spellbreaker, a real American hero.
“All the way from the proud Republic of Texas. Weighing at 230 pounds…the Cowboy King, The Lord of the Lightning Lasso, Colt ‘The Bolt’ Tamberly!”
Colt didn’t need the razzle dazzle of pyrotechnics and flashing lights—after all, a demigod always radiated his own energy (And in Colt’s case, often literally). The Cowboy King burst out like buckshot from behind the curtain, and his presence was immediately known.
In time with his icon, Spike shouted the spellbreaker’s catchphrase. “Howdy, howdy, let’s get rowdy!” Which earned him a punch on either side, courtesy of Chest and Willy. Ddin’t matter. Worth it.
Looking more like a rock star than a rodeo darling, the long-haired, blonde spellbreaker was the total opposite of the glacial heel skulking around the ring. His eyes, and his smile, lit up like a storm on a summer’s day, projecting the aura of an action hero. Of course, Colt ‘The Bolt’ didn’t shy away from a bit of flash and flair either. His white, leather vest and chaps were embroidered with lightning bolts, showcasing his signature element and mastery over electricity. They fit snugly over his muscular build, tree trunk legs, and massive arms, which stood at odds with his somewhat boyish, slightly askew face. He was a prairie-bound storm in the shape of a man.
To many, he was one of the best pro spellbreakers on the circuit. But to Spike, he was a god. A hero. A legend. The young boy knew very little about his own father, other than warm, fleeting memories. And the only male figure in his life with Lyle, hardly a role model. To Spike, Colt was the template of what a man should be—strong, tough, kind, heroic and powerful, and always entertaining.
The Cowboy King strutted down the ring. Contrasting his rival, Colt demonstratively personable, stopping to high five younger admirers, shake the hands of older fans, and even give a kiss on the cheek to a pretty woman or two, who nearly swooned back into the arms of her scowling husband (wearing a Blizzaro t-shirt, of course). No threats to the camera man either, only a gentlemanly tip of Colt’s cowboy hat.
Though Willy and Chester frowned at the spectacle on screen, finding Colt to be dreadfully boring and too much of a “goodie-two-shoes” Spike stood in the presence of a giant. Even the way Colt moved, with energy and confidence, suggested the mix of showmanship and athleticism that the best pro spellbreakers demonstrated. Colt was superhuman. Spike didn’t know whether he wanted to befriend him or be him.
It was only when Colt pulled himself right over the top ropes, striking a gunslinger pose for the crowd, that his somewhat showy nature came out. The audience rose to their feet, while in the corner, icy Blizzaro glared daggers at his opponent. Even the ref couldn’t help but smile at the hero.
“He’s going to do it!” Spike squeeked, earning another a cuff on the shoulder from Chester, who silenced his enthusiasm once more.
Sure enough. Colt struck a pose—flexing both biceps—as the air above him crackled with visible electricity, little streamers of forked lightning. A peel of thunder roared over the ring, drowned out by the sudden surge of cheers and waves from the awestruck crowd.
Giddy with hero worship, Spike grinned from ear to ear at his two companions. “That’s called a crowd pop, right? When they do that?”
Chester rolled his eyes. “Yes.”
Good, Spike thought, proud of himself for nailing the terminology.
Unlike Blizarro, Colt was a man of few words, and didn’t need a microphone to get his point across. He locked eyes with his opponent and went from gentlemanly charmer to wild west sheriff about to bring down a bad hombre. Even though New York was a city in another country, far from Colt’s homeland, it was still a humble town in need of defense. The Cowboy King removed the bandana from his neck (another thing for a dirty heel like Blizarro to grab onto) and then stripped off his chaps. Somewhere in the audience, someone—either a man or a woman—wolf whistled. Clad in yellow and white trunks, and white cowboy boots, Colt looked like a Greek or Roman gladiator who accidentally walked into a rodeo. He gave one last wave to the audience, pulled back his long, matted hair into a ponytail, and psyched himself up. With each jump, the canvas shook, reminding Spike that Colt, despite his heroic persona, was still a serious heavyweight.
The two spellbreakers squared off, orbiting each other with menace. Finally, the bell peeled, and the warriors locked up—two clashing titans of lightning and ice. From the precious handful of matches young Spike had witnessed, spellbreakers never launched into magical assaults right away. There was always the build-up to the spectacle.
Warriors like vicious Blizarro and charismatic Colt had to rely on the brawn of the barbarians of yore, while also channelling their inner power, both assets combining into “one fine hell of a spectacle” as the announcers would frequently shout on TV (and wouldn’t Sister Patience just faint if she heard them curse, Spike thought!)
Their meaty arms entangled with each other, Colt and Blizzaro grappled at the start before the ice fiend resorted to dirtier tactics. Unbeknownst to the lightning wielding cowboy (but deliberately telegraphed to the audience) the masked wizard formed a hard coating of transparent ice over his fist. He slammed it, like a cold hammer, right into Colt’s sturdy core.
Whether over-acting or genuine (it was often a mix when it came to spellbreaking, which was ‘mostly real’) Colt stumbled back into the ropes. The runes caught hint of magical runoff and flickered as his muscular frame fell into them.
Spike reeled back in horror, while Chest and Willy sneered. “Get up, Colt!”
Fortunately, the cowboy king shook off the blow, just as Blizzaro went to bring his elbow right down into his opponent. The storm magi pivoted around his opponent and caught him in a hammerlock, violently folding his opponent’s body back into his, and then bringing him down towards the mat. The referee slid in, ready to count out, but Blizarro broke out of the hold with a skilful roll forward.
Spike was on the edge of his seat—or would have been, had he been sitting. He watched with stilted breath as his hero and the chilly villain traded blows, holds, and moves. Subtly, but definitively, the fighters resorted to channelling their inner powers. The ice fiend wrapped his arms around honest Colt’s neck with a headlock, and proceeded to sprout jagged icicles for the purpose of impaling his opponent in the jugular. This was the violence Sister Patience would have balked at if she knew her boys were watching such a vulgar sport, but Spike knew that the fighters were protected from having drank soma before their match. Not only did it dull pain, but it healed wounds in the immediate. So, while Colt grimaced as blood began to leaks from the ice’s razor edge, Spike knew he was in no real danger. Probably.
Besides, his opponent had underestimated him. As did Willy and Chester, lit ghoulishly by the TV set glow, grinning like goblins. They savored the impending defeat of the lightning magi and were prepared to relish in their ‘friend’s” despair at his imminent loss.
“Is this it, folks?” the ringside commentator barked. “Is the cowboy king about to be cut down right in front of our eyes!”
Spike knew better. Don’t give up, Colt. He had obsessed over his favorite spellbreaker’s moveset. He knew his go-to techniques. Muscled chest slick with sweat, his hair matted to the edge of his collar bone, and a trickle of his blood running red over cold ice, Colt face twisted into a look of determination. Though his body showed signs of perspiration, Spike knew this served as a benefit—all the better for Colt to conduct electricity.
Invisible to the naked eye, and likely confusing for the audience, Blizarro suddenly jerked his head back, convulsing violently. Though electrocution forced his muscles to contract further, it broke the ice magi’s hold on his power, causing his frozen daggers to crack, burst, or liquify. It was enough for Colt to muscle his way out of the hold, and push Blizarro back into the ropes.
“What a turnabout!” the announcer spat. Spike could visualize the man’s reaction, spittle and all. In the janitor’s closet, Willy and Chester sulked.
Colt’s chest heaved in and out as he regained his stamina. Spike watched in real time as the bloody puncture marks on his neck rapidly healed themselves, self-cauterizing and closing due to the blessing of the soma coursing through the fighter’s veins. Colt spat onto the ground and looked at his dazed opponent in the eye.
“Now you got me real ornery!” he growled. He extended his beefy arm, and the audience “oohed” and “ahhed” at the crackle of electricity generated by—what, of course—his bulging bicep. The cowboy stampeded forward as Blizarro shoved himself off the ropes and slammed his electrified arm into the dastard—impact and electricity all at once.
“That’s called the electric fence!” Spike proudly stated, a little too loud. Willy shushed him, and Chester—spurred on by the carnage on screen—delivered another punch to Spike’s arm.
He didn’t know who would be bruised more at the end of the night, Colt, or himself. The fragile boy winced in pain, but noticed it quickly subside. Strange. He stiffened, as if he’d been delivered a jolt of soma himself. He chalked it up the excitement on screen. Nothing could distract him from watching his hero save the day, even two idiot brutes like Willy and Chester.
Blizzaro fell to the mat, convulsing. The cowboy circled his opponent. He had transformed from the gentlemanly vigilante at the start of the brawl into something deadlier—a real lawman. Slicked with sweat, hair gnarled and matted, and muscles limber, he looked like one of the spellbreaker gladiators of yore. Spike was in pure awe. Hero worship.
Come on, Colt! Finish off that good-for-nothing snowman!
As if he’d heard the boy’s inner wish, Colt sprang up, ready to deliver an electrified elbow drop into his opponent’s chest. But wouldn’t you know it—the wicked ice magi had been playing possum! He rolled out of the way, so that all Colt collided with was the canvas, which trembled under his impact. The cowboy winced; his thunder silenced.
“No!” Spike whispered. He looked to sneering Chester. “Why doesn’t he just keep on electrifying him?”
The snot nosed kid rolled his eyes. “Dummy. You don’t know the first thing about magic, do you?”
Well, none of them did, Spike thought. The ability to conduct magic didn’t usually appear—if at all—until something Sister Patience called ‘adolescence’, a desperately concealed topic that made the poor nun blush every time the subject was mentioned. Apparently, some people had things inside their bodies called—glyphs—which for people who could conjure magic, were as commonplace as a heart, lungs, or brain. But these ‘glyphs’ didn’t usually activate until someone was ‘of age’, or even later in life for some people.
“It’s like an electric eel,” Chester explained screwing up his face. Willy’s eyes widened. Chester was a lot smarter than he let on, but for some reason he acted embarrassed about it. “That goodie-two-shoes cowboy can only fire it off mostly in short bursts, unless he’s really revved up.”
Then hopefully he gets ‘revved up’ soon, Spike thought. He began chewing on his fingers out of nervousness.
On TV, the lightning magi winced with pain, cradling his elbow, and all the while the ice fiend towered above him, grinning with cold menace. Then—oh no!—he reached down and yanked Colt’s ponytail, pulling him by his hair! The ref saw this and tried to intervene but was blown back by a cloud of white dust, literally spat out by the evil Blizarro.
Spike pointed flutily at the TV set. “But…but he can’t do that!” he said.
Willy and Chester laughed. “That’s what you get for playing by the rules!” Chester said. “Get ready, Spike, cuz your hero is about to be put on ice!”
The wizard yanked Colt’s hair back, and the cowboy let out a painful grunt. Then, the fiend snatched his arm and pulled him into an agonizing stretch, the poor hero put into a vulnerable display. Colt grimaced, and a slow wave of ice began to run the length of his arm to his chest, enveloping him in what was to become his frozen tomb.
“This is it, folks! Blizarro is about to encase poor Colt Tamberly in a prison of ice! There’s no way he’ll be able to make it out of there!”
Spike balled his little hands into fists. Come on, Colt. Come on!
The boy couldn’t imagine how painful that must feel—the cold creep of death slowly enveloping the heroic spellbreaker. Even with the blessing of soma, it looked like Colt was feeling the effects, the anguish in his face slowly giving way to lethargy. The ref sprinted to his side and began to ask him if he wanted to yield defeat.
Heroes don’t give up, Spike thought, willing his idol to push through.
Colt raised his free fist into the air, above his head. Blizarro either didn’t care or didn’t notice, focusing on restraining the titan and injecting more power into his icy finisher. As this slow display of wills unfolded, Spike suddenly remembered a science lesson Sister Patience had taught them. It was a lesson on weather, specifically storms. Spike recalled that lightning always tried to find the quickest way to the ground, which is why things like lightning rods on top of houses helped deter stray bolts from lighting trees on fire—or worse—striking people.
Wait a dang second…
There was a flash on screen, and for a moment Spike thought it was just the jumpy TV set. A blue, jagged bolt of lightning appeared above Colt—conjured up by his magic—and struck the Cowboy’s raised fist. It was all so quick that it was hard to follow the action, but Spike worked it out inside his head. The thousands of volts travelled through the cowboy king—immune to the element—and into his opponent.
The casing of ice shattered dramatically into a fine, glittering dust. Blizarro fell backwards, trailing smoke from being quite literally fried by lightning. Audience members got to their feet, and the announcer sounded to Spike like his head was about to come off his neck.
“BY GAW, WHAT AN UPSET! Colt the Bolt—true to his name—has summoned the fury of the god Zeus himself!”
Now the cowboy stood in a cloud of fine crystal, breathing heavily, his reserves drained. Spike thought his own heartbeat must be matching his idol’s. He had never seen something like this in spellbreaking before (not that he had many other opportunities on which to go by).
In the miniature snowfall, Colt reared his head back and roared, putting both of his fists to the heavens—a thunder god bellowing a war cry. The snow around him took on an electric charge, crackling into a thousand threads of blue and white electricity, sparkling fury around the spellbreaker. He was illuminated in the starlight of his own, raw power.
The flash from the TV also illuminated Chester and Willy, tongues hanging dog-like out of their gaping mouths. They were just as awestruck. Spike grinned from ear to ear. He had to admit, it felt good seeing them shown up like this.
Blizarro was too stunned, too shocked to move. His charred flesh healed itself, blooms of burned skin closing up into buds and dissipating onto his gray-blue flesh. Furious, and in his power, Colt strolled over to the crumpled ice fiend and yanked him by his arms as if he weighed the same as a child.
“Oh no, folks! Here we go—is it going to happen? It is! Colt the Bolt has got Blizarro tucked under his arm like a damn French baguette and he’s dragging him up the turnbuckle. The first. The second. THE THIRD! He’s going for it! The cowboy is about to bring down the hammer of Thor, the wrath of Zeus, the sword of Susanoo, and probably some other storm god I’m forgetting—but it doesn’t matter because HERE WE GOOOO! THUNDER BOLT PILEDRIVER!”
Just as Spike thought the poor announcer would explode from excitement (and himself for that matter), he watched as the cowboy gave his signature lightning strike pose for the crowd. He tucked poor Blizarror between his legs—with thighs like boulders—and hoisted him up into the air. After what felt like an eternity, the spellbreaker jumped so high that Spike thought Colt might slam Blizarro into the rafters. Suddenly, a peel of thunder roared out in the arena, with such a concussive force that it blew the glasses off the poor little old ladies in the front row. Colt and Blizarro became a javelin of electricity as Colt ‘The Bolt’ Tamberly drove the cold creep’s head straight into the canvas with a force hotter than the sun.
The crystals embedded into the four corners of the ring burst with light, and the runes woven into the ropes shimmered—the arena’s enchantment doing its best to contain the force that was Colt’s signature finishing move. The ring shook. Chester and Willy clutched the sides of their faces in unison, and Spike’s eyes glittered like his hero’s lightning magic.
The ref fell to canvas next to the crumpled pile of steaming flesh that was Blizzaro. Colt, crouched over his defeated opponent, and breathing heavily, placed his palms on the defeated ice magi, twitching like a fish thrown onto land.
“Folks, the ref could count to three or three hundred—there’s no WAY Blizarro is getting up from that any time soon! What a SHOW, folks! The cowboy king has done it, and New York City can sleep soundly tonight. The winner of the title fight is none other than the dashing sensation from the Lone Star nation, COLT ‘THE BOLT’ TAMBERLY!”
Through a gap in his long, sweat-soaked hair, hanging down over his face, Colt looked up into the zoomed camera and smiled, once again taking on the humble façade of a heroic warrior.
“Yes!” Spike shouted, ignoring his volume. Chester and Willy—defeated and annoyed—both went to shush him at the same time, but they were cut off by the sound of the office door abruptly thrown open.
“What on EARTH are you three doing in here at such an hour!”
More terrifying than Blizarro, the 5’5” middled aged woman, dressed in the whites and yellows of the church, cast a long shadow over the three boys. The light from the television gave Sister Patience a gaunt, spectral appearance, even though Spike had always thought her rather pretty.
Not, however, when she was upset.
The boys stood stupid and mute in her presence, so shocked that none of them—even cunning Chester—could toss her a plausible excuse. How were they to explain this?
The nun’s piercing eyes travelled over the three boys and their guilty faces, and then upwards on to the TV, where Blizzaro’s convulsing body was presently being carted off on a stretcher to be tended two by healing magi in the back of the arena.
The nun’s face fell, as did Spike’s heart. She made the sign of Leithe on her chest. “Goddess preserve,” she whispered, aghast at what she’d just come upon.
Spike had never gone from such a high to a staggering low so quickly before. His lip trembled. He needed to be brave. More than brave, he needed to beat Chest and Willy to the punch before they laid the blame upon him—their usual methodology.
“S-sister Patience, I can-“
But that was all Spike could utter before his lips sealed themselves of their own accord. Sister Patience traced a sharp line through the air, quite literally ‘zipping’ the lips of her three malcontents. All they could do was stand there in silence and fear—and worse, guilt.
And Spike felt guiltiest of all. Because it had been totally worth it. Because in later days, when Pro Spellbreaking fans would speak about the match between Colt and Blizzaro, with a hushed reverence and a childlike wonder in their eye, he would remember that, despite all that would come after, he would have done it all again in a heartbeat.
____
Sister Patience eschewed violent punishment. Whereas some sisters were fond of the paddle, Sister Patience was—for better or worse—far more inventive. Her glyph channeled the magic of the senses. With the wave of her hand, she could hush a room of unruly boys. Just so, she could take away taste, smell, and all the pleasures of a meal.
Delicacies like ice cream were a bit too sinful for the church, but once a month, a local bakery donated warm, piping hot fruit pies for Sunday meals. As fate would have it, tomorrow night was Sunday. And due to their transgressions, Spike, Willy, and Chester wouldn’t be able to taste or smell it, or anything else for that matter, for a whole seven days.
After being given a stern talking-to, a heaping pile of guilt, and a rather sinister, “May the Goddess be so merciful that she decides not to deliver your young souls straight to HELL,” the boys were given their voices back and dumped into the dorm room with the others.
Sleepy eyes peered in the dark as they heard Spike cry out. Forced against a nightstand, and wedged between Chester and Willy’s cots, the two bullies emulated Blizzaro’s dirty tactics—with Willy holding Spike’s arms behind his back in a manacle, and Chester holding one hand over his mouth to muffle the punches administer to Spike’s soft belly.
“Sissy,” Chester hissed.
Another blow, drowned out by a dirty hand covering Spike’s mouth.
“Weakling.”
Punch.
“It’s all your fault!”
Punch.
The crowd of boys crawled to the ends of their cots and peered through the bed rails, or over the bars. Spike couldn’t move, but he could see them watching. They were re-enacting their own sort of spellbreaking match, one with neither magic nor dignity. And Spike knew that Colt, despite being in the same city that night, was nowhere nearby to save him.
Blow after blow, just like always, just as it had been for five years since Spike had lost his parents to a senseless war he still barely understood. It was the same fate that had befallen most of these boys sitting back, watching him endure punch after punch. Half of them, Spike wanted to believe, were afraid. The other half, perhaps, felt like justice was being delivered, or they were being entertained.
Even through the pain, Spike imagined what he’d do if it was one of the others in his situation. But the sheer fact was that he wouldn’t be able to do much. He was smaller than the others, certainly smaller and weaker than Chester or Willy, who ruled the roost with a deadly mixture of cunning and brute strength. Heroes like Colt could do what they did because they were strong. It was a gift. But just like all other things in life—a warm home, hearty meals, and parents—fate had forgotten him.
Weak. Abandoned. Overlooked. Same as it ever was. And now, as Chester pummelled Spike’s gut, the young boy began to feel something new. A numbness. Perhaps, he wondered, if he was just on the verge of passing out.
But that wasn’t quite the sensation.
In Spike’s mind, a word was forming. A word he couldn’t quite understand, nor a word he had ever spoken aloud before. But it was there, radiating like lightning-struck Earth. Spike thought of Colt, of being like Colt, of channelling his strength. He wondered if it was working.
Another punch. Nothing. No pain. And another.
“Is he knocked out?” Willy whispered, confused.
Chester looked down at Spike, then, stupidly, at his own fist. He shook his hand and began the assault again.
But Spike didn’t feel a thing. In fact, with each hit, he felt his body tighten—and not in a bad way. The pain, the punches, had given way to something like adrenaline, but not erratic or violent. There was energy boiling up inside him—not necessarily rage, though anger was surely part of this strange brew.
Tired now, and concerned, Chester punched harder. And harder. Boys in pyjamas, spectators in this unwitting, one-sided brawl, looked to each other in confusion. Though subtle, the air inside the room changed.
Growling, summoning the last of his strength, Chester slammed his fist into Spike with a pathetic yelp.
Then, Spike looked up.
There was that word again. He could see it so clearly inside his head now. It travelled, through his mind and into his mouth, and then to his lips.
“Enough.”
Chester, heaving and sighing and very afraid, stepped back. Spike felt Willy’s grip start to tremble, slacken.
“What…what did you say?”
“ENOUGH!”
It was as simple and easy as shaking off a blanket, or a tossing a pillow. Spike broke himself free of Willy’s hold, just as the tension—the breaking point of a rubber band—snapped. The next thing Spike remembered was a loud crash, and seeing the bottom half of Chester, his legs, sticking out from the shattered bedside table that Spike had launched him straight into.
Splinter and dust. Wide eyes and dropped jaws. And through the tension, through Spike standing and breathing heavy, with tears in his eyes and a blueish aura sublimating off his skin, there was only the faint sound of Chester whimpering somewhere inside a wooden drawer.
