The Cloud Magician: Book One

By matt crowe

The Cloud Magician was almost dead and another Cloud Magician must take his place.

Jack was a college student, his life revolving around schoolwork, friends, and sometimes girls. Girls like Elizabeth. She didn't want to have anything to do with Jack, but did she have a choice? And what was the deal with the crazy bald guy? And the nightmare creature? And the Lost Magicians? And Ranno? And...

• Language: English
• Publisher: matt crowe
• Release date: Jun 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301842759

Book preview

Chapter 1

Cloud Castle

Rodin was old.

Asleep in a thick purple chair surrounded by books and magical objects in his private reading room in Cloud Castle’s library, Rodin was almost dead.

The fur covering his body, once fair and golden, had turned gray, and in some spots was missing altogether. His fingernails, or claws, you might say, were no longer sharp weapons, having been worn away by time to flaky little stubs. His feet, large and furry, peeked out from beneath an elegant green robe. And a shaggy mane of white hair spilled over his head  —  a head that hung like a cadaver’s against his sunken chest.

With the aid of magic, Rodin had cheated death for many, many years. But death is patient, and Rodin was old.

Lost within the halls of sleep, he dreamt of a distant land. He was sitting in the dining room of his childhood home, his arms resting on the wooden table he had helped his father build. The bright day was streaming in through the open windows at his back, as were the sounds of the forest, and the air was rich with the smell of boiling meat.

He turned toward the kitchen. His mother was standing at the stove, stirring a large pot. She was swaying in harmony with her stirring, making rays of sunlight dance across the back of her tattered cooking apron.

He turned toward the main room. His father was there, lounging on an albock-skin rug. His father was lying on his side, his right shoulder and leg sunk into the rug, his face hidden behind his mane of golden hair.

Light taps, followed by heavier thuds, ran across the ceiling. Rodin looked up and scanned his eyes across the ceiling’s wooden slats. A smile spread across his furry face as he realized that his grandfather must be playing a game of predator and prey with his little sister Arla.

Wanting to join the game, he started to stand up, but his body felt heavy and unresponsive, so he sat back down.

Am I too tired to stand? And if I can not find the strength … to stand … then how can I hope … to climb … the stairs? His thoughts were becoming increasingly sluggish. All I need … is a little … rest. Then everything … everything would be … perfect.

Why not … take nap … at table?

In his dream, Rodin yawned, exposing fearsome teeth. He looked around him. His mother was still standing at the stove, stirring her pot, while his father continued to lounge on the rug. Watching his father rest so peacefully helped Rodin make up his mind. He yawned again, and as he did his head tilted forward, and his eyes closed.

In the north wing of the castle, next to a large staircase, Oureen said, That’s not going to work, Val.

Why not? Val asked.

Because it’s too damn heavy. Oureen was a burly man, which was a good thing for the castle’s head caretaker to be. He was wearing a brown one-piece work suit, a utility belt bristling with little tools, and a black cap on his bald head.

Towering over the caretaker was Val, who had long ago gotten used to people staring at him because of his near freakish size. It’s not that heavy, he said, an antique orange velvet sofa resting atop his left shoulder.

Yes it is. Now put it down.

Val followed orders. THUMP

Oureen winced. Careful! He shook his head. Just what are you doing in the north wing anyway? Nobody comes over here during winter.

Val brushed off his knee-length gray overcoat. Avoiding someone.

And who might that be?

Someone old, mean, scary—

Mixlarnonax?

You guessed it.

Oh. Oureen crossed his arms. So what does Mixlar want with you?

He wants me to go hunting for a jantoch. Ever heard of them? Well I hadn’t either until a couple of days ago. According to Mixlar, they’re easy to track down, but they’re also incredibly vicious. And while I might get lucky and find a lone one, they mostly live in packs. Anyway, Mixlar needs one for a potion he’s cooking up  — he told me he just needs a tongue. Responding to Oureen’s gestures, Val pushed the sofa back against the wall. Now don’t get me wrong, I love to hunt, but do you know where these jantoch creatures live? Deep, and I mean deep, in the mountains.

And it’s the middle of winter.

Exactly. So I was hoping you could use some help.

Thanks for the offer, Val, but I don’t need your help. Why don’t you go bug somebody else? Like the Soens.

The Soens? Val pulled his large, muscular left hand, which was missing its pinky finger, back over his short blond hair. I don’t think I’m welcome over at the barracks right now.

Why’s that?

I made the mistake of telling a Soen woman she was pretty.

Oureen laughed. You didn’t.

We were sparring, Val acted out the encounter, and she had me pinned against the ground  — of course I let her pin me  — in any case, she was lying on top of me, and I found myself staring up into the most beautiful brown eyes I have ever seen.

Oureen laughed again. I can’t believe you told a Soen woman she was pretty.

But she was pretty  — they all are!

You’re lucky she didn’t bite your nose off.

Val nodded agreement. So what do you say? Need an assistant?

No, Val, I don’t. Oureen rubbed his chin. And remember that sculpture? The big one with the wings?

Sure I remember it. But … but that wasn’t my fault.

Of course it wasn’t. Oureen turned and walked away.

Val sighed. All right. He headed for the staircase. Hey, I’ll be on the third floor if you change your mind.

Without looking back, Oureen said, I won’t. He then shouted, And do me a favor, Val, try not to steal anything.

Val froze, his left boot planted on the first step of the staircase. Funny. He resumed up the stairs, Oureen’s words burning his ears. He didn’t appreciate the joke. He wasn’t a thief.

Or at least he wasn’t a thief anymore.

As a street kid growing up in Nemor, the capital city of Rydallya, he hadn’t had many careers to choose from. It was either steal or do something even more distasteful, and so he had become a thief.

At the top of the staircase a serpent with green gem eyes regarded him from a recessed niche. Val smiled. Here he was, surrounded by valuable artifacts, and they meant nothing to him. Stealing had never been about the money; it had been about survival, and later on, adventure.

He started down the wide hallway. An artful display of ornate daggers hung along the wall to his right. Up ahead, a row of waist-high pedestals lined the wall to his left.

He walked up to the first pedestal.

Atop it was an animal, a hand and a half high, chiseled out of marbled red stone. The wiry creature had six long legs and a long neck. Val doubted the sculpture had any magical properties, but it was still a nice piece, one that would fetch seventy, maybe even eighty—

Daydreaming, boy? a crackly old voice asked.

Val jumped. His hip hit the pedestal and he grabbed the sculpture to prevent it from falling. He spun around, the sculpture in his hands. The old man standing there looked more like a zombie than an old man, his faded black robe only enhancing his corpselike appearance.

Mixlarnonax! Val exclaimed. Uh, good … good to see you.

Is it really? Mixlarnonax rasped.

Uh, sure …

Mixlarnonax did not respond.

Unfortunately, I, uh … I need to … get going. I’m … I’m supposed to be—

Quit your prattling, boy. You would think you were the old man here.

Oh, sorry. If this is about that tongue—

Shut up. Shut up and listen, Mixlarnonax snapped. Rodin is in danger.

Rodin is in danger?

That’s what I just said.

And you—

Don’t strain your little brain. Just go help him.

But—

Hurry! Or everything will be ruined. Mixlarnonax turned to leave, and as he did, Val heard him mutter, Not that I really care. The elderly magician moved quickly down the hallway, his black robe flowing across the floor as if he were floating.

Val was confused, but also relieved, seeing as Mixlar had not made a fuss about the jantoch tongue. And as far as Rodin being in danger … well, it couldn’t be that serious; Rodin was the Cloud Magician and this was his castle.

Val suddenly remembered the sculpture in his hands. He turned around and carefully placed it back atop the pedestal. Rodin is in danger? he asked the empty hallway. Then why hadn’t he mentally summoned him, like he usually did? And why had Mixlar made it sound so urgent?

Not that it mattered what he thought. If it weren't for Rodin he would still be rotting in the dungeons beneath King Darvo's palace in Nemor. Or more likely, dead. His life belonged to the Cloud Magician  — literally, as he was magically enslaved to Rodin.

So where are you? Val bowed his head and relaxed his mind. It took him only a few seconds to locate Rodin, somewhere to the southwest. Hmmm, in the reception hall … no, above it  — ah, you must be in the library.

He started back down the hallway. He walked past tapestries and paintings, past doors that led into guest suites, and past a couple of sitting areas, but not past people, as the north wing was rarely used during winter. At the end of the hallway was another staircase and on the left wall just before the staircase was a thick metal door. He walked up to the door, released the siege bolt, and then pushed the door open, the well-oiled hinges making no sound. A gust of cold air whipped over him as he stepped out onto the north upper walkway, prompting him to fasten a few buttons on his overcoat.

The walkway was three floors up, railings to either side, and as he tramped through the shin-high snow he could not help but aim his fierce blue eyes toward the Eidoroc Mountains. The towering, jagged, snowcapped peaks surrounded the castle