Practical Arcanology
Oro’s fingers hovered above the damp earth, willing the spell to take hold. The soil shuddered in defiance, and he grimaced—he didn’t need a reminder of why no one wanted this job. The movement of soil was considered by most to be the lowest school of magic. Oro had dreamed of fireballs, maybe even foresight. Now he commanded dirt. Literally.
Dark clouds rolled in, thick with wood smoke from the valley below. Soon, Brimgarth’s new ward would rise—but first, they had to deal with the temple buried in its way. That meant red tape, a delay in construction, and the consultation of an arcanologist. There was no guarantee this half-buried temple was cursed, but Guild records were often disturbingly accurate. Some mighty members of the first civilizations had decided this picturesque hill was the perfect place to build an altar to worship their gods. Now the Brimgarth city council wanted to plough a set of tenement houses right through it.
Probably good for land value, Oro thought. Two up, two down, nice garden and only slightly haunted.
“By Yeldrim’s beard, will you stand there all day?”
Wyke was supposed to be Oro’s assigned protection for the job. Almost every guildsman got a swordslinger to watch their back in the field. All this particular mercenary had done, though, was complain.
“Magic requires concentration.” Oro’s fingers twitched again.
“I could’ve had it dug with a shovel by now.”
Oro’s mind raced through the survey details. It was mostly thin siltstone in these parts. He adjusted his fingers, pulling the magic tight like a frayed cord. The earth trembled, resisting him for a moment, then split open with a groan, mud collapsing into neat walls. The mud collapsed inwards, packing itself into two solid walls, rearranging a thousand tiny stones into a passageway down into the heart of the hillside.
The tremor in Oro’s chest settled. A bead of sweat ran down his nose.
The moment shattered at the sound of Wyke’s sarcastic applause.
“Finally! Though I’ve seen more impressive magic at children’s parties. I’ll go and fetch the slickfinger, and we’ll set to sorting the place out, shall we?”
They descended, a lantern’s glow flickering across walls long untouched by light. The tunnel yawned into a narrow passage, air thick with dust and age. At its end, two crumbling doors barely held together, guarding a forgotten antechamber. Oro’s shadow darted across grey stone studded by marble columns thrice the height of a human.
Wyke, peering over Oro’s shoulder, whistled through his teeth.
“Who would have thought, eh? Bet there’s some shiny things here just waiting to be found.”
The mercenary started to shove his way past, but something caught him by the collar.
“Let the mudmancer check the place before you go stamping about.”
Riyah was nicer than the mercenary, but not by much. Almost every job needed a slickfinger — someone trained in the art of treading exceedingly lightly, squeezing into tight spaces, and taking apart locks mundane and ancient. Riyah excelled at all three, not least because of her short stature, something natural to the halbing people.
Oro looked into the chamber. It was triangular and large enough to fit a score of standing humans. Alcoves set into the walls likely meant parishioners changed their clothes here, keeping them in little boxes for later. At one face of the triangle, away to their right, was a sizable iron-banded door, shut tight and likely locked.
“I’ve not heard of many changing rooms to be cursed,” Oro said, “but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
His hands grabbed at the bandolier across his chest: a set of pouches stocked by the Guild for almost any occasion they could think of. Having little in the way of natural magical power made those skilled in arcanology pretty resourceful—and a friendly relationship with the dwarven runesmithing clans didn’t hurt either. Oro plucked a small totem from one of the pouches. A grinning rat stared back at him, almost mocking him. He didn’t waste time admiring it—he rubbed its belly, feeding it magic in slow pulses. When the totem’s beady eyes began to glow a sickly green, he reached back and tossed it into the chamber. The totem clattered across the stone floor, spinning to a stop. Oro had barely blinked before it shattered with green sparks erupting like fireworks. From the smoke, spectral rats spilt out in a torrent, their glowing tails leaving neon streaks as they raced across the floor. They swarmed every corner, scurrying into cracks, and wriggling under stones. Then, just as suddenly, they vanished one by one, popping out of existence like bursting bubbles.
Oro breathed a sigh of relief. He turned back to look at Wyke and Riyah.
“It’s safe,” he said. “I think.”
Wyke blinked. “You think?”
Riyah pushed past him, swiping the lantern from his hands. She stepped gently onto the flagstones, waited, and then nodded in satisfaction.
“Nice work,” she said. “I’m not dead.”
She crossed to the ancient entranceway, unslinging her slickfinger’s haversack. The chamber rang with jangling metal implements.
Wyke and Oro followed, content to let her nimble fingers set to the task.
“Decent job, that,” grunted the mercenary.
“Thanks,” replied Oro, genuinely surprised at the small compliment.
“What other tricks have you got in those bags?”
“Negation wards, charms… The Guild learned fast after a few of us returned peppered by poisoned arrows.”
Wyke sniffed. “Not sure why you’ve brought me along, then.”
“Do I look like I know how to fight?”
“I can answer that!” said Riyah, a handful of lockpicks sticking from between her lips.
“Sometimes it’s more than pressure plates or hidden floors,” continued Oro. “Sometimes it's reanimated suits of armour, or…” he shivered. “Undead.”
“Don’t think I’ve ever killed a zombie,” Wyke said casually. “Stabbed a werewolf once, though.”
Oro blinked. “Did it work?”
“Not really.” The mercenary looked around the room. “Who built this place, then?”
Oro glanced at the runes etched into the walls. “Forebears,” he muttered. “Ancient, pre-humanoid. Dangerous.”
Wyke raised an eyebrow. “How dangerous?”
“They didn’t leave pictures, only warnings,” Oro said, stepping closer to the script. “Best not ignore them.”
Riyah leaned against the door, fingers twitching as she worked the lock. “They hide any gold in here, or do we have to keep listening to ancient history?”
“Interestingly, their material culture was quite-”
She yawned loudly.
“Fine,” said Oro. “Point made.”
They stood silently for a while, save the jingling of Riyah’s hands working at the lock.
“Wyke,” said Oro.
“Hmm?”
“Why did you stab the werewolf?”
The mercenary thought for a moment. “I was in a pub, that I do remember.”
“Maybe he was being obnoxious and loud,” offered Riyah. “Maybe he was making a racket while someone else was trying to concentrate.”
“How much longer are you going to take, anyway?” asked Wyke, analogy sailing completely undisturbed over his head. “It can’t be that complicated.”
“It’s extremely complicated,” Riyah muttered, her tools clicking against the lock. Oro could hear her concentration in the silence, the occasional curse slipping through her teeth as she worked.
“Too complicated for this place to be some run-of-the-mill temple, I’d say.”
A loud click echoed through the chamber, followed by a sharp crack. Riyah sprang back as the massive stone doors groaned open, dust raining down. The centuries-old mechanism shifted, grinding stone against stone as the entrance revealed itself inch by inch.
The chamber beyond was more than any of them had imagined. Rectangular in shape, it sloped downwards from a set of walkways lining the sides. Set into the slopes at regular intervals were long ridges, wide enough for a person to sit on, pockmarked by indentations. Above, connected to the walkways, three more sets of doors led elsewhere, one for each side of the rectangle. Oro reasoned they were other entrances—through which more people would have filed to take their places.
Oro fished around in his bag and produced a small lump of arcane granite. Compressing it between two palms, he shook it slightly. A soft purple glow radiated from the stone, illuminating the scene at a greater distance than the jangling oil lantern could ever manage. Wyke and Riyah followed behind, stepping carefully.
“What are all the holes?” asked the mercenary.
“I think there used to be seats here,” replied Oro. “Maybe made of wood or some organic material. It’s rotted away, leaving their moorings.”
“Seats all arranged in sides,” breathed Riyah. “It’s like some kind of stadium.”
“But there’s no pitch, no arena,” added Wyke. “There’s just some plinth in the middle.”
He was right; the slopes ended at the foot of a square dais of polished black stone. In its centre, surrounded by neatly carved runnels and spiralling etchings, lay a perfectly spherical object. There was something off about it: looking at the plinth dried the mouth and forced the tongue to the back of the throat.
“Wait,” Oro snapped, his voice sharp. “Stay back.”
Riyah paused mid-step. “Why?”
Oro pointed at the sphere. “That is bad news. Trust me.”
“What about the other rooms?” asked Wyke.
Oro had barely heard the question, his eyes glued to the sphere. “Have at it, just be careful. Riyah was right—this is no ordinary temple.”
Spheres were wrong. The forebearers hated that shape. In all the Guild records Oro had seen, the first civilizations had never scrawled anything so much as a circle. They liked their swirls, sure, but it seemed to be almost blasphemous for them to connect two curved lines. Some of the guild scholars theorized they valued certainty, and the endless loop of a sphere or circle represented the horror of the unknown. This was like finding a fishing boat in the middle of a forest, or a university student in the library.
He descended carefully. The chamber defied everything Oro knew. No records, no stories had ever hinted at something like this. It wasn't just the air that felt wrong, it was the space itself—something that unsettled the core of his being. A creeping sensation crawled over his skin, a warning that his body understood before his mind could catch up. As he neared the platform, the altar radiated a repulsion so primal it was like walking against a rising tide. Each step forward sent his instincts into a frenzy, begging him to turn and flee. His hands trembled as they scrambled through his pouches, fingers closing around a small, cold totem. He pressed it to his chest. Relief bloomed in the form of soft, glowing energy, curling around him in protective layers, a warmth that felt as distant and fragile as a childhood memory. Kneeling beside the platform, Oro’s sweat mingled with the dust of the ages. His fingers traced the swirling script carved into the base—symbols older than any language he'd studied. Translating it felt like unravelling a dream. The syllables slowly surfaced, half-formed in his mind, his lips whispering each fragmented word: entropy, despair, defilement. The story of the temple unfolded in broken whispers, each word a puzzle piece that felt both too ancient and too real. More words were repeated in varying styles and synonyms: lost, newborn, purging.
Oro’s mouth ran dry, a primal feeling beginning to formulate in his gut. The “newborn”? Humanoids had arrived in the kingdoms a mere few years after the last records kept by the forebearers. Then their civilization had vanished from the face of the world. Did this device have something to do with it? Why would they craft it into one of their most profane symbols if that was the case? A single thought rocketed through the mists of his worries, stamping itself heavily into the back of Oro’s mind: This is way above my pay grade.
“Sorted it then?” Wyke appeared as if from nowhere, his face flushed and his arms full of tat gathered from the other rooms. He peered at the sphere. “What does it do?”
Oro tensed. “Remember the part where I said not to go near this thing?”
“Relax! Riyah and me have been through the other rooms and they’re as quiet as a graveyard. Just some rotted old cloth and a few baubles in copper and bronze. This is a load of hassle over nothing. Come on, let me have a closer look.”
Graveyard. The word echoed, unsettling, through Oro’s thoughts. These alcoves—they weren't for offerings. No, something was wrong. If this had been a place of worship, why were the belongings still here? They should’ve taken them back, unless… They hadn’t intended to leave. His breath caught as the realization settled like a stone in his gut: they had come here to die.
Suddenly the mercenary’s meaty hand was in front of Oro’s face, index finger moronically pointed and headed inexorably towards the sphere.
“Wait!”
Wyke turned, confused. His finger grazed the polished surface and, in an instant, his entire form disintegrated. There was no scream, no reaction at all. One moment he stood, flesh and bone, and the next he was gone, body dissolved into a fine cloud of ash that lingered in the air like a bad memory.
A wave of magical power rippled across the sphere, froze and exploded. It wrenched Oro from his feet and tossed him like a ragdoll six or seven rows up the steps. He crashed against stone, pain lancing through his back. The sphere began to glow a lurid purple, the air shimmering with malevolent energy. Pure negative magic dripped from the sphere like honey. Soon the platform was covered, and then the bottom row of steps.
Riyah burst through one of the open doors. “What in Andeia’s name is going on?! Where’s Wyke?”
“Gone!” Oro scrambled, hands desperately seeking purchase on the smooth stones.
Riyah’s eyes were glued to the glowing sphere. “What?”
Oro tore through his packs, scattering totems and charms in blind desperation, like a frantic child. Each one tumbled down the steps, only to disintegrate upon contact with the seething mass of chaos that flowed from the sphere. It rose like a tide, barely visible save for crackling arcs of magical light bouncing from its surface.
Riyah darted from step to step to reach him, her face pale, breath rapid.
“That’s why there’s no seats!” Oro cried out. “The sphere destroyed them, everything and everyone who came in here. They came here to obliterate themselves!”
Riyah grabbed at the collar of his shirt, unhearing or uncaring. “We have to get out of here, mudmancer!”
Oro staggered to his feet. “We can’t!”
“We bloody well can.”
“You don’t understand. If this gets out of here, it will flow outside, down the hills, and into the city. It will kill everyone it touches. We have to stop it.”
“How do we stop that?” asked Riyah.
They clambered away, to the highest points of the stone steps, both unable to look away from the roiling magical effluence that followed them.
“The doors we broke in through must have some kind of sealant on them. That's why it took you so long to crack them. We just get back into the first chamber, close the door, and lock it back into place. Then we get out.”
Riyah’s face fell. “I broke the lock.”
“You what?!”
“I snapped the mechanism to open the door, how was I supposed to know how important it was?!”
White-hot terror surged through Oro’s veins as the magic climbed ever closer. It reached hungrily for their feet, a pulse of raw chaos that would soon overtake them. Oro didn’t think—he yanked Riyah towards the first chamber, dragging her through the threshold just as the tide threatened to swallow them. He lunged for the door, hands clawing at the stones. Riyah darted beside him, her voice a sharp whisper.
“We need to seal this now!” She didn’t wait for an answer, her hands already searching for a solution, eyes wide with panic as the magic swelled behind them. “Use your mudmancy!”
“What?” Oro backed away from the door, wary of the rising magic.
“Your arcanology, you idiot! You can move earth, right?”
“Right…”
“So grab a ton of the stuff and shove that door back into place!”
He looked from Riyah to the door, and then back to her again.
“I’ve never used the earth to move that much weight before! It’s high-level practitioner stuff.”
Riyah crossed the space between them. Her hands grabbed at Oro’s collar, pulling him down level with her scruffy face.
“You’re going to let everyone in the city die because of your self-esteem issues? It’s not your fault Wyke copped it. It will be your fault if I die, though, and I have five very hot-blooded brothers who would surely find a way to pay you back for it.” She shoved him away. “Now move the bloody earth!”
Oro spun on his heels, unsure now what he was more afraid of. He closed his eyes, heart pounding. His mind searched for memories of every lecture and lesson on practical arcanology he had only half-listened to at the time: how to grasp at the sediment, to compress stones so tiny that even earthworms paid them no heed. Then to bring them together, compress them into a solid mass. The most outstanding practitioners in Guild history had raised entire buildings from deep underground, knowing the power of the soil. All Oro had to grasp was a modicum of it to move a door.
“Just move the door,” he whispered to himself. “Please move the door.”
His hands shot out, fingers splayed. He extended his focus seeking out gaps in the stone. He found the embrace of ancient rock, the musk of loamy soil. He contorted the digits on his hands, manipulating ribbons of translucent magic like a malevolent puppeteer.
“Oro…” said Riyah, unsure.
“Come on, come on,” Oro muttered, sweat pouring into his eyes. The earth responded sluggishly, barely stirring beneath his command. He gritted his teeth, forcing the magic into the soil. But the steps trembled, resisting his will. The tide of chaos was almost at their heels. “Move, damn you!”
Sweat ran down his face, though he couldn’t feel it. All he felt was the pressure of the earth, all he heard was the dead noise of the depths.
The tide of magic spilt up to the door’s edge, the first flows already rushing towards the door.
“Oro!” Riyah screamed.
Muscle fibres tearing, finger joint cracking, Oro slammed his hands together. The doorway shuddered under the weight of several tons of earth. Its moorings held for a heartbeat then cracked. Two enormous stone slabs crashed together, shutting the chamber away once more with a thrum of nullified magic. A fizzing droplet of the sphere’s lifeforce spun and bounced from flagstone to flagstone, before hissing away to nothingness. The chamber fell into darkness. Oro’s legs gave out, and he slumped to the ground, heart hammering in his chest. The chamber was still, the dark magic sealed away. Silence followed, broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing.
The promised storm was well underway by the time they clambered free from the earthen passage, clothes soiled and stained, faces sweaty, and breath ragged. Oro tumbled onto his back, letting the rain wash onto his face.
Riyah exhaled sharply, wiping the sweat from her brow as the rain soaked through her clothes. She glanced at Oro, sprawled beside her in the mud. “Next time, let’s pick a job that doesn’t involve ancient cursed spheres, yeah?”
Oro stared at the sky, rain mingling with the sweat on his face. “Wyke... I couldn’t stop him. It happened so fast.”
Riyah glanced down at him, her expression softening for a moment. “He knew the risks. We all do.” She squeezed his shoulder. “But you saved the city. That counts for something. Guess I owe you a pint.”
“What about your brothers?”
“Guess they owe you a pint, too.” Riyah looked down the valley, towards a city unaware of how close it had come to disaster. “What will you do now?”
Oro blinked reality slowly sinking back into place. “There’ll be paperwork to file, a report to write up. I’ll need to tell Wyke’s employers about what happened. Probably organize a survey team to check nothing’s leaking out from the chamber. Then it’s onto the next one.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. I’m an arcanologist, not a divination wizard or battlemage.”
Riyah scoffed. “Fireballs are for losers and highborns. Mud is more our style. Besides, you’re the best arcanologist I’ve ever met.”
END
