Chapter 3 – Part 1 – “Welcome, Friends, to the Lockwood Academy.”
Sinking spirals of sunlight wet the palm-laden flats to the east of the manor house as Jag Har’Oah’s rings bit into the ocean beyond where the five high-liners carrying the last of this intake’s ten score recruits were beaching themselves. Those who had already disembarked had assembled at the foot of the south entrance’s stairs. Some had been slow in arriving, the south winds making an infernal trial of the passage to the isle from East Yuma. Lockwood might not be a backwater capital like Tan Maevin, and it was certainly no Absolution, but for such a small isle, the manor and Academy and their attendant villages made a substantial sum, when the Academy was in full session. Anrui Frost watched the last trickles without much interest. The repeating clockwork of humans being.
Calenhad was right, the war was getting just plain ridiculous. The last one had gone on for almost ten years, and this one – less than twenty years after the last – looked to be even more high strung, placing an even higher expectation on Lockwood and its instructors to train battle mages. With the huge, unexpected increases in the number of Talented among both Norfolk and Dornan, the Regulators were hard pressed themselves, keeping everything running like clockwork. Good luck, Anrui snorted.
Like Wyvern Lake in the north, which trained the Norfolk’s’ fanatic, mundane warrior caste, and Attensah with it, Lockwood was an Academy. Here, at Jinda on Lockwood Isle however, were trained Mages – the dread dynamic magicians of the Norfolk who did the real damage in wartime. From all the reaches of the kingdom, with all kinds of backgrounds, men and women came to Lockwood to live and learn under the watchful eyes of the Regulators.
Men like Calenhad Firehand, who was just now taking his place on the pulpit before the crowd. Calenhad was a walking exception, and the mere sight of him always drew quiet from any crowd. He was barely even average height, standing far short of two spans, but his broad shoulders and barrel chest made him seem larger than life none the less. Tattered clothing covered the leader of the Lockwood school – old breaches, a distinct lack of shoes, even in the cool spring weather. A sash rather than a belt, into which his ungainly Athama was thrust – the twisted knife he called Faelin’s Relic. Bandages about his hands, their frayed ends hanging about his wrists. Wild, flaxen hair flying about his head like a mane. He was the embodiment of the lion, his family’s crest. He was unlike other men.
Men were also unlike Anrui Frost, who stood to Firehand’s right, tugging more tightly around his shoulders the heavy black cloak that marked him as a Weaver. He, too, was an outcast. Taller, thinner than many of the Regulators here – and younger, too, barely in his twenties. He had been a boy when he came here, after the last war, standing out amongst the other inductees who, at the time, dwarfed him. But, as he grew to outmatch their height, and his hair silvered by the time he hit puberty, Anrui embraced his strangeness – even to the point of adopting his disgraced family’s colours, silver and black, for the entirety of his wardrobe. He, like Calenhad, gave pause to presumption. Unlike his master, however, Anrui did so intentionally.
Anrui schooled his thoughts to silence. It was his time to speak.
“Welcome, friends, to the Lockwood Academy. I am Regulator Anrui Frost, one of the Academy’s many instructors in the Arcana and the Divinorum. Most of you will come to know me well, as you will come to know many of the instructors here. Now, however, it is my duty to introduce the head of the Lockwood Commission, Accord Council Calenhad Firehand.”
There were no cheers as the Accord Council of the Regulators took a single measured step forward to match the one Anrui moved back. There could not be, Frost knew, not only because these people were in unfamiliar places after a long journey, but because of Calenhad’s reputation. Some said (and it only took some) that Nieri ran in Firehand’s blood. That he was a Chaos Mage. Any weaver but Calen would have been ruined by such a rumour. Instead, the Accord Council had simply become more imposing and feared. The arch mage’s powerful personality had ensured him not only respect of a kind, but also autonomy from the capital’s politicking, and most people thought the powered forces better for it.
“Make no mistake,” Calenhad began, wasting no time. “This is no vacation, and for many of you, Lockwood will be your home for years to come, instead of simply the next five seasons. How long your tenure here is depends on your talent, your skill, and your force of will. Some of you may become squad mages for the armies. Some might become general Practitioners, and from there choose a trade path. Many of the most talented might even become Regulators and instruct like dear Anrui Frost and Grale, whom you will meet later on. But for now, focus on your instruction, and learn. Above all else, remember; the safe road is the slow road. None of you plan to be another Ansolen Lemiticron. No one wishes to be the next Grevault Anginock.”
Anrui frowned. Calen always brought up the Slayer and the Grey Man. And Anrui never saw anything more than bad omen in it. As Calenhad stepped back, Anrui descended into the crowd to begin seeking out his students.