The Welcome Committee
Electricity danced across Caspian’s skin as he squinted against the sunlight filtering through a canopy of unfamiliar trees. Their trunks stretched impossibly high, their needle-like foliage long and foreign, and a strange sweetness was in the air.
He pushed himself up on shaky arms, pine needles clinging to his thick cloak. Compared to the constant sounds of Tor Deren, this place was uncomfortably silent, save for the occasional trill of an unseen bird. Nausea washed over him as he struggled to his feet, flashes of memory clouding his vision.
The dingy tavern.
A collapsing figure with eyes of lightning.
The stretching table.
A power surged through him, crackling just beneath his skin.
“Did I… die?” Caspian whispered, his voice hoarse.
“Caspian Stormrider?” a cheery voice called out, shattering the quiet. “What a funny last name. Is that real?”
Caspian whirled around, nearly losing his balance as he grabbed onto a tree, its bark rough. A large man with silver hair stood a few paces away, smiling at Caspian. The stranger held a piece of parchment in one hand and waved a muscled arm at him.
He wore clothes Caspian had never seen before—a thin moss-colored tunic, trousers that hugged his thighs far too well, and boots that had clearly never seen a battlefield. Everything about him was strange, even how he held himself in such an odd, friendly manner.
“Well,” the man said, rolling up his parchment and returning the wary look Caspian was giving him. “Let’s hope you’re him. Otherwise, we’ve got a very lost and…electrified…hiker on our hands!” He rocked on his heels, smiling as if this were humorous.
Caspian’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like this man. Didn’t trust him. And anything he didn’t trust was dangerous.
His soldier instincts kicked in, and he shot out an arm, fingertips crackling with white-hot energy. A lightning bolt tore through the air in a thunderous crack, missing the man by inches and striking one of the massive trees, burning a hole clear through its trunk.
The stranger let out a yelp, raising his hands. “Whoa, hold on there, Sparks. Can we talk? I’m not going to hurt you.”
“No,” Caspian growled, lifting his hand to fire another bolt.
Before Caspian could unleash another attack, the man lunged to the side, his form shimmering and twisting. In the blink of an eye, became a falcon, flying high into the trees.
Caspian stumbled back, his mind reeling. “What in the Father of Storms’ name? Is this some kind of Frostbreaker trick?” he shouted.
The massive tree he’d struck groaned, snapping and popping as it toppled over. It crashed to the forest floor with a thunderous boom, making a gap through the trees. Caspian glimpsed miles of wood and a mist-covered lake off in the distance.
“What is this place?” Caspian demanded, his voice echoing. “Where have you brought me, frost-worshiping hog?”
The falcon swooped down from above, reforming into the man in mid-descent. He landed with surprising grace. “Okay, first of all, rude,” he said, brushing off his tunic. “You know that was a falcon. You have those where you’re from, right?”
Sparks formed on Caspian’s fingers as he prepared for another bolt.
The man’s eyes widened, swiftly falling to his knees, pressing a large, calloused hand to the earth. His brow furrowed.
The ground beneath Caspian shifted. Green vines burst from the soil, quickly entwining his feet and pulling him down as little delicate pink flowers bloomed.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” the man said, his voice gentle. “I just want to talk. You’re safe here.”
Safe? Caspian hadn’t been safe since he took the colors of Tor Deren. He’d never be safe. Never be free. He tore himself from the vines, falling on his backside and rolling onto all fours. He made eye contact with the man, who took a step forward, his hand outstretched.
At that moment, Caspian’s fear took him. He turned and bolted, crashing through the dense underbrush.
His heart pounded in his ears as he ran, the forest blurring around him. He ducked through and under some of the strangest foliage he’d ever seen. Some plants seemed to glow, and others were nearly ten times the size of anything he’d known back home. There was even a strange fungus that pulsed various colors as he ran by, like the luminescent algae in the coast caves back home.
In his peripheral vision, fleeting shadows darted between the trees.
“Wait!” the man’s voice echoed behind him, surprisingly close. “You don’t know where you’re going! There are wards—”
Caspian couldn’t process what the man was saying. His mind was screaming for him to run, find somewhere safe, and get away from this place and this ice-loving stranger.
He hurled lightning bolts over his shoulder as he ran, setting small fires in his wake. The strength he’d gathered was already draining from him, and the bolts were less achy in his bones.
Caspian raced over a ridge, nearly falling over from the steep decline. He caught himself, taking a second to catch his breath as he peered down at strange buildings with red frames and sloping roofs.
What is this place? Caspian thought, ducking under a low-hanging branch covered in a strange lichen. He needed a way out. A way to get back to his home. Back to solitude, where he knew he wouldn’t be bothered.
Behind him, the stranger huffed. He’d kept up with Caspian. Caspian looked over his shoulder, spotting the man using his magic to douse a fire in mud.
“You’re going to exhaust yourself!” the man called. “Save your magic. Let’s talk this out like civilized people.”
“Mud mage?” Caspian laughed maniacally. “What are you dirt rollers still doing alive?”
“Hey,” the stranger said, flinging a spray of mud at Caspian. “I think I take offense to that.”
Caspian pressed on, breaking through dense trees to find a steep mountainside jutting up from the ground. He looked up at clear skies and a high peak into the heavens.
He could see the valley below him clearly now, with various buildings of the same strange red architecture and a lake that was so pristine and blue, unlike the brackish waters he was used to.
He turned back to the mountain peak, taking a breath. Creating a deep, resonating rumble in his throat, he called to the clouds, beckoning them to come. The wind picked up, swishing his cloak and causing the fine hairs on his arms to stand on end.
He pushed his energy to his feet, using the surge of electricity to scale the mountainside with ease. Rocks crumbled beneath his touch, leaving behind scorched handprints in his wake.
Below him, the man transformed into a goat, dodging the rocks that tumbled down toward him.
Dark clouds rolled in from every direction, answering his call. He’d ride them out of here, flying high in the sky until he found his home again.
He reached the mountain peak in minutes, his breath straining against his ribs as he held a hand up high into the sky, praying to latch onto the clouds.
But they didn’t take him. The clouds had formed, peering down at him, a Stormrider ready to take the reins, and they didn’t accept. They heard his call, but his god wasn’t there. He wasn’t there to take his hand.
His chest heaved, his limbs trembled, and the power inside him waned. He slumped to his knees, rough stone biting his skin as the clouds above dissipated.
“Not bad,” the goat said, staring at him. It shifted into the man, who struggled to climb the rest of the way to the summit, his hand holding his side. “For your first day.” The man braced his hands on his knees, his enormous chest expanding and contracting as warm eyes met Caspian’s gaze.
“What is this place? Who are you?” The fight had drained out of him, for now.
The man’s face softened
“My name’s Ash. And this…is Mystic Mountain,” he gasped between breaths. “Retreat and Rehabilitation…for the magically outcast. Please…take a moment to review…the brochure.” He held out a crumpled piece of parchment toward Caspian before collapsing to the ground and letting out a belly laugh.
-------