Free Journeyman: The Force of the Gods: Part I by Mark Tuson Page A

protective spells around the structure to stop it from caving in under the force of all the water falling onto it. He wrapped himself in a thick cloak he had made back in the Winter, and stepped outside into the apocalyptic weather.
    He looked up and around once he was outside, and noted the sparks of lightning dancing around in the sky, which was a steady red colour now. There was lightning striking at every moment; the air was thick with electricity, which made his nose sting and his eyes water.
    And then his beloved Hovel exploded, struck by lightning with a deafening CRACK that threw him backwards and blinded him for several seconds. When he regained his sight, he became aware that it was suddenly a clear night again. Everything was as though nothing had happened, with the exception that his house, which he had built with his own hands and his own magical strength, was now a smouldering ruin in the sand.
    A voice behind him spoke. It was the Steward.
    ‘Peter. It’s time to go home.’
    The following morning, he awoke in his old room, in his old bed, back in the Guild. Somehow he was washed and in fresh pyjamas. He looked around the room hardly believing what he saw.
    They must have let him keep his satchel: it was on the desk. He ran to it, suddenly panicked, to make sure everything was still in there. His wand. His knife. The split fragments of bamboo he had used as a two-stick. His knife. His flute. His bamboo straw and the shell he used to drink with. A few odd bits of stone. The half-twig he had enchanted to use as a compass. It made no movements now. But everything was there.
    He closed the satchel and clutched it close to himself, collapsing to the floor in a sudden, shameless flood of tears. This was all that was left of what he had worked so hard for over the previous year.
    There was a wardrobe with a few items of generic Guild clothing in them: a few pairs of black trousers and some shirts and jackets and shoes, and a drawer full of fresh underwear at the bottom. As he slowly dressed himself, half of him missed the clothes he had made himself, and half of him was indescribably grateful for the well-made, durable cloth he was wrapping himself in now.
    When he was dressed, he got up and left his room, wondering if he might find the refectory again on his first attempt. He felt sick with hunger, but he also felt slightly homesick. He walked along, slowly and absent-mindedly, still carrying his satchel with him. To anyone other than him it, probably looked like a handbag, but he didn’t care.
    He found the refectory on his first attempt, much to his own surprise. When he pushed the door open to walk in, he suddenly became aware of a palpable silence. He walked to the counter where the food was being served, and had a feeling as he did that he was the focus of attention for at least half of the other people in there. At the counter, he was wordlessly presented with a plate holding a large steak with a fried egg on top, and very thick chips. They smelled delicious in a way he had forgotten anything could smell. Far different to the roasted fish and half-burned fragments of meat he had scavenged and hunted over the last year.
    He stuck a chip in his mouth and chewed on it excitedly as he walked to a free space along the huge table and sat down. His meal was already half-eaten when, a few moments later, someone sat next to him and spoke.
    ‘Pete. Welcome back.’
    That voice was familiar. It was Eric.
    ‘Hi. Did you miss me?’ Peter’s voice sounded, even to himself, atrophied and warped.
    Eric chuckled. ‘Maybe. Did you miss us?’
    It was a simple question, but Peter wasn’t quite sure he could answer it readily. He opted instead to put a piece of steak on his fork and carefully place the yolk of his egg, which he had saved intact, on top, and all into his mouth. He chewed slowly, savouring the taste and texture of the food, and looked blankly back at Eric.
    Eric seemed to understand. ‘Did you miss