Free Pilgrimage by Carl Purcell Page B

Griffith thought back to his basics. If he tried, he could hear his master's voice, as clear as it had been years ago. Magic is no more than your will forced on the world. Thought becomes desire, desire becomes need, need becomes command and the magical energy inside and all around us carries your will. The hard part is channelling both the energy and the thought. Emotion or even faith can fuel the energy but only focus can fuel the thought. No focus, no magic. Do you understand?
    Griffith focused. He slipped into his thoughts like a hand into a glove, blocking out the world. Focusing was the easy part. The spell was there, in his mind, ready to go.
    Find your Focus, Griffith. Sorcerers have tools to work their magic. The Focus is different for every sorcerer, sometimes for every spell. Power fuelled by rage might be focused through the sorcerer's clenched fists; many sorcerers wrap words in magic and speak their Focus.
    Griffith felt his thoughts, his will, bubbling inside him like a pot of water over a flame. He felt the energy in his gut, where it always began, and it grew, spreading through him. He let it. When his whole body felt like a balloon ready to pop, he breathed that energy out in one placid breath. Griffith stood serene, feeling the unlimited power flowing around him like an electrical mist. The magic surrounded him, still buzzing, still pulling like a tiger on a chain. He gave that energy purpose and shape – a shattering window, the sound of gunshot.
    With one final thought, he unleashed the spell and his will became reality.
    The gun vibrated in Griffith's hands. The spell went off with the sound of a gunshot. The window shattered.
    *****
    The whole room turned to face the window. Roland saw Griffith standing in the open, staring like a rabbit in a spotlight.
    “Who the hell is that?” The man with Thomas' gun shouted. Another gun shot. Roland leapt to one side of the window and his two captives leapt to the other.
    “Who the hell cares? Just shoot him!” Another of the invaders - Richard, someone had called him - said. He wore mismatched shoes and Roland could see speckles of white hair in his black beard.
    “Right.” The gunman stepped out and took aim with his own rifle.
    Roland watched him lock his eyes down the sight. The other one watched Griffith with a bloodthirsty grin. Nobody was watching him.
    Roland lunged at the gun and yanked it up, just as the gunman fired. Richard sprung at him. Roland turned, using the gunman to block his advance. At the same time, he pulled the gunman in close and drove his knee up into the gunman's crotch. He felt the man's grip loosen.
    “Son of a bitch,” he groaned.
    Roland twisted the rifle. The stock swung around, hitting the man in the mouth. The gunman stumbled and fell. Richard came in swinging. Roland pressed the barrel into his chest. Richard stopped.
    “Think carefully, now.” Roland pushed and Richard stepped back, lifting his hands out to the side. Roland stepped away, giving himself a safe distance. Roland hadn't fired a rifle in a long time, but his hands found all the familiar spots. Roland pulled the bolt back and the spent cartridge flew past his hand. He felt himself flinch slightly as the mechanisms fell into position. He knew he was lucky that he hadn't jammed it in the fight.
    Richard smiled and lowered his hands to his side. “Alright, you got the jump on us. Well done.”
    “You want to try me, ass hole? I will shoot you.”
    “I bet. But there's still four of us and you don't know who you're messing with. You going to shoot us all with one bullet?”
    Roland didn't answer. He knew a stalemate when he saw one. He glanced from Richard to Thomas and Georgia. The farmer looked worried. Georgia looked like she was about to faint. Thomas held her and comforted her. Everything had gone to hell. What the fuck was Griffith thinking? And where had the kid gone now that he'd kicked this hornet's nest?
    Out of the corner of his eye, Roland spotted