The Wizard of Quintz: A coming of age LitRPG

by Ember Lane

  Frank pulled out his tin flask and took a slug. “I couldn’t always see them.”

  “What happened?” Merl asked, but knew it was something big, something incredible.

  Frank pursed his lips. He looked like a curtain of tiredness had suddenly drawn across his face, and he looked haunted too. “I nearly died, and when I woke up, I could see them everywhere. That’s why I sought out the wizards. I needed them to knock the cobblers out of me and get rid of the bloody things.”

  “And did they?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can you see the golden signs on the trees?” Merl asked, filled with hope.

  “No, Merl, no I can’t.” He gave Merl his flask.

  Merl took a swig, then went to say something for saying’s sake because he didn’t like Frank’s serious tone. But Frank held up his hand and stopped him.

  “I’ve been at the wizard’s city long enough to know no one can. It’s just you, Merl, just you.”

  5

  Chivers’ Farm was up a trail off the road to Three Valley.

  “Level three,” Merl told Frank as they approached it.

  The bright green writing was easy to see, glowing against the encroaching dusk. To their surprise, Mrs. Chivers was standing on her stoop, hands on hips and a frown on her wrinkled face. She was a spritely old bird, was Mrs. Chivers, thin as a stick and as lively as a dune cat running over hot sand. Mr. Chivers’ cart was upended at the bottom of the track, and it looked like Mr. Chivers himself had been leashed to a tree.

  “He don’t look so good,” Billy shouted up.

  Merl was confident he knew all the way up to six now, so the number three was an easy spot. He wanted to know why some buildings were level one and others were two or three, but Mr. Chivers’ groaning seemed more important, so he commented on that instead.

  “He’s a zombay.” Merl often stated the obvious. His first ever words to Billy were, “My oh my, you’re a big bastard,” and that had earned him a smack in the mouth. Billy never hit him again though, so they never talked about that little incident. Besides, Billy knew he was a big bastard, so it didn’t warrant another gob crusher, as Billy liked to call them.

  “He’s a what?” Mrs. Chivers reared up. Her head extended out of her cloak like a turtle’s emerging from its shell. “What’d you call my ‘usband?”

  “Merl called him what he is, Mrs. Chivers, and you’d do well to soften your tone. Merl’s seen his dad die from the same thing, so he should know, and you should listen. That thing ain’t your ‘usband, jus’ like his dad wasn’t his dad in the end, like,” Billy said.

  Merl thought Billy had started to confuse himself halfway through his diatribe. He’d certainly confused the life out of Mrs. Chivers.

  “When’d you get a pair of stones, Billy Muckspreader?” she asked.

  “Got them from killing all those zombays.” Billy scowled. He reined the horses in and loped around the back of the monster wagon, soon coming back with his scythe in hand. “Gotta chop his head off,” Billy told her.

  “You’ll do no such thing, Billy Muckspreader,” Mrs. Chivers growled, and walked between Billy and Mr. Chivers.

  Mr. Chivers lunged forward as quick as a firebat up a blacksmith’s chimney.

  “Whoah!” Merl gasped. “He’s a fast one.”

  Merl reckoned Mrs. Chivers must have drawn some invisible line in the mud, because Mr. Chivers’ chain jerked him back just before he could bite her scrawny ass. He yelled something chronic, screaming and wailing in frustration.

  “Wasn’t always this fast,” Mrs. Chivers said. “Weren’t fast at all when I chained him up yesterday. Was snapping some, but I banged a bucket on his head and ended those shenanigans.”

  “So that’s how it spreads,” Frank whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “Excuse me, but did he bite you, Mrs. Chivers?”

  Mrs. Chivers walked up to the monster wagon and smiled at Frank. “Perhaps you can teach Billy Muckspreader some of those manners, Mr….?”

  “Frank, just Frank. I need to know; did he bite you?”

  “Doubtful,” Mrs. Chivers said. “Art’s got no teeth, hasn’t had any since he had hair on his head. Now, do you three boys wanna come in and have some broth? I made the usual amount just in case Art got better.”

  “Broth would be lovely, Mrs. Chivers. Can I jus’ say how gorgeous you’re looking tonight.” Billy always groveled when there was food involved.

  “You may, Billy, although I know it’s yer guts talking.”

  Billy leaned close to Mrs. Chivers’ imaginary line. “He’s a goner.”

  Art went crazy—lurching and snarling, spitting and hissing. His foamy spit sprayed everywhere. A big welt on his neck burst and gave him a bloody necklace.

  “Ain’t in a good mood, that’s fer sure,” Mrs. Chivers pointed out. “No killin’ him while me back’s turned either. Make a good yard guard if that’s that fer him. If he’s a… What’d you call him?”

  “Zombay,” Merl told her.

  “Make’s a good yard guard zombay. Foxes never went near my chickens last night.”

  “How’d you get him tethered up, again?” Merl asked Mrs. Chivers. Teeth or no teeth, Mr. Chivers looked a vicious sod.

  Mrs. Chivers’ front room was all centered around a fat iron stove with a wonky clay flue coning off it. She had a scullery to one side and a large round table to the other. A single door led to the rest of the house. Merl had only been in the Chivers’ homestead once before and knew that the front room was where she fed the farm workers and that. It was sparse but somehow homely, and nice and warm too. A big pot of broth was simmering away on the stove. The smell made Merl’s mouth water like he was a dirty zombay. Not surprising, really, since her broth was to die for, and much better than either Billy or him could cook. Merl couldn’t fathom out how it was, though. Broth was just dumping stuff in water and boiling it, after all.

  “He was half drunk from the tavern. Spent every coin he got from the market too. That where this come from? Anyhow, I knew he was out of sorts, and when he started dribblin’ snappin’ and moanin’, I tol’ him I’d chain him up like a dog, and so I did.” She nodded half a dozen times to drive her point home.

  “Lucky he had no teeth.”

  “Lost the only one he had left last chiver-cull. Nasty bastards them chivers, when they wanna be.”

  Chivers were an odd little animal, a bit like a goat but with fangs as pointy as icicles and hooves that could deliver a wicked bite. Farming chivers was a rare thing, and chivers’ cheese fetched a pretty coin.

  “He drank all the coin from all the cheese?” Billy said, half in amazement and half in disappointment.

  Mrs. Chivers grinned at Billy. Merl knew she had a soft spot for him, whatever names she called him. Billy spread chiver muck over her tomatoes for free, and Mrs. Chivers was proud as punch when it came to her tomatoes.

  “Don’t you worry, Billy Muckspreader, I’m not as dumb as a dune dog. I never gave Art a quarter of the cheese. Just enough t’get him drunk enough to not bother me.” She winked and stood. “You all want some?”

  “Yes, they do,” Billy said.

  Mrs. Chivers vanished out back.

  “You ever had chivers’ cheese, Frank?” Merl asked.

  “Can’t say I have. What’s a chiver look like?”

  “You don’ wanna know. Just trust us. They’re ugly-looking bastards even a zombay wouldn’t eat, but the cheese is to die fer.”

  Mrs. Chivers came back with the cheese plate in her hand.

  “You all right, Mrs. Chivers?” Merl asked.

  “Feel a bit queer,” she replied, and started shaking, only just barely setting the plate down without spilling the whole lot cheese cubes.

  “That a scratch on yer arm?” Frank asked, pushing his chair away from the table and looking around the room.

  Mrs. Chivers staggered backwards, looking at her arm. Once seen, the scratch was plain as day. It was all angry and red and was oozing black stuff. Mrs
. Chivers had gone pale too, like zombay pale, not a bit queasy pale. She jerked around, like she was held aloft by strings and someone was tugging them, and then her head snapped up, and her clear eyes glazed over and fogged all milky.

  “She’s gone zombay!” Merl shouted, and simultaneously realized he had no weapons.

  “Damn and blast,” Billy said, backing away but grabbing his broth spoon.

  “What good’s a soddin’ spoon,” Frank asked, his voice as cool as ever.

  “What have you got?” Billy asked as they backed toward the stove.

  “Ax is in the wagon.”

  “So’s my cleaver,” Merl screamed, scouring around the room. “And my hand ax.”

  “Scythe too,” Billy added.

  Mrs. Chivers started drooling something terrible and lurched toward them like her joints had seized up.

  “She’s got teeth,” Billy pointed out, needlessly. Mrs. Chivers had already drawn her lips back and was snapping like a river croc on skinny mushrooms.

  “One of us is gonna have to dart fer the wagon,” Merl said, but before his words were out, Mrs. Chivers swerved across the room and blocked the door off. “What about yer sword, Frank? It’s on one of them thar odd shelves ain’t it?”

  “It’s only for honorable battles,” Frank replied.

  “Well, it don’t get much more honorable than this,” Billy cried. “She’s a monster and she’s guarding a whole bunch of treasure.”

  “Treasure?”

  “Yeah, cheese. Cheese treasure.”

  Frank hesitated, like the gravest choice in the world confronted him. Then he seemed to make peace with his turmoil, and he took a knee.

  “Equip Scaramanza.”

  A blade appeared. He gripped it with both hands. Both Merl and Billy’s gobs hung open. They’d never seen a sword like it. It must have been over three feet long, and as fat as a man’s hand. It glinted a kind of coppery color, like steel mixed with blood, and was polished to a mirror shine. A third of its edge was serrated, and it had runes etched all along its blade. Frank stepped forward and swiped the sword once through the air.

  “Unequip Scaramanza,” he said, and the magnificent sword vanished.

  “What are you doing?” Billy screamed. “She’s still got her bonce.”

  Mrs. Chivers carried on lumbering toward them, seemingly intact. Then she stopped dead still, her head fell off straight into the simmering pot, and her knees bent as a geyser-full of hot blood sprayed the timber ceiling.

  Billy pursed his lips, nodding slightly in humble appreciation. “I’ll give you that one, but you owe us the tale, the tale of that their sword.”

  “Aye, that I do,” said Frank.

  That seemed to placate Billy, who stepped over Mrs. Chivers and set off out the back.

  “Where’s he going?” Frank asked.

  Frank was an outsider. He didn’t understand. Merl went over to the table and plucked a cube of cheese off the plate. He tossed it to Frank, who popped it into his mouth.

  Frank began nodding and chewing and smiling all at the same time. He swallowed. “He’s going to rob the cheese.”

  “Exactly,” Merl said. “Shall we go kill Art and then hunker down in the wagon?”

  “Might as well rob some blankets and stuff while we’re here,” Frank said.

  He might have been an outsider, but he was learning.

  Merl, Billy, and Frank all sat on the monster wagon’s bench. It was a bright, sunny morning, and they were all in a chipper mood as they trundled away from Chivers’ farm.

  “That stinks somethin’ awful in the back of that wagon, like,” Billy mused.

  “Cheese and wine, and three young men kipping in a confined space can do that,” Frank said.

  Merl snorted. “Stank worse than an inn full’o zombays.”

  “You never told us the tale of that blade,” Billy chided.

  “Nope, no I didn’t, but I will one day.”

  “When you’re good n’ ready,” Merl told him. “My dad always used to say you should never rush a man into a story.”

  “I never heard ‘im say that,” Billy pointed out.

  Merl grunted. “Well you wasn’t always around.” Then he stood up as they joined the trail to Three Valleys, and they turned away from Morgan Mount. Merl glanced around the wagon and stared at Three Face Mountain. “We aren’t ever going back, are we?”

  “Nothin’ to go back fer,” Billy said, but Merl could hear the sadness in his voice.

  “But what if there’s nothing the way we’re going? What if everyone’s dead. I mean, Mrs. Chivers didn’t look dead, an’ she might as well have been.”

  “They’ll be someone alive,” Billy told him.

  “Quintz will be okay.” Frank seemed sure, but Merl wasn’t.

  “If it only takes a scratch, and that takes a day to grab hold, how they gonna know if someone’s got the zombay?”

  “Quintz’ll be okay. It has to be okay,” Frank said, through gritted teeth.

  “Why’s it so important?” Billy asked.

  But Merl knew, and even as he continued to look back along the trail toward Morgan Mount, he knew what Frank would say.

  “Quintz has the answers, and it’s as important to Merl as it is to me. Heck, I think I was sent here to find Merl, and the Tzeyon Bay pox was just a coincidence.”

  “If it’s important to Merl, it’s important to me,” Billy announced emphatically. “It important to you, Merl?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then we go to Quintz. You’d best get up top with Merl and get teachin’ him letters. He tells me he’s got a whole load of mush in his head. Might as well get it out from between his ears if you can. Where is Quintz, anyhow?”

  “A good week away. Head west, you can’t go far wrong for a while. There’s only one trail to follow, then one trail out of Three Valleys.”

  “Bet there’s hundreds of monsters in Three Valleys,” Merl said, scrambling atop the wagon.

  “Bet there is.” Frank clambered up after him.

  Frank sat cross legged again, and Merl mimicked him at first, but then stood up and took a deep breath. “Ain’t nothin’ much better than mountain air. There mountain air in Quintz? Can’t see as there is, it being no bigger than an ant’s toe and that.”

  “Surprisingly, the sky is no different. Everything’s the same apart from atop the lookout tower. That’s as tall as a mountain and takes a whole day to climb up. It’s right at the top of the magic bubble, and you can just see the green grass stretching off in all directions.”

  “But can you taste the air like you can up here? This air’s got a fresh tang of nothin’ to it, and that’s different from down in Three Valleys, and I reckon it’s different from other places too.”

  “Gonna give you that one, Merl. Can’t say as I’ve breathed anything so sweet as mountain air.”

  They reached the end of Three Face and No Face Mountain, and as the trail turned, a wide-spreading valley spread away to the horizon.

  “Looks like it leads to the ends of the world,” Merl said, his voice filled with wonderment.

  “Haven’t you ever been to Three Valleys before?” Frank asked.

  “Once, but my dad wouldn’t let me stand, and I was in the back of the cart, so most of the time I was fighting off the sheep ‘n all their crap.”

  “How about I shift around this way, so you can look over my shoulder as we try and figure out the words in yer head.”

  Merl slumped down, shuffling around to face Frank. Part of him was desperate to understand what was in his mind, but the rest of him was a mixed bag of emotions: desolate sadness that his life with his dad was over, but the seeds of excitement sprouting at the adventure ahead.

  “What do you think my dad meant when he said, ‘Naw ure dad’?”

  “Think that’s fairly obvious,” Frank answered. “He was telling you that the thing he’d turned into wasn’t him—wasn’t your dad. That was all.”

  That made Merl feel a little b
etter. “Thank you.”

  “The words you saw earlier. What was they like?”

  “Level and all the other mush. Well, it was levele and a few others letters after if I’m truthful.”

  Frank started drawing out all the letters again, but Merl stopped him after the fourth one. “There, that sits on the end of levele.”

  “Leveled,” Frank told him. “Leveled what though?”

  “Well, there’s a space then a symbol…” Merl grabbed the chalk off Frank and drew an upside-down horseshoe. Then he wondered if it was upside down or downside up. Could you get a horseshoe ‘round the wrong way?

  “A U,” Frank exclaimed. “How many more letters?”

  “Just one.”

  “I’ll bet it’s this.” Frank drew a P. “The words read leveled up.”

  “Wow!” Merl said, instantly consumed with more wonderment. “So, what does that mean?”

  Frank looked instantly downcast. “Not a soddin’ clue,” he muttered. “Though I do know that the Power of Construction has levels. At Quintz, we have level one. Not that anyone’s got a clue what it means or how to get to level two.”

  “Can’t you ask that fella?” Merl asked.

  For wizards who lived under the charm of a fancy spell in a fancy city, they didn’t know much, Merl decided, not much at all.

  “What fella?”

  “That Arthur fella. Arthur14367 or whatever his queer name was.”

  “Arthur14579? He doesn’t exist, or if he does, we have no idea who or where he is. Ricklefess reckons he’s a God, but I think he’s more a prophet or a philosopher. As far as I can see, he gave us The Wards, and it’s the wizard’s job to unravel them.”

  “How’s that going?” Merl yawned a gob stretcher. Learning was hard, hard, graft.

  “They can’t get past the first—the Power of Construction. Some have the gift, but no clue what to do with it.”

  “Seems like a waste of time going there, then. Seems they know less than a dune dog do.”

  “Aye, seems that way. Keep hold of the chalk and write that danger word down. Let’s try that.”

  Merl looked inside his head and found the block of text. Sometimes it was plastered to his eyelids, and other times it hid behind a flashing red star. He found it and then started copying the first word. It was much harder that he’d thought it would be. His hand didn’t always move the way he wanted, and he couldn’t look at two things at the same time either, so how was he supposed to see what he was drawing?