The Wizard of Quintz: A coming of age LitRPG

by Ember Lane

  “Why?”

  “Because the evil that encroaches is too powerful for us. It’s too powerful for the land. Our greatest warriors have been cast aside and shattered like fragile china. Our wizard’s powers are doused like circus hacks.”

  Desmelda tapped the table.

  Merl caught Billy’s eye, but Billy stayed silent and so he did as well. This was the business of power and influence, not muckspreader and sheepherder. The back of Merl’s neck beaded with cold sweat as Desmelda and Frank hit an impasse.

  “But this…” Desmelda started to say but stopped. “No, I have a better idea. Why don’t you show us what you got? If you are the most powerfully versed in this new magic, why don’t you show us?”

  Frank pushed his empty broth bowl away. It screeched across the table. “Why don’t I do just that.”

  He stood and dithered. Merl had never seen Frank hesitate, that he could recall.

  Frank cleared his throat. “If I show you, and you don’t come…”

  “I’ll never tell another soul,” Desmelda assured him.

  Frank turned ice-cold. “No, no you won’t,” he replied, and Merl knew instantly that if he had to, Frank would end the witch from Falling Glen. “We’ll go outside,” Frank said, slapping the table as he rose.

  Back out by the fire, Frank shut his eyes. He pointed to a spot of land about twenty feet away and merely shouted, “Yes!”

  A cocoon of golden light burst into being. It was about fifteen feet around and looked like it was made up with glowing amber crystals that pumped up and down like marching legs. Within the golden light, the faint outline of a growing thing became gradually clearer. Merl wondered what great beast Frank was conjuring. He squinted to see within the golden lattices, to sneak a peek of its fangs and claws, its wings and gaping maw. Frank no longer looked like he was straining to hold his fantastical spell in place. Then Merl recalled he never had been at all. He’d just said, “Yes” and then stared around, as if disappointed.

  “It’ll be done in a few moments. I’m going back inside,” Frank muttered, and Merl wondered who was going to tame the great beast.

  He stood gaping at the magic as it shortened into a cube. Scratched his head as the very beginnings of a roof appeared, and then walls underneath it. It was like looking at a building through gilded mist. Merl gasped. “I’ve seen that hut before.”

  They all approached it.

  “Where?” Billy asked, poking tentatively out.

  “When?” Desmelda enquired. “When have you seen this hut?”

  “The beginning,” Merl replied. “The very beginning. The very beginning of it all.” He walked closer toward the golden hut, drawn to it like it was a hypnotic dreadnail, and he ducked through its draping curtain. The golden light faded, and the mud hut materialized, a fire pit in its center. Moonlight streamed through its patchy thatch roof. “It’s Frank’s mud hut. The one me and Dad visited before…” Tears welled in Merl’s eyes. The hut was too familiar. Its memories were too vivid. He recalled the stream, the fire, his dad backing away.

  “He just keeps his hut in that fancy ring of his and that’s that,” Billy said. “What’s so special about that?”

  “Fancy ring?” Desmelda asked. “That explains where his magnificent sword appeared from,” she mused.

  “It’s not the same hut.” Merl walked around the fire pit and stroked the hut’s rear wall. “Here! There was a big scorched hole here. I remember seeing it while my dad and Frank talked.”

  “A what?” Billy asked. “Have you gone soft in tha noggin?”

  “No, Billy, not soft—not zombay soft. I know. In the hut me and Dad visited, there was a big, scorched hole, and I burned the roof t’cinder. I burnt the whole damn hut down.”

  “Curious,” said Desmelda, taking a step back, and they all returned inside. “So, spill,” she barked at Frank, but Frank just raised his hands up in surrender.

  “There is nothing to spill. I can build the hut at will. I can build it on any clear space. It is a level-one hut. I know nothing more and nothing less. I cannot raise its level to two, nor can I build anything else. I can just build one level-one hut, and that’s that.”

  “But you think there’s more,” Desmelda asked.

  “There has to be more,” Frank said. “If there isn’t, then…”

  “We lose,” Desmelda said.

  Merl was standing in the doorway. He said nothing as the exchange took place, but he did smile. He smiled from ear to ear.

  Desmelda was coming, as sure as spittin’ starlings were spittin’ starlings.

  They left the very next morning, late morning, so late it might as well have been noon. Merl knew Frank was already regretting asking Desmelda. Merl wasn’t. He liked the witchy witch, as Billy called her. To Merl’s mind, the decision had no downsides. For a start, and most obvious, she was a witch. Surely, in even the simplest mind, having a witch on your side was a good thing. She also spoke sense.

  “Think about it,” she’d said, when they’d got to the business of deciding whether to ask her—her having decided she wanted to come. It was still a confusing moment in Merl’s life. “Think about it,” she’d said. “Billy can act like a front line, attacking the monsters and keeping them at bay. Frank, you and Merl can attack it from the sides, and I can cast heals over all of you. We’ll make the perfect team. Plus, I can send my damaging spells too.”

  Both Frank and Billy had agreed it was a good way to fight beasties, and perhaps zombays too, except no one was sure if you could heal a zombay bite. Healing had been one point in favor of re-asking her now that she’d agreed to come. Desmelda had also pointed out she could hunt, gather, and had survived on her own in the middle of the forest for ages, and so she could provide. That had been another point in favor of confirming their intention to ask her.

  “You can feed us and heal us. What else can you do?” Billy had then asked.

  His question had appeared to suck all other sounds from the air and stifle any words that were about to be spoken. It had also lowered the temperature in the room, and increased the humidity, like a storm had suddenly started brewing.

  It was also about that time that things, as they had a habit of doing around Merl, had gone tits up. They had then learned that Desmelda had a bit of a temper and that she needed to be valued. That she was infinitely more powerful than all three of them together, and that they weren’t fit to clean her boots, or something like that.

  It was about that time that the three of them, Merl, Frank, and Billy, had decided that they didn’t need to decide if she was welcome to come or not, because who wouldn’t want such a powerful, beautiful, and gracious witch as a traveling companion, and once they’d each repeated it twice to her, the deal had been done.

  Apart from one thing.

  Frank’s ring.

  Frank had ten shelves in his spatial ring. That particular morning, one had most of a dead sheep on it. One stored some chivers’ cheese. Another had the butcher’s meat parcels from Morgan Mount. A fourth had some wine, quite a lot of wine. The fifth was laden with water canteen, and upon the next lay Scaramanza, Merl’s cleaver and hand ax, and Billy’s elfen sword. The next had bedding, another had some battered old pots and pans, and the last had plates and mugs.

  They’d looked at the pile on the floor after Desmelda had insisted on spring cleaning the shelves. It didn’t look great, but then again, the dead sheep wasn’t helping things, especially as it was missing a leg. Desmelda had been amazed they’d made it out of Morgan Mount, but Merl had told her about the monster wagon and that they hadn’t had to rely entirely on the ring.

  “Well, we need to sort all of it,” she’d said, and then set about the lamb, the meat parcels, the chivers’ cheese, and even some of the wine. She’d chopped it all up and thrown it in her cauldron and then added herbs, spices, onions, garlic, potatoes, and berries—in fact, everything edible within a stretched arm’s reach. While that had been simmering, she’d stashed all the blankets on h
er bed, gathered all the water canteens they had between them, and inked water or wine on them. Merl’s cleaver joined a pile of knives and a wood-chopping ax or two.

  “Right,” she’d finally announced once she’d stopped whizzing around. “Shelf one: a steaming cauldron of broth—enough for two weeks, I reckon. Shelf two: my bed with all our bedding. Shelf three: assorted bottles—both wine and water. Shelf four: weapons. Shelf five has our plates and mugs. That leaves five shelves free. When we camp, you build your level-one hut, we place the cauldron over the fire pit, and then the bed in the corner. Now, Merl and Billy, go get some firewood chopped. Frank, you fetch some kindling. That can all go on shelf six. Anyone think of anything else?”

  None of them could.

  “Fine, shelf seven is mine—all things me—poultices and potions and my boots.”

  “But I can only put one thing on each shelf…” Frank had protested.

  “Then label it All Things Desmelda, and everything will fit in under that tab.”

  Frank had shrugged, muttered something about him knowing nothing, and left to complete his chore.

  It was only after they’d finally finished collecting the firewood and kindling that they’d started on their way, and that wasn’t until just before noon. Frank initially looked like he was regretting inviting Desmelda, but Merl somehow doubted he would later.

  They all stood outside her cottage.

  “Well?” said Desmelda. “Let’s go.”

  Frank stood dead still. “Why don’t you lead?”

  “I don’t know where Quintz is, so I don’t know where we’re going.”

  “Hmmm,” said Frank. “We’re in a bit of a pickle.”

  “Why’s that?” Merl asked.

  “Because, since the last time I knew where we were, I’ve been washed out of a lake, plunged down a waterfall, tumbled along a river, and wandered lost in an enchanted forest. For the life of me, I’ve absolutely no clue where the hell we are.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Billy said. “Desmelda knows where we are, but doesn’t know where we’re going. You know where we’re going, but have no idea where we are.”

  “That’s about the sum of it,” Frank agreed.

  Billy tapped his lips. “By my reckoning, if Desmelda starts off, and when we’re halfway there Frank takes over, we should be right as rain.”

  While Merl didn’t have a clue how that would work, the other two shrugged, and Desmelda led the way. She ambled up to the path that led to her little stone house and walked straight across the trail into the thick of the woods. A lit match appeared in Frank’s hand, and he tossed it onto his level-one hut. It vanished in a puff of superheated smoke that singed Merl’s eyebrows. Merl blinked and glanced at Billy. They both shrugged and carried on.

  “Wizards and witchy witches are odd,” Billy exclaimed.

  “Very odd,” Merl agreed.

  They walked through the forest for the rest of the day, and the next, and the next after that. Each night, Frank conjured a hut and retrieved the bed, the cauldron, firewood, and bowls. Each night they ate a hearty broth and drank a smidge of wine. And each night Billy promised not to crack a ripper while sleeping. And each night, Desmelda threw him out of the hut once he did. Merl was content. His life had a routine. With each passing day, the four of them became more and more of a family, and in a way, when the forest ended and they stood right on the edge of its fringe, it saddened him. That melancholy feeling lasted all of an instant as he cast his eyes at the land presented to him.

  “I’ve never seen anything so big,” Billy gasped.

  “Is this all the land? Is that everything?” Merl asked.

  Frank draped his arm over Merl and pulled him close. “Not all, Merl, not all. But thanks to Desmelda, I know where we are now. Beyond this grassy escarpment, over those rolling dales, and beyond the sandy dunes, that azure stretch of water is The Sea of the Stranded Fool.”

  Merl shielded his eyes from the glaring sun. The green of the land spread away, tucking under a beautiful blue sea which stretched across the horizon. Sky and sea were mere differing shades, and the vast scape was fantastical to Merl, who had been hemmed in by mountains his whole life. “I don’t understand how it can be so big,” Merl cried, both intimidated and fascinated at the same time. “If, we…” Merl’s voice tapered away as he struggled to get his words in the right order.

  “Spit it out, Merl,” Frank encouraged.

  “If we are now ants in this vast world, then ants must be even tinier than I thought. What chance have we got of finding an ant’s leg, let alone a foot or a toe, let alone Quintz?”

  “Ah, well, it’s like this, Merl. Life is like this, Merl. You need to narrow the problem down. I know Quintz is beyond The Stranded Fool Sea. I know it’s due west.” He sat on the grass. “First thing we gotta do is get to the seashore. Next thing we gotta do is find a captain and commission a boat. Then we sail west.”

  Merl’s heart burst with excitement. “Find a captain? Sail the sea? What if everyone’s a zombay?”

  “Then we’re undone,” Frank said. “There isn’t a soul in the land who can sail that sea without a faring captain.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the Wind Goddess Elora. Without her, your sails won’t bulge with the wind. She’ll lure you out to sea and then leave you stranded. And then once there, there you’ll die a horrible death. You’ll die of thirst surrounded by water. A crueler fate you could not imagine.”

  Desmelda leaned in. She beckoned everyone close. Her eyes were wide with mischief.

  “Horseshit,” she announced. “If that isn’t a tale made up by a desperate ship’s captain begging a fare, then I’m no witch. I call bullshit, and I’ll call it to any ship captain’s face.”

  Frank’s skin grayed. “You’ll not upset the Gods with your blasphemy.”

  Desmelda whacked him dismissively. “The Power you seek is one of the Gods. If you aspire to be one, don’t listen to fairy tales. Come, let’s go. We’ve been lucky with our travels so far—too lucky, if you ask me. Look yonder, that seems like a quaint village, and I’ll bet we can make its inn by nightfall.”

  They headed toward the picturesque village but veered away from their path when they spied a sprawling farm. A large farmstead dominated a fenced-in yard and lofty barn. Corn fields and wheat, what resembled some form of squash, and a small pig sty surrounded it. Yet there was no sign of industry—no call of the pigger—no sweep of a scythe. It was too quiet. The land was too quiet.

  Everything was dead.

  “What if they’re all zombays? Like everyone else in the whole land?” Billy hissed to Merl.

  “Good point, Billy. Err, Frank, can I have my cleaver,” Merl asked.

  “I’ll take my stupid elf sword too,” Billy grouched. “Hey, do you think the farm’ll have a scythe?”

  Frank distributed the weapons, and they slowly approached a small stone trail that edged along the first wheat field. It undulated up and down, leading them ever closer to the farm. It was quiet, too quiet.

  “Something smells wrong,” Frank whispered. He crouched slightly as he walked on.

  “I don’t think it’s Billy,” Desmelda said, darting him a glance. “Which makes a pleasant change.”

  “I can’t help my body,” Billy said without a tinge of shame. “If a man’s got a rip a scorcher, then that’s jus’ what he’s gotta do, like.”

  Merl sniggered. Billy had pride in his flatulence, there was no two ways about it.

  It was while Desmelda rolled her eyes, and in the ensuing silence, that they heard the first low groans.

  “Filthy zombays,” Billy growled.

  Merl’s hope died a little bit. Somehow, he’d been praying that the curse had been just his valley, and that the land had survived, and that they could find some soldiers to send to his valley and clear it of the filthy beasts. “Dirty zombays,” he hissed as his anger immediately rose. He gripped his cleaver firmly.

  They walked on in sil
ence. Desmelda drifted to the back. She was the only one that hadn’t faced the zombays so far.

  Frank took control, striding out in front like he needed to recharge his masculinity. “Don’t let the bastards bite you, and don’t let them scratch you. Aim for their heads or necks. Explode, stab, decapitate, but just their heads.” The wheat field ended, and they approached the farm’s muddy yard.

  “Do you see any?” Merl asked.

  The yard was deserted. A wagon sat by the barn, partly unloaded. A dozen hay bales were stacked just by it. A well stood in front of the farmstead, and its bucket was resting on the very edge of its stone wall. Blood stained the mud, the walls, the farmstead’s doors and windows, the barn and cart, but there were no bodies, no torn limbs, and no severed heads.

  “When it came here, it was swift and over in a flash,” Frank concluded.

  “They burned the bodies over there,” Billy pointed to a heap of charred remains just to the side of the farmstead. “Someone’s cleaned up.”

  “But left some damnable zombays alive? Why?” Frank asked.

  “Swimming the wrong way swan. This farm is level five,” Merl said proudly.

  “Level five,” said Billy. “This was a big farm, then. Looks big enough fer couple of dozen folk to have worked here.”

  “Shush,” hissed Frank, and he let silence settle. The low groans swirled around. “Is that coming from the barn?”

  It was hard to tell, but Merl thought it more likely than anywhere else. “Think so, Frank.”

  “Okay, let’s go check that out first, and then the farmstead. If we can clear it, we can set up here for the night and refil Desmelda’s broth, and maybe grab a bed each.”

  “Perchance to dream of a bath,” Desmelda said wistfully.

  Frank pushed the gate. Merl cringed as it creaked open. They loped across the yard, all crouching by the wagon. Frank darted toward the barn. The groaning immediately grew to fever pitch. Merl ran out and stopped just behind him. “How many, Frank?”