The Wizard of Quintz: A coming of age LitRPG

by Ember Lane

  No, he needed to find out, and Desmelda was right. He had to cling on to Morgan Mount like it was his salvation—like it was an outstretched hand holding him above a chasm of blackness.

  “Then we go,” he said simply. “We go and see the seers.”

  29

  Wind buffeted Merl, icy gusts raking the decks with frozen misery. Sleet peppered Merl like a whip’s lash, forcing him to slam his eyes shut intermittently and grimace. He gripped the mermaid’s crown, and his knuckles went white on its handrail, determined to see the ship’s course and willing to brave the spite-filled elements. Wave Walker carved the gray sea, white outriders angling away, seemingly parted by the yawing bowsprit. Then, in the blink of an eye, the fury of the storm vanished. It was the Goddess Andula had snapped slender fingers and the furious gale had cowed instantly to calm serenity, and Merl looked up, aghast, wondering if they hadn’t entered some new utopian land.

  The roiling wall of the storm arced away behind them like coddling arms. It towered up to a stunning blue sky, and then spread on either side in a gentle arc that Merl somehow knew continued around to make a perfect circle. It was the eye, the eye of the storm, and it hemmed in tranquility itself. The sea was no longer gray, but a deep sapphire. It’s stampeding horses had gone, its swell was now like the billow of a newly laundered sheet settling upon an unmade bed. A breeze blew fragrant. It held scent not usually enjoyed on briny water. Hints of jasmine and lavender, of rich, dark wood, were bought upon mere whispers of a breeze laden heavy with heady humidity. The rasping squawk of a gliding bird startled him.

  Merl blinked. He rubbed his eyes and held them shut while brilliant stars popped on his pink lids. Slowly, he eased one open, dreading the tempest might have returned. He expected the wind to renew its vicious punishment, and the ice to complete his flailing, but welcomed the respite that still surrounded him and prized his frozen fingers from the balustrade’s rail. Putting his thumb and finger between his lips, Merl let out a shrill whistle, then cocked his head and waited.

  The scramble of paws on wood was distant at first, but soon became an ever-closer scuttle. Merl pictured Gloomy’s awkwardly hinged body as his legs slid and slipped until he finally gained momentum on the figurehead’s back. The dune dog scrambled up the steps that led to her crown, and soon dumped his paws on the balustrade, right next to Merl’s thawing hands.

  “Hey, boy,” Merl said through the smile that Gloomy always teased from him.

  The dune dog looked up, bathing its saggy face in the beaming sun. Gloomy Joe hated the cold, and he hated the whistling wind, but he loved the radiant sun, nearly as much as he enjoyed a grand fire.

  “Thank Andula for that,” Billy shouted as he bumbled up the steps. “Thought we was set fer winter again, I did, didn’t I? Double winter? Was about t’get me heavy fleece out, if I hadn’t left it a few weeks behind in Morgan Mount.”

  “Won’t need that now, Billy,” Merl sang. “It’s as pretty as Buttercup Valley and as peaceful as Secret Brook.”

  Billy slumped as his crossed arms rested onto the polished wood. “Now that would be a place to take the girls. ‘Course, we’d have t’find a fellow fer Gwen, coz Frank’ll bring Desmelda as he’s sweet on her, like.”

  “Fer real?”

  “Real,” said Billy, noddin’. “Why’d you think he dithers so much when she aims stuff at him? Why’d you think he lets her win?”

  “Don’t know if he lets her win, Billy. I think she’s sharper than a blade of meadow grass, and more ‘telligent than all of us put together. Anyhow, Gwen won’t have no problem findin’ someone. She’s as pretty as a sunset.”

  “Who is?” Desmelda asked, hurrying up the steps. “Who’s as pretty as a sunset?”

  Billy nudged Merl and winked, but Merl just shuffled away, knowing through experience when Billy was digging himself a hole.

  “You are, Witchy Witch,” Billy said, with ill-concealed humor.

  Desmelda lifted her chin and drank in the sun. “It feels like the sun’s been missing for a long, long time.” She paused, then settled her gaze on both Merl and Billy. “It’s sweet of you to lie for my blushes, Billy, but as pretty as a sunset, I am not.” She winked at Merl and her expression suddenly pitched to thunder. “By sunset, are you saying I’m looking old?” The sudden twist of her words slapped Billy hard.

  “No, Desmelda, I was really talking about—”

  Desmelda closed. “About who, Billy?”

  Billy had talked himself up a dead-end alley, and he knew it. He started inching away though he found he had nowhere to go. He looked at Merl, but Merl just beamed back at him like any good friend would.

  “You are as pretty as a thousand sunsets, Witchy,” Billy said, proud as puff.

  “A thousand.” Desmelda let the silence hold. Billy began sweating, but not because of the humidity. “Are you saying I’m past the prime of my life and about to enter its night?” Her tone punched Billy on the chin.

  “No, no, I was just saying—”

  Desmelda’s laughter tinkled around them as the ship’s frosty glaze began cracking and icicles dropped from the rigging in a harmonious thaw. Merl smiled from ear to ear.

  “You’re real pretty, Desmelda,” he said. “And not just on the outside—inside too.”

  “Thank you, Merl. Nice to see some manners around here.”

  “And evil,” Billy added. “You got a touch of evil.”

  A thin, curling smile rippled across her lips as if Billy’s words were the only compliment she’d been hunting for. “Gotta have a hint of evil, Billy, else where’s the fun?” She ruffled her long hair. “We are in the eye of the storm, headed toward The Hidden Eye. Do you know what that is?”

  Merl didn’t, but he didn’t bother answering either, as Billy quickly jumped in with a “No.”

  “Synchronicity. It is pure synchronicity. There should be no way the two can be related, yet here we are. The storm was either an immense show of strength, or one massive coincidence.” She brought her hand up to shade her eyes. “There, see?”

  Merl mimicked her actions and squeezed his eyes. A small black dot became clear on the horizon. “Is that it?” he asked.

  “Those are. I just pray Starturner familiar with the reefs and wrecks that surround them.”

  “Them?” Billy asked.

  Desmelda nodded. “Them. The Hidden Eye is one large island surrounded by a swirl of smaller ones—some as big as Morgan Mount, others no more than a jagged spike. If that’s not treacherous enough, then imagine the spikes under the sea, all lurking and waiting to tear chunks from Wave Walker’s hull.”

  Merl shivered. He leaned over the balustrade, craning his neck, and staring into the deep blue sea. “Can’t see nothing,” Merl crowed, but had more trepidation than triumph coloring his words.

  “Coz we’re still a ways away,” Billy pointed out.

  “I’ll go below deck and help Frank get ready,” Desmelda said, pushing herself from the balustrade. “Just so long as I can trust the two of you.”

  “To do what?” Merl asked.

  “To not gossip.”

  And as the sound of her words petered out, so did the wind.

  Stormsurfer heaved the oars. Starturner leaned over the rowboat’s bows.

  “A little more port,” Starturner yelled, then turned to Merl and winked.

  The boat veered a little.

  “I said port!” Starturner barked.

  “That was port!” Stormsurfer growled.

  “My port!” Starturner shouted back, gripping his sides and stifling his laughter.

  “It’s always the rower’s side,” Stormsurfer said. His broad back still faced his old friend.

  “The boat’s side, but no matter. Double starboard, then. Let’s right your wrong.”

  Stormsurfer grunted. “I’ll double you when we beach. You can light me a pipe, that’s what you can do. Make yourself useful and light me a pipe.”

  “What a grand idea,” said Frank from the rear thw
art, and he shuffled inside his cloak and produced his bone pipe, which looked tiny in comparison to the two that Starturner was lighting. The giant handed one to Billy and asked him to take it to Stormsurfer. Billy carried the smoking pot like it was about to bite him. Frank sat back, puffing away and looking up at the empty sky. Desmelda waved the smoke away from her face.

  Two of the other three onboard took little note. Quaiyl stood by Merl, impassive as ever. Gloomy Joe was curled by his feet, asleep as ever.

  “Come on, then,” said Mushroom. “Do a fungus a solid and pop a smoke between me lips.”

  Mushroom now had a fully formed face. His uncanny resemblance to the staggering shroom-swallower that he had drained of all life was now plain to see. It was undeniable. Somehow, that man still lived—or Mushroom had used the knowledge he’d gained from the man’s soup to form the face and finally talk. In truth, it mattered little. Mushroom spouted nothing but nonsense.

  “Got no pipe t’share,” Billy said. “I got me fair share of habits, like, but never took t’smokin’ leaf.”

  “Nor me,” Merl said, but he knew he’d never be able to carry a pipe off, and that was why. It just wouldn’t suit him. It did some folk—the giants, certainly, Frank too, and he reckoned Billy could look fine, but didn’t care to tell him. Smoking was like a floppy hat: looked good on some, but less so on others.

  “No?” Mushroom griped. “Not one of you? Despite everything I’ve done fer you? Not even a little puff?”

  No one answered. Mushroom’s words petered out as they always did. It was like his mouth wasn’t fully developed. A few words and he was done for a while, and Merl, at least, was grateful for that. Mushroom weirded him out. So, Merl turned away and stared across the still water.

  The wind was still absent. The Sea of the Stranded Fool was named so for a reason. Merl remembered being told the reason. He remembered it like it was yesterday, but yesterday was a long time ago. Any that sailed The Sea of the Stranded Fool without knowing the path of its wind would end up in still water, not a breath-filled breeze about them. Such was true of the Hidden Eye. The moment they’d passed an invisible point, the wind had died, and they’d floated on until Wave Walker had walked no more. Starturner had weighed anchor and they’d settled for the night. Frank had wanted to plot and plan, but Stormsurfer had soon put a stop to that.

  “We’re right at the end of one plan and just about ready to start another. Yer just can’t fit an extra plan in, Frank, so why bother trying?”

  Frank had scratched his head. Giant’s words weren’t like normal words. They tended to have more to them that other folk’s. Sometimes it was difficult to see what.

  “Eh?” Frank had said.

  “We had a plan to get here,” Stormsurfer explained. “And we’ve got a plan to go to Quintz. You shove another plan in the middle, and it’ll just muddle yer mind.”

  Merl liked the giant’s easy way. They let life come to them where everyone else seemed to be in a hurry to chase it. They liked their stories too. If Merl had told the tale all of their adventures in Alaria once, he’d told it a thousand times, and so, the giants had lived that too. They’d lived it while leisurely sailing the sea.

  Merl liked the giants. He liked everything about them.

  They slowly neared the black dot, which spread and lightened. Merl soon stared across the still water, marveling at the first tooth. It thrust upward all glistening and white, like the fang Desmelda had likened it to. A gull perched upon its tip while scouring the clear water below, and another fang rose on the other side of the boat too. Then, like some grand forest path, more stood sentinel, coming closer together to form a way—a liquid road, with a surface like an azure mirror. The route arced away in a long, shallow curve. Merl’s stomach bunched to a ball.

  He’d seen some wondrous sights, and this one stacked up with the best. It was not quite as impressive as Three Face Mountain, but then few things compared to that proud peak. Stormsurfer puffed and rowed—he huffed and strained—and the dip of his oars became Merl’s heartbeat. Quaiyl matched the silent, powerful scene. The construct stood erect, facing forward, and not for the first time Merl wondered at his purpose. Unlike Mushroom, Quaiyl had developed no features, and he had no expression, but still Merl felt he was understanding the construct—The Origin—a little more every day. He couldn’t explain his feeling at all, and he couldn’t begin to, and so it was his secret. It had to be.

  That moment Quaiyl had looked down at him through Merl’s steel visor when he had laid on the steps of Erreden, something had passed between them. Merl wasn’t quite sure what it was, and he’d thought it concern at the time, but now he wondered whether it wasn’t something altogether more powerful. Quaiyl was like the comfortable silence that two friends share. It was like sitting on a rock with Billy Muckspreader, looking out over grazing sheep. It was like lying in bed and resting his arm over Gloomy Joe. That on its own was enough.

  Quaiyl had seeded some knowledge in him, and that knowledge had germinated both root and shoot. Merl was sure Quaiyl had a hand in, if not, was the origin of, his recent advancements. But something was missing. He understood that Quaiyl was much more than just a source of information, but again, he hadn’t fathomed quite what. Either way, Quaiyl suited this scene. He could be a returning hero passing through a colonnade, proud and true.

  Just like Frank could, Desmelda too.

  The fangs grew until they rose fifty feet high. Their sparkling white was dotted with the gray of gulls, who broke the tranquility of their boat’s passage with their eager squawks and fluttering wings. A shadow crossed over Merl, a swoop from above, and a nearby splash startled him as a bird plunged into the water like an arrow and surfaced soon after, a fish flapping in its beak.

  Merl became lost in their passage’s tranquility. The thrusting shards fattened and leveled off, as if they’d passed by the fangs and were now at the back of the maw with its molars either side of them. The sharp sides became white cliffs, and their blunted points were soon covered with a fringe of green. That fine edge progressed to a fat line and the molars swelled in breadth but dropped in height.

  “The islands,” Merl muttered to himself,

  “Now they look like a home from home,” Billy said, and in doing so, made no sense at all.

  “Eh?” Merl narrowed his eyes, wondering what on earth Billy was on about.

  “Look at the grass, the trees. It just like our valleys. I’ll bet if we were to land on one of them, we’d be all on our own. We’d have our very own island.”

  Merl spluttered a laugh. “Sun’s gone to yer head, Billy Muckspreader.” Then, Merl turned back around and dumped his chin on the gunwales. Stormsurfer’s oars dipped, and Starturner navigated the passage. The islands became progressively larger. Their greenery turned gradually lusher, and the passageway’s arc tightened until it eventually ended and they came to a lagoon surrounded by those islands. Ahead of them, in its center, sat a single large isle.

  White sand skirted it. Deep green blanketed shallow hills. They headed straight toward the isle’s beach, steadily closing. Merl studied a single tower that thrust up toward the high sun, which glinted from windows that punctured its gray walls. It looked out of proportion when compared to the isle. Merl thought that if it was toppled, its roots would upend the isle like a storm-blown tree upends a forest floor.

  “The Tower of the Stars,” Desmelda said, her voice hushed. “Some say you can see the ends of the lands from its top. Others say you can see much farther.”

  Billy let out a laugh, shattering the serenity of their approach. “What a load of hogwash. I could just as well see me ass as the end of tha world, like.”

  “We’ll see,” said Desmelda.

  Stormsurfer rowed all the way to the white sand. They beached the giant boat, but even then, they were still a good hundred feet out. Starturner jumped out, a rope over his shoulder, and he waded to the shore. While he did, Stormsurfer stowed his oars in the bottom of the boat.

 
; “Who can swim and who needs a carry?” he asked.

  After three trips, Stormsurfer had carried Desmelda, Mushroom, and Gloomy, and all had found a seat and dried out on the beach.

  “Just what is up that tower?” Billy asked. “I mean, is it one seer, two, or a whole bunch of them, Desmelda?”

  Desmelda shrugged. “No idea. No one knows.”

  “How come?” Billy asked. “No one been here before?”

  “Not quite,” Frank interjected. “No one’s ever left.”

  Billy wasn’t convinced, and in fairness, neither was Merl. The idea that no one had ever escaped the island meant one thing and one thing alone it was probably best to start trying as soon as possible. As the giant’s rowing boat was only a hundred feet away, to Merl that seemed a good a place to start as any.

  Frank and Desmelda were insistent that they should proceed inland, and that finding out what was in Merl’s past was more important than any risk. Or, as Desmelda put it: “Those that never returned might still be here. Perhaps it’s so idyllic that no one wants to leave?”

  “Or p’raps they’re dead,” Billy had grumbled as they entered the belt of greenery before them, though it was more like a jungle than a forest.

  “Or still here,” Desmelda insisted.

  The giants, on the other hand, were quite relaxed about everything. They relaxed on the beach, almost dug in, and clearly had no intention of venturing anywhere other than to some dreamland or the other. Stormsurfer explained that the business of man, of witches, and of wizards was not for then, although they would enjoy a good tale when they all returned—or, as Starturner pointed out with a grin, if they all returned.