“Well for one, I’ve never cast a single spell. Secondly, I’ve got to figure out a way to fix this wand.”
Sir Eldrick scratched his beard. “Hmm…well…it is a long way to Bad Mountain—I’m sure you’ll have time to—”
“But who will teach me?”
“Don’t worry, young Murland, we’ll be sure to see Kazimir again before we cross the Wide Wall. You can ask him about it all then.”
Murland let out a long sigh as he kicked a loose stone.
Sir Eldrick knew the young man’s mind; he was doubting himself and the group as well. He stopped the wizard apprentice before they reached camp and took him by the shoulders.
“You must have some magic in you if you were chosen for this quest. Why do you fret so?”
“I’m not the wizard for this job,” said Murland, shaking his head. “I can’t even cast one spell without blowing myself up. The truth is, I never passed my test. Technically…I’m not even a wizard.”
Sir Eldrick considered this, or seemed to at least. At the moment he was actually thinking about all the bottles of wine on the table back at camp. “Do you have faith in Kazimir?” he asked.
“Well…yeah,” said Murland.
“Good. Then you must have faith in his choices. He is the Most High, after all. You will find your power. I believe you will, and so does Kazimir. That should be enough for you. Perhaps you should spend less time worrying about what you can’t do, and instead focus on what you can do. I don’t know much about magic, but I know that one must believe in their ability to do it, else even the most powerful wizard will be unable to perform.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Murland, his back straightening a bit.
“Of course I am. Now let’s get back to camp before that food lures the bears—or worse.”
Chapter 13
Only Fools Try to Fly
The morning came to Fallacetine much too quickly for the hungover companions’ liking. The song birds were out, singing of the glory of spring, but they made Willow’s head pound, and she found herself wishing that she could eat them all. Heavy fog hung in the lowlands visible from the hill, but the sight only reminded Gibrig of the dawn as seen from the saddle point of the Mountain Pass, where he had lived with his father all his short life. There was not a cloud in the sky; however, to Brannon, the slowly rising sun burned his dry and itchy eyes. Murland emerged from his small tent holding his aching head and wishing that he had some of old High Wizard Waverly’s magic hangover potion, or as the wizard affectionately called it, “Hair of the Dog.”
“Good morning!” said Sir Eldrick, who, unlike the others, looked as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a Vhalovian hare in spring.
“Morning,” Murland said, stifling a yawn.
“What’s good about it?” Brannon asked in a sleepy voice.
Sir Eldrick ignored him and took in the morning air as he looked west, like a conquering king feasting his eyes on newly dominated land.
“Where’s the food? Didn’t you make any breakfast?” Willow asked before giving a big yawn and scratching her backside.
“The food, my dear ogre, is in our bellies,” said Sir Eldrick before turning to the group and spreading his arms wide. “Well then, the road awaits. Break down your tents, clean yourselves up, and be ready in ten minutes.”
A chorus of groans answered him, and he turned, undeterred, and mounted his horse.
Murland and the others did as they were told. They had voted him in as their leader after all, and besides, the sooner they got going, the sooner they might come upon something to eat.
In ten minutes’ time, the companions were ready. Willow sat high upon her monstrous raptor, Gibrig upon his hog, and Brannon on his white steed. The prince was completely preoccupied with applying his coloring, and quite ignoring the others as he fussed over himself. Murland finished lacing up his boots and mentally prepared himself for a long day of marching, though he did have ideas to ask Gibrig for a ride, or perhaps Sir Eldrick. There was no way he was riding on a raptor, and Brannon, well, Murland knew that asking him was pointless, and likely to gain him more than one pert insult. He tried to stay positive, despite the raging headache and fog of dizziness and melancholy hanging over his head, and reminded himself that it could be worse. He packed the last of his things in his backpack and tossed it into the air as one might a dove. It rose, and then began to drop, when suddenly it spread its wings and flew into the sky.
“Ah then, it looks like everyone is ready. Shall we?” said Sir Eldrick, almost singing.
Murland wondered about his chipper mood, and why the legendary drunk who was more often called Slur Sirsalot hadn’t indulged in spirits the night before. Perhaps he had taken a vow of sobriety. Perhaps it was his love for the road and grand adventure. Whatever it was, Murland envied the knight his joy.
At Sir Eldrick’s direction, the group headed out down the road leading west. The knight even whistled as he rode, and Murland hoped that he didn’t break out into song. Sir Eldrick had sang the night before, in a deep baritone that had lent well to the wine-infused merriment, but now that deeply powerful voice would be like having a ringing gong for a pillow.
***
Willow grumbled all morning long, saying it wasn’t natural to start your day without food and drink. She didn’t remember the last time she had missed a breakfast, or any other meal for that matter. In a voice filled with longing, she rattled off all the different kinds of ogre food that she had enjoyed for breakfast back in Fire Swamp: crocodile eggs with fire toad blood, swamp weed and pussy willow biscuits, lightning eel soup, snails on a half shell, turtle brains, pickled tadpoles, lizard bile, and her favorite, slug jelly and crispy crickets spread on mushroom caps—the list went on for nearly ten minutes.
Murland and Gibrig shared a sour glance that grew with every word, and had soon completely lost their appetites.
She gave a sigh when she finished. “Don’t you know its bad luck to start the day without a proper meal?” she asked Sir Eldrick, whose horse was eying her raptor warily.
“Believing in bad luck is bad luck, my ever-hungry ogre,” he said with a chuckle. “No, we’ve a long way to go, and there will not always be food to fill our bellies. Best you get used to tightening your belt.”
Willow let her raptor fall back and offered the knight a thumbs-up behind his back, causing Gibrig to take in a shocked breath.
Gibrig eyed her with a scowl when she settled in to keep pace with him. “That was not nice at all,” he said with all seriousness. He lowered his voice and whispered, “I know that a thumbs-up is the rudest of gestures in ogre society.”
She turned to him and flipped him not one, but two fat green thumbs.
“Hey, that wasn’t nice either,” he protested, looking quite hurt.
“Oh, for Great Turtle’s sake, lighten up,” said Willow, rolling her eyes.
“She’s just mad because she ate all the food last night,” said Brannon, who was suddenly on Gibrig’s right, his white steed pacing the hog and raptor. “The sound woke me from a dead sleep. I thought it must be that your hog had gotten into the scraps by the sound of it, but when I looked, there she was, stuffing her fat green face.”
“Hey!” said Gibrig.
Brannon ignored him and offered Willow one last leering glare before raising his chin high and spurring his steed into a gallop.
“Don’t pay no attention to him,” said Gibrig. “He just likes to make people feel bad ‘cause someone made him feel bad. I don’t think yer face be fat.”
Willow snapped her head toward Gibrig and stared at him indignantly. “It’s not?” she said with alarm and felt her round cheeks with her large hands. “Oh no, I’m getting skinny.”
“What? No…er,” Gibrig stammered.
“Won’t you let us butcher the hog?” Willow asked Gibrig miserably, all the while eyeing Snorts and the way his plump bottom wiggled. She could just imagine the bacon that could be got from the hog, enough for one, maybe eve
n two breakfasts.
Gibrig’s face went from confused to indignant in a flash. He crossed his arms tightly. “I’m sorry, but the answer still be no.”
“Fine,” Willow spat at him, and she quickly turned her eyes on Brannon’s horse.
***
The champions followed the western road for many miserable hours. The forest gave way to rocky hills dotted with bearberries and patches of witch grass, along with twisted junipers and dragon’s tongue, whose long red flowers were just beginning to bloom. The foothills led south to a small range, where distant peaks stood clumped shoulder to shoulder. Their silver caps flirted with a blanket of white clouds that seemed frozen in time. Beams of light, like the arrows of the gods, pierced the cloud cover in spots, gloriously illuminating the lush spring foliage and dark, stony valleys.
The range, called by the dwarves the Silver Mountains, had been the home of the ancestors of the dwarves. The mountains had been abandoned by the dwarves centuries before, when a tribe of giants had finally been run out of Fire Swamp by the ogres and sought shelter in the high peaks. It was said that the giants lived there still, and many a brave human knight and dwarven warrior looking to make a name for themselves had ventured into those dark hills, never to be heard from again.
Gibrig eyed those distant peaks gravely. His father had been one of those brave dwarves to try and take back the mountain long before Gibrig was born. Hagus had set out with the late King Bonesteel and a thousand other dwarves. Only fifty had made it back alive. Hagus Hogstead had lost an eye in that battle and still wore the old army issue patch over his empty left socket. He had told Gibrig that though he lost an eye, he now saw more than he had before. “War be a scourge on us all,” Hagus had told Gibrig more than once. “Revenge got no end, and its price be blood, and it be paid for generations, ‘til no one remembers what they be fightin’ for.”
There were many dwarves in the Iron Mountains who swore to avenge not only King Bonesteel, but all their fallen ancestors. But Hagus was not one of those dwarves. He, like many others, had given up on the idea. The Silver Mountain mines were not half as bountiful as their much larger counterparts. “Let the blasted giants keep ‘em,” some would argue at the pubs, only to be refuted by the usual, “Someday, I tell ye, we be takin’ back them mountains, mark me words. And a glorious day it’s to be.”
Gibrig tended to agree with his father. It was better to just let it go and live in peace.
“You’re thinking of the giants, ain’t you?” said Willow, looking down at Gibrig with a sympathetic frown that left her bottom lip curled beneath her thick tusks.
“A lot of dwarves died down there,” said Gibrig somberly.
Willow nodded, not knowing what to say. Many dwarves still blamed the ogres for what happened, being that it was they who drove the giants north into dwarven territory in the first place.
“The elders say that we’ll take it back some day,” said Gibrig. “But I hope they don’t even try. Too many dwarves and giants will get hurt.”
“You’re worried about the giants?” said Willow incredulously.
“Well…yeah,” said Gibrig with a shrug. “It weren’t their fault. They was just looking for a place to live. The ogres weren’t too nice to them ye know, neither were the humans or elves. It’s like me pap says, meanness be like a disease, it be spread from one person to another, and gets stronger and stronger. The only way to beat it be with love.”
Willow shook her head. “I don’t understand you sometimes.”
Gibrig only smiled. “That’s alright, not many people do.”
***
Murland had heard the exchange between the ogre and dwarf. He tore his eyes away from the Silver Mountains with a shiver and went back to his spell book. He was forced to walk and read at the same time, being the only one without a mount, and so far, he found it quite frustrating. The flowing script looked to be a combination of dwarven, elven, ogre, and human writing forms, but knowing only human and some Elvish writing, Murland was at a loss to translate it.
Tired and frustrated with the spell book, he turned to the broken wand and focused on a mending spell that he knew. He had never successfully cast the spell, for he had never successfully cast any spell, but it was a long road to Bad Mountain, and even the frustrating task helped him to pass the long, boring hours and forget about his hangover. He waved his hand over the wand, murmuring the words he had learned from the high wizards, but of course, nothing happened.
“Well then, let’s see what you got, wizard,” said Brannon, who had been riding behind him the entire time.
“What do you mean?” asked Murland sheepishly.
“I mean magic, what else?”
Murland’s eyes quickly darted to the ground, his mind racing. He glanced from the wand to the spell book before settling back on Brannon.
“I—”
“Yeah, let’s see some magix!” Willow said, jumping in. She slowed her raptor to ride on the other side of Murland.
He noticed then that everyone’s attention was on him.
“I…well…you see,” Murland stammered, not wanting to tell them that he hadn’t any magic at all.
He looked to the sky, wondering what he should do, and spotted the backpack as it glided overhead. An idea suddenly struck him.
“How would you like to see me fly?” he asked them all with newfound confidence.
“Whoa, you serious?” Willow asked.
Murland put two fingers in his mouth and whistled, and everyone watched eagerly as the backpack swooped down and landed among them.
“This should be good,” said Brannon with a smirk as he sat back in the saddle.
Sir Eldrick shot him a warning scowl.
“Alright,” said Murland, approaching the backpack slowly, as one trying to catch a chicken might stalk the creature. “You just wait and see.” With that, he lunged forward and quickly caught the winged pack, slinging it over his shoulder before he lost his nerve.
Everyone watched with growing anticipation as Murland prepared himself, for indeed, it was the most excitement they’d had all day.
Murland let out a long slow breath and rolled his shoulder. “Here goes nothing,” he said to himself and took off at a run. When he reached top speed, he began leaping in the air repeatedly and trying to coax the backpack to spread its wings and fly. “Up, up, up…fly you blasted backpack!” he yelled pleadingly.
The others kicked their steeds to catch up to him and cheer him on.
“You can do it!” cried Gibrig, whose eyes had begun to tear up for some reason.
“Jump higher!” Willow yelled jubilantly.
Murland ran and ran. He leapt and jumped, hopped and skipped, and even pleaded with the backpack, but the stubborn leather sack refused to comply.
Brannon laughed when Murland stopped in his charge and took a knee to catch his breath. “Maybe you should try jumping off a cliff,” he said, lazily sitting sidesaddle and filing his nails.
“Perhaps he just needs more encouragement,” said Sir Eldrick through gritted teeth masked by a too-big smile.
The elf let out a sigh. “You can do it, Murland,” he yelled rather unconvincingly.
The frustrated wizard glanced at a twisted old elm tree sitting off to the left of the road. Maybe Brannon is right, he thought. He picked himself up and dusted off his star-patterned robes before marching over to the elm. With nimble grace, he began to climb carefully up, up, up.
“Be careful!” Gibrig yelled, biting his nails as he watched.
Sir Eldrick leaned over to Brannon and spoke so that only the elf could hear. “If he breaks a leg, I’m giving him your horse for the rest of the trip,” he said pleasantly, even offering the elf a wink.
Brannon offered the knight an indignant glare and then turned to watch Murland, who was already halfway up the fifty-foot tree.
When he was near the top, he scuttled out to the middle of a long thick branch and steadied himself, standing shakily. He glanced down and immed
iately wished he hadn’t. The ground beneath him was rocky, and a fall from this height was sure to end his short-lived career as a hero.
“You better open your damned little wings this time,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the backpack. “Else I’m going to turn you into underpants for Willow.”
The enchanted backpack offered no indication that it had heard the warning, and its wings remained tucked against its sides, motionless.
Murland found himself wondering for a lucid moment how he had gone from studying the spell book to leaping from an elm tree.
“Here goes nothing,” he said under his breath. And before he could change his mind, he leapt off the tree, spreading his arms out wide and closing his eyes.
He sailed out over the branches, hair billowing in the wind, and began to fall like a stone. Murland opened his eyes and cried out when he saw the road rushing up to meet him. “Fly!” he cried, flapping his arms frantically.
And he landed hard in a puddle before the group with an explosive, “Oof!”
Willow gave a squealing, “Eek!”
“You alright?” Gibrig asked, leaping from Snorts and running over.
Brannon suddenly burst into quick and sudden laughter, though he quickly clipped his mirth after glancing over at Sir Eldrick, who sat watching with growing concern.
“Murland, are you alright?” said the knight.
But before Murland could answer, or Gibrig could reach him, the backpack finally decided to start flying. It opened its wings wide and began flapping them furiously, shooting Murland down the road and dragging him across dirt and mud for a hundred yards before finally taking to the sky. The poor wizard’s apprentice cried out in fear and exhilaration, desperately wiping at his eyes to see where he was going.
The backpack took him out over the rocky terrain. It then suddenly dove down and flew low over the road before pulling straight up and thrusting toward the clouds.
Champions of the Dragon: (Humorous Fantasy) (Epic Fallacy Book 1) Page 9
