“Show us some magic, then,” the soldiers had cheered, and Murland looked around sheepishly, glancing at his not yet finished wand.
“Please,” said Sir Eldrick, laughing merrily and winking at Murland. “He is not a traveling magician. What fool asks a wizard to cast a spell? One who will likely end up with his pecker where his nose should be, that’s who!”
The soldiers erupted with laughter, and Murland gave Sir Eldrick a thankful nod.
Brannon told them all that of course the prince of elves would be chosen as a Dragon Champion. He was, after all, the heir to the throne of Halala, and was well known for his proficiency in floral magic.
Gibrig explained that the king had singlehandedly chosen him from a list of hundreds. But when asked why by the soldiers, he could only blush. “Did I mention I got that humanism?” he had said sheepishly.
“Young Gib here has outsmarted a pair of vicious cyclopes, braved the Blight, survived bandits, prevailed over darklings, and has done so riding a hog and carrying only a shovel,” said Sir Eldrick. “Here is to Kazimir’s good wisdom!”
“Here, here!” the soldiers cheered.
Willow had explained that she had once defeated a king crocodile and had won a lifetime supply of food, and was the three-time winner of the mud pie eating contest.
When the soldiers glanced at each other questioningly, Sir Eldrick stood and raised a glass of cider to everyone else’s mead. “To the Champions of the Dragon, my companions, my friends, my family.”
Brannon glanced uneasily at him, but still, he drank.
“But what of your accolades?” said one of the soldiers, though Markus raised a calming hand.
“Come now, we all know of Sir Eldrick’s deeds.”
“Story, story, story,” someone began to chant, and the others were all too eager to take it up as well.
“Alright, alright,” said Sir Eldrick, waving them down and quite enjoying himself. “What shall it be? My battle with the Troll of Calamity when it marched on Vhalovia? The time I slayed three hundred in a single battle? Or the time I laid low the Witch of Agnar?”
“Tell us about fargin the queen!” someone shouted, and Markus turned a dangerous eye on the crowd of soldiers.
“I am sorry, Sir Eldrick—”
Sir Eldrick nodded understanding and then stood. “Let the man who spoke walk forth and stand before me. If indeed he is a man!”
Murland glanced at Brannon, wondering if perhaps they should do something. The elf only shrugged.
No one in the crowd stirred, and Sir Eldrick climbed up onto the table and glowered at the gathered soldiers, most holding tin plates in their hands. Though none ate.
“Let he who spoke come before me now and ask the question again!” Sir Eldrick demanded.
Finally, someone stirred, and the crowd parted like water before a stone.
Sir Eldrick gazed at the young man as he sulkily strode forth, his brothers parting from him like he had the plague as he went. Soon he stood before Sir Eldrick. He was a pale, freckled young man with skin too smooth to have seen battle, and a mouth too ready to laugh and make jokes, for he had never seen death by his own hand.
Sir Eldrick leapt down from the table with the agility of a much younger man. “What is your name, soldier?” He asked with all the authority of a commander of the eastern legion.
“Sir! Simon Shucker, sir!”
“Shucker, a corn man, eh?”
Simon nodded. “Sir, yes sir!”
“Please, repeat your question, for decades of battle have dampened my ears,” he said, cocking his head.
“Sir. I…I asked, what was it like to bed…the queen. Sir!”
“Ah!” said Sir Eldrick, thrusting a finger into the sky so abruptly that poor Simon Shucker jerked back, as if expecting a blow, or worse.
“Well, good Simon, I am glad to not know, for good King Henry could tell you that. But I can tell you that I have plucked her handmaiden’s flower, and oh how the Vhalovian coast grows their fruit.”
Murland grinned, marveling at the way the bearded knight turned the crowd. Poor Simon Shucker smiled as well.
“They say a noble knight does not kiss and tell, but I have never presumed to be noble, my friends,” Sir Eldrick went on, resting a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “What shall be said of the handmaiden of the queen of Vhalovia? Hmm, well, for one, her name was Autumn, but her breasts were like a twin summer sunrise, smooth as fire and curved like the moon. She had hips that you wanted to fall asleep on, and an ass that you wanted to jiggle. I swear that I once rested a full glass of brandy on it!”
“Oorah!” the soldiers cheered, raising, clanging, and spilling drinks, and surely scaring away any unfavorables who might have been just then lurking in the tall grass.
“And her golden forest, trimmed like a castle ground and just as sweet smelling as the gardens. I lost myself in those velvety folds, and have never been the same since. But I tell you, all of that was nothing compared to those eyes. Green eyes shimmering like polished emerald, staring at you, taking you in. You lose yourself to those eyes. They are frightened but hungry, unsure yet full of themselves. They are eyes that know everything about you. They see through you. They are home, they are peace. In those eyes you know who you are, gentlemen, and you are humbled…”
Silence swept through camp, and the wind too seemed to be hushed by the weight and truth of his words.
Murland found himself spellbound, for he had felt the way that Sir Eldrick explained, though he had of course never experienced half of what was mentioned. He had experienced that gaze though, and the smile that came with it.
Murland had known that feeling with Caressa, though he did not know if she felt the same.
“I cannot speak for what only the king knows, for I have never bedded the queen. My transgression was with the head maiden, and that is all I wish to say about that. For that is all you need to know.”
“Sir Eldrick, I…” Simon began.
“Understood, lad. Understood.” Sir Eldrick patted Simon so hard on the back that he nearly stumbled as he staggered back to his pals.
The night was filled with merriment and cheer, and soon Murland and the others forgot about the long road ahead of them beyond the Wide Wall. They forgot about the Forest of the Dead, the Swamp of Doom, the Horrible Hills, the Long Sand. They forgot about the Northern and Southern Barrens, and the Petrified Plains.
For tonight was a night of celebration.
Chapter 38
Zuul’s Confession
Kazimir spoke the words that Zuul had told him would activate the pipe. He said it exactly, making sure to use all the rolling syllables in the right place. As the last r rolled off his tongue, the emerald water pipe blazed with green light. Kazimir lit his wand and toked deeply of his wizard leaf.
Zuul watched with eager eyes, lips curled around the witch’s areola.
Kazimir blew out multicolored smoke, and his eyes went wide, and then droopy. He saw spells laid out before him in a spiraling dance, and voices played at the back of his mind. New understandings of old ideas blossomed in his brain, and he wished just then that he had a quill and paper, and the use of his extremities.
“I am compelled by my servitude to tell you, Master Kazimir,” said Zuul, glowering at him from beside the hag’s teat. “I had a plan B.”
“Hmm,” Kazimir grunted as he sunk slowly into his chair.
“I thought that you might try to stop me,” said Zuul with a mischievous grin. “So I awoke the harpies.”
“What are you saying?”
“They have been sent after the champions. Soon they will reach them…”
***
“To arms!”
The call went out through camp and was taken up by others. Murland snapped awake and looked around, confused by the rushing soldiers.
“What’s happening?” he asked Sir Eldrick, who was already on his feet, scouring the dark sky.
“Quiet!” said the knight. “Listen.”
A muffled sound like a thousand fluttering crow’s wings came to them then, followed by the screams of men and the otherworldly cries of some strange bird.
“Harpies,” said Sir Eldrick. He turned to the group. “To arms!”
Murland gathered his new wand and his spell book and strapped his backpack over his shoulders. Overhead, a multitude of wings rustled, and that terrible cry echoed mournfully. The harpies descended on the camp in droves, landing among the tents and groups of soldiers and tearing into them with wicked, talon-clawed hands.
The beasts stood well over seven feet tall, with a woman’s head and body, but the legs of a bird, and pluming multicolored wings. The red eyes of the harpies came alight with bloodlust as they ripped and tore at the soldiers.
The men of Magestra hacked and slashed, but the harpies proved elusive indeed, taking to the sky when the humans got too close and bringing with them the unfortunate ones who had gotten too near. Bodies began to fall from the sky, landing with a broken thud on top of their comrades and crashing into tents or bonfires.
A harpy landed before Murland and reached for him with wicked, curved claws. Her eyes were blood-red and aglow, glaring at him hatefully. A sword came down, and Sir Eldrick was there, leaping in front of Murland. Sir Eldrick’s glowing fairy sword cut through the harpy’s arms with ease, and as it turned to fly away, he severed a wing and let Willow finish the beast off with her massive club.
“Fight, you fools!” Sir Eldrick cried as he leapt into the fray with a war cry.
Murland looked to his newly carved wand and the terrible battle all around him. He heard Gibrig praying to a dwarven god, and Brannon murmuring his elven spell words. A harpy landed in front of Gibrig, and the dwarf cried out, swinging his spade wildly.
“Leave us alone!” the dwarf pleaded.
Murland took aim, summoned his magical energy at his core, and spoke the word as he released the power through his arm and into the wand.
“Ignis!” he bellowed.
A long, snaking streak of fire leapt out of his wand and hit the harpy in the chest, engulfing her and setting her feathered wings ablaze. Another came at them, and Willow sent the beast flying with a great swipe of her club.
Murland stared, dumbfounded at his smoking wand.
A harpy landed on Willow’s back and Gibrig leapt, spade cocked back, screaming, “Leave my friend alone!” He came down hard on the back of the harpy’s head. It fell to the grass in a pile of ruffled feathers.
Murland was electrified. The magic flowed through him, lighting his core like a newborn sun and buzzing through his veins.
“Ignis!” he said, shooting fireballs at the surrounding harpies, who seemed to be quickly overtaking the soldiers.
“To the Wall!” Captain Markus cried out. “Retreat, retreat!”
Sir Eldrick came charging through the harpies, magical sword severing limbs and heads and wings. “You cannot!” he said to the captain. “They will pick us off one by one. We must stand and fight together.”
Captain Markus looked unsure. A soldier fell from the sky just then and landed in a heap beside him. The dead eyes of Simon Shucker stared back at him.
“Captain!” said Sir Eldrick, shaking the man.
“You…you’re in charge,” said the pudgy man and, dropping his sword, he ran off toward the horses.
“Captain!” Sir Eldrick called after him, but the scared man was quickly taken into the dark of night by one of the winged beasts.
His blood bathed the ground below.
Sir Eldrick reached for his secret flask, but found that it was missing. The soldiers all looked to him, having heard the declaration of their fleeing captain.
“What do we do?” Brannon cried just before he cut down another harpy.
Gibrig was crying as he hacked into the body of one of the dead harpies.
Murland looked to the knight as well and lost his concentration. His next spell had no effect.
Sir Eldrick straightened with grim determination. “Everyone to me!”
The soldiers complied and began to form around the champions.
“Shield bearers to the outside of the circle. Spears behind, swords at the back. Archers in the middle!” Sir Eldrick bellowed, and at that moment, to Murland, the knight seemed the most powerful man in the world.
Arrows twanged, swords hacked, spears lunged, and the shield wall held.
“Give ‘em hell, boys!” Sir Eldrick cried, luminescent sword held high. “Show these rotten harpies the wrath of the soldiers of Magestra!”
“Oorah!” the soldiers cried, and with a stomp of their feet, they expanded the circle.
Sir Eldrick turned, his eyes alight with danger and excitement and full of life. He was about to say something to Murland, but suddenly a harpy swooped down, took the knight by the shoulders with digging talons, and whisked him up into the air.
“No!” Murland cried, and before he knew what he was doing, he was running and leaping into the air. The backpack spread its wings and chased after Sir Eldrick.
The knight was taken up high above the camp, but he freed one arm, and with an overhead swipe, he severed the harpy’s legs at the ankles and fell through the air with the talons still clutching his shoulders.
“Intercept him!” Murland cried, and Packy arched into a dive.
Sir Eldrick fell through the air facing the sky, his arm reaching for Murland’s as the backpack closed in. The ground came rushing up to crush him, and they clasped hands in the last moments before Packy was forced to pull up.
Murland grunted as his right arm screamed with pain. Sir Eldrick was heavy, but his grip was like iron, and Murland couldn’t have let him go if he wanted to. The backpack compensated for the new weight, flapping its wings vigorously.
“Put us down!” Murland cried, sure that his arm would break. “Bring us to the center of the circle!”
Harpies attacked them from all sides, but the backpack outmaneuvered them, even with its great burden. Sir Eldrick sang a battle song at the top of his lungs, laughing like a madman and mortally wounding any harpy who got too close to the enchanted blade.
Finally, Murland’s feet touched down and he fell on top of Sir Eldrick.
Willow, Brannon, and Gibrig rushed to their aid as the soldiers of Magestra circled all around them. The archers did as they were commanded, and a twanging chorus of arrows ripped through the night. Harpies dropped all around them, and the swordsmen were there to cut them down.
Suddenly the sound of rustling wings grew farther away, and everyone looked to the sky, waiting.
“Steady, men,” said Sir Eldrick, ignoring the claws still digging into his shoulder plates.
The sound of the retreating harpies was met by another, louder sound, that of a hundred wings.
“Murland,” said Brannon, helping him up. “Do you have a light spell for my seeds?”
“I…uh,” said Murland, rifling through the spell book. He knew what Brannon had in mind, but the simple spell to light the end of his wand wouldn’t do.
The harpies attacked again, this time with greater force and greater numbers. Men were plucked into the air one after another, and all the while Sir Eldrick commanded the soldiers to stand strong, and to strike true.
Murland crouched down between the companions, who fought to keep the diving harpies back with club and spade and glowing crystalline sword.
“Hurry!” said Brannon, and Murland finally found the spell that he had seen earlier.
He recited it in his mind a few times, nervous that he would get it wrong. But there was no time. The harpies numbered in the hundreds now as they circled the ring of soldiers, their wings creating a wind so great that Brannon’s long hair blew about wildly. The inexperienced soldiers were quickly being slaughtered, and soon the circle would fail.
Murland raised his newly crafted wa
nd, took a deep breath, gathered his magic at his core, and bellowed, “Lux solis pater vitam vocat te!”
Nothing happened.
“Murland…” said Brannon pensively.
Murland wiped his sweaty brow, tried with effort to ignore the cries of the dying men, and reread the spell words as he raised his wand again. “Lux solis pater vitam vocat te!”
Glorious light suddenly erupted from the end of his wand, and Brannon spread the seeds on the ground before dumping a bucket of water on them. Brannon bellowed his elven words, and the vines exploded to life at the center of the group. With the help of Murland’s light, the vines grew long and twisted in the blink of an eye.
“To me!” Brannon commanded all who might hear, and the companions and soldiers alike smartly complied.
Brannon sent his vines shooting out in all directions, snagging harpies from the air and bearing them down to the ground, where they were laid upon by the bloody swords of the soldiers.
Murland fell to the ground, head swooning. His wand winked out, and dark smoke curled up from the tip. Darkness came over him—soft, pure, beautiful darkness.
Chapter 39
The Headmaster of Kazam College
High Wizard Aldous Hinckley watched from Kazam’s highest tower as the Champions of the Dragon were brought into the depths of the Wide Wall. He pulled away from the enchanted telescope and gave a sigh, stroking his long gray beard. Hunched as always, he ambled over to his desk and sipped the last of his tea before settling into his old comfortable chair. He considered more tea, but on second thought, he pulled out the top drawer of the hickory desk and retrieved the twenty-year-old bottle of dwarven rum.
The moment called for it, after all.
He uncorked the spirit with a spell word and barely noticed the bottle pouring itself into a crystal glass.
He smelled the fine dwarven wares, swirled the glass and eyed the amber liquid, listened to it for three heartbeats, and shot it back.
Champions of the Dragon: (Humorous Fantasy) (Epic Fallacy Book 1) Page 27
