by Jeff Wheeler
Warlick laughed heartily. “If I wanted to stay safe and follow rules, I’d have been a lawyer. The whole point of magic is to break the rules. It’s the art of influencing events and producing marvels. Not following some dusty old procedures.”
Artis was speechless. The scents of pine and charred flesh stung his eyes.
“Now, Arty,” continued Warlick in a reassuring tone. “I’m no happier about this, er, setback than you are. But it’s not all bad news. Look!” Warlick pried Sir Regald’s sword from his palsied grasp. A crackle of energy raced along the blade. “It’s still got plenty of charge in it!” he announced cheerily. “A solid blow from you should do the trick.”
A maelstrom of nausea raged inside of Artis, driven by horror, regret, remorse, and the certainty of his own failure. He wanted to scream. He wanted to weep. Most of all, he wanted to run. But something shocked him into lucidity. “Wait,” he said, “what do you mean a blow from me?”
“Well, he’s in no shape to do it,” said Warlick, waving his hand over the burnt corpse of Sir Regald. “Not to worry, Arty. You seem strapping . . . enough . . . to land a good shot to the noggin. The lightning enchantment should take care of the rest.” He held the sword out to Artis and looked off into the forest. “Shall we? Tick tock and all that.”
* * *
The moon was high and bright, but Artis scarcely saw it. He walked among the trees with his head bowed, cursing his luck and fussing with Sir Regald’s reclaimed sword belt. No matter how he adjusted it, the sword slapped obnoxiously against his ankle, a physical reminder that a much larger man should be wielding it. Each step deeper into the forest was one that he wished he could take back.
But what then? Artis wondered. Tell his mother and uncle that the quest had been a failure? That his cousins were going to be eaten at sunrise, and there was nothing Artis could do about it because, for all his fancy education, he didn’t know the first thing about practical magic? Artis preferred to take his chances with the dragon.
After several more hours of walking, Artis and Warlick approached the edge of the forest, where the trees thinned to reveal the mountains beyond. Artis stopped, transfixed by the immensity.
“You hear that?” whispered Warlick.
“Mmmm,” hummed Artis.
“Voices!”
Artis snapped out of his reverie. “What? Where?”
“There! And look. Fire!”
They snuck toward the flickering orange light and peered through bushes to find a campsite hidden among the trees. Three large tents were arranged in a semicircle around a bonfire, beside which, sat two burly men in armor. A third man paced around the camp, his robe flowing behind him. He carried his long frame with the utmost dignity, and his stern face, slicked-back silver hair, and aquiline nose suggested power and stature neither Artis nor Warlick failed to notice.
“He’s not from town. I can tell you that much,” whispered Warlick.
“No. Likely an archmage from one of the big guilds in Santibel.”
“Listen closely, Arty. We’ll circle around and give ’em the slip. If they catch us, tell ’em we’re travelers–”
“Why would we do that?” snapped Artis, who was no longer whispering. “We’ve finally had a stroke of luck!” He rose and strode into the heart of the camp.
The men at the fire jumped up instantly, their hands going for their swords. Artis ignored them and approached the tall robed man directly. The man’s features tightened in suspicion.
“Artis Tasker. GB&S.” He reached out his hand.
The man relaxed and gave Artis’s hand a serious single shake. “Mr. Tasker. Pleasure. Fentus Sovenari. S Double P.”
This was better than Artis could have dreamed. S Double P was the common name of Sovenari, Plinkum, and Plinkum. Whenever Artis corrected someone that his own guild was not the best, but merely one of the best, it was largely out of deference to the S Double P’s prominence (though some had suggested an ancient reputational spell may have been at work). That Artis was speaking with the head archmage of that vaunted guild was not lost on him. He stood ramrod straight, and used his clearest adult voice.
Fentus revealed that he was in South Hamdon to slay a dragon at the request of the noble house of Velobar. As it happened, Lady Velobar’s favorite wine came from a vineyard in the region, and the family had retained S Double P to exterminate the beast for the protection of the crop.
“Interesting that we’ve run into each other,” noted Fentus. “Our diligence did not turn up any other quest authorizations for this area.”
Artis pretended to casually inspect the camp. “Just a small pro bono matter for a local family,” he said matter-of-factly. “A couple of boys have gone missing in the forest, and we agreed to track them down.” He did not like lying, but some pruning of the truth seemed in order. No doubt Warlick would approve, thought Artis. He continued, “Of course, I had to partner with a local practitioner who knows the area. Though he seems to have gotten lost as well.”
Hesitantly, Warlick emerged from the bushes, looking even more disheveled than usual. Fentus arched an eyebrow nearly to his steadfast hairline.
“There he is! Good of you to join us, Warlick,” said Artis. He then lowered his voice and motioned for the archmage to lean closer. “You know how these rustic wizards can be.”
“Ha-ho!” Fentus loosed a throaty chuckle. “More rusty than rustic, I should say. Mmm?” He elbowed Artis in the ribs playfully. “Come, young man, why don’t you and your associate join us.”
Artis and Warlick sat by the fire where they were introduced to Sir Abbic and Sir Dolbart, who grunted in acknowledgment and resumed their meal. Fentus sat beside Artis and regaled him with complaints about the roughness of his journey and inquired about the goings-on at Artis’s guild. It was nothing like the nerve-racking conversations with archmages that Artis was used to. Out there, playing the part of a capable and competent wizard overseeing his own assignment, Artis chatted easily, even joked, and felt like an equal.
Artis became so caught up in the company that Warlick jabbed him in the side.
“Finish your hobnobbing,” he whispered. “Your cousins don’t have much time.”
“Don’t you think I know that? If we play this right, we can get Fentus and his knights to rescue the boys for us.”
Warlick opened his mouth to speak, but just then, a thunderous snore from the mountains smothered the conversation. The company looked up to find its source—a cave opening high overhead, which glowed like an ember among the ashen slopes.
“Our quarry speaks!” said Fentus. He then craned his neck and shouted, “Are we quite ready, Ms. Siege?”
There was a rustling inside one of the tents. The flap pulled aside, and out of it stepped a small but not insubstantial young woman in robes with copper-red hair pulled tightly back. Her face was smooth and white, except for a pair of high, rosy cheekbones and some rather noticeable bags under her green eyes. Artis immediately recognized the effects of overwork and little sleep.
“There you are,” said Fentus. “Artis Tasker, allow me to introduce one of S Double P’s up-and-coming junior mages, Ms. Annadray Siege. She volunteered to spend her holiday camping here to study the mountain.”
Artis noted how Annadray’s green eyes narrowed at the word volunteered. “Hi” was all he could say.
“Good evening,” said Annadray, nodding curtly. “Fentus, I have completed mapping the mountain’s mineral structure, as requested.” She handed him a scroll. “Speak these words, and the mountain will crumble.”
Fentus unrolled the scroll and studied it with a frown. “It’s a bit long.”
“It’s a big mountain,” she replied a bit too sharply.
“Now hold on,” Warlick, who’d been roasting an apple over the fire, interjected. “You plan to what?”
Fentus gave Artis a cheery eye roll before answering. “The commissioned deliverable is one dead dragon,” he said, as if he were schooling a child. “Why risk life and limb fi
ghting it when we can simply bury it?” He slammed his fist into his palm decisively. “That’s casting outside the circle!”
“But the boys!” shouted Warlick.
Artis stepped between them. “Fentus, my colleague and I are concerned that the children we’re looking for might have made their way up that mountain. If it were to collapse . . .”
“Mmmm,” intoned Fentus. “That would certainly be a crack in the crystal.”
“A crack? They’ll be killed!”
“Now, Warlick, there’s no need for hysterics,” said Artis, trying to get a hold of the situation. “Fentus is a reasonable man. I’m sure we can come to an understanding.” He turned to the archmage and smiled genially. “Perhaps you could delay the spell until morning. Warlick and I will track down the missing children and bring them back here. Then we can all watch you destroy the dragon together. How about that?”
Fentus scoffed and shook his head. “Impossible. A dragon is on the rampage, and Lady Velobar’s wine source needs protection. In fact, just before you arrived, I received message by sparrow that some poor country knight was burned alive at the edge of the forest. That monster must be stopped.”
A familiar anxiousness crept into Artis’s belly and worked its way up to his tongue. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear.” Artis was trying not to babble, but failing. “The dragon is asleep, you know. For now. Or rather, for a while longer. So it’s okay to, um, wait a bit. Right?” His eyes landed on Annadray, who was reddening. She cleared her throat and spoke hesitantly.
“The dragon sleeps until sunrise reliably. Then it feeds. We should be safe to wait a few hours while these gentlemen—”
Fentus cut her off sternly. “Nonsense, Annadray,” he said, annoyed and not bothering to hide it. “The Velobar family is paying by the hour, and I’ll hear no more suggestions unless I ask for them. Go prepare the incantation site. This mountain comes down tonight.”
“But,” Artis said weakly.
“But nothing,” said Fentus. “Unless you show me a competing quest authorization, my wax is dried.”
Artis was speechless, but Warlick was not. “I’ll wax you!” He spat and marched up to Fentus, his nose barely reaching the other man’s chest. “You should be ashamed to call yourself a wizard. In my day, the practice of magic was all about helping the little guys level the playing field. Now it’s just another tool for lining the pockets of nobles.”
“Oh please,” replied Fentus. “If I wanted leftist sermonizing, I’d grab a pamphlet from the gutter in Santibel.”
Warlick continued trading barbs with Fentus, who was suddenly flanked by the two knights—not that that intimidated Warlick in the least. Artis watched in shock, hot blood roaring in his ears. Warlick’s passion would have been impressive, were it not so misguided. Fentus would never change his mind. Artis had spent enough of his career catering to the whims of archmages to know that their wills, once fixed, were immutable. Warlick may as well try arguing with the mountain itself. An idea occurred to him, but he didn’t like it.
Artis put his hand on Warlick’s shoulder. “Warlick, stop,” he said. “Fentus is right. An authorized quest takes precedence, as do the Velobars’ property interests.” He may as well have punched the old wizard in the throat, but he needed to be convincing for his plan to work.
“There now,” said Fentus smugly, “at least one of you is a professional.”
“I apologize on behalf of my less-refined associate,” Artis continued. “In fact, I have experience in mineral matters. I would relish the opportunity to show S Double P what I can do and assist Ms. Siege with the preparations.”
Fentus smiled approvingly. “Loyal and ambitious! You have a bright future, young man.”
Warlick’s eyes bulged out of his skull. “Arty! How can you—”
Artis did not let him finish. “Gather our things. We’ll sift through the rubble when our friends have finished.” He locked eyes with Warlick intently, watching the old wizard’s face turn from bewilderment to resignation.
The site for the spell lay a short journey from the camp, at the foot of the mountain. Artis walked beside Annadray, who lugged a satchel of instruments. When they were alone, Annadray spoke.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “But I don’t need your help.”
Artis coughed. “It’s the least I can do for the great house of Velobar.”
Annadray pondered that for a moment. “I’m sure you’ll make an excellent archmage one day,” she said coolly.
“Isn’t that the goal?” said Artis, surprised at how defensive his words sounded.
“For some. I’m only working at the guild until I pay off my sorcery school debts. After that, I’m going to open my own practice in my hometown.”
It was the same dream Artis had heard many young wizards repeat year after year that they remained at the guild. At least he was honest with himself, and never entertained such delusions. Annadray will figure that out soon enough, he thought, but he was too nervous to quibble.
The two arrived at a clearing at the base of the mountain. Without protection from the trees, the cold wind cascaded off the slopes. Artis was shaking and huddled deeper into his robes, but it didn’t help. There was no hiding from the foul smell of ashes and decay.
As Annadray busily arranged the situs incantus, Artis faced the mountain. He sensed the humming of its minerals, knowing that Annadray’s spell would account for each one precisely. It was painstaking work, but if her analysis was off, various rocky elements would prop up each other, and the mountain would stand. That, Artis hoped, was his chance. He would change the mountain’s composition just enough to subvert the spell and delay destruction. He and Warlick would still need to save Rolly and Tolly, which meant facing the dragon, but Artis tried to focus on one impossible feat at a time.
He spoke the names of the minerals quietly as he recognized them, preparing to make the necessary adjustments. “Granite, dolomite, quartz, iron oxide, . . . gold?”
“Pyrite,” said Annadray. She was standing beside him, her eyes closed. “Fool’s gold. There’s also manganese, calcite, barite, cerussite, stibnite, gypsum, copper. Don’t you just love it?”
“It’s, um, fascinating on an intellectual level.” His stock response left a foul taste in his mouth.
Annadray laughed. “I like to think of each mineral as a different instrument. It’s like the mountain is one big symphony that only we can hear.”
Artis strained his ear and listened. Each mineral’s vibration stirred the ether at a unique frequency, but he struggled to hear the music beneath it.
“Focus on that vein of copper,” said Annadray.
He did, furrowing his brow and sensing the ore. Then he heard sound—not from the mountain, but from Annadray herself. She hummed a high note, as clear as any bard, with barely a waver or even a part from her pink lips. The tone grew louder, and Artis realized that it was no longer coming from Annadray, but from the copper secreted deep within the mountain. Soon, the sounds of other minerals joined it, rising together like the opening strains of an orchestra. The song was as large as the mountain itself, filling Artis with so much sound that he feared his chest would burst.
“It’s wonderful,” he managed to say.
“It’s magic,” Annadray replied. It was something Warlick would say, which made Artis smile. Annadray smiled back, and for a moment Artis forgot that anything else existed.
But the smile did not last. Annadray returned to her work. Artis remained, listening to the mountain music and ruing what he had to do. The frog hearts in his divination box beat almost as quickly as his own. If the mountain was a symphony, it was about to get a new conductor. He would not need to be precise, just alter enough of the mineral composition to throw off Annadray’s calculations and buy more time. He took a deep breath and dived in. His words were sloppy, desperate, and ruinous.
Artis was at it for nearly ten minutes when Annadray perked up her head with a gentle “Huh?” Artis bit his lip an
d continued his spell under his breath.
“Wait. What are you doing?” she said, her eyes going wide as she heard the broken music. “Stop it!” she said with increased desperation. “You’ll ruin everything.”
“I’m sorry,” said Artis. “But I can’t let you destroy the mountain until I’ve saved my cousins.”
Annadray was about to make another plea when they head Fentus’s voice calling.
“What’s that commotion?” He appeared in the clearing, followed by Warlick. “Annadray, where are we on the preparations?”
Artis looked pleadingly at Annadray’s worried face and mouthed to her, Please. He could see the calculation racing in her green eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she said through her teeth. “But I’m not ready, Fentus. Artis just pointed out a miscalculation in my spell, and I’ll need some time to correct it.”
Fentus spoke slowly, which made his words sting harder. “That is unacceptable Ms. Siege. And poor optics in front of our friend from GB&S.”
“I know,” she responded. “But I’ll have it fixed before the dragon wakes.”
“You’d better,” said Fentus. “Or do not bother returning to work.”
The young woman nodded curtly.
“This will be noted in your annual review,” Fentus darkly intoned. He then spun away with a whip of his robe and disappeared toward the camp. It was the kind of dressing down Artis feared every day of his career.
Annadray turned to Artis and poked his chest with a stiff finger. Her face was as red as her hair, her jaw locked so tight she was almost trembling. “You have until sunrise,” she said through her teeth. “And if I find out you’re lying to me, you’ll have bigger worries than the dragon.”
“Thank you,” said Artis, hesitating before adding, “and I’m sorry.”
Annadray turned in a huff and proceeded to quietly unravel Artis’s spells.
Artis motioned to Warlick, who shuffled along dumbfounded. They walked away silently toward the mountain.
The two had hiked up nearly half the distance to the cave before Warlick said anything. “You changed the rocks to ruin the spell, didn’t you?” he asked.
