by Sam Ferguson
Hoil stepped back out of the room and slammed the doors shut. There was a series of clicks and the floor opened up beneath Simplin. The wizard unceremoniously flopped down into a cell filled with damp, moldy straw. A moment later a burlap sack—complete with holes—was thrown into the cell, with Hoil shouting down to Simplin that he should put it on and cover himself before the judge arrived. Simplin decided to re-engage reality and brought himself all the way back from his meditative state. His eyes slowly opened and he gauged where he was at. Two cells over, he saw in the dim light, a figure hunched over sitting on the floor watching him.
“What is this place?” Simplin asked.
The hunched form didn’t answer, didn’t budge a fraction. “Sir?” Simplin said louder. He stood up, refreshed from his meditative disinfection and stretched. “Well this is no place to make friends, I guess,” Simplin joked to himself. He suddenly felt himself wishing he had Finnigan for company; that would liven things up a bit. He felt a bit uncomfortable with the hunchback’s eyes staring at him unblinking. He retrieved the burlap sack and sought to cover his nether regions.
“The burlap is supposed to be worn like an under garment,” a voice said. Simplin realized it was the hunchback.
“Ah, you speak,” Simplin said, “I was beginning to wonder if you were even alive.”
“Indeed, I am much alive,” the hunchback said, “Name’s Olink.”
“Greetings, Olink, I am Simplin.”
“And you’re naked,” Olink said.
“Indeed, why are you allowed clothing while I’m stripped bare?” Simplin asked.
“Because, you are a magic user, I am not. I’m just here sleeping off a good time last night at the Dankwood Inn,” Olink replied. “They don’t much like magic of any sorts in this mud packed town, if you haven’t already gathered that.”
Simplin finally managed to pull the scratchy burlap material on. It was terribly uncomfortable. “Yes, I only wished I had seen the sign posted outside of town that forbids magic,” he said.
“Ha, there’s no sign. The town leaders use that as a ploy to conscript any stragglers and rejects from Devin Bronzefield’s School of Magic, which isn’t far from here,” Olink said.
“What? That’s dastardly! To what end would they do this?” Simplin asked.
“Well, you’re gonna find out come morning,” Olink replied with a chuckle. “They take the magic users, cleanse them, sit them for a night in here, then they send them to the burlap factory to work off their ‘fine’ as determined by the Judge.”
“Fantastic!” Simplin spat out sarcastically. The justice’s reputation did not leave him with much hope for leniency. He went to the bars and tried his spells on them, but Olink started laughing.
“You magic-users are all the same. The bars are enchanted. You can’t use magic against them. The only way out is to wait.”
Simplin banged his head against the bars and sighed. He could do nothing for his friends but wait, and hope that he could get to them in time.
After a night of Olink’s guttural snoring, shivering in the chill of night on the straw mat in his burlap underwear, Simplin welcomed the soft light of morning filtering through the cell window. He was anxiously awaiting his meeting with the justice and stared intently at the outer door that led out from the cell block.
Soon, the outer door’s handle rattled and it pushed open on squeaking hinges. The peace keeper’s aide, Hoil, came through with a basket draped in a cloth. He rummaged through and removed the end piece of a loaf of bread and handed it to Simplin along with a small tin cup filled with water. “Breakfast is served,” Hoil said. He moved two cells down and performed the same routine with Olink.
Hoil left the cell room only to return a few minutes later just as Simplin had finished devouring the measly breakfast. He stood adjusting his belt and re attaching his key ring. “Turn and put your hands behind your back,” he told Simplin. Simplin obeyed, stepping backwards and putting his hands through an opening in the cell door.
Hoil grabbed his hands and wrapped a pair of manacles about his wrists. There was an extension of rope tied to the manacles and Hoil held it tightly as he unlocked and opened the cell door. “No funny stuff, no magic, and no talking unless the justice asks you a question,” he told Simplin as he led him out of the cell and into a small foyer.
Simplin looked at Olink as he passed and curiously realized that Olink was a dwarf with an expansive beard that was now covered in bread crumbs. "Remember to bow deeply when the judge enters the chamber,” he said to Simplin.
“Quiet, you drunkard!” Hoil yelled and smashed his club against the cell door.
Through the foyer and up a set of winding stairs that led into another hallway, Simplin suddenly felt vulnerable. The chafing burlap didn’t help his sinking feeling either. It was difficult to feel any amount of hope at all when your nether regions felt like a cat’s scratching post. Hoil opened yet another door and pushed Simplin through. This room opened up with a ten foot ceiling and a tall dais at the far end. A few empty benches lined the front where they had entered.
“Stand before the pulpit, magic user,” Hoil commanded, pushing Simplin abruptly forward. Simplin stood where Hoil directed. The peace keeper’s aide stepped ahead of Simplin, turned, and out of nowhere slammed the wizard in the stomach with his club. Simplin dropped to his knees and gasped for air as his breath shot out of him. “Bow before Judge Rudy, master of Lickedintime’s justice system,” Hoil demanded.
I could have done that just fine without the precursory gut punch, you jerk, Simplin thought spitefully. Hoil grabbed the wizard by the hair and yanked his head up. Simplin saw an intimidating figure seated behind the dais sporting a scowl and a cigar.
“This is the offender, then?” the judge asked in a raspy voice. Behind them, Simplin heard the door open.
“That’s him, sir. That’s the good for nothing magic caster what destroyed my cargo.” Simplin recognized Ralstine’s voice.
Simplin shook his head and then looked back to the justice. It was at that moment that he noticed a little butterfly in a full body cast, sticking its proboscis out at him like a child might use their tongue to show disdain. It then limped across the judge’s desk, entirely unnoticed by anyone else in the room.
“Where’s Krig at?” the judge asked Hoil as he looked about the room with irritation.
“He got in late from rounding up the rogue Fae last night, your esteemed honor-able-ness,” Hoil said.
“Oh, yes, more vermin for the factory. Ok,” Justice Rudy said as he directed his focus toward Simplin, who was then wrestled to his feet by Hoil, “You’re sentenced to three months hard labor at the burlap factory. You’ll pay for all the damages to your victim, court costs, etc.”
The whirlwind of verbal exchange had Simplin stymied. “Do I get a chance to speak?” he asked the judge.
“No talking!” Hoil accompanied the command with a swift blow of his club to Simplin’s side.
“I am Simplin the Wise, and I demand the chance to speak!”
“Hoil, shut his mouth,” Justice Rudy said.
Hoil delivered a right hook that split the skin over Simplin’s left cheekbone. The blood ran down his face and dripped to the floor. Simplin looked down at his dropping blood and felt a queasiness slip into his stomach. His forehead flushed and his legs went weak. A moment later he crumpled to the floor in a breathless heap.
“Guess he’s not much for physical resilience,” Hoil remarked.
“Take him to the transport wagon,” the judge told Hoil.
“Your esteemed and honorable sir, may I ask about recompense,” Ralstine asked, catching the judge as he rose to depart.
“Once Krig gets in, you can see him about payback. I need to be on my way back to the capital to deal with a couple of outsiders charged with stealing from King Nunya. Now, court is out of session! Clear the room.”
The transport wagon sat outside the rear of the jailhouse. It had a large draft horse for conveyance
and a big square box for prisoners. Hoil hoisted Simplin up into the back of the box and rolled his limp body out of the way to allow room for closing the door. Simplin gasped and sputtered. Still only clothed in the burlap shorts, the chill morning air brought him back to his senses.
This is insane! His hands were still cuffed behind him and his shoulders ached from the contortion. Nothing, though, compared to the searing pain in his ribs that had suffered the impact of Hoil’s club. I have to get out of here, back onto the road and reach Lucas and Mulligan. His mind raced with panic.
Simplin shivered in the box, his hands were useless—making it completely impossible to cast a warming spell with any of the overt fog swirling about. “What is a hero supposed to learn from treatment like this? If character growth like this is what an editor wants, they must truly be creatures without heart,” he lamented. The tears came next. He didn’t ugly-cry, but he did weep openly, quietly, wracked by pain and worry as he lay so pathetically upon the wooden floor.
With a great effort, Simplin forced the wave of piteous emotion to pass. He shifted and rolled to an upright sitting position. The wagon had yet to leave, and he could make out the sounds of townspeople outside. He struggled, painfully, to get to his feet and look out the slatted window. The judge, puffing his cigar, stood by the door of the building talking with Krig as Hoil looked on. They wrapped up their conversation and then parted ways. Rudy went toward the front of the wagon as the peace keeper and his aide disappeared inside the building.
Simplin felt the wagon jostle and shift as it seemed a driver had taken position. He heard the snap of a whip followed by “Giddyap, giddyap,” with the wagon proceeding to lurch forward. This caused the wizard to lose his balance momentarily.
“There has to be a way to get my hands free,” he whispered angrily. The cuffs seemed designed particularly for magic users—his hands were bound together so tightly that they were entirely immobilized and without the ability to gesture, there was no way to cast any magic with his hands.
Simplin decided to meditate and focus internally to escape the cold and bide his time in the transport wagon. As he reached a deep level of reflection, he felt his physical being enduring yet another bothersome pain. His neck burned mysteriously, out of nowhere. It wasn’t enough to break his meditation, but it was distinct and unusual.
“Simplin, you don’t know me, but you saved me,” a voice drifted across his subconscious.
“Dreams,” he told himself, “just the sounds of the inner mind.”
“That might be true under normal circumstances, but I have been trying to reach you since you brought me to the surface world.”
“Calm, calm, this is the sound of the sea that calms me,” Simplin chanted in an effort to drown out the voice. It was not an unpleasant voice, just unwelcome in his inner self. After all, this was his world and uninvited intrusion was unwelcome.
“The sea is exactly what I am referring to,” said the voice.
“Please, leave me alone, I am in the midst of trying to find a way out of my current predicament,” Simplin said with exasperation. He was starting to become exceedingly annoyed.
“Okay, but I can help you with that.”
This piqued Simplin’s curiosity. “Really and how might you do that?”
“First, listen as I explain what I am and how I know you,” the voice said.
“Fine, proceed,” Simplin responded.
“There was a story once, started perhaps two years ago. We met back in the undersea caverns where you came across a necklace with a vial, remember?”
“Yes!” Simplin said. That had been a fun story to start. He had met a mermaid, Asrien, and had spent several pages flirting and swimming with her. He had even saved Asrien from a giant sea monster. “After the sea creature attacked Asrien and me, the necklace was lost again,” Simplin said.
“No, not lost, but hidden. I hid it within you and you brought me to the surface where I need to be to regain my physical form,” the voice said.
“But who are you?”
“My name is lost to the mortal world, but you will be my vessel of return so I can reclaim my rightful place of power.”
“Well, I’m not really in much of a position to offer you any help in the physical world,” Simplin told the voice. “I’m not even in that same story anymore. There is nothing I have to offer; I can’t even use my own spells.”
“Clearly, as it seems your bonds are spell bound, cast by the one who passed judgement upon you. He is a high level magic user.”
“Rudy! He’s a wizard?”
“Valedictorian of the one hundred and fifty-seventh class at the School of Magic-N-Stuff,” the no name voice said.
“Truly?” Simplin exclaimed.
“I have limited capacity to operate in your physical plane. However, I might be able to compromise his bonding spell enough for you to work your hands free. It will then be up to you to proceed with a suitable escape plan.”
The jounce of the prison wagon slowed and alerted Simplin to the idea that they were nearing their destination. He quickly began to work the cuffs holding him. The voice’s promise held true and Simplin got the cuffs loose. He sighed in deep relief just as the wagon halted its lumbering progress forward. He heard voices muffled by distance and the box walls of the wagon. The moist air had thinned a lot at this new location, making it hard to summon the warmth spell. He would just have to endure the chill for a bit longer as he planned his escape. He now felt a great deal of appreciation for the ‘voice’ that intruded upon his meditations.
Again, he felt the wagon jar as it seemed the driver—the judge, and now the supposed wizard—had dismounted and, he guessed, was heading back to extricate Simplin from the wagon. Simplin had to act quickly. He rubbed the soreness from his arms, shoulders, wrists and concentrated on the exceedingly damp wood that made up the box of the wagon.
“Beoh wahl deoh wahl doeh. Beoh wahl deoh wahl doeh,” he chanted as his hands made the necessary motions to activate the spell.
Simplin could hear the driver’s raspy voice telling the guard standing at the factory door that he was bringing in a new employee.
“We got a new one to break in,” the driver told the guard.
“What’s the noise?” the guard asked.
“Sounds like something coming out of the factory.” Then there was silence for a moment. Simplin rushed through his chanting, not eager to get caught before he was ready. “It’s the wagon,” the driver’s raspy voice said.
“It’s on fire!” cried the guard.
“No, that’s not smoke, it-it’s steam—like a steam pot!” the driver corrected.
Simplin heard the handle creak as it was pulled for a moment, and then the driver cursed. “Mother fudge-runner!”
Simplin smiled. While he was in a protective cocoon, the super-heated water molecules in the air around him were transferring their heat to everything nearby, including the metal handle on the doors.
The judge reached for the handle of the door and jerked his hand away—it was insidiously hot. He recognized it as magic. “Back, get back!” and then the entire wagon erupted in an explosion of heat and scalding moisture. Wooden timbers, iron supports, and framework all came apart in a dilapidating burst of magic. The draft horse, startled and confused, bolted straight at the guard, trampling him under hoofs and the tack hardware which was dragging behind it.
Simplin had timed the detonation just perfectly. Switching to a levitation spell at the apex of the bursting, boiling tumult, he sailed straight up into the early afternoon air. He even discarded his chafing burlap underwear to allow him to fly naked and free.
But his freedom was short lived. He suddenly found himself halted in midair. Something grasped his ankles and he saw down below that the driver, lying in the mud, had recovered from the shock of the wagon’s destruction enough to cast a spell of halt on Simplin.
Does everyone in this town have the right to use magic but me?!
“No chance you’
re getting away that easy,” he said to Simplin.
Simplin battled to free himself from the halt spell. He focused all he could on increasing his levitation spell, “Come on voice,” he muttered, “help me out here.” But the voice did not respond, the burning sensation did not return in his chest, and he knew would need to think fast.
Well, if I can’t go up, he thought, then I guess I will go down. Simplin ceased his levitate spell and plummeted down hard to where the driver still lay.
The prison wagon driver didn’t have time to avoid the quick return to earth that his prisoner was demonstrating. With no resistance from the wizard’s levitation spell, his own halt spell pulled down hard on Simplin. The old wizard landed square on the man and rolled away in the mud. He struggled to his feet, the halt spell disrupted by the blow to the driver, and began to stumble away down the muddy street.
By now, the ruckus had drawn more guards from the factory and they gave chase to the naked old man. Simplin, determined to escape, slogged through the mud to reach the corner of the factory building. Just then, a couple of familiar faces appeared—Krig and Hoil pulled up on horseback. Eyeing the damage and seeing their prisoner fleeing, they immediately blocked Simplin’s path as the guards closed in.
“Stop!” someone shouted in a commanding and controlling voice. The guards froze in mid motion, Krig and Hoil’s steeds held still as statues. All were locked in place, save for Simplin, who stood wary and looking for a way out.
“What are you up to, Rudy?” Krig managed to utter through forcibly clenched teeth.
“Mind your place, peace keeper; it’s quite apparent that this wizard is turning out to be too much for this town and the factory to handle. I will take care of him on my own terms.”
