Distantly, someone shouted, “What’s the time? What’s the time? He’s gonna drop. HE’S GONNA DROP! PAY UP! PAY UP!”
No.
Ignatius exhaled, his breath coming out of him like a jet of flames from a dragon’s mouth, and slowly the world came back into focus. Ugly faces crowded around him, their lips parted in silent gasps.
“Just passed a minute, gents!” the bookie shouted.
Ignatius swayed as he tried to stand. He almost lost his balance on more than one occasion, but he grabbed hold of a man next to him who was mumbling, “Fifteen more seconds, old man. Fifteen more seconds. Hold on for fifteen more seconds!”
But the fifteen seconds ticked by, then thirty, then forty-five. Finally, Ignatius was still on his own two feet at a little past two minutes, and the bookie was saying that no one bet past a minute, forty-five—because no one in their right mind would bet that far. No man, woman, or creature had ever drank a double of Firejuice and lived to tell the tale.
At least, that’s what they had thought.
Ignatius Mangood was no mere man, after all.
With the world coming more and more into focus, Ignatius climbed up on his barstool and stuck his hands up and out like a man accepting applause, except there was no applause for Ignatius then. Not yet, at least. Everyone was stunned into silence.
As Ignatius scanned the crowd, he thought he caught fear in the eyes of some of the patrons. Good. That was what he wanted. If not respect, then fear.
“I seek a Gnome!” Ignatius said. It burned his throat to talk, but he did it anyway. The crowd hung on his every word.
“Ain’t no Gnomes here, wizard!” someone shouted back. “They ain’t allowed inside.”
Ignatius thought this place not too strict on enforcing whatever rules it had, judging by the crowd below him.
“He goes by the name of Gelbus! He was a librarian, a keeper of secrets in the Light Elves’ castle.”
Nothing.
Slowly, the crowd watching him began to disperse. They turned away and found their tables again, bringing their cups to their lips. If death was not involved, they wanted no part of it.
Ignatius felt like a fool, standing up like he was. He got off his stool and sat back down. Did I drink the Firejuice for nothing? Oh, no… it was starting to hit him harder than before. The bar was as tilted as the look the bar’s owner gave him. Ignatius offered a weak smile, and the man turned away, heading into a backroom.
Have I failed my mission so early?
He pulled his hood down over his brow, shrouding his features in shadow, then dug into his pocket again and asked for a cup of ale, something to wash the Firejuice down; though he knew he’d be feeling it for days to come.
The barmaid gladly poured the ale. He told her to keep the change. She smiled a very practiced smile.
Ignatius sat at the bar, ignoring the swell of distant conversation filling the room. He just needed to get his feet back under him. He’d be better in a few minutes…he hoped.
He sat in silence as the Trolls started a game of straw jousting right in front of him. They each stood on small brown bottles and ran in place until the bottles lurched forward to one another. Before the bottles would clink, they’d stab each other in the chest with the straws, fall on their backs giggling, get back up, and do it again. It took three times before one of the bottles rolled off the bar and shattered on the floor. No one seemed to mind.
He never understood Trolls.
A wise person once said that no one ever did understand them, and Ignatius was almost one hundred percent sure that it was a rare Oriceran truth.
“Front row seats to two Trolls trying to kill each other with plastic straws. Maria would be so proud. C’mon, Ignatius, it’s time to adapt and find that Gnome,” he murmured to himself.
There was a time in Ignatius’s youth when he was offered the secrets of dark magic. Had he accepted those secrets, he believed he would not be in his current predicament.
No, you’re smarter than that. If you followed down the dark path, you wouldn’t be here at all. You’d be worse off, and you know it, Ignatius.
It was true.
“Wizard,” someone said from his right, much too close for comfort. With the Firejuice coursing through his system at light speeds, the voice sounded much too distorted.
Ignatius startled, his hand slipping down so his wand was easily accessible. He turned, his vision still swimming, and saw a black-haired woman, her hood drawn over her head. Under her eyes was the dark makeup native to a tribe of dark witches on the outskirts of the Dark Forest, a group completely fine with coexisting among Arachnids.
“Step back, witch,” Ignatius said, a snarl on his face.
The witch offered a sly smile. “The Firejuice is really taking its toll on you, is it not? Perhaps the bets are not completely off.”
“Leave me be,” Ignatius said. She was right. His insides were twisting with fire.
“Don’t be so hasty to get rid of me, wizard. We may be of use to each other.”
Ignatius turned to face her.
A trilling came to his right, and one of the Trolls—who was covered in seed, shells, and grime from rolling around the floor—was pulling itself up the side of Ignatius’s ale. He waved the Troll away with the back of his hand gently, much to the Troll’s displeasure.
“Buy your own,” Ignatius said.
The Troll stuck his tongue out and blew raspberries in Ignatius’s direction, showering his mug with Troll spit.
“Gross,” he murmured, taking the mug with a shaky hand and wiping it off with the sleeve of his robe.
“Those Trolls are such a nuisance,” the dark witch said.
“Oh, they’re nothing compared to my Bloodhound, Sherlock,” Ignatius said.
“Bloodhound?”
“Never mind.”
The dark witch leaned forward. “Ah, you have secrets, wizard. Don’t we all?”
“Please, let me drink in peace, my lady. I mean no disrespect.”
“As you wish, but I guess you aren’t interested in your Gnome’s whereabouts.”
Ignatius paused as he brought his cup up to his lips. “My Gnome? You know of Gelbus?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Please, spare me wasted time. If you are only here to mess with my head, I warn you, I am quite powerful,” Ignatius said.
“He was here only a fortnight ago. Cheery fellow. A bit of a heavy drinker though. But he was here looking for someone himself.”
Ignatius’s stomach flipped. That was Gelbus. Though he had never met the Gnome, he knew it was so from the Centaur’s description. How many Gnomes drank, after all?
“Where is he now?”
“He was abducted.”
“Abducted?” Ignatius’s mouth hung open. The burning of his insides from the Firejuice was the furthest thing from his mind.
“I’ve seen it in the flames, wizard,” the witch said. This all but confirmed her origin. Only a certain type of witch read flames, and it was a certain type of witch Ignatius didn’t particularly want to be associated with.
“The Gnome came in and asked for a friend. He was approached by a man undercover—sort of like you, Ignatius Mangood,” the witch continued in a low voice.
Ignatius grinned, his teeth showing bright in his beard. “Is it that obvious?”
“Your legend stretches far in the Dark Forest.” The witch returned the smile. “As for your Gnome friend, I will say no more.”
“What do you want in return for the information?” It seemed like everyone these days wanted something. Oriceran was changing right before his eyes.
“I don’t want anything.”
“Lies.”
The witch smiled slyly again. It was a nice smile. Ignatius found he was quite attracted to it, and he instantly felt regret for being attracted to her. She was not an enemy, per se, but she was certainly not an ally.
Now the witch sat down. “Fine, you’ve caught me. I do want something.” The sm
ile never disappeared. “I want access to the world in between.”
Ignatius startled and leaned forward. “Keep your voice down.”
“Relax, no one is listening. Everyone here is too drunk or too stupid to believe in the world in between.”
“I don’t have access.”
“But you will.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Ignatius answered. He sipped his ale. Steam rose up his throat, escaping his mouth and his nostrils. “Why do you want access? You surely know the horrors of that place.”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I can respect that. What if I guess your reasoning, will you then tell me if I’m right?”
The witch looked away toward the back of the tavern. A fistfight had broken out between a mountain man and an Orc. The Orc was tugging on the man’s long beard and screeching. Bets were being made in the same manner as the bets made before Ignatius downed the Firejuice.
“You will never guess it right, Mangood.”
“Don’t underestimate me.”
A few patrons sitting at the bar left to gather around the fighters. Glasses broke, a table flipped, and wood splintered.
“I will just tell you. I do not want a round-trip ticket.”
“Huh?”
“I want to get in, but I have no plans on coming back.”
Ignatius dropped his cup on the table. It landed on one of the Trolls’ toes, causing its small face to balloon in anger and turn a blazing-red color. “Sorry. sorry,” Ignatius whispered to it. He didn’t normally like Trolls, but he especially hated angry Trolls, because they grew much too big and scary for the cute creatures they were supposed to be.
He turned back to the witch, the shock still rippling through him. “You don’t want to come back? That’s suicide, you know that, right?”
The witch shrugged.
“There are dark forces at work inside the world in between—”
“And you want to join them?” Ignatius interrupted.
The witch smiled. “I see you jump to conclusions. I never thought the valiant wizard Ignatius would do such a thing.”
“I—uh, I’m sorry,” Ignatius said.
“No harm, no foul. Yes, an Earth saying. Don’t be so surprised. We Woodland Witches know a thing or two about the world beyond Oriceran.”
Ignatius cleared his throat. There was no denying the awkwardness of their conversation, but the witch seemed to take no notice of it.
“So if I tell you that I’ll help you get into the world in between,” Ignatius said, “then you’ll help me find the Gnome named Gelbus?”
The witch nodded then said, “I’ll do you one better, Ignatius. I’ll guide you to where he is. For you will need my guidance.”
He never thought he’d need guidance from a Woodland Witch. Ignatius looked around the tavern at the gathered patrons cheering and cursing at the fighters. His options were, as it stood, pretty slim as to who would or could guide him to Gelbus. He sighed and stuck out his hand. The witch took it.
“We have a deal,” Ignatius said.
“How wonderful,” the witch answered.
“But know, if you try to double-cross me, I won’t hesitate to show you my wand.”
The witch laughed. “Oh, Ignatius, I bet you’d like to show me your wand.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not what I meant…”
They shook hands. “I’m joking, of course,” the witch said.
“Good. Now what’s your name? It’d be nice to know who I’m doing business with.”
“Freida Storm,” the witch answered.
Ignatius took her hand and kissed it. She may have been a Woodland Witch, but Ignatius was a gentleman, through and through.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frieda.”
She smiled warmly.
“Now, let’s talk somewhere a little more…orderly,” she said.
***
They went outside. Ignatius kept his sleeve at the ready in case things turned south quickly. Frieda was, after all, a Woodland Witch from the outskirts of the Dark Forest. Anything from the Dark Forest was hard to trust.
The sun blazed, a stark contrast to the darkness inside of Ves Ielan.
When Ignatius had turned to follow Frieda out of the tavern’s front doors, one of the Trolls had jumped into his hood. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but good thing Freida did; Ignatius didn’t think he could handle both Sherlock and a Troll.
Promptly, she plucked it from his hood and set it on an empty table. “Run along, little one,” she said in the sweetest voice Ignatius had heard her use since he had met her.
The Troll smiled serenely, looking at Frieda as if she were his mother. Ignatius never saw someone handle Trolls better—then again, she was familiar with the Woodlands and the various creatures that probably lived around them.
As Ignatius looked at her now, her hips swaying beneath the dark skirts that stretched to the middle of her calf, he realized, with bitterness, that perhaps he had picked up one bad habit while living on Earth—stereotyping others, being quick to judge.
Maybe she is really a kind soul, he thought.
Of course, he was right when he stereotyped the Troll; as soon as Frieda had pointed out the Troll’s rightful place on the oaken bar, the Troll’s serene expression transformed into something out of the far reaches of Hell, and he had blown the wettest raspberries Ignatius had seen a Troll blow. A fine spray of spittle had dotted their clothes and they both said, “Yuck!”
Then the Troll jumped down from the table and skipped to the bar.
Ignatius thought Freida might one day laugh about it—
No, not now, Ignatius. You can’t be falling in love when you have such an important mission. Not to mention with a Woodland Witch; one who sees your true desires in her ‘flames.’ How many others know of your quest because of her, Ignatius? You must stay on course.
Freida stopped and turned around, her skirts swishing in the brightness. She looked like she was dressed for a funeral. “Over here, old man—keep up.”
Whether Ignatius was an old man compared to Freida was debatable. Woodland Witches were known to live almost as long as the magic-practitioners of Dominion; except, being so vain, they would not allow time to steal their good looks. Many a spell would be cast in the cosmetic department.
It wasn’t her looks Ignatius was attracted to—sure, they weren’t a downside—but it was her demeanor, the way she carried herself so confidently, the way she seemed to be about a goal rather than holding grudges against her enemies—which, in the strictest sense, Ignatius was, according to lore.
They stopped in the shade of the mountain. The rock was cool and the outlying forest was fragrant with the smells of leaves and sap and earth.
“Now listen carefully, wizard,” Frieda began.
Ignatius frowned. “You know my name. You don’t need to keep calling me ‘wizard,’ my lady.”
“And there is no need for you to call me your lady, for I am no one’s lady but my own.”
“Duly noted. Forgive me, Frieda.”
That sly smile spread on her face once more. It conflicted Ignatius—he felt both more attracted to and more distrusting of her.
When she saw Ignatius studying her as if she was a painting on display in some fine art museum, the smile faded, and her cheeks grew red. They both looked away—Ignatius toward the forest floor, which was littered with pine needles, and her upward, toward the top of the mountain, shielding her eyes.
Frieda cleared her throat and spoke. “I will tell you all I know,” she finally said. “It is necessary for where our journey will take us.”
Ignatius leaned forward, now honestly intrigued.
“You may not believe me, but know, wizard—er, Ignatius Mangood—that I speak the truth.”
“Go on,” Ignatius said, twirling his thumbs.
“I spoke of the Dragon Tongue. Do you know of them?”
“Of course.”
“I have seen them in my flam
es. They are popping up all over Oriceran.”
The image of a Dragon Tongue, a devout follower of the worst kind of dragons—Rogue Dragons—popped into Ignatius’s head. Their pallid flesh, eyes haunted and tinged with fire, and of course their forked tongues—a cosmetic ‘enhancement’ made with their own heated daggers. He shuddered and shook his head.
“What is happening?” he asked himself, but Frieda took it upon herself to answer.
“As the planets come closer and closer to lining up, not only does the magic increase, but the evil take their opportunities as well.”
It was true. Ignatius knew it. Evil was as opportunistic as anything in the land.
“When is the last time one of the Rogue have been seen in Oriceran?”
“Oh, it’s been many, many years,” Frieda answered.
Ignatius could only shake his head. He saw new battles on the horizon—the Widow and her followers, and now the Rogue Dragons of Old Legend, and if not them, at least the crazy followers of the Rogue’s Order.
“The man who contacted your friend Gelbus was a Dragon Tongue under the guise of a normal man. Gelbus sought out his friend Elargo, who, upon correspondence, had told Gelbus Cogspark to meet him there.” She pointed to Ves Ielan. “When Gelbus arrived, Elargo was nowhere to be found, but the Dragon Tongue was there, waiting with a letter.”
“From Elargo.”
“Precisely,” Freida answered.
“And you have seen this all in your flames?” Ignatius asked. His old heart was giving him quite a run for his money inside of his sternum, but he couldn’t tell if it was because the more Frieda spoke, the more he grew to like her, or because of what she spoke of. “Why does the well-being of one Gnome concern you?” He didn’t mean to sound rude, but couldn’t help that he did.
Frieda took no notice of his tone. “I can’t help what I see in my flames, Ignatius. I see what is important, that’s all, just as I’d seen you with that pretty music box, the one of legend, thought to be lost in your village’s battle with the Arachnids.”
The Midwest Wanderer Page 13
