by Al K. Line
Kids! What are you gonna do?
Teach them a lesson, that's what.
Wizard Battle
Mithnite Soos stepped around me to join his friends. They stood there in the small open courtyard at the back of Madge's surrounded by soaked-through boxes, crates of bottles, garbage cans and a smell like no other.
The kids started shaking their arms and stretching their legs like they were about to go for a run or something, striking ridiculous poses as if they thought it made them look dangerous.
"Come on, what you waiting for?" I asked, smiling at their antics.
"We're gonna get you, Spark, teach you what for. Show you how real wizards play."
"What, with those silly coats on? I told you, you've got to find your own style."
"We like it," moaned Eric, a lanky kid with a mass of orange hair that never failed to shock me.
"Whatever. Bring it on."
Mithnite Soos put a hand into the pocket of his duster—he must have been reading about wizard detectives again—and as he pulled it out I got ready. My muscles tensed, synapses firing hard as I prepared myself.
"You are going down, old man," said Mithnite with a smile.
He's the leader of this little gang of wizards-in-training, but they all think they are the leader really. You should see them squabbling over just about everything. Still, they are good kids, if a little dim at times.
I envy them. To be taught magic in this day and age is a wondrous thing. There is so much freedom, although the technology gets in the way. I know from firsthand experience that you have to be a lot more careful about what you do, and where—let your magic guard down and there is always somebody ready to snap a picture or make a recording of you with their damn smart phone.
On TV the other day, I saw a thing that said most teenagers check their phone at least one hundred and fifty times a day! Can you believe it? Nuts.
I crouched down low, ready to put the kids in their place. They copied me, thinking it gave me an advantage or something, when the truth was my belly was just cramping a little as Madge's cooking worked its way down. I wasn't used to it any longer, and its presence came as quite a shock to my system after months of wholesome cooking and fresh vegetables and fruit.
Deep in concentration, Mithnite—his real name is Kevin, but he tells everyone to call him Mithnite as he thinks it sounds more wizardly, which to be fair, it does—pulled out the chalk and said, "Me first."
"Fine, go on then. But do it properly this time."
"Of course I will!" he protested.
We moved over to a dry area beside a storage shed with a long overhang and all five of us crowded around in the dry.
I watched with interest, the act bringing back ancient memories, as Mithnite bent to his task. As he finished up I had to admit he had got a lot better since we had last played, well over nine months ago now.
"Looks pretty good, for an amateur," I said trying to keep my face stern.
"What! That's brilliant, that is." His friends all murmured their agreement.
"We'll see. It's one thing drawing a circle of protection, it's quite another to, you know... Okay, go on then."
I couldn't help smiling as Kevin, a.k.a. Mithnite Soos, took a step back, opened his long coat and spread his arms wide. It brought back so many memories.
When Rikka was teaching me how to be a wizard, and harness the powers of the Empty, I did the same kind of stuff, minus the coat, of course, and whenever I played this game with the kids it sent me back a hundred years. Times sure have changed.
Using words only he could hear, coming out garbled and nonsensical to the rest of us—which is one of the basics, as you don't want other people hearing how you cast your spells—the air darkened and the wind pushed against us in protest as reality cracked. A sonic boom deafened us for a moment as the chalk circle shimmered like it was radioactive, then a terrible smell of rotten eggs overpowered even the smell of Madge's trash.
We peered into the circle as the smoke cleared, looking down, and down, and down.
"What the hell's going on? I was in the middle of sorting out the kids and now I'm here. Who's gonna teach them how to hide a sock properly under a cushion and move it just before you look there the first few times then find it once you've given up and have thrown the other one away? Eh?"
"Hi, Illus. Wasn't expecting you," I said. This was Intus' husband—all imp names begin with I.
"Oh, hello, Spark, it's been a while. I hope Intus hasn't been giving you too many problems? My other half seems to like coming to visit you."
"No, not at all, Illus. We go back a long way. Intus is a true friend."
"Hmm, so I've heard. You better be behaving!" he warned.
It was only recently I found out Intus was a female, as you can never tell by looking at imps, and they don't seem to think of it as important in any way. Was he jealous?
"Of course! We are just friends." I had no idea how we could be anything else. I don't really go in for miniature red demons that always wear leather dungarees with more buckles than could possibly be necessary.
"Whatever. Right, I'm guessing it was this skinny human that summoned me. Time to get blasted, little child."
"What? Hey, I summoned you, you have to do as I say."
"Is that right?" said Illus, a sly, or sly-er, look appearing on his tiny imp face. "I don't think you have quite grasped the rules of summoning demons yet, have you?"
"I have too," said Mithnite, puffing out his chest while his mates backed away.
I felt sorry for him. Summoning an imp wasn't exactly terrifying, but they are demons. It was just a shame it was Illus. He was a sneaky one, I knew, and I'd only met him a few times since Intus appeared one day and he came after her, and... Ugh, it's a long story, and I still have nightmares about it now.
"Go on then, tell me the rules." Illus sat down cross-legged, clearly enjoying it now he was into the swing of things.
"I've done it loads. I summon a demon and they have to do as I say. Grant me information, and answer a question."
"Ugh, ugh, get it off, get it off," Illus shouted, standing and screaming, the loud imp baritone deafening. He clawed at his head like he was being attacked by something really nasty from the netherworlds.
I shook my head at the terrible acting, fighting to hold back a smile. I knew the kids would be fooled.
"What? What's wrong?" said Mithnite in a panic, looking around totally freaked. Kids, when will they learn? He had a long way to go yet, that was for sure.
"Oh, nothing," said Illus with a smile. "But that's your question answered for you. Now I get to ask mine." Illus turned to me and said, "Who's been training these kids? Total amateurs."
"Haha. Give him a break, he's still learning. He did a good job of the circle and the muttering of his spell. And look, he's got a nice coat."
"That muttering stuff is all just for show. You know it, I know it, maybe they don't, but—"
"Just ask him your question, I've got things to do."
"Keep your shirt on. You humans, I don't know what Intus sees in you. We've got kids to look after!"
To be fair, Mithnite had done a good job. It was just that of all the lesser demons an imp really isn't that hard to summon. They usually like coming here, especially for the Marmite. The four youngsters gathered around as Illus put a claw to his cheek and thought about a suitably despicable question.
*
"Spark, Rikka's getting fed up waiting. You coming?" asked Dancer as I was just making my way from the youngsters, all sat or lying on the dirty ground in various states of terrible sickness. Moaning and groaning, clutching their bellies and glancing now and then at their burned coats and their ink that pulsed dangerously—it looked very painful.
They would be hurting so much. I forget what it was like when I was their age, new to getting the ink, just a few sessions in or complete yet unable to control the magic it channeled.
"Yeah, coming. See you later, guys, and keep practicing.
Just stop wearing the copycat gear, you'll give us a bad name."
I nodded at Dancer and we walked around to the front of the cafe. "What did you do to them?" said Dancer, smiling.
"Just showed them what a summoning is all about. They're good kids, but they are too cocky. They'll get themselves hurt if they aren't careful."
"Well, we've all been through it. I think they missed you."
"I think you're right."
I've known them all since they were tiny. Ours is a small and closed world after all. They had all come a long way, but Mithnite was definitely the best. He had a bright future if he kept his head. And in our world that is a very big if.
When you learn magic, you go through seemingly endless stages. From awe, to fear, a lot of terror, and a lot of hurt. I've had a hundred years of terrible pain and sickness when using magic, but I forget what it was like for the first few years. It's impossible to describe, yet those who want it bad enough carry on, so anyone that makes it through the other side and perseveres deserves respect.
You get given spells, learn how to use artifacts, runes, how to summon and contain creatures with intricate lines or patterns drawn where you want them to remain, but as you get older, and truly learn the arts, you realize none of that means anything. It's just a way to focus your thoughts and energy, to channel your mind and control the magic that wants to go wild then return to the Empty, leaving you a husk.
Once you understand that, and can use magic without saying stupid words unless you feel like it, then you come into your own.
The trainees had an uphill struggle, but hopefully they would get there.
And besides, you have to look out for them. Who knows what trouble they would end up in otherwise. Their teacher was one of the best, though. A mage so old, so powerful, yet so introvert we never see him out and about on the streets. He lives at home in a nice and suitably ancient castle on the outskirts of the city. A proper old-fashioned gent. Finnish, like most of the truly powerful ones are, but he is a good teacher, if a little archaic.
I guess that's why they came to me now and then, just to get some experience that is a little more up-to-date.
"When you are quite finished playing, Spark. We have work to do, you know."
"Sorry, Boss. Just safeguarding our future. One day they will be in charge."
"I've got thousands of years left in me yet. I'm not going anywhere."
"Tell that to them once they are all grown up and fancy being the ones giving orders."
"Never. Come on, in."
We went to see the accountant.
The Accountant
Dancer took directions from Rikka as he drove us through the city. I sat up front while Rikka sat in the back, still saying nothing about where we were heading.
We pulled up outside one of the many new buildings that have appeared like shiny blights on the ancient city, all glass and steel, a sign of regeneration and making the city modern. I'm not a fan, but to be fair it has brought a lot of money into the city, along with things like the Millennium Stadium and more shopping centers than can be healthy for anyone but the most dedicated of spenders.
"Let's go meet my new accountant," said Rikka, anger in his eyes. Trust me, you don't want to be on the receiving end of his wrath, so this was weird to say the least. He said nothing else during the short walk to a building like countless others, the atmosphere tense.
Dancer and I exchanged glances, kept quiet, then followed Rikka through a revolving door. I hate these things. Why do you have to walk like a penguin and get stuck halfway through as someone else pushes on the glass and it just stops? What a stupid idea for a door. That's progress for you.
"Boss, why are we coming to meet your accountant?" I had to ask, as Rikka was becoming stranger by the minute.
"Because he is the perfect example of the problem we are facing. Plus, he has taken charge of my finances, my personal finances, and I would rather have your special kind of skill available when I talk to him again."
"You know I can't take all the magic from a troll. The fae would never stand for it. You remember what happened last time, I nearly got wiped out. Ugh." The memory made me shudder but smile at the same time. The faery that came to deal with me was gorgeous and mesmerizing, and had the best ears I have ever seen.
"I know that," said Rikka crossly. "But you can see what is going on and find a way to handle the situation. I've got other business to attend to, important business, and I need you to deal with this."
"Okay." When Rikka said deal with something, he meant deal with it any way I could as long as it didn't disrupt the Regular world—that's frowned upon and a fast way to the afterlife.
Rikka moved on ahead down a plush carpeted hall once we got out of the elevator. Dancer whispered, "Did you take care of the gnomes?"
"Yes, don't worry. Piece of cake."
"Great. Phew, thanks, Spark."
"My pleasure. It felt good to be back in the game."
"Ugh, I hate gnomes."
"You hate everything. Look, is he serious? What's this all about?"
"It's just as he says. The trolls have all got smart and it's causing chaos. I haven't met this one yet, but he's taken over from Rikka's human accountant and Rikka's freaked. Thinks the troll will do something stupid and he'll lose all his money. You know how he is, takes this stuff very seriously."
"Yeah, he sure does. Well, I guess we're about to see what this troll is like now. I've never met a smart one, not proper smart."
We caught up with Rikka standing impatiently outside a frosted glass door. He looked anxious, and I can count on one hand how many times I've seen him that way. This was more serious than I'd imagined.
Rikka is basically the ruler of the UK for everything magic related, and for all Heads the business of making money is important. You don't remain top dog without influence and power, and as with all things political what it boils down to is money. Money for people like Dancer and I, money for goons—usually trolls—money for information, for a comfortable lifestyle, and money for money's sake.
Yeah, some things are the same no matter what world you are from. Money talks, it's just that in our world it can also bite.
"Do not, and I mean this, guys," Rikka stared at us hard; he wasn't messing about, "make fun of him or act like he was ever any other way than he is now. Understand?"
We nodded. I was itching to see the troll. Rikka called it a he, but truth be told trolls don't normally ever say they are male or female. I'm not even sure they know, much less care.
They are elemental creatures born at the beginning of the world, they don't have troll babies or anything like that. They just are. But to live in the world where Regulars see them they end up looking male or female, and some stick with the gender mask they are given—it makes life easier for all of us that way—but a he isn't really a he, it's just a troll when you get right down to it. Yeah, it's nitpicking, but sometimes the more information you have the better.
Rikka knocked on the door—Rikka never knocks—and a polite voice boomed, "Come in, please."
With a hand on the handle, Rikka said, "Remember, do not act surprised."
We stepped inside.
Sounds Good to Me
I've met a lot of trolls, and maybe two or three have been anything but rather stoic of nature, to put it politely. They never talk a lot, are unemotional to the point of comatose, and they are, to be blunt—and what explains the way they behave—made of rock.
They have priceless crystal brains that leaders of the Regular world would sell half, if not all, their country's population to obtain. Such alien minds allow them to think only in ways that are slow, edging toward glacial. Everything about them is considered and methodical, which makes them perfect bodyguards, known in our world as goons.
They are huge, both in height and girth, made of rock formed when the world solidified, truly wondrous creatures of the mantle made living. Born at the time of the formation of the planet itself. Enduring, and about a
s clever as their constituent matter.
So, that being said, I admit that what confronted me when I walked through the door, and peered around Rikka, came as somewhat of a shock.
Sat behind an impressive desk, in an otherwise spartan room apart from a healthy looking house plant, was a troll in an immaculately tailored suit that made me jealous, sporting a crisp white shirt, a gray tie, and a seriously oversized pair of spectacles on its lump of a head.
Striations of pink and verdigris angled from the left temple across its cheek and beneath the high collar, making it look like David Bowie from his Ziggy Stardust days, but this was no affectation. They usually have some interesting colors if you look closely, and at times it can appear almost comical, but laugh and it will be the last thing you ever do.
Stacks of ordered and neatly aligned files and papers tottered dangerously on the desk, which totally threw me. They go in for reading about as much as they do skateboarding.
Almost the width of the oversized desk, was a computer monitor and the largest keyboard I have ever seen, presumably to accommodate the troll's fingers, each one as thick as my wrist.
The "accountant" held up a hand so we didn't disturb him while he continued his typing at a rate I found astonishing, and one-handed, too. "He" lowered it and the speed increased, a deep frown of concentration on its face—trust me, trolls never frown, they are about as emotional as a Hollywood botox addict.
We stood there in a line, like kids before the headmaster waiting to hear our punishment as the clackety clack continued for a minute longer.
With a sigh, the troll scratched its head then removed massive glasses which it placed carefully down on the desk.
"Yes? What can I do for you gentlemen? I am rather busy." He finally deigned to look up. "Ah, Mage Rikka, how nice to see you again. But I do believe we spoke yesterday, there really is no need to call again. I have your accounts under control. In fact," the troll smiled, I was now seriously worried, "I think you will be extremely pleased with what I have found so far. I have gone through your files and I do believe I have discovered a number of discrepancies. With my help I can reduce your tax bill significantly. How does that sound. Hmm?"
