Wistril Compleat

by Frank Tuttle

  Wistril shrugged and reached for Kern's mug. "As you wish, apprentice. It must be noted that this is Persimmon Lambic, a rare treat indeed. But if you will not join me for refreshment, please fetch my cloak, boots, and walking cane from the study."

  Kern sat bolt upright. "Are we leaving?"

  "Not we. Me. You will remain here and tend the tower while I have a word with this madman."

  Kern stood. "Master, that's a foolish -- "

  Wistril's fingers blurred. Kern was in the study, a startled gargoyle open-mouthed before him. "Knock the dust off of His Majesty's boots, will you?" said Kern with exaggerated nonchalance. "And be quick. He's in a mood."

  The wizard's castle cast long shadows over the narrow road. Above, flocks of dragons wheeled about the towers, floating and circling like expectant vultures. The Lieutenant barely noticed them, his attention devoted instead to the bridge that spanned the wide, deep chasm at his feet.

  The bridge looked older than the mountain around it but not nearly as sturdy. The bridge leaned. The bridge twisted. It sagged as though exhausted. The timbers were black with age and weather, the bolts mere lumps of rust, the planking rife with buckles and gaps. Worse, a small army of axe-wielding gargoyles was chopping frantically away at the supports, sending a rain of wood chips spiraling down the chasm to vanish in the shadows.

  "Bring the siege towers forward," barked the Captain. "I want the ladders assembled and winch lines on the gate-posts as soon as we're across."

  "That would be most imprudent, sir," said a voice. "Most imprudent indeed." The air at the foot of the bridge sparked and shimmered. "May we speak?" asked the voice. "Under flag of truce?"

  "We may," said the Captain, waving archers forward. "Your safety is guaranteed."

  A fat man stepped out of the troubled air. "I am Wistril of Kauph, master of the castle you intend to besiege. You are in grave danger, sir, and I implore you to turn back before lives are lost."

  "Your life," said the Captain, "is the only life I'm going to lose."

  "I see," said Wistril. "Have my visitations failed to demonstrate the extent of my powers?"

  "Your visitations failed to scare us off, wizard," said the Captain. "The men were afraid, at first. But now, they do not fear you or your magics."

  "I wonder," said Wistril, gazing up and down the ranks of men before him. "But no matter. You were correct in surmising that illusion itself is incapable of inflicting harm. I have come to warn you that the danger you now face is no illusion."

  "Now why would you do that, wand-waver?"

  "I took an Oath," said the wizard. "An Oath that prevents me from using my art offensively, even in self-defense."

  "You lie," said the Captain."

  Wistril shook his head. "I do not lie. My Oath prohibits me from using magic directly against you, but no oath prevented me from ordering my household staff to take up axes and hack apart the bridge before you. The bridge has been rendered unsafe. It will collapse if you bring an army across it. Inspect the supports yourself; you will not be molested."

  "Liar. Coward!"

  "Furthermore," said Wistril, "All of the dragons you see are not illusions. I'm afraid I've released so much arcane energy nearby that quite a few unusual beings have gathered around your army, Captain. These creatures include dragons, sprites, a few goblins -- "

  The Captain spurred his mount, lifted his sword, and charged. Wistril vanished as the Captain's long blade slashed at empty air.

  "Gentlemen," boomed Wistril in a voice loud as thunder, "I repeat my warning. The bridge is damaged. It will not hold. To follow this lunatic Captain is to most likely die. You must either turn back or repair the bridge."

  The Captain howled and slashed. Gargoyles hooted and waved their axes. The dragons in the sky screeched and jostled, dropping down in dozens of tightening spirals.

  "Forward!" bellowed the Captain, as he charged onto the bridge. "Forward, you cowards! Move!"

  Hooves thudded and scraped on the bridge. The Captain charged into the ranks, grabbed the reins of a catapult-wagon, and led the massive engine onto the bridge. It creaked and swayed, but held.

  "Advance," screamed the Captain. "Fear me or fear the wizard -- choose!"

  The army surged forward. Cavalry, a siege-tower, another catapult dared the bridge -- then shouts rose up as caution fled.

  Deep in the chasm, a tall, thin gargoyle put a fan-like ear to a massive ironwood beam. The gargoyle listened for a moment, pursed his lips, and whistled.

  His crew-mates dropped their tools and took to the air. Alone now, the tall gargoyle spit in both palms, hefted his axe, and broke into a sudden, awful grin.

  Kern touched the tiny left-pointing arrow carved into the bottom of the mirror-frame. The mirror flashed, shimmered, and then replayed the bridge collapse.

  "Poor devils," muttered Kern at the silent, moving image.

  "I doubt you would feel so charitable, had they gained entry to your rooms," said Wistril from behind his desk. "And may I point out that their casualties were light, and largely confined to the rabidly insane."

  Kern watched tiny figures re-group on the far side of the bridge. Dragons swooped down amid them, sending soldiers scrambling for cover beneath fallen siege towers and overturned wagons. A mounted officer who had refused to cross the bridge rallied the survivors long enough to turn the panicked flight into an orderly retreat.

  "How many of these were real?" asked Kern.

  "Several," said Wistril, squinting at the mirror. "That fellow with the red-tipped wings? The one harassing the catapult? He was real -- oh yes, and the yellow one on the ground, chasing the cook's wagon. Both quite real, both accidentally attracted to all the spells splattered about of late."

  The mirror shimmered and the scene vanished. Wistril shook his head. "I did warn them, you know. None of this was necessary."

  Kern frowned. "The Oath prevented you from turning the Captain into a turnip, but not from having the bridge supports hacked away. Correct?"

  "The Oath prohibits offensive arcane actions, not malicious carpentry," said Wistril.

  "So," said Kern, "did the Oath also compel you to warn them about the bridge? Or did you warn them just because you knew you'd enrage their Captain, and send him charging across without checking the timbers?"

  "Perhaps both," said Wistril smugly.

  "Master," said Kern, "One day I'll ask you a simple question, and you'll give me a straight answer, and the shock of it all will knock me flat."

  A soft knock sounded at the door. "Come," said Wistril, frowning. "What the devil -- "

  A mob of too-solemn children crowded into the room, bearing flowers and a pair of reluctant goats. Kern was at the door before Wistril could rise.

  "The villagers want to show you their appreciation," said Kern. "They've decided to hold a festival every year in honor of Wistril of Kauph, Defender of Dervanny. The very first festival starts in your courtyard as soon as you can join them."

  "There are goats," said Wistril slowly, "In my study."

  "Those aren't just any goats," said Kern cheerfully. "They're the best pair in the valley. Remember how you complimented the innkeeper on the cheese he gave you?"

  Wistril took a deep breath. "I remember, apprentice," he said. "I have a very good memory."

  The Mayor of Dervanny sidled into Wistril's study and cleared his throat. The Mayor's two youngest sons marched forward, holding aloft a home-made iron helm on a threadbare velvet chair-cushion.

  The larger goat bleated and sniffed Wistril's desk speculatively. Wistril took the helm and placed it wordlessly on his head. The Mayor produced a rolled parchment from beneath his coat and prepared to read.

  "Apprentice," said Wistril quietly, "I could have made the proper preparations, had I known a ceremony was planned."

  "Master," said Kern, "You'd have rendered yourself invisible and hidden until First Snow and you know it. You're a hero now, like it or not, and this is what heroes do."

  "Indeed," said
Wistril, glaring at the goats.

  "The villagers wouldn't leave without expressing their gratitude, Master," said Kern, in a language known to none of the villagers. "They were adamant about it. Would you shield them from injury only to subject them to insult?"

  Wistril shifted his glare from the goats to Kern.

  "Apprentice -- "

  The Mayor harrumphed and began to read. Wistril fell silent.

  Kern put his back to the wall, crossed his arms, and forced himself to stifle a grin.

  Wistril Afloat

  by Frank Tuttle

  "Vapid flummery," said Wistril of Kauph, thumping his just-emptied ale-stein down on his ironwood desk for emphasis. "Ignorant prattle. Rumor and superstition run amuck. Lake monsters. Pfui."

  "Pfui," repeated the goblin-clock from its perch by Wistril's glowstone pen-holder. "Nine of the clock," it added, its voice loud and shrill in the carpeted expanse of Wistril's fourth-floor study. "Nine of the clock."

  Kern, Wistril's apprentice, sighed and capped his pen.

  "Master," said Kern, pushing himself back slightly from his own smaller oak writing-desk, "Are you sure? After all, two dozen people watched something rise up out of Lake Ovinshoon."

  Wistril glowered. "Then two dozen people mistook flotsam for kraken," he said. "What of it?"

  Kern scooped up the papers on his desk, straightened them, and stacked them in his "out" basket. "You're right, Master," said Kern. "So what if the villagers are afraid to fish from the Lake?" Kern leaned back in his swivel-chair, crossed his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. "Of course, we'll never have fresh-caught Lake trout in Kempish wine sauce again. And no more baked cypress bass on a bed of cherry rice, topped with ripe spring gentrees and twice-glazed orentra buds. No more fried catfish, either. I'll miss the hush-puppies most, I think."

  Wistril glared. "Apprentice Kern," he said. "Are you attempting to coerce me into a demented search for sea-monsters by threatening me with an interruption of my culinary preferences?"

  "Essentially," said Kern, swiveling his chair away from his writing desk to face Wistril. "But keep in mind I'm not making this up. Something big and ugly rose up out of the Lake four days ago, and all three fishermen fled their boats and are discussing potato farming. Of course, if you'd rather not exert yourself, I'm sure we can get fish from somewhere. Trentil, maybe, or perhaps Ligget. Both are only a few days’ ride from here. Oh, it won't be like having fresh fish, but we'll bear up like men, we will."

  Wistril sighed. "A lake monster," he muttered. "Why not a haunt, or a vampire, or a rafter-goblin? If I must face myths, might they at least have the courtesy to dwell indoors?"

  Kern kept his face blank. "I hear the Lake is beautiful this time of the year, Master," he said. "Some of the villagers even camp there just to enjoy the sun and the water."

  Wistril smiled. "Then you shall enjoy your stay, Apprentice," he said. "I believe we even have a tent, in the south tower store-room. It should be erected and aired, before you leave." The fat wizard snapped his fingers, and his ale mug refilled with a small burp and a lingering yellow flash. "I'm told, Apprentice Kern, that the days are warm and bright, and the nights cool and refreshing."

  Kern rolled his eyes. "Yes, Master," he said. "I'll get packing right away. Shall I fetch a tent for you?"

  Wistril pretended not to hear. Kern rolled his chair back to face his writing-desk, put his pens away, and rose.

  "I'll bring back the monster's head," Kern said. "We can put it over the mantel in the Red Room, or you can have stuffed and mounted on the front doors as a warning to others who might wish to join you as apprentice."

  Wistril picked up his book and opened it. Kern marched for the door, and was met by the tall, thin gargoyle that was the closest thing Castle Kauph had to a butler.

  "Fetch me an ale and a tent, Greeves," said Kern. "I'm going fishing for sea serpents, and that's thirsty work."

  The gargoyle nodded and padded off down the hall. Kern followed, pausing for a moment at the tall, narrow window that overlooked the courtyard and Wistril's perpetually struggling rose-garden.

  A green and blue tent sat amid the roses. Beside the tent sat a wagon, its bed stacked high with barrels and crates and blankets.

  The gargoyle that normally tended the south furnace lay sprawled atop the cargo, his wings spread wide to catch the midday sun.

  "Always a step behind," said Kern cheerily. "I hope His Near Omniscience packed the good cheese."

  The tall gargoyle at Kern's side said nothing, but Kern would have sworn it was hiding a toothy grin.

  Kern sat on a stump and wrote.

  Dear Master, he wrote, then pointedly crossed out the "Dear" and continued.

  Life in the wilderness has taken its toll. I have sunburnt my nose, and Sir Knobby -- that's the gargoyle you sent with me, he needed a name so I gave him one -- Sir Knobby has barked his left shin upon a pine tree. We are down to our last hoop of cheese, one of the sausages has gone spoiled, and while we were fleeing from the lake monsters I lost my right boot.

  Yes, lake monsters. Plural. Serpentine creatures of the sort featured in Chapter Seven of your Jot's Fantastical Bestiary (specifically, I think, pages eight hundred and eight hundred and one). There are at least four of them residing here in Lake Ovinshoon. The largest is approximately fifty feet long and four feet in diameter; the other three are much smaller, ranging in size from six to ten feet long, and about as big around as my waist.

  Snake-like, but not snakes. The blink, they sing like birds, and they play like otters.

  One of the smaller ones has my boot. I kept my foot, so I guess we're even. They come out of the water at night, which is when Sir Knobby and I first encountered them.

  Sir Knobby grew frightened at the monsters and fled into the woods. I followed, lest Sir Knobby lose his way and fall prey to wolverines. The serpents, in turn, followed me for a bit, then headed south, toward the village. They returned to the Lake just before dawn. The smallest serpent, as I mentioned, has my boot. Sir Knobby counsels against diving for it.

  The villagers have begun to drop by my tent. Tales of missing sheep are the talk of the day. The villagers wonder what manner of beast infests our fair lake, and what the Great Wizard is going to do about them.

  I nod sagely and make cryptic remarks to the effect that the Great Wizard is even now crafting a mighty charm against sheep-eating boot-stealing lake monsters.

  Please forward the aforementioned charm and a new pair of boots via Sir Knobby. I shall remain here and beat back the bloodthirsty sea-beasts with a ball of twine and the spoiled sausage.

  Yours in noble vigilance, Kern.

  Kern folded the letter, closed it in a leather pouch, and handed the pouch to Sir Knobby. "Fly this back to His Lethargic Majesty, if you please," said Kern. "I'll keep an eye out for the you-know-whats."

  Sir Knobby hooted, leaped, and was gone.

  Kern rolled up his sleeves, found the axe, and eyed the pines along the edge of the woods. "I feel the need to chop some firewood," he said aloud. "Must be the clean country air."

  Something far out on the lake rolled and splashed.

  Kern hefted the axe and marched briskly for the trees.

  Kern's bonfire roared and belched columns of sparks and embers sailing high into the night. Kern sat as close as he dared, his back to the flames, his eyes on the tree-line and the dancing shadows before him as he awaited the return of the serpents to the Lake.

  "Apprentice Kern!" bellowed Wistril. Kern leaped to his feet.

  "What is the purpose of this conflagration?"

  Wistril's voice came from deep within the flames.

  "It's tradition, Master," said Kern, turning and shielding his eyes. "A stump for a chair, a blanket for a bed, a gentle campfire crackling at your feet -- all part of the charm of the great outdoors."

  "Nonsense. You appear to have lighted a winter's worth of timber. Aquatic creatures will never draw near a blaze such as this."

&nb
sp; Kern tilted his head. "Really, Master?" he said. "I never thought of that."

  Wistril sighed. "Bah. This will never do, Apprentice. Step aside. I'm coming through."

  Kern stepped back. The flames shot skyward, turned a pure snow white, and then Wistril himself stepped out of the bonfire.

  Kern bowed. "Welcome to the trackless wild, Master," he said. "I see you've dressed the part."

  Wistril was clad in an enormous fur-lined greatcoat, loose leather pantaloons, and knee-high, hob-nailed boots. In his right hand the wizard held his favorite iron-shod staff; in his left, he bore a steaming picnic basket. Two loaves of fresh-baked wheat bread peeked through the cloth cover.

  "We will dine," said Wistril. "And we shall allow this infernal blaze to abate. Then perhaps I shall see these monsters for myself. Shall we?"

  Kern pointed the way to the tent. Wistril lowered the picnic basket to the ground and marched away.

  The flames roared suddenly up again, and a pair of gargoyles stepped out of the fire. The gargoyles bore a full-length mirror, its glass covered with a sheet; Kern thought he recognized the dark wood frame with the dragon carvings as the one usually located in the south-tower entry hall.

  The gargoyles found a patch of level ground and uncovered the mirror.

  Kern saw the south tower entry hall reflected in the glass, but not the Lake or the bonfire or even himself.

  "Master," said Kern quickly, "Could one perhaps step into that mirror and step out again at home, perhaps near a comfortable chair and a bath-tub?"

  "One could," said Wistril from the shadows. "But then one would miss Cook's fricasseed vimmet, sliced ham in honey, and a generous portion of blueberry pie."

  Kern marched away from the mirror without a backward glance.

  "The sun will rise within the hour," said Wistril, holding his palms out to warm them by the faint warmth of Kern's dying bonfire. "Are your monsters always prompt in their returns?"