Wistril Compleat

by Frank Tuttle

  Wistril grunted. "It sounds familiar," he said. "But then so would any collection of weapons, flowering plants, and mythical beasts. It is perhaps not even Oomish." The rotund wizard put his finger to his lips and stalked off toward the tall oak bookcases that lined the wall behind his ironwood desk. "Let us see. . ."

  Kern crooked his finger to Sir Knobby. The gargoyle's wet brown eyes met his.

  "How many?" asked Kern. "One finger for every ten men."

  Sir Knobby considered, held up both five-fingered hands, and spread his fingers wide.

  Once, twice, thrice, four -- Kern's eyes widened.

  "Four hundred men?" muttered Kern.

  The gargoyle nodded.

  Kern backed across the study, pulled back his chair, and fell into it.

  "Master," he said, his face obscured by his hands, "Are conflicts over fiancées common occurrences within the grand and wondrous scheme of Oomish betrothals?"

  "Of course," said Wistril, his back to Kern as he sought out a book of heraldry. "Need you even ask?"

  Kern groaned.

  "Aha," said Wistril. "Here it is." He turned, plunked a thick book down on his desk, and sat as he rifled through it. "Unicorns, unicorns -- heavens, what is this fascination with the ill-tempered beasts?"

  Kern looked up at Sir Knobby, mouthed the words "How long?"

  Sir Knobby pointed to Wistril's goblin clock and held up six fingers. "Hoot," he said, softly.

  "Six hours," said Kern, aloud. "They must be at the foot of the mountain just now."

  "Hoot," said Sir Knobby.

  "House Carthrop," said Wistril. "A unicorn, rampant, on a field of broken swords." Wistril spun the book around. "Is this what you saw?"

  Sir Knobby leaned over the book, hissed, and nodded.

  "They are Oomish," said Wistril. "Another of the Lesser Houses, with holdings in the north."

  "Was the Lady Emmerbee perhaps engaged to a Carthrop as well as a Kauph?" asked Kern.

  "Probably," said Wistril. He leaned back in his chair. "Confound it, probably."

  Sir Knobby hooted softly, and Wistril shook his head. "No," he said, to the gargoyle. "Leave the gate open. Tell the staff to remain indoors. I want no displays of hostility -- is that clear?"

  Kern tilted his head. "It's clear, Master," he said. "But is it wise? If that's an army, intent on mischief, shouldn't we at least close the doors and make them knock?"

  Wistril sighed. "If this is a wedding-feud in the making," said the wizard, "then certain customs must be observed. The challenger may not strike without first being provoked; the defender must play the host until propriety is violated."

  And the victual fork has five tines," said Kern, wearily.

  "Indeed," said Wistril. He turned to Sir Knobby. "See that the South Tower rooms are opened and aired," he said. "Have the bed linens changed, and the lamps filled."

  "Master," said Kern. "I put the wayward spooks in the South Tower, and the roof leaks, and the wumpus cat left an awful stench in the basement."

  "How unfortunate," said Wistril without turning his gaze toward Kern. "Still, we here in the humble wilderness of the South can only offer what we have."

  Sir Knobby grinned, saluted, and padded into the hall.

  Kern rose. "Shall I at least pack up the spooks again?" he asked.

  "Certainly not," said Wistril. "This is House Kauph, not House Carthrop. Admonish them to stealth, but not silence."

  Kern bowed. "Aye aye, Cap'n," he said. "Are we planning on entertaining our guests for the entire summer, or just until they've looted the upper rooms?"

  Wistril bristled. "We will play the host until they tire of waiting for the arrival of Lady Emmerbee, or until the South Tower becomes intolerable," said Wistril. "And if the Lady should arrive, I will introduce her to her new husband, provide them a magnificent wedding feast, and bolt the gates securely behind them as they depart for a lifetime of marital bliss in environs far removed from my own."

  Kern rolled his chair back, rose, and marched for the door. "I'll see to the spooks," he said, his eyes on the whirling brass and glass goblin clock set on the right side of Wistril's desk. "I'll suggest they make their presence known in a variety of subtle yet terrifying ways."

  "Excellent," said Wistril. "Afterwards, lay wards on the other towers, and both our rooms. I shall be in the workroom, if you require further instructions." Wistril closed his book and rose. "And apprentice. This Carthrop may seek to provoke us. Know that an insult from you is an insult from this House."

  Wistril waved his fingers and vanished. Kern made for the door, heard the slap-clack of unshod, clawed gargoyle feet hurrying past, and forced a smile before entering the hall.

  Wistril stood square in the center of Castle Kauph's open gates. Wistril's hands were on his hips, a wide-brimmed black hat sat lopsided on his head, and he had changed his customary brown robes for the black ones he ordinarily wore on High Feast days.

  Kern stood beside him. But while Wistril glared down the winding, rocky ribbon of road that wound down the mountain and into the forest at its feet, Kern stood sideways on Kauph's threshold and stared back at the castle.

  Gone were the short, fat towers and the blocky, plain keep of the castle proper. Gone was the low-walled courtyard, with its perpetually struggling rose-bushes and the trio of mis-matched gazebos that served mainly as playgrounds for hooting gargoyle youngsters. Gone were the window-boxes full of Wistril's ragged, sporadically flowering herbs and gone were the empty beer-barrels stacked at the foot of the South Tower. Even the single-masted red schooner -- Kern often asked why Wistril kept a boat atop a mountain, and Wistril just as often ignored him -- even the schooner was gone.

  Gone, all of it -- and in its place, Castle Kauph as it might once have been.

  The towers did not merely stand -- no, Kern decided, they soared. The Keep was a stolid, brooding edifice, battle-scarred and marked by fire, but whole and proud and undaunted. The shrubs had become mighty oaks; the unkempt rose-bushes, tall, sturdy fireflowers, the sad landlocked schooner, a dragon's skeletal spine, skull, and fore-limbs, now a garden sculpture held together with wires of silver and skeins of light.

  "Incredible," said Kern. "How did you do the shadows, Master?" he said. "And the reflections -- perfect, all of it."

  "Thank you," said Wistril. He squinted into the sun. "They come."

  Kern turned, and hooves sounded, and in an instant the tip of a lance and a cloud of dust rose above the distant road.

  The lance-tip grew, sprouted a standard that flapped and tangled too violently to be discerned, and was soon joined by bobbing helmets, armored shoulders, and the rank after rank of riders.

  Sir Knobby sidled up beside Kern. Kern whistled softly; the gargoyle stood a full foot taller than he had an hour ago, his fangs gleamed like fresh-forged knives, and his eyes were blood-red slits that guttered and glowed like feast-fire embers.

  "Hoot," said Sir Knobby, with a toothy grin.

  "Hoot indeed," said Kern.

  The riders reached the rail-less causeway the villagers dubbed the Wizard's Bridge and thundered across. Wistril whispered a word, and his iron-shod staff appeared in his hand.

  "Do you think they plan to stop, Master?" asked Kern. Half the riders were across the Bridge now; the first rank, four horses wide, was a long stone's throw from the open gates. "Or at least slow to a gallop?"

  "Stand firm," said Wistril. "Sir Knobby. Yawn."

  Sir Knobby grinned, tilted his head back, and opened wide a mouth wet and red. Stark white fangs glistened in the sun, and from the gargoyle's throat came a thunderous, horrible growl that lifted the hair on Kern's neck and stopped the foremost of the horses dead in their tracks.

  Riders screamed and cursed. The standard -- which Kern could now clearly see as the one from Wistril's book -- dipped, twirled, and fell.

  The men cursing and reigning their mounts were soldiers -- hard-bitten, hard-ridden men who had the look of too many days on the road and long nights on the
ground about them. Their clothes -- uniforms once, perhaps, but now a motley assortment of rags and patches -- were filthy and unkempt; their boots were badly worn, and, in most cases, mis-matched. Their weapons, though were alarmingly bright; no rust sullied the halberds, and the edges of every half-drawn sword gleamed sharp and deadly.

  Most of the soldiers stared wide-eyed at Sir Knobby, but Kern saw more than one turn wary eyes his way. I wonder, thought Kern, what Wistril's glamour-spell has made of me?

  Kern grinned, and saw no fewer than three hands grope for their sword-hilts.

  "What is this?" bellowed a voice, above the din. "Who called a halt?"

  Shouldering aside horse and soldier alike, a rider forced his way to stand before Wistril.

  Kern tensed, and he saw Sir Knobby do the same. "Hoot," said the gargoyle softly, his tone laced with disgust. Kern nodded.

  This man's armor gleamed. His helmet was polished, and though dusty from the road, it bore not a dent, not a scratch. His boots were shined to a high gloss, his sword shone like a mirror, his clothes were whole and well-fitted. Not that I dislike a man with a tailor in his hire, thought Kern -- but here is a man who'll throw scraps into the fire while his soldiers go hungry.

  "I am Wistril," said the wizard, and again Kern heard echoes of sorcery in his voice. "Wistril, son of Agad, Master of the House of Kauph." Wistril's fingers blurred, and his staff elongated, unfurled, and became the just-fallen standard of House Carthrop. "I could not bear to see the proud sigil of House Carthrop sullied in the dirt, so I picked it up. In doing so, I fear I have caused a small equestrian catastrophe. Will you accept my apologies?"

  Kern ogled. Wistril was smiling. Sir Knobby frowned, and set half a dozen war-horses to whinnying and shuffling.

  The rider -- Lord So-and-So of House Carthrop, Esquire, Kern decided -- stilled his mount, snarled something fast and Oomish to his men, and looked down upon Wistril with barely concealed contempt.

  "I am Baron Carron, Master of House Carthrop," he said, puffing out his chest. "My House is renowned for its lenience toward lesser houses," he said. "You need have no fear."

  "Oh, we all need a bit of fear, Baron," said Wistril, with a smile. He opened his hand, and the standard floated lazily from his grasp and bobbed toward the rider. "After all, sir, is not fear the parent of caution, and caution the watchword of the wise?"

  The Baron's jaw twitched. Wistril made as if to stifle a small yawn. "What brings Carthrop to Kauph, Baron Caron?" he asked.

  Horses shuffled nervously as Sir Knobby's stomach suddenly growled.

  "I come to meet the Lady Hohnserrat," said the Baron. His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward Wistril. "She is to be my wife."

  Wistril beamed. "Indeed, sir. What a happy occasion. But where, pray tell, is the most fortunate Lady Hohnserrat?"

  "On her way," said the Baron. He glared, and his hand fell to rest upon his sword-hilt. "I trust we may be assured of the hospitality of your House."

  "Certainly," said Wistril, with a small bow. "My House welcomes you. Will you dine with us?"

  The Baron's eyes went soft, and his scowl became a smirk. "We will," he said. "Poor fare though it may be." He turned to his troops and bellowed in Oomish. Kern watched Wistril, but the fat wizard's round face was betrayed no hint of anger.

  "How many may we expect?" asked Wistril.

  The Baron turned. "My officers and I. A dozen. Oh, and my wizard." The Baron spat. "So make it thirteen."

  "I shall have rooms for you all," said Wistril. "And your men may camp outside my walls, if you wish."

  "I do," said the Baron. He motioned toward the gate. "Sunset, then," he said.

  "Such is the custom," replied Wistril.

  The Baron turned, mounted, and wheeled away, bellowing as he went.

  The ranks of dirty soldiers facing Kern, Wistril, and Sir Knobby glared and shuffled. "So, fellows," said Kern, brightly. "I have the most ferocious appetite, these days. Which one of you weighs the most?"

  None ran, but within moments the gates were clear.

  Kern sat uneasy in his chair and picked at his food with his five-tined victual fork. He resisted the urge to peer about at the Hall, in appreciation of Wistril's glamour spell; the Baron can't see me gawking, thought Kern, if he is to believe I see this every day.

  Though in truth, mused Kern, I've never seen anything like this. Oh, the true Hall is pleasant enough, in a plain, well-scrubbed sort of way -- but now it looks like the court of the High King himself. Gold candlesticks, silver chandeliers? Master, wondered Kern -- are you perhaps overdoing this just a bit?

  Kern frowned. Though the Hall was rendered gold-plated and splendid by Wistril's spell, the food was, reflected Kern, unusually spare. Beef, boiled yet tough and hardly seasoned; chunks of potatoes in a thick beef stock, and a helping of wilted, chewy green beans that bore the tinny flavor of vegetables too long in a jar.

  Not once could Kern recall such a poor table set at Kauph. Not even for wandering tradesmen, or the time both Wistril and Cook had fallen ill and Kern and Sir Knobby had manned the kitchen; even we knew better than to boil beef without a bit of salt, he thought.

  The Baron chewed and smacked and wiped his lips with apparent gusto, though, as did his men. All except the wizard, who had yet to lift his hands above the table to pick up a fork.

  Kern's eyes darted about the table. Wistril ate slowly, his expression pained, and more than once Kern caught Wistril stealing glances at the Carthrop wizard, as well.

  The wizard, whom the Baron had introduced as Herthmore, was robed and cowled, and sat so that his hood fell over most of his face. Kern hadn't seen the man's eyes, or his nose. But Kern did see the sickly yellow cast the man's skin, and the sheen of old sweat that covered it. The wizard wore a chin-beard in the fashion of Eastern sorcerers, and by watching the movements of bits of old food lodged in the whiskers Kern could tell the wizard mumbled constantly while leaning over his plate.

  Even so, the wizard's words sounded no further than his cowl, and the party ate without conversation, until at last the Barn threw down his fork and knife and shoved his plate roughly away.

  "The wine makes the meal, I always say," boomed the Baron, to Wistril. "Mayhap a better vintage than this --" he motioned with his half-full wine-glass, sloshing wine out onto the wide oak dining table "-- will suffice to make apology for the rudeness of your fare."

  Kern tensed, and as he did so the Baron's officers nearest him paled and looked quickly away.

  Kern smiled. He'd sought out a mirror, as he dressed, and had seen himself revealed as a tall, cat-eyed vampire, with fangs that hung a full inch below his lip, and long white talons at the tip of every finger. Even as he had stared at his reflection, his eyes had narrowed, and had begun to glow a ruddy red in time with the beating of his heart.

  Kern turned to the nearest man, and licked his lips.

  "Apprentice," said Wistril. "Cease. Fetch the Baron more wine. Bring a bottle from the North Tower cellar."

  "Is that your best?" said the Barn.

  "It is," replied Wistril.

  The Baron turned. "We shall see about that," he said. "Wizard!" He snapped. "Attend!"

  Herthmore turned. "Yes, Baron?" he said, his voice hoarse and wavering.

  "Is there magic here? In this room?"

  "Sir!" snapped Wistril, indignant.

  "Silence!" boomed the Baron. He glared at Wistril. "You are a White Chair wizard, are you not?" he said.

  "I am," said Wistril, his round face reddening and his hands clenching into fists.

  "So your Oath of Peace forbids you to use magic offensively, does it not?"

  "It does," said Wistril. "How dare you accuse me of perfidy!"

  "I accuse nothing," said the Baron. "Save, perhaps, your desire to impress your noble guests. Wizard!" boomed the Baron. "I asked a question of you!"

  Kern sent a single questioning glance toward Wistril. Wistril saw him, and when the Baron turned his eyes away he gestured Kern to silence
.

  Herthmore cleared his throat. "I hear, Master," he said. He pushed back his chair, and stood, and Kern distinctly heard him whisper a long, strange word before he fell into a brief fit of wet, deep coughing.

  "Then answer me," said the Baron. "Is there magic in this room?" The Baron turned a wicked grin upon Wistril. "Magic meant to confuse or confound?"

  Herthmore twitched and yelped, and the men seated about him scooted their chairs back and mouthed words of their own.

  "It is merely a simple glamour," said Wistril, "Meant only to enhance the beauty of Kauph."

  The Baron spat a word in Oomish, and the wizard Herthmore bowed and pulled his hood back over his face. Kern heard whispering, and then a moan, and then the Hall shimmered and spun, and the candle-flames and lamps went briefly dim. When the light returned, Kern saw that the Hall had changed.

  Kern blinked. The Hall was dim now. Dim and dark and sooty and damp, worse that the basement of the South Tower after a rain and a spraying by a randy wumpus-tom. The floors were covered with straw, and the rough-hewn table was missing a leg and propped up on an empty beer-cask, and the ceiling was a low, cracked mass of mold and spider-webs.

  Kern looked down at his plate, and what had been silver-worked china was plain, worn wood. His fork was bent steel; his glass a cracked clay mug -- of all the things in the Hall, only the plain food on his plate was the same.

  The Baron laughed. He dismissed his wizard with another hearty slap to the shoulder, and he turned instead to Wistril and roared laughter in his face.

  "White Chair magic!" he roared. "Think you me a fool, wizard?" he said. "Think you that I would sit down to a White Chair's table and eat tough boiled beef and old string-beans from fine Delve china, and not realize I was dining more on illusion that substance?" He roared anew, and glared at his men until they followed suit. "Think you me a fool?"

  Wistril glared, and rose. Kern stared; Wistril's robes were patched and threadbare, and he bore an open, festering sore square in the center of his bald, wrinkled scalp.

  "Forgive me," Wistril muttered. "I only sought to make your stay more comfortable.