“Why don’t you torch them all?” Brannon asked.
“It makes me too tired. I have to rest for a moment.”
“What about wizard leaf?” Gibrig asked. “That should be helpin’, right?”
“You’re a genius,” said Murland, and he shouldered off Packy to get to his pipe.
“You’re a wizard, and you didn’t even think of smoking wizard leaf?” said Brannon.
“Shut up, Brannon,” said Sir Eldrick, glancing over the edge. “How many are down there?” he asked Murland.
“I would guess…all of them,” said Murland. He found his pipe, packed it with a medium-sized wizard bud, and lit it, taking in a too-eager hit. Multi-colored smoke exploded from his mouth and nose, and he never thought that he would stop coughing.
“You know what they say,” he said to the others, grinning and wiping the snot from his nose. “If you don’t cough, you don’t get off.”
“Are you seriously reciting stoner wizard quotes right now?” Brannon asked.
“Prepare yourselves!” said Sir Eldrick, unsheathing his fae blade once again.
“Come and get it, you beasts!” Willow hollered before tossing a large rock down the side.
“I suspect that their numbers will exhaust your magic, my friend,” said Sir Eldrick. “How much weight do you think Packy there can handle?”
“I don’t know. He flies me around easy enough.”
Sir Eldrick nodded, looking to the other spire tops.
“You have a plan?” Brannon asked. “Or you just reflecting on Chastity’s sweet ass?”
“Take Gibrig with you and try to make it to that higher spire up there,” Sir Eldrick told Murland.
“To what end?” Murland asked, looking down and seeing the hundreds of angry trolls swiftly climbing up the sides of the spire. The beasts were more than halfway up.
“Just do it! Brannon, use your floral magic to slow those ugly bastards down.”
“Right,” said Brannon, as though he had forgotten his own abilities.
“Come on, Gib,” said Murland, opening his arms wide.
Gibrig was more than happy to give Murland a big hug. They squeezed each other, and Murland told Packy to take to the air. The backpack handled them both easily, it seemed, and Murland told him to let them down on the spire that Sir Eldrick had indicated.
“You ain’t gonna leave me here, is ye?” Gibrig asked as they let down.
Murland checked down the side of the spire. “They have not begun to climb this one.”
“But they will!”
“By then we will all be here. Sit tight, ready your shovel, and be brave.”
Gibrig bit his lip but nodded determinedly, brandishing his shovel.
“I’ll be right back,” said Murland, and he leapt off the spire.
When he touched back down on the first spire, he found Brannon frantically controlling the vines, which strangled, slapped, and pulled down on the relentless trolls. Sir Eldrick was slashing and hacking at any of the beasts who got too close, and Willow was bashing them with her club.
“Who’s next?” Murland asked Sir Eldrick.
“Willow!” he said, and he sliced through the head of a green troll who got too brave.
“Willow?” said Murland, incredulously. “But, she’s—”
“The heaviest, I know. Just do it. If Packy can’t handle her, then she will be trapped here anyway. Use magic if you have to. Go!”
“Uhh, come on Willow, you’re next.”
Willow thumped on the heads of one, two, three trolls before turning to him with a gleeful smile.
“You’re going to have to hold on to me…tight,” he told her.
She nodded and grabbed on to his waist in a sort of bear hug.
“Go, Packy, go!”
The backpack flapped its wings, and Murland felt the full weight of Willow swiftly crush his hips.
“Grab the straps!” he urged.
She did so, and Packy led them out over the open expanse. They fell at first, but then the backpack beat its wings frantically, leveling them out, though they gained no elevation.
“You can do it, Packy, bring us to Gibrig.”
The backpack made an audible squeak of exertion and beat its wings furiously, bringing them across the chasm teeming with trolls. Still they gained no height, but they were away.
“You’re going to have to climb from here,” said Murland, as the backpack brought them up against Gibrig’s spire.
“Thanks for the ride!” said Willow cheerfully, and Murland was glad that at least one of them was having a good time.
She grabbed ahold of the vines draping down from the top of the spire, relieving Packy of his burden.
“Back to Sir Eldrick and Brannon!” Murland told his trusty pack.
The knight and elf were standing back to back, surrounded by a tangle of vines and trolls. The fae blade moved in multicolored flashes, laying low any who got too close. Brannon screamed in elvish, cursing the trolls and tearing them apart with his vines as though they were extensions of his arms.
“Take the elf!” Sir Eldrick cried.
Murland grabbed Brannon by the waist, but the elf shrugged him off.
“Take the knight!” he said.
Sir Eldrick scowled at Brannon. “Go on, get out of here!” he said, pushing him.
“No!” cried Brannon, and his vines, like a colossal hand, swept a dozen trolls off the northern face.
“That’s an order!” Sir Eldrick screamed over the shrieks, hisses, and howls of the oncoming trolls.
The beasts were cresting the spire by the dozens, and Murland knew that they were out of time.
“Come on, both of you!” he cried in frustration.
The backpack lifted him into the air, and both Sir Eldrick and Brannon reached up and wrapped their hands around his skinny legs. He groaned in pain as the backpack brought them out over open space and sped them off toward Gibrig and Willow.
“What the hell was that all about!” Sir Eldrick yelled at Brannon as they hung beside each other.
“I had it under control!” Brannon spat back.
“I gave you a direct order!”
“I’m not one of your soldiers!”
Murland told them to let go when Packy finally flew over the spire where Gibrig and Willow stood waiting. They landed and came up simultaneously, getting right in each other’s faces.
“Next time I give you a—” Sir Eldrick began.
“I said I had that under control,” said Brannon. “You should have gone first!”
“Listen, flower petal…”
“Stuff it in your helm, you two-faced bastard!”
Sir Eldrick’s eyes widened, and Willow smartly got between the two males.
“As much as I like watching two little guys fight, we got bigger frogs to fry right now,” she told them both.
“How long until they make it up this one?” Murland asked, glancing over the side and trying to redirect Sir Eldrick’s attention.
“Not long enough. How many times do you think Packy can do that?”
“I have no idea,” said Murland honestly, glancing back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the backpack fold its wings abruptly, as one might cross their arms in protest.
“Not long, by the looks of it,” said Sir Eldrick.
“Keep them off us as long as you can,” he said to Brannon, but the elf just stood there, glaring at Sir Eldrick.
Willow swiftly slapped him upside the head. “Hey, get with it!” she said.
“Awe, you bitch!” said Brannon. His deathly glare moved from Willow to Sir Eldrick, then he raised his arms, and a hundred vines snaked up from the sides of the spire. The death cries of dozens of trolls sounded as the vines covering the spire spread out like webbing.
“You’re brilliant!” said Sir Eldrick. “Look!” he said, pointing.
They all looked and found that Brannon’s vines reached to a nearby spire.
“Make us a bridge!” Gibrig cried
.
Brannon furled his brow and turned, letting go of those vines not directly in front of him and causing those before them to reach across the expanse like so many fingers. A sort of bridge was created, and Gibrig was the first to run across it. When the others saw that it held, they all took off after the dwarf. They reached the next spire as the trolls began racing across the bridge, and Brannon released the vines.
The trolls fell screaming to their deaths fifty feet below.
“Can you make another?” Murland asked.
Brannon didn’t answer, but shot out his arms and created another foot bridge of vine that brought them to another spire. He kept this up for nearly a half an hour, creating bridges where the spires were close enough together, and soon the trolls were nowhere to be seen.
Brannon collapsed on the mossy northern face of a wide spire as the vines they had just come across fell back into the mist.
“Well, I think we’re safe for now,” said Sir Eldrick, scanning the ravines around the spire.
Murland glanced over the sides as well, but with the sun having gone down, there wasn’t much to see. “You saved us all, Brannon.”
“Ye sure did,” said Gibrig.
Brannon nodded sleepily.
“Ye think them trolls can see good in the dark?” Willow asked.
“I’d put money on it if I was a gambling man,” said Sir Eldrick.
“You alright, Brannon?” Murland asked, seeing how the elf was sweating and how weary he looked.
“Just tired.”
“Get some rest,” said Sir Eldrick. “You might have to make us another bridge before you know it.”
Brannon said nothing, for he was already asleep.
Chapter 26
News from the Wide Wall
Zorromon put down the letter from Headmaster Hinckley, stroking his beard in thought. He got up from his chair carefully and strode over to the window to take in some fresh air. His hands shook as they rested on the sill. His mind spoke the same words over and over.
Murland has mended the wand of Kazam. He is destined to defeat Zuul.
“Holy Uncle of Larry,” he said, and poured himself a shot of liquor.
He had been right, he realized with renewed clarity. He bent at the waist, feeling as though he might vomit, or perhaps soil his robes. Guilt over sending Murland to his death brought Zorromon to his knees, and he cursed himself for not believing his visions.
He had been afraid to embrace his gift in his youth, but now he had no choice, for if it were true that Murland was the one destined to defeat Zuul, then it also meant that Zorromon’s first vision would likely come true as well.
In that vision, he had seen his own death.
Zorromon had seen himself die at a ripe old age, but his age at the time of death hadn’t been what disturbed him, but rather, the way he would die. He shuddered, wondering if perhaps there might be some way that he could avoid his fate. Should he just remain in Abra Tower, forget what he had learned? Would his actions, or inactions, change his fate?
He shook the thoughts from his mind, for what was the point in worrying over things that one could not control? Zorromon had grown to be a good, selfless man—or so he liked to believe—and the stakes were too high to let his ego get in the way.
Moving to his desk, he read the letter over once more before sending it flying into his filing cabinet with but a thought.
He took a moment to ponder nothing and everything at once, walking around his office to study his favorite paintings, to remember the deeds that had led to the many medals hanging in his crystal trophy case. He reflected on a life spent in the service of magic, king, and country, and accepted that this might be the end of that long road. Lastly, Zorromon studied the painting of the love he had left behind, back when apprentices had to swear off women.
“Oh, Lilly, would that I could have settled in with you and become a simple farmer,” he said, feeling suffocating regret choking him.
Momentarily, he was surprised by the strength of his feral self’s fear, which screamed in the back of his mind for him to reconsider, to think of himself for once. He went to his safe and absentmindedly unraveled the many wards protecting it. From inside, he withdrew his most prized relic, one that he had never used. It was a golden time piece, circular, with an open face set with rubies. It was said to have been stolen from the pocket of Father Time himself, and could be used to turn back the gears of time.
I could do it, turn back time to that summer when I was young, dumb, and full of rum. I could do it all differently this time. Marry Lilly, have children…live a simple life.
“Shut up, you selfish bastard!” he said to the mirror, though he slipped the time piece in his pocket.
The pleading voice stopped, and he stared into his own eyes, wondering if he were looking at a condemned man.
After taking a moment to compose himself, Zorromon changed into his battle robes. He did so methodically, purposefully, humming incantations as he applied his many layers of protection. He sheathed two wands, one on his right hip, and the other, a backup, to his ankle. After some consideration, he chose a smooth, black staff, given to him by the last headmaster of Abra Tower, one Felix Graygarden. Slowly, ponderously, he strapped a short sword to his left hip, one given to him by King Nimrod’s grandfather. It was of Shivermoore elf make, and froze anything that it came in contact with. Next, he tucked a small dagger into his robes, below his left armpit. The dagger, Dragonspit, set aflame anything that it touched.
Fully dressed, he checked that his will was where it should be, and enchanted it to fly into the hands of High Wizard Bumblemoore upon his death. Finally, when he had run out of excuses to doddle, he grabbed his enchanted cloak off a worn peg and headed out into the antechamber.
He climbed the stairs up to the second level, passing by the first years as they marched to their next class.
“Go on, you young, ripe minds,” he said, sniffling, caught up in remembrances of his first days at the college. “Never forget that great power lies within each and every one of you. And with great power, comes great respons—”
“Comes great reblah-blah-bility,” said one of the boys.
Everyone laughed, for the lad—a little Lance Lancer in the making—was mocking Zorromon’s gait.
“Ungrateful little shits,” Zorromon mumbled, ambling up the stairs and unable to hide how it taxed him.
On the third level, he passed the second years without a word. The bell rang, warning everyone that their classes had begun, and Zorromon moved on to the fourth floor. He ventured all the way to the top level of Abra Tower, where the warning beacon waited to be lit. The fire had not burned atop Abra Tower in decades, and it was with thoughtful gravity that Zorromon spoke the words that would light the pyre. The flames leapt high, burning bright blue, and the old wizard gave a sigh.
Soon the bells began to toll throughout the city. The alarm had been given, there was no turning back now.
Quick footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Zorromon turned to regard a frazzled-looking High Wizard Bumblemoore. The old wizard tripped when he reached the landing, and pulled himself up quickly, eyes wide. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked.
“Zuul has returned,” said Zorromon. “The second coming is upon us. We must prepare.”
Bumblemoore just stared, speechless.
Chapter 26
Gurtzarg
“Wake up!”
Murland shot upright, clutching his wand in his left hand.
“The trolls are back,” said Sir Eldrick, rousing the others as well. “We need another bridge, Brannon. Murland, you and Packy try to slow them down.”
Still groggy from sleep, Murland shouldered his backpack and leapt from the spire. When he saw the hundreds of trolls converging around them, he gasped, for they had begun to climb the neighboring spires as well, intent on cutting off their escape route.
He gathered his inner strength at his core, focusing on the magic and letting it build. As he sw
ooped down to the base of the spire, spears and arrows whizzed through the air, and Packy was forced to maneuver swiftly to avoid the missiles.
“Ignis!” Murland bellowed, releasing his magic through the wand and bathing the trolls in flame. They hissed, screeched, and howled as the fire engulfed them, sending them plunging to the ground below.
At Brannon’s command, the vines all around the spire snaked their way to the top and extended across the wide expanse, creating another bridge. But the spire that the bridge connected to was teeming with trolls, as were all the others in the surrounding area.
“It’s a trap!” Murland yelled as he flew over the heads of the companions running across the bridge.
He landed on the spire that they were headed to and released another fire spell that scorched the pinnacle and scattered the hateful trolls. He became lightheaded then, and he teetered, kept on his feet only by Packy’s wings. Sir Eldrick reached him and went to work with his glowing fae blade, fighting back the advancing trolls who were cresting the spire by the dozens from all directions. Willow soon joined in, batting the creatures away with her club when they got too close.
“We’re surrounded,” said Sir Eldrick as Brannon and Gibrig made it across the bridge and gathered at the center of the spire with Murland.
“What do we do?” asked the dwarf.
“Prepare to make a stand!” said Sir Eldrick as he hacked and slashed at the trolls.
“To me!” said Brannon. He raised his hands and brought them together, and on cue, the vines that draped down from the top of the spire began to rise. The vines converged above their heads, curling around each other and forming a thick dome.
Someone struck a flint in the darkness, and a torch blazed to life. Sir Eldrick held the torch out and inspected the walls of vine. Outside, the trolls could be heard pounding and hacking at the shelter.
“Good work, Brannon,” said Sir Eldrick. “But now what?”
Before the elf could answer, the ground beneath their feet suddenly gave way. Murland instinctively grabbed ahold of Gibrig as the backpack spread its wings, and the others scrambled for a handhold as the slab they had been standing on swung downward. Willow was unable to find a hold, and she slid down into the abyss.
Beyond the Wide Wall Page 18
