Off to Be the Wizard

by Scott Meyer

  Martin held his hand up in front of his face and said, “Hello.”

  A crudely animated image of a flaming skull filled Martin’s hand, and Gary’s voice filled the air. “Hey Martin, oh … huh. You’re still using the default icon.”

  “Oh! I hadn’t even thought about that! What is the default icon?”

  “The words default icon,” said Gary’s disembodied voice.

  “Yeah,” Martin said. “I gotta fix that.”

  “Yeah, well, do it later. I need you to come to my place right now. You know how to get here?”

  “Yeah, don’t use any coordinates you give me.”

  “You’re smart, Martin, but I promise. No funny business. This is serious. Just use the location code Skull Gullet Cave.”

  Martin took a moment to make sure he was presentable. He put on his hat, grabbed his staff, and moments later he was standing in the massive stone mouth that marked the entrance to Gary’s home. He found Jeff waiting for him.

  “Come on back,” Jeff said, beckoning Martin deeper into the cave. They passed through the carefully designed set, through the concealed door and into Gary’s comparatively pleasant apartment. Inside, Gary was sitting on a bench next to Gwen, who was gripping a mug with both hands and looking off into the distance. They both had their backs to the table. As Martin and Jeff entered, Gary nodded subtly to them, and tilted his head toward the other bench on the far side of the table. Taking his cue from Jeff, Martin nodded back and silently took a seat across the table from Gwen and Gary. After a moment, Gary turned sideways so he could address Jeff and Martin and still observe Gwen, who only moved occasionally to sip from her mug.

  “She showed up here about a half hour ago,” Gary said, “She was really worked up about something, and wasn’t making any sense. She said I was the closest wizard she knew. I hitched her horse and wagon and brought her inside. When I finally got her calmed down, she told me why she was freaked out, and I got worked up and didn’t make any sense for a while. Then I called you two, and now you’re up to speed.”

  “Why didn’t you call Phillip?” Jeff asked.

  “I tried. Got no answer. He’s probably up in his attic, doing nothing.” Sadly, it went without saying that Gary had tried to reach Tyler, and failed.

  “How’d Gwen know where you live?” Martin asked, and immediately regretted it. Any other time he’d have been tortured a bit for asking, but Gary wasn’t in the torturing mood, or, perhaps, for the first time he actually was.

  “I’ve invited her here more than once,” Gary said. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “Actually, women can blame a guy for trying,” Gwen said without turning to face any of them. “We do it all the time.”

  “Okay, so come on, what is it?” Jeff asked. “Gwen, what happened?”

  “There’s a farmer who’s been complaining that my garments get longer over time.”

  “Oh yeah, uh … Sam! Right?” Martin said. “Got his whole village convinced. Gwen ended up altering a ton of clothes.”

  Gwen nodded. She still hadn’t turned to face them, instead staring into her drink. Jeff watched the back of her head as she spoke. Martin’s eyes drifted to the hood of her favorite cloak, possibly the only one she owned, for all he knew. The hood tapered to a point down near the small of her back in a decorative flourish. It’s weird, the things we notice at times like these, Martin thought.

  “I got all the alterations done,” Gwen said, “so I loaded the wagon and went to deliver them.”

  There was a long silence, punctuated by Jeff saying, “And?”

  “They were dead.”

  Martin and Jeff looked at each other, then at Gary, then at the back of Gwen’s head. Martin hadn’t known that it was possible for the back of someone’s head to look upset, but Gwen’s did.

  “Sam and his family?” Martin asked.

  “Yes,” Gwen said, “and his neighbors, and every other person in his village. Everyone, Martin. Everyone’s dead.”

  Gwen was remembering what she had seen and was understandably starting to lose it again, so Gary took over. “It’s a little village about an hour’s ride away. Not on any map. It’s called Rickard’s Bend. I’d say about a hundred people, give or take, live there.”

  “I don’t get it. How does a whole town die? Were they attacked by animals or something?”

  “No,” Gwen said.

  “Were they attacked by raiders?” Martin asked.

  Gwen stood and turned to face them. To Martin’s surprise, she was not crying. She didn’t even look close to tears. She looked close to murder. She said, “I don’t know what happened to them, but I came here because I thought you lot might.”

  A few minutes later they materialized on a hill on the outskirts of Rickard’s Bend. A cluster of seven or eight smallish buildings with stone walls and thatched roofs stood on either side of a wide dirt road. The countryside was a random collection of gently rolling hills dotted with farm houses and grain fields. A smallish river cut through the landscape toward the town, then predictably bent, right about where Martin figured some guy named Rickard had found it.

  It would have been quite idyllic, if not for all the corpses.

  At first Martin didn’t see them. It was obvious from a great distance that the town was completely still, which was eerie enough. Then, as they walked closer, they could see what looked like people having naps leaned up against trees, or in front of buildings, or face down in the middle of the road.

  Once they got within touching distance of the buildings, there was no doubt in any of their minds, or noses, that everyone was dead. Gwen was handling it better than the three wizards. Of course, she’d seen it before. None of them were forensic scientists, so there was little scientific about their actions. They yelled to see if anyone would answer, but they expected and got no reply. Martin strained his ears, but all he heard was the sound of a dog growling somewhere far away.

  They walked around in a daze, looking at the dead bodies and exchanging confused looks with Gwen. When Gwen wasn’t looking they’d exchange alarmed looks with each other. There was no sign of any violence or bloodshed. It reminded Martin of things he’d read in history class about poison gas attacks. An entire village, caught in the act of living its life, killed in one stroke. There was evidence that it hadn’t been an entirely normal day. Upon close inspection, certain patterns emerged. Martin very badly wanted to look at a member of the village he had seen before.

  “Hey Gwen, where does that guy Sam live?” Martin asked.

  Gwen pointed to a farmhouse a mile or so down the road, sitting on the crest of a hill. “That’s his house, if you want to go look. He has a wife and two little girls.” Jeff, who happened to be standing closest to Gwen, put a hand on her shoulder. She smiled sadly at him. “Would you like to magic us there?” she asked all three of them at once.

  “No,” Martin said, “I think I could use a walk and some fresh air.”

  Gary quickly said, “Agreed.”

  Gwen shrugged and started walking down the road towards Sam’s house. Jeff gave the other two wizards a knowing look, then kept pace with Gwen, and started a conversation that the other two couldn’t quite make out.

  Gary immediately got to business. “Martin, see anything weird about the bodies?”

  “Mmm hmm,” Martin said quietly. “Sam was right. All of their pants are too long. They all seem to have really stubby arms and legs.”

  “Yup. That’s not all. Call me crazy, but it looks to me as if most of them died right after removing their shoes.”

  Gwen and Jeff were well ahead of them now, walking along the side of the road, next to the now vacant buildings. Martin and Gary were following, engrossed in a conversation neither liked.

  “That’s why I want to see Sam,” Martin said. “I’ve met him. I kn
ow how tall he is … was.”

  “If I didn’t know better, and I don’t,” Gary said, “I’d say someone was trying to make Hobbits.”

  “I agree,” Martin spat. “This is clearly the work of a wizard.”

  A voice from behind said, “That’s what we thought. NOW!”

  A large piece of timber swung out from behind a building and caught Jeff on the back of the head with a loud crack. At the same instant, Martin felt a brutal impact on his left hand that sent his staff flying, and another blow to his head, that plunged him into darkness.

  Chapter 23.

  Martin didn’t wake up so much as he gradually became less unconscious. At first he didn’t know who he was, where he was, or what he was doing. Then he figured out that he was Martin Banks, he was in Medieval England, and that he was struggling at the ropes with which someone had tied him to, respectively, Jeff, Gary, and a tree.

  It was dusk, and Martin was seated on the ground with his back resting against the tree trunk and his legs stretched out in front of him, bound together with heavy rope at the knees, ankles, and the arches of his feet. Although he could only see their feet in his peripheral vision, he knew Jeff was on one side of him and Gary was on the other, both in the same position. Their arms were all intertwined as if they were out for a grand day in a musical in the 1930s. Martin’s hands were bound together by a length of rope that was pulled tight just to the point of causing him constant discomfort. Another thick rope lashed Martin’s back to the tree, another held his neck to the tree, and a final thick and well-used rope was tied tight around his head, holding his mouth open, effectively gagging him. Whoever has us, Martin thought, it’s someone who isn’t suffering a shortage of rope.

  Martin could feel Jeff and Gary struggling just like he was. They were helpless, lashed to a tree beside one of the buildings that used to make up the town of Rickard’s Bend. Whoever attacked them was wise to take them by surprise, disarming them of their staffs (and Jeff his wand) immediately. Without their staffs, the shell wouldn’t recognize them as wizards and allow them to use their powers. On the bright side, no matter how hard his captors tried, unless they put on a very specific robe and hat and knew some Esperanto, they’d never get the staffs to do magic for them either. Also, the staffs were unbreakable, thanks to the shell, so that was something. Martin could feel that his hat was still on his head. Glancing down to his robe’s pocket, it looked like his imp box was still there, meaning his smartphone would still be inside. The staffs, and to a lesser extent the wizards themselves, were being guarded by a single person. He appeared to be young. A teenager, Martin figured. The guard was standing with his back to Martin, watching what was going on in the distance, and Martin couldn’t blame him.

  There was a massive bonfire surrounded by young men. There was a sort of band playing something approximating music. One guy was pounding on a crude drum and another was playing some sort of stringed instrument that was completely drowned out by a huge bruiser blowing with all of his might into some sort of horn. It sounded awful, but Martin didn’t want to be the one to tell them that. Many other young males were gathered around the bonfire. Some were dancing. Some were fighting. It was hard to tell which was which. Martin thought it actually looked like a pretty good party until two guys hauled the body of a dead villager into view, then chucked it onto the fire.

  Martin was relieved to see Gwen, sitting on a stump, well away from the fire but also far away from the wizards. She didn’t seem to be tied up, and nobody seemed to be threatening her at the moment. She didn’t look happy either, sullenly examining her measuring stick, probably as an excuse to not make eye contact with her captors. Martin had attended many parties and seen many attractive girls do the same thing.

  Martin took stock of the situation. He, Gary, and Jeff were helpless. Gwen was surrounded and outnumbered. Their captors had demonstrated a willingness to use violence, and he hazily remembered them saying that they blamed wizards for what had happened here. All in all, Martin thought the situation was grim, but not hopeless. If he could get one hand free, he could get to his smartphone and with one button press he could escape. Once he was gone, he’d have the time to plan and prepare, and come back for the others.

  No, actually, if I press that button, I’ll be deposited back at my parents’ house right as the cops bust in, He realized. I’d probably still be tied up. At least I’d be dressed. That’s something, I guess.

  Martin made a mental inventory of the smartphone app’s other functions, and cursed himself for not having reprogrammed it to do any of the new things he’d learned. Still, he could teleport. It wasn’t a one-button process, but if he got a few seconds and a free hand, he could put several hundred yards between himself and his captors. That would buy him time to teleport somewhere useful. Then he could come back and rescue the others. First things first, though. He couldn’t do anything until he was at least partially untied, and that would mean talking to the guard, gaining his confidence and conning him into offering some assistance. Time to turn on the old Martin Banks charm, Martin thought, and then winced at how bad it sounded, even in his own head.

  Martin cleared his throat, which, with the rope in his mouth, sounded like he was gagging. Then Martin said, “Hello,” which, with the rope in his mouth, also sounded like he was gagging. Then Martin gagged.

  The guard heard the third gagging noise and jumped. The guard turned, as if he was afraid of what he would see when he looked at the wizards. At first it was hard to see the guard’s face because of the lack of ambient light and the bright bonfire silhouetting him, but once his eyes adjusted, Martin was shocked to see that his guard was Donald Melick, Jr., the boy he had recently helped exorcise.

  Donnie cringed. Then he looked back to the bonfire and all of the young men there, and cringed again. He backed toward where the wizards were bound to the tree, watching the gang around the fire the whole time. Finally, he crouched next to Martin and quickly turned to face him.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” he said. “I wanted to tell them that I knew you, and that you were all right, but that would’ve been … dumb.”

  Martin couldn’t argue with that.

  “One of the guys is from this village. He came out to threaten his family, maybe steal some food. He comes running back to Kludge and says everyone’s dead and they all look weird. Well, Kludge says he doesn’t believe it and he wants to see it for himself.”

  Maybe we were wrong about this Kludge person, Martin thought.

  “So four or five of us get here, and it’s like he said. Everyone’s dead. Kludge says it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.”

  Nope, Martin thought.

  “Someone said that it didn’t look like there was any fighting, so it must’ve been magic that killed everyone, and Kludge starts talking about how he’s never liked wizards, or anybody else, but particularly wizards. He says he won’t have anybody going around wiping out towns and not inviting him. He got everyone all worked up. They wanted to go find the first wizard they could and do something awful. Well, I know you and Phillip are okay, so I said that’d never work. I told them that wizards are dangerous. It was pretty easy to convince them, since we were surrounded by the bodies of folks killed by a wizard. I told them the only way we’d ever get the best of a wizard would be to catch them by surprise. I just about had them convinced to give it up, then we see you lot appear on that hill over there, and, well, you looked pretty easy to surprise.”

  I bet we did, Martin thought. They probably had just enough time to hide before we got our bearings.

  “Once you were knocked out, a couple of the guys wanted to kill you straight away, but Kludge says we should tie you up and let you sit a while.”

  He wants us to sit here and worry, Martin thought. Now I understand this Kludge guy. I know how he thinks.

  “He says he wants to give time for your flavors to meld.”
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  Martin made a mental note to stop assuming he understood anybody.

  Donnie looked furtively over his shoulder at the chaos around the bonfire. Kludge appeared to be playing the drum and the horn at the same time by hitting the drum with the horn. It would have been quite impressive if it hadn’t sounded like a small animal being kicked repeatedly.

  Donnie said, “The guys tried to use your staffs to make magic, but it didn’t work, so now they’re just carrying them around, trying to look all fearsome and impressive. That’s not working either.”

  Now that he was looking for them, Martin could see that a couple of the brutes near the bonfire were wielding his staff with its bust of Santo, and Gary’s with its KISS action figures. There was one guy with what might have been Jeff’s wand, or might have just been a stick – it was hard to tell unless you could get close enough to see the word Wonderboy carved into its shaft.

  Donnie took his eyes off of the fire, and leaned in closer to Martin. “Look,” he said quietly, “Kludge told me to tell him as soon as you lot woke up. I’m really sorry about all this. I’m going to try to think of a way to get you out of it, but I have a family, and Kludge knows where they live. I’m only still hanging around with them so I can fade away slowly instead of just not showing up one day. You understand, don’t you?”

  Martin gagged as affirmatively as he could. Donnie looked equal parts pleased and worried. He reluctantly rose to his full height, turned his back to the three helpless wizards and yelled, “Oi! Kludge! The evil wizards is awake! Can we kill ‘em now?”

  He glanced down at Martin, who was glaring up at him. “Sorry. I had to make it convincing.” Then he kicked Martin.

  Kludge couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his own demented horn playing, but one of the oafs yelled in his ear and the music stopped abruptly. Kludge approached with the slow, deliberate gait of a man who enjoys the fact that people don’t want him to approach them. Somewhere between fifteen and twenty more thugs followed behind. Martin assumed that when word got out that Kludge had captured three wizards, like-minded flunkies had started coming out of the woodwork. None of them seemed to have swords or knives, which didn’t surprise or comfort Martin. Swords were designed to kill quickly and easily. Kludge seemed like the type who’d rather do it the slow, difficult way with tools he crafted himself. An old-fashioned purveyor of artisanal pain. A man who takes his time, and pays attention to the details. A man who hurts people for the love of the craft.