The Inadequate Adept

by Simon Hawke

  "To another player."

  "On either team?"

  "No, only on your team. Otherwise, the other team will get possession of the ball and they might make the basket."

  "By dribbling to the other end of the court?" the dragon asked.

  "Correct."

  "But how do they do that without traveling!"

  Brewster reached up under his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "I'm not explaining this very well, am I? Sports never was my strong suit."

  " 'Tis a very foolish-sounding game, if you ask me," said Brian.

  The dragon snorted and twin jets of sulphurous smoke streamed from his nostrils. "Nobody asked you, Werepot," he replied irritably.

  Brian the werepot prince shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he crossed his legs and leaned back against the parapet. The moon was full and he had reverted to his human form, which was that of a handsome, well-built, young man in his twenties, with long, curly blond hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in brown and black striped breeches, high boots, a loose-fitting white blouse, and a brown velvet jacket and cape. Around his neck, he wore a necklace of sapphires and rubies.

  "What's the bloody point?" asked Brian. "You're not going to be playing the blasted game, are you? Can you imagine how ridiculous it would look, a great, big, lumbering leviathan like you galloping down a wood-floored playing court, bouncing a rubber ball and wearing a wee, white doublet with a number on it?"

  "I never said that I was interested in actually playing the game," the dragon replied, "I merely wish to understand it."

  "Whatever for?" asked Brian.

  "Uh... Rory..." Brewster interrupted, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

  "What is it, Doc?" the dragon asked.

  Brewster moistened his lips nervously and cleared his throat again. "Would you.. .uh.. .mind asking them to stop, please?" He indicated the fairies with a nod of his head, then looked away.

  It had been difficult enough for him to grow accustomed to his nightly storytelling sessions with a dragon, followed by a question and answer period, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to get used to the fairies. Since meeting Rory and enlisting the dragon's aid in searching for his missing time machine, Brewster had come to look forward to the dragon's nightly visits, but fairies had a tendency to hover around dragons the way horseflies buzzed around a sweaty mare, and their behavior was something Brewster found highly disconcerting.

  With the exception of their antennae and large, varicolored, gossamer wings, they looked completely human, albeit on a miniature scale, and they wore no clothing. During the day, at a distance, they could easily be mistaken for large butterflies, but at night, they glowed, which made their nudity that much more obvious at close quarters. That, in and of itself, could be a bit unsettling, as the female fairies all seemed to be uniformly sensual and beautiful and the males all handsome and rampantly endowed. What made it worse was their complete lack of inhibitions and a sex drive that any jackrabbit would have envied.

  They were highly curious, but they had a very limited attention span, and a tendency to copulate at the drop of a hat. Sitting on the edge of the parapet and having apparently grown bored with the conversation, two of the fairies had started to fondle and caress each other, and as Brewster spoke, the female sat astride the male's lap, facing him, and they began to... well, you know.

  Of course, the other fairies flitting all about the dragon in a cloud began to follow suit and, in no time at all, a mass orgy was in progress. They rose up into the air, their legs entwined and their wings flapping in unison, and as they mated, the glow from them increased, so that they resembled giant fireflies with hiccups, enthusiastically bouncing up and down in midair.

  "Oh, for God's sake..." said Brewster, turning away in embarrassment. "Have they no sense of decorum whatsoever?"

  "Apparently not," said Brian, "but they do seem to enjoy themselves."

  "Pesky little things," said Rory wryly. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled in the direction of the fairies, blowing them hither and yon, sending their naked, phosphorescent little bodies tumbling through the air. Brewster exhaled heavily himself, only with relief, because when he'd seen the dragon fill his lungs, he'd been afraid that Rory would breathe fire at them and the thought of all those randy, little fairies being incinerated on his behalf had alarmed him greatly.

  "Well, I suppose I shouldn't impose my own standards of morality upon another race of beings," Brewster said. "I do hope they understand how grateful I am for their help in looking for my missing time machine."

  "I'm not sure they've been very much help at all," the dragon replied. " Tis a miracle if they can hold a thought inside their empty little heads for longer than an instant. Still, I keep reminding them."

  "How exactly do you communicate with them?" asked Brewster, curious.

  "They read my thoughts," Rory replied.

  "You mean they're actually telepathic?" Brewster asked with amazement.

  "Of course," Rory replied. " 'Tis what makes them so mischievous."

  "Aye, never fall asleep in the middle of a forest when fairies are around," said Brian. "They will insinuate themselves into your dreams."

  "And what will happen?" Brewster asked.

  "There's no way of telling," Brian replied. "With any luck, the results will merely be humiliating. But they have been known to be fatal."

  "You mean they actually.. .kill people? Brewster said with disbelief.

  "Oh, aye," said Brian. "Nasty little buggers."

  "That's terrible!" said Brewster.

  "They don't really mean to be evil," Rory explained. "The concepts of good and evil are utterly alien to them. 'Tis merely their way of having fun."

  "The thing to do," said Brian, "is burn the garlic herb in your evening campfire, and heavily season your food with it, as well."

  "So it's like the story about vampires?" Brewster said. "Garlic repels them?"

  "It repels everybody," Brian replied with a shrug. "What's a vampire?"

  "Dracula," said Rory. "A character from a series of motion pictures made by Hammer Film Productions, starring Christopher Lee as the undead elf."

  Brewster raised his eyebrows. "The undead elf!"

  "Aye, I saw the motion picture vision in a dream once," said the dragon. "They didn't really get the details right, but 'twas vastly entertaining, just the same."

  "Wait a minute," Brewster said. "Dracula was not an elf. He was a fictional character created by Bram Stoker, an undead creature who survived by drinking human blood."

  Brian shrugged. "Sounds like an elf to me."

  "Hold it," Brewster said. "You mean to tell me that elves drink human blood!"

  "Sure, and everybody knows that," said Brian. "They hang about at night in forest glens, sitting 'round their campfires, playing guitars, spouting poetry, arguing philosophy, and drinking coffee. The only thing they love more than drinking human blood is drinking coffee."

  "Coffee-drinking, beatnik, vampire elves?" said Brewster.

  "Aye, 'tis a foul-tasting brew," said Brian. "Unfit for human consumption, if you ask me. Keeps you from sleeping. A cup or two and you're up all night. 'Tis made from a peculiar bean grown in the kingdom of Valdez. Has a pungent sort of smell when it brews. If you're walking through the forest and you smell it, then sure and there'll be elves about."

  "Methinks I smell one coming now," said Rory, sniffing the air experimentally.

  No sooner had the dragon spoken than a piercing scream shattered the stillness of the night. As Brewster looked down over the parapet, he saw someone come bursting out of the trees at the edge of the clearing, running full speed, closely pursued by what at first glance appeared to be three Shetland ponies. However, a moment later, he saw the gleam of moonlight on their pearlescent horns and realized that he was getting his first glimpse of a unicorn.

  The three galloping creatures looked exactly the way he'd seen them pictured in the fairy tales he'd read as a chi
ld, with gleaming, spiral horns, goatlike beards, long, flowing manes, and tufted hooves, only their white coats were matted with filth and covered with brambles and even at a distance, he could smell their rank stench on the evening breeze. It was a stink that would send a skunk running for the hills.

  "I don't think she'll make it," Brian said, coming up beside Brewster and looking down over the parapet.

  Brewster saw the unicorn running in the lead put its head down, lowering its horn.

  "Good God! They'll kill her!" he said with alarm.

  "I imagine so," said Brian.

  "We've got to do something! Rory, can't you stop them?"

  "Why? She's just an elf," replied the dragon with a shrug of his leathery wings.

  "Rory, please!" said Brewster, watching as the unicorns rapidly closed in on their quarry.

  "Oh, very well, if you insist," the dragon said with resignation. He sprang from the tower and spread his wings, soaring out in a swooping glide, but even as he did so, the lead unicorn caught up with the running elf. With surprising speed, the elf pivoted sharply, sidestepped the unicorn's headlong rush, and struck it on the head with something she was carrying under her arm. There was a percussive, bonking sound, and the unicorn staggered, but just then, the other two unicorns came running up and it looked bad for the elf.

  With a roar, the dragon came swooping down upon them, belching fire. A blast of flame struck the ground just in front of the unicorns and almost caught the elf. The unicorns whinnied and took off in the opposite direction, galloping back toward the woods in a rapid retreat. The elf was beating at her smoking clothing, trying to put out the sparks from the wash of flame that had nearly incinerated her. Rory rose and banked sharply, then swooped down again and swept her up in one powerful claw. The elf cried out, but the dragon held on firmly, though gently, and a moment later, he set her down on the tower in front of Brewster and Brian.

  "Safe and sound, if a trifle singed," said Rory.

  "You nearly roasted me, you great, oafish worm!" the elf said.

  "Go and expect gratitude from an elf," said Rory with disgust.

  "Are you all right?" asked Brewster.

  Her clothing was still smoking here and there. She was dressed all in black, with tight black breeches, short black boots, and a black leather vest held together with rawhide laces, under which she wore nothing else. Her skin was slightly blackened here and there from the dragon's smoky breath. She had a black leather choker around her neck, studded with spikes, and matching, spiked, black leather bands around her wrists. Her hair, too, was rather spikey. It was black, cut short in front and worn longer in the back, covering her neck, and large, delicately pointed elvish ears poked up from beneath it. She stood about five feet, six inches tall and she was slim, with a wiry, coltish build. Her eyes were dark and large and belligerent. In one hand, Brewster noted with surprise, she held a set of bongo drums. Her other hand rested on the slim hilt of a silver dagger in her belt.

  "Who are you?" she demanded.

  "He's the man who just saved your life," said Brian wryly.

  "Indeed?" said Rory. "I could have sworn I had something to do with it."

  "Oh, so now you're taking the credit, are you?" Brian said. "You were quite prepared to see her impaled until Doc asked you to intervene."

  "Well then, I suppose I should thank you," said the elf sullenly. "I am Rachel Drum."

  "And my name is Brewster. But my friends just call me Doc." He held out his hand.

  She stared at it for a moment, hesitating, then reached out and shook it. "Well, my thanks to you, Doc. If not for your dragon, I would most surely have been spiked."

  "He's not really my dragon," Brewster replied. "Rory's just a friend. And this is another friend, Prince Brian the Bold."

  "Not the werepot prince?" she said.

  Brian rolled his eyes. "Aye, the very same," he said wearily.

  "Faith, and I thought you were just a myth," she said. "There are at least a dozen elvish songs about you."

  "Ah, the burdens of fame," said Brian.

  "Why were the unicorns chasing you?" asked Brewster.

  "Obviously, she's a virgin," Brian said.

  "I am not a virgin!" replied the elf.

  "The unicorns knew better," Brian replied with a grin. "They would have smelled a man on you."

  "I have never had a man on me, thank you very much," Rachel responded with distaste.

  Brian frowned. "Then what did you mean when you said you weren't a...." His eyebrows rose. "Oh. I see."

  "Stupid beasts," said Rachel.

  "You mean the unicorns?" asked Brewster.

  "I think she means men," said Brian wryly.

  "I meant the unicorns," said Rachel, "but some men might well be included in that description." She gave him a sour look, then turned to Brewster. "But not all men, perhaps. In any event, I thank you and the dragon, both. 'Tis rare for a dragon to grant assistance to an elf. Rarer still for humans."

  "Perhaps that's because we humans like to keep our blood within our veins, where it belongs," said Brian.

  "I've never met an elf before," said Brewster. "Do you really drink human blood?"

  "Do not humans eat the flesh of other creatures?" Rachel countered.

  "Well, yes, but..."

  "Then you are predators, as well," she said. "But you need have no fear of me. I am a vegetarian."

  "Better warn the bush," said Brian.

  With a rustling sound, Thorny, the peregrine bush, quickly scuttled down the stairs.

  "You associate with peregrine bushes, dragons, and enchanted princes," Rachel said to Brewster. "You must be the new sorcerer who has recently arrived in these parts."

  "News travels fast," said Brewster.

  "Elves have sharp ears," said Brian.

  Rachel gave him a sour grimace.

  "Sorry. No offense," said Brian, feeling his own, unpointed ear.

  "I have come a long way in search of you," said Rachel Drum.

  "You have?" said Brewster. "Why?"

  "For the reward," said Rachel.

  Brewster frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand. What reward?"

  "You have lost something of value, have you not? The fairies say so. Some sort of magic chariot? Well, I might know where it is."

  As Brewster absorbed this fascinating information, Sean MacGregor and Black Shannon were absorbed in one another upstairs at One-Eyed Jack's, where they would remain throughout the night and the next day, discovering that outstanding swordsmanship was not the only thing they had in common. The three brawling, albeit somewhat dim brothers, Hugh, Dugh, and Lugh, were absorbed in a deep and dreamless sleep, more of a coma, really, which is usually what happens whenever anyone is careless enough to knock down a full mug of peregrine wine in one gulp. Harlan the Peddlar, meanwhile, had only one sip of the killer brew, so consequently he recovered fairly quickly, and as soon as the evening's entertainment-meaning the big sword fight-was concluded, he got directions from One-Eyed Jack to Mick O'Fallon's little cottage.

  He drove his wagon out of town, down the winding trail leading past Mick O'Fallon's place, and he arrived at just about the same time as Mick and Robie, Pikestaff Pat and Bloody Bob were returning from the evening's feast at Brewster's keep. Unlike most nights, they had partaken of the brew only sparingly, as they had important matters to discuss late into the night, and Harlan's arrival couldn't have been timed more perfectly.

  They were a bit wary when they discovered that they had a visitor, but when Harlan introduced himself and said he was a peddlar, searching for unique wares to sell, they invited him inside. Harlan wisely, though politely, refused a drink of peregrine wine and settled for a cup of Dragon's Breath tea instead, one of the non-hallucinogenic brews that Jane had concocted, and after his first taste, he allowed as to how he might be interested in carrying Jane's teas among his wares, provided an equitable, exclusive distribution agreement could be reached. He then looked over Mick O'Fallon's blades, examinining a sele
ction of daggers, dirks, and swords, and as he was no stranger to good craftsmanship, he immediately pronounced them to be the finest that he'd ever seen.

  "Understand now, under normal circumstances, I'd never be quite so enthusiastic in my praise," he said. " 'Twouldn't be good business, you see. As a vendor, one should never act too impressed with a supplier's goods, else the price is liable to go up and that would cut into your profits. However, in this case, with craftsmanship so fine, 'tis clear that you know what you're about, O'Fallon, and likewise realize the value of your work. 'Twould be insulting to a craftsman of your accomplishment to minimize the fruits of such fine labor. In truth, these are the finest blades I've ever seen, and I've traveled far and wide throughout all the twenty-seven kingdoms, and seen the works of many a fine armorer. None could compare with these. However did you manage to forge such a superior grade of steel?"

  Pleased that the peddlar was well enough informed to appreciate his craft, Mick's brawny little chest swelled with pride, but he was not so proud as to reveal all his secrets.

  " Tis a special process of me own," he replied. " 'Twas taught to me by a great wizard from the Land of Ing."

  "The Land of Ing?" said Harlan. "S'trewth, and I've never even heard of it. Where is it to be found?"

  " 'Tis far, far away, in another place and time," said Robie, but he fell silent when Mick nudged him.

  "Ah, well, have it your way," Harlan said. "I can understand your wanting to protect trade secrets, and I wouldn't wish to pry. But I must have these blades to sell! You've precious little market out here in the wilds, I should imagine. With a vendor such as myself, representing your product in the cities, there would be great profits to be made. Great profits, indeed."

  "Then we must discuss this matter further," Mick replied, "but first, before we do, there is another item I would like to show you, something new, and altogether different."

  "Ah, yes," the peddlar said. "I have been searching for something altogether different, something no one else would have to offer. You have such an item?"

  Mick smiled. "I do, indeed," he said, and he brought out the first finished example of the "many-bladed knife," complete with nickallirium grips, which he had put on and polished to a glossy luster earlier that afternoon.