by K. B. Bogen
The entire class backed away, leaving Erwyn in the middle of an empty circle about twenty feet in diameter.
He gulped and nodded. He’d never figured out what he’d done wrong earlier. Neither had the Masters. So he had no choice but to try it the same way as before.
Nothing happened.
“Apprentice Erwyn, we’re waiting.”
He tried again, with the same result.
“I-I don’t know what’s wrong, Master Gordrun. I’m trying. But it doesn’t seem to work!”
Gordrun sighed. “Never mind. Why don’t you go stand by that tree and think about it for a while. Maybe you’re just nervous.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leaning against the old oak, Erwyn went over the spell in his mind. He even dug out his spell book and reviewed the procedure. But he couldn’t figure out what was wrong. After a few minutes, Gordrun came over.
“Think you can handle it now, son?”
“I guess so, sir.”
Erwyn tried again, building the spell slowly, carefully. At last he felt he was ready and released the spell.
For a moment, he thought it hadn’t worked. Then he felt himself stretching and growing, sprouting leaves and roots, until a second oak stood in the courtyard. Erwyn would have screamed his frustration, if only trees had vocal chords.
At least this time they knew how to undo the damage. Master Gordrun ran to get the supplies to reverse Erwyn’s mistake. He returned quickly, but not quickly enough.
Master Hexis, the cook, decided to take an afternoon stroll ... with his dog. The tiny brown-and-black-spotted mutt decided the new tree was the perfect place to relieve his bladder.
It took Erwyn nearly a month to get the smell out of his leather boots.
* * *
Erwyn shook his head to dislodge the memory. No, he wasn’t going to attempt that again. He knew the dis-spell now. They taught it to him as soon as he recovered from being a tree for an hour. But he didn’t want to spend even a tiny slice of his life looking like that stupid bush.
The first of the pursuers finally galloped into sight, the noise almost deafening him. Erwyn gasped, and stared. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them. Well, at least a hundred.
They rode five abreast, their armor and weapons glinting wickedly in the sunlight. And here he sat with nothing but one small, scraggly bush to keep him from being trampled. While he racked his brains for a way to save himself, the leading edge of the wave of horses reached him.
Without breaking stride, the horde split around Erwyn and his bush. He covered his head with his arms, waiting for one of the horsemen to finish him with a well-placed stroke of the sword. But it never happened. They streamed past without even seeing him, intent only on the larger prey.
“Whew!” Erwyn wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “This place is awful busy for a little, bitty town in the middle of nowhere.”
He picked up the pack, dusted himself off again, and thought about the situation. Perhaps he should go somewhere else instead.
Then again ... Erwyn considered his other choices. Might as well go ahead and check out Burgdell anyway, he decided. Maybe those horsemen were just passing through. After all, they were headed away from the town.
He reached the next rise and stopped. Before him lay Burgdell in all its glory. The remnants of it, anyway.
Smoke rose in lazy curls from the charred remains of the buildings below, and he knew he wouldn’t be staying in Burgdell after all. Ashes make lousy protection from the weather.
Now what should he do? If he stood there too long, he’d probably sprout roots. Again.
Travel southward was completely out. That way lay the Sorcerer’s Apprentice School, and he couldn’t go back there. Not yet.
South of the School lay Irvingdell which was, Erwyn recalled, currently in the midst of a little spat with its neighbors, Martindell and Arbordell, over some property owned by the now-defunct hamlet of Curtisdell.
Sheesh! Couldn’t the people around here come up with some more original names for their towns? Immortality through town-naming. Humph! There wasn’t actually a single dell within miles of this area.
So he turned west. Virtually unknown territory.
Erwyn himself had never traveled farther west than the School. Neither had anyone else he knew. Why should they? They had everything they needed. There was no reason to go anywhere else. Now, he needed to.
He looked toward the setting sun, shading his eyes against the glare. All he could see were vast grasslands rippling in the cool autumn breeze.
“Looks good to me,” Erwyn said to no one in particular. At least there were no smoke signals, escaping armies, or raging monsters to be seen.
Besides, there ought to be something of interest in a land no one had ever explored, at least no one he knew personally. He might even be able to have some fun while he tried to stay out of trouble.
Having made his decision, Erwyn shouldered his pack, shoved his hair back into place again, straightened his cloak, and set out to find his “Calling.” He didn’t expect to find it on the first day.
He was right.
Westward Ho!
It’s Barbaric But, Hey, It’s Barbaric
“SELECTING THE LEAST THREATENING OF ALL AVAILABLE OPTIONS DOES NOT NECESSARILY MEAN YOU WON’T GET HURT.” — Sorcerers’’ Almanac, Section One: On Getting the Lay of the Land
Only two hours of full daylight remained as the young would-be sorcerer headed in his chosen direction. And it was a good thing, too. After two hours’ walk, he was completely exhausted. No wonder magic users tended to be pale, emaciated wisps of humanity. Too much time sitting on hard stone benches.
He scanned the grassland in front of him for a suitable campsite. And there it lay, the perfect location, right in front of him. Complete with a tree and a bare spot in the grass, just right for building a fire.
Erwyn stood there a moment, staring.
“A tree. Sure. In the middle of nowhere. How convenient.”
It also seemed a little weird, since Erwyn didn’t remember it being there a few minutes ago.
However, since it was available, and he couldn’t think of an excuse to avoid the place, he figured it would do. Shrugging, he sat down with his back to the tree and began rummaging in his pack.
“I wonder why there’s just this one tree right here in the middle of ... shit!”
They didn’t give him a tinderbox! He searched through his pack again. Nothing. It never occurred to him that they wouldn’t even give him a tinderbox.
“Of all the stupidest, most inconsiderate ...!” He went through the contents of his bag once more. “That’s the last time I let someone else do my packing!” One spell book, a journal, two clean tunics, a pair of pants, a dull knife, and dinner for one. What was this? The super-economy plan? There wasn’t even an instruction book on how to live life to the fullest on zero gold pieces a day. Of course, that might be what the Almanac was for. He let that thought slide, for the moment.
In the end, lack of proper equipment forced him to use his flame spell to start a fire in the pile of branches he’d gathered. He glared angrily at the twigs and built the spell in his mind
“NEVER BUILD A FIRE DIRECTLY BENEATH A LOW-HANGING BRANCH.” — Sorcerers’ Almanac, Section Four: On How to Have a Safe Trip
“Yikes!” He scrambled back from the small firepit. Flames shot up from the branches, licking hungrily at the tree limbs above.
He damped down the flow of power, embarrassed that he’d let his emotions interfere with, or add to, the spell.
“As soon as I find some sign of civilization,” he groused, “I’m going to get myself some proper equipment and a real bed and some warmer clothes and ...” He paused, sighing. “And a way to pay for them.” Maybe he could get a job selling used carriages.
Griping to himself a
bout primitive living conditions, Erwyn set about making camp. Dull routine stuff, making camp. Especially since all he really had to do was build a fire, fix dinner, and lay out his bedroll. And he already had the fire.
He shot another nervous glance at the branches overhead.
Dinner was simple, but tasty. His refrigeration spell had kept the ham and potatoes fresh until time to cook them. Unfortunately, he had no cooking utensils, unless he counted his knife.
Cursing again, Erwyn tucked the potatoes into the coals, then levitated the ham to hover just above the flames. While dinner cooked, he pulled his journal from his pack.
“A JOURNAL OF YOUR ADVENTURES CAN BE A VALUABLE ASSET. IF YOU CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID WRONG, YOU CAN’T AVOID DOING IT AGAIN.” — Sorcerers’ Almanac, Section Four: On How to Have a Safe Trip
He paused a moment, trying to decide. Should he write about what actually happened on his trip, or spice things up a bit? He finally settled on a blatant lie (“creating fiction for fun and self-gratification”) and began writing.
I walked for hours and hours before finding a suitable place to make camp. Choosing a huge, gnarled old oak for my campsite, I ripped from it branches as thick as my arms with which to build a fire.
As I sat eating my supper, which I caught and killed myself, several large, unidentifyable, hairy beasts came to glower at me over the flames. Undaunted, I repelled them with a few of the multitude of powerful spells at my disposal.
Erwyn sat back to reread his latest passage. It needed something more.
One of the beasts dared to approach me, snarling and growling as he advanced. I think I shall have his carcass for breakfast, as I have already roasted it. I hope he’s tender.
That should keep them entertained, should anyone ever actually read the thing.
Smiling to himself, Erwyn closed his book and turned his attention to supper. His knife served as spoon, fork and, of course, knife. A bit awkward, perhaps, but he managed.
The air made a perfect plate, though. He levitated the food to a comfortable height and dug in. Toward the end of supper, he started playing with levitating his food right up to his mouth.
Children, even eighteen-year-old children, he decided, are easily amused. What the hell, it was fun.
After he ate, Erwyn slid gratefully between his blankets, glad for a chance to rest. He did remember to set his wards before he went to sleep, though.
It took him a few minutes to relax, slipping into the proper meditative state.
In his mind’s eye, he saw the blue network of energy woven (theoretically) around him each time he set them. But was it his imagination, or were they really there? Who knew? Moreover, who cared?
Erwyn thought of it as just a mental exercise, anyway. He didn’t think it really worked.
Whether the wards worked or not, he was so tired that even the ground felt comfortable. He fell asleep almost immediately.
The next day, however, was different. The ground may have felt comfortable the night before, but it certainly didn’t this morning.
Erwyn tried some exercises to help relieve the ache in his muscles. Once he’d worked out the majority of the kinks, he stood next to the firepit, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Spell-practice was his favorite part of the day. His chance to play, with no one watching. Or criticizing.
“Let’s see, how did that wind spell go again?”
Concentrating, he recalled the form of the spell and gave it a trickle of energy. One had to be very careful about these things ...
Lightning zapped the ground by his feet as a small thunderstorm appeared over his head. “Whoops! I hate it when spells feel so much alike!” Oh well, if he were perfect, he wouldn’t need to practice. The storm made a nice portable shower, though.
He tried the wind spell again. This time he got it right.
While the warm air dried his clothes, he rushed through as many of the rest of his spells as he felt there was time for. Safely, anyway.
At last, he felt ready to resume his travels. But which way to go? Should he keep going the same direction as yesterday, or not? He needed a goal, a landmark, or some sort of guide.
The wind spell blew itself out, leaving only the gentle breeze blowing across the knee-high greenery. It produced a series of waves in the grass, like the ripples on a pond. Very pleasant. Very boring. And not very helpful.
Further to the west Erwyn spotted a thin, dark line at the horizon. Perhaps a forest. Perhaps an illusion caused by the distance. He couldn’t be certain.
Oh, well. It was as good a choice as any. At least if he continued in the same direction as he’d started, he would know more or less which way to return, just in case.
Something about the mysterious line of black seemed to pull at him ... a sort of yearning to explore that mysterious darkness.
You’re getting weird, Erwyn, he said to himself.
It felt right, though, and feelings were about all he had to go on. Of course, instinct wasn’t really his best subject and ...
The air around Erwyn suddenly resounded with a loud, harsh screech. Looking skyward, he was amazed to see a very large, very angry-looking bird plummeting toward him.
Indecision can be such a problem! Erwyn had just enough time to snatch up his book and pack and race headlong toward that very line of darkness he had just been thinking about.
The actual details of the terrain blurred around him. Long tufts of grass grabbed at his ankles, slowing him down when he needed speed.
Erwyn risked a glance backward. The bird was less than twenty feet behind him. No way could he ever outrun such a creature.
So this is the end of my glorious career, he thought ruefully. He began to think that perhaps Heatherlyn wasn’t so bad after ...
The grass finally got him. He tripped, sprawling headfirst onto the ground.
He lay still, eyes closed, heart pounding.
Stupid! he thought. I really ought to watch where I’m going when I race through tall grass while being chased by an outraged giant bird, I’ll have to remember that, if it ever happens again.
The bird skimmed past, its long brown tailfeathers brushing the back of Erwyn’s head. He tensed, ready to feel the sharp bite of claws in his unprotected back.
He smelled the warm, grassy scent of the animal. Its wings swished as it passed over him, but it didn’t hurt him. Scared the hell out of him, but didn’t hurt him.
Astonished, Erwyn opened his eyes, looked up and saw the bird soar higher. Probably preparing for another attack, he decided. He sucked in some air, almost wishing he could just lie there, waiting for the end.
Quit, however, was a four-letter word ... one of the worst, in Erwyn’s opinion. So, instead of waiting for the bird to finish him off, he staggered to his feet and resumed his mad dash across the grassland.
The edge of the grass must have been closer than he first thought. What earlier had been a dark line on the horizon rapidly resolved itself into the mottled green of forest.
The blurred brown line of trunks beneath their crown of leaves promised safety. If he could reach it.
The grass thinned, allowing Erwyn to speed up. He raced across the last few yards.
Behind him, the bird shrieked a challenge.
This is it, Erwyn thought.
He dove beneath the trees. His legs screamed in protest, cramping painfully. His chest heaved.
The bird shrieked again, no closer than before. Rolling onto his back, Erwyn looked across the field.
The huge, feathered creature settled into the grass near the tree where Erwyn had been writing on his journal. And, incidentally, right next to his erstwhile campsite.
“Wait a minute!” Erwyn sat up suddenly. His head reeled, both from his exertions and from the questions darting around in his mind.
What the hell was going on? Why did that stup
id bird chase him, anyway? Why did it stop? And why could he still see the tree after running away from it for a small slice of forever?
Did the forest get closer to the tree, or did the tree get closer to the forest? Either way, it just didn’t make sense.
Erwyn leaned against the nearest trunk to watch the bird. From this distance, the creature was huge, nearly as tall as the tree.
He shuddered, thinking how close to death he’d come.
The bird was quiet now, just resting (or was it roosting?) in the grass. It didn’t even seem to notice him watching it from the edge of the forest.
His heart finally slowed its wild beating, and his legs seemed usable, if a little wobbly. Slowly raising his pack once more, Erwyn turned toward the shadowy trees.
The pull he felt before was stronger here. The green-tinted darkness seemed to beckon, drawing him into the forest.
For a moment, he felt a twinge of anxiety. The moment passed and he found himself eagerly giving in to the summons.
A Walk in the Wood
Pardon Me, I’ve Just
Stepped on my Tongue
“THE WESTERN WOOD PROVIDES AN INTERESTING ASSORTMENT OF ENGAGEMENTS FOR THE SEASONED ADVENTURER.” — Sorcerers’ Almanac, Section One: On Getting the Lay of the Land
Little sunlight penetrated the trees overhead. The cool, damp air clung to his exposed skin. Erwyn shivered and pulled his cloak tighter about him. His feet made no noise in the layer of decaying leaves on the faint trail. The world through which he passed was green, dark, and quiet.
Too quiet. Everything seemed fuzzy. Unreal. He frowned, trying to concentrate. There was something he needed to do, someplace he had to go. It was so hard to think ...
