by K. B. Bogen
Erwyn stood there, laughing helplessly. Sharilan watched him, her eyes narrowing in anger.
“What do you mean by laughing at me like that?”
Someone had used a refrigeration spell on Sharilan’s voice and tiny blue sparks danced on the palms of her hands.
The significance of the sparks escaped him.
He tried to stifle a chuckle as he replied. “I’m not laughing at you, Sharilan. Not exactly.” The chuckle finally erupted as a loud hiccup. “I guess I’m really laughing at myself. You see,” he hiccuped again, “that’s the very same reason I went to the Sorcerer’s Apprentice School. My father gave me a choice between magic and marriage. And given that choice ... !”
Sharilan voice thawed. “I see.” Hope shone in her eyes as she added, “Then you’ll do it?”
“I don’t know, I still hate rescues and can’t stand damsels. But if there isn’t too much resemblance between the real Fenoria and the one in your story, maybe she’s not too sticky. Perhaps I can handle her. And it might help pass the time.”
He paused, uncertain whether he was doing the right thing. Then he took a deep breath and, looking straight into Sharilan’s eyes, he gave her his answer. “Okay. I guess I’ll give it a whack. I can’t promise you I’ll succeed. I wasn’t kidding about not being very proficient at magic.”
“That’s all I could ask for,” Sharilan almost purred. Then she added, “I can help you, a little.”
She waved her hand and a small tree branch appeared on top of the stone. At least it looked like a tree branch. But when Erwyn picked it up, he was surprised to find that the branch seemed to be made of some kind of stone.
The detail was exquisite. As he studied it, he could see knots and grain as though it were real wood, stripped of its bark and turned to stone.
“This wand may help you, if you can learn its secret,” Sharilan told him. “Unfortunately, that is all the help I can give. It supposedly belonged to the witch who has my sister, but I don’t know what it does. Maybe it will help; maybe it won’t.”
Erwyn slid the branch into a pocket in his tunic. The School’s tailors designed the pocket to hold such a wand, but he wouldn’t be given one of his own until he became a Master in his Art. The wand itself was worth a little damsel-rescuing. It might even count as credit toward his Masters. If he could figure out how it worked.
The branch settled comfortably into the pocket. Its weight felt reassuring somehow, like it belonged there.
Once more, he shouldered his pack, preparing to leave. “I don’t know how much good I’ll be to you or your sister,” he said, smiling hesitantly, “but I’ll give it a try.”
Feeling gallant, he took her hand and kissed it. Then he turned and walked into the trees.
He had walked only for a few minutes before a disturbing thought occurred to him: if Sharilan was only just learning magic, how could she have made an entrance the way she did? A spell placed on her couldn’t possibly have accomplished that.
And how did she acquire a wand that belonged to the witch who imprisoned her sister? And if she could do all that while imprisoned in a rock, why did she need him to rescue said sister? And how could he be sure Fenoria was Sharilan’s sister, anyway?
Erwyn did not believe in coincidence. And, as far as he knew, witches who could imprison damsels in guarded castles did not make mistakes like leaving wands lying about unguarded. Moreover, now that he thought about it, he realized that Sharilan never actually told him where to find this guarded castle with its distressed damsel. And, in the second version of the story, she hadn’t mentioned being stuck to that rock.
Ergo, Sharilan had lied to him. Again. She might not have fooled him with her first story, but she certainly suckered him with the second.
Of course, there might have been more to the story than the words. He thought about the spell that brought him to her and wondered how many more spells she knew. Unfortunately, the only way he could see to learn exactly what was going on, without having to confront Sharilan again, was to try to find this Fenoria person.
Then again, he could just skip the whole thing and get on with his life.
Unfortunately, the whole business smacked of mystery. Erwyn hated unsolved mysteries almost as much as he hated damsels.
A Bump in the Knight
One More for the Road
“NIGHT FALLS QUICKLY BENEATH THE SHELTER OF A FOREST.” — Sorcerers’ Almanac, Section One: On Getting the Lay of the Land
Well, mystery or no mystery, the time had come to continue his wanderings. Or more precisely, his escape. While he still could.
That proved to be more difficult than it sounded. Sometime during his interview with Sharilan, the sun had set.
“Crap! I can’t see a damn thing.”
Erwyn paused, balancing on one foot while he rubbed the big toe on the other.
“Damn tree roots!”
His leg cramped again, and he crashed helplessly into a pile of damp, musty leaves.
“This will never do,” he proclaimed loudly to anyone, or anything, who might be listening.
He stretched his hand out before him, palm up. How did that spell go again?
He started to look through his pack for his spellbook. But it was so dark he wouldn’t be able to read the book without the very spell he sought. He couldn’t even see well enough to find the book.
“Well, here goes nothing!”
Carefully, he built the foxfire spell, centering the spell on his palm. A tiny ball of light appeared over his hand.
As he slowly added power to the spell, the foxfire glow increased until it gave off as much light as a small torch. He lowered his hand. The sphere wobbled a little, then steadied itself at chest height.
He dropped his hand to his knee and the tension left his shoulders. He was glad he got the spell right. No telling what might happen if he got foxfire mixed up with something else. He grimaced at the thought. With his kind of luck, it would be something worse than a small thunderstorm. Possibly even lethal.
While he finished rubbing the knots out of his leg muscles, he stared at the trail. What he could see of it in the small ball of light. Whether or not Sharilan was on his tail, he hadn’t the energy to do anything about it. He was just too tired to go anywhere.
This seemed like as good a place as any, so Erwyn decided to camp right where he stood, or rather sat. The path continued in two directions beyond his small circle of light: the way he’d come from and the way he was going. At least he couldn’t get lost. Theoretically.
The trees grew far enough apart along the path to allow room for a fire, and the lowest branches hung well above his head. It seemed safe.
Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t be a good idea to leave the trail. He probably wouldn’t find a better place anywhere away from it, but he might find something else. And the something else might be ...hungry.
Speaking of which ...
He set about gathering dry branches to make a fire and clearing away the dead leaves around his chosen spot. The foxfire ball followed him. That was good.
He smiled to himself. It gave him a warm feeling to do something well.
Returning to the center of the path, he prepared to lay his fire. He felt like being artistic and decided to try something new. After a few minutes of futzing around, he had a passable cone made of twigs, like a small tent. Then he began his spell to light the wood.
A loud crash in the underbrush broke his concentration. Fortunately, he hadn’t gotten far enough into the spell to be dangerous. Whatever made the racket was either very clumsy, very large, or very strong. Maybe all three.
Assuming the latter, Erwyn tensed. He should be prepared for flight. Or ... something.
Once again, he ran through his small collection of spells. What would work against whatever beasts prowled these woods? Wind? Nope. R
efrigeration? Uh-uh. Fire? Maybe. Levitation? Not with all those trees.
He heard another loud crash, closer this time.
“Oh, the hell with it!” He grabbed at his pack and started to run. The fireball followed him.
“Oh, great!”
That foxfire ball made him a perfect target. Whatever was out there couldn’t help but see him. He could either face the beast, or extinguish the ball and kill himself stumbling around in the dark. Not a pretty thought.
Anyway, the creature could probably see in the dark.
Another crash.
Then again, maybe it couldn’t.
Suddenly, the creature burst into his haven of light, and he didn’t have to worry anymore about whether it could see in the dark.
Erwyn stared, mouth open.
It was an old man, in full antique armor, complete with broadsword and lance, minus horse. His helm sat askew on stringy gray hair while a huge, bushy gray mustache hid most of his face. He was dirty and rusty and, Erwyn sniffed, smelly.
“Aroint thee, varlet! I’ll hack off thy tail and hale out thine innards!” The man swung his sword in Erwyn’s direction.
The old boy’s completely nuts, Erwyn thought, leaning away from the blow. The guy sounded like he’d borrowed some fairy tale books from Sharilan.
Erwyn watched, incredulous, as the knight swung his sword again, close enough to make the young sorcerer a little nervous.
“Excuse me,” Erwyn began, clearing his throat. “Would you mind terribly not waving that sword quite so close? You might hurt someone. Possibly me.” Erwyn ducked as the sword whistled past his ear.
“Stand still, thou mangy lizard, while I lop off thine head.” The knight swung again, this time missing his mark completely. He spun around in a complete circle, barely managing to keep to his feet.
“I will not stand still, and I am not a lizard, mangy or otherwise!” Irritated, Erwyn allowed his voice to rise. In fact, he practically screamed in the old man’s face.
The intruder stopped and faced Erwyn, blinking in the foxfire light. “Art thou not the foul, fire-breathing, maiden-eating dragon, who sears knights with his very breath?” he asked in a tremulous voice.
“Nope. I may be a little foul, but I don’t breath fire, I don’t care much for charbroiled knight, and I’ve never had a chance to eat a maiden ... yet. Actually, I prefer a nice, juicy steak. Rare. With lots of catsup.”
“I beg yer pardon.” The old man squinted, rubbed a grimy gauntleted hand across his eyes, and squinted again. “I thought ye were that pernicious dragon I’ve been chasing for the past twenty years.”
“Sorry, not guilty. I’m still a couple of years shy of being twenty. But I’m certain that if you keep crashing about in the underbrush a while longer, something will turn up.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I think I’ll just rest meself here by yer fire.” The old man sat down in the middle of the path, rusty armor creaking as he lowered himself to the ground.
“But I don’t have a fire yet!” Erwyn cried, exasperated.
“That, too.”
The knight looked down at his knees while Erwyn stared at him in confusion. After a few moments, the old man started snoring. Loudly.
Cursing under his breath, Erwyn sat down beside the firepit. He’d knocked down his carefully built teepee of sticks, scattering the pieces everywhere.
Regathering the wood, Erwyn tried again, but his hands shook too much. Probably only frustration, but he just couldn’t get the wood to cooperate. So much for being artistic.
Finally, Erwyn gave up on design and just piled the sticks into a heap and lit them. While he watched the flames lick hungrily at the wood, he thought about the missing tinderbox.
Now that he thought about it, the School hadn’t given him much of anything, as far as tools for survival went. He carried only the required equipment. Plus a small amount of jerky he’d snuck out of his room at the last minute. Not much. The Almanac had been optional, and he hadn’t thought he’d need it. It wasn’t much help in an emergency, unless you already knew what it said. And you couldn’t eat it. Additional food supplies had been on the “officially forbidden” list.
Of course, it was possible the School sent journeymen out without any supplies to force them to rely on their magical abilities for survival, to stretch their powers. Or maybe the teachers there were a bunch of power-mad sadists who enjoyed putting people into difficult situations. Either way, it was a pain in the posterior.
Erwyn sighed and fed more wood to his fire. Once the fire burned briskly, he dismissed the foxfire ball with a wave of his hand. That done, he nibbled on a piece of jerky from his pack and contemplated his future. The next four years of it, anyway.
“WORRYING TOO MUCH ABOUT EVERYTHING IS BAD FOR THE DIGESTION. ON THE OTHER HAND, NOT WORRYING ENOUGH COULD BE FATAL.” — Sorcerers’ Almanac, Section Four: On How to Have a Safe Trip
The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that Sharilan was using him for something. Or planning to.
Okay. So maybe he simply affirmed the obvious. Question was, what did she plan for him? And, while he was on the subject, why him?
Erwyn started to go over everything he knew about the situation. After a few minutes of trying to think of something, he gave up. It was easier to list what he didn’t know.
He didn’t know where to find Fenoria, or even if she existed. He didn’t know if Sharilan could be trusted, so anything she told him was therefore suspect. And he didn’t know how he would survive if problems like this kept cropping up all the time.
Sharilan couldn’t seriously expect him to find the castle with the useless and inadequate information she’d supplied him. Come on! Let’s get real, here.
Erwyn once more considered removing his Guild patch, getting a respectable job, and forgetting the whole thing. If no one knew what he was supposed to be, no one would ask him to do anything. Maybe.
Anyway, he had given his word to Sharilan and, until he had a good reason not to, he would have to continue with this quest of hers. His personal code of conduct would allow him no less.
Having come to this world-shaking conclusion, Erwyn turned to his studies. He read through part of his spell book and worked on a few of the newer spells. Periodically, he looked up to see if the old man showed any signs of waking and (he hoped) leaving.
An hour and a half and six spells later, Erwyn decided that the old knight was simply not going to leave. He shook his head and shifted into a more comfortable position.
This was the part he liked best, even better than spell practice. He didn’t really get a chance to enjoy it the last time.
Relaxing and closing his eyes, Erwyn allowed himself to reach the meditative state required to set his wards. The familiar, welcome feeling of well-being washed over him.
He always felt so much more alive when he meditated. More confident. Like he could do anything he wished, just by thinking it. It felt great. He could keep this up forever.
Only it wasn’t a very good idea. Remaining in his trance-like state without a guard could be unhealthy, if not actually fatal. His unexpected guest didn’t look like he’d be much help in that area.
Reluctantly, he turned his thoughts to the construction of the wards. He envisioned a hemisphere of blue lines, crossing to form a protective network. Then he expanded the vision to enclose himself, his fire and, necessarily, his companion.
Slowly Erwyn added to his mental image until the vision glowed brightly. His fingers tingled and the hairs on his arms stood on end.
Erwyn almost lost the spell then. He had never felt like that before. It was wonderful. Also scary.
He tried harder to concentrate, ignoring the sensation while he finished his spell. The dome covered a larger area than usual, so he took extra care to build it. The concentration it required helped him forget his troubles.<
br />
Maybe that was the difference. More to worry about, more concentration required, hence more noticeable effect. Then again, it probably wasn’t.
Once finished, he opened his eyes. Across the fire, the old man still slept, his chin resting on his chest. There was nothing Erwyn could do about him until morning. He crawled between his blankets and pulled his pack toward him to use as a pillow.
The night was cool, holding a promise of winter to come. He spread his cloak atop his blankets for added warmth and snuggled deeper into his bedroll. His elbow brushed against the slender length of the wand in his tunic pocket.
There’s something very odd about that wand, he thought. I must remember to examine it. Soon.
But he just didn’t have the energy. The wand would have to wait until later. He patted it a couple of times, then drifted off to sleep with his hand resting across his pocket.
He woke the next morning stiff and sore, as usual, from the trials of the previous day, but found no serious damage done. The morning dew left his cloak soggy, and not much sunlight leaked in between the leaves to dry it.
His unwelcome guest sprawled on the ground at the other side of the firepit, still snoring. Erwyn allowed himself a martyrlike sigh. He would get no help from that quarter this morning. Not that he expected any.
The fire had burned down to embers. After banishing the wards, he gathered some more firewood and soon the flames blazed merrily.
While the heat penetrated his stiffened muscles, Erwyn opened his pack and got out his journal again. For a few moments he just sat re-reading the previous paragraphs.
Then he pulled out his pen and began writing, filling in the details since his last entry. Perhaps he could keep his mind off his problems by ignoring them.
... though I had in no way threatened it, the huge bird attacked me vishously. I tried bravely to defend myself, but to no avail. The creature was too much for me. I snatched my pack and raced across the field of grass.
