by K. B. Bogen
The old man seemed to know something about the area. But to Erwyn, the journey was so dull he couldn’t even make up something interesting to write in his journal. His brain was too numb. Or maybe it was just water-logged.
He found himself hoping for something interesting to happen. Something like an irate giant bird, or a curious wolf, or even an evil wizard. Nothing too dangerous or elaborate, just something to relieve the boredom.
He didn’t have anything to do, except walk. So, he spent a lot of time thinking about his future. Five or ten minutes, at least. Something more than how to survive the next four years.
He realized he had come to an important crossroads in his life. He just didn’t know what to do about it.
Chesric diplomatically left Erwyn to himself. He probably knew better than to interrupt someone working on a first-class depression. Erwyn was grateful for that. He wanted to be alone. He wanted company. He wanted something to do. He wanted time.
Wait a minute! What did he have to be so morose about? He had time. Four years of it, anyway. Surely he ought to be able to figure things out by then. And if he couldn’t ... well, he’d just have to face that when the time came.
That evening, they made camp in the shelter of some rocks. While Chesric hunted, Erwyn pulled out the wand Sharilan had given him. Rolling the length of stone between his hands, he examined every knot and curve. He had to figure the wand out. He just had to. Somehow he felt it was connected to his future. As a sorcerer, anyway.
Thoughtfully, he ran his fingers over the length of the wand, rubbing his thumb on each knot. He stopped, tracing one particularly unusual spiral carved into the surface.
As he studied the wand, wondering about its purpose, its origin, he thought he might have finally learned the answer to one of his questions. The real reason he chose to learn about magic. Not just to get out of marrying Heatherlyn. If that were really the only reason, he’d have flunked out of the School a long time ago.
And not just because working magic made him feel more alive than anything else he’d ever tried. Sure, when he felt the buildup of energy as he worked a spell, he felt whole. But it was more than that.
The thrill of learning something new. That intrigued him. Learning spells from old books was fun, too. But the chance to create his own spells, the chance to explore the possibilities magic presented, that was why he stuck with it.
And why he tried to practice every spell carefully, memorize the feel of each when he cast it correctly. At least, the ones he thought were important.
And why he hadn’t gone through with his plan to find a nice town and get a job. Never mind the fact that he hadn’t found a town yet. Not intact, anyway.
He needed to know more about this wand and the woman who had given it to him. For good or ill, he would find out why Sharilan sent him on this quest. Although, without any solid information, he might have a bit of a problem.
He did have one lead, though. Fenoria. There couldn’t be too many damsels locked up in storybook castles in the neighborhood.
Erwyn turned the wand around in his hands, wondering about the supposed castle/prison with its wall of thorns and guardian dragon. He closed his eyes, imagining such a castle. He built a mental picture of it, from the foundation to the peaks of its towers. Could the wand, perhaps, lead him to it?
Nothing happened. Nothing tugged at him; no invisible string pulled him the way Sharilan had. Either the wand couldn’t do it, or he couldn’t. Erwyn opened his eyes and looked at the wand again, feeling a little disappointed.
“What the hell?”
Erwyn looked up, wondering why Chesric’s voice sounded funny.
The old man stood a few feet away, a pair of dead birds hanging from one fist. He stared at the ground between Erwyn and the fire. Erwyn followed his friend’s gaze until ...
He froze, his mouth hanging open in surprise. There before him sat a miniature castle, exquisitely detailed down to the turrets and arrow-slits. Just like he’d imagined it. But made entirely of sand!
Even as he sat gawking at the tiny structure, it crumbled onto the grass. Nothing remained but a small pile of damp sand, the sort Erwyn remembered from the beaches back home. He looked back up at Chesric.
“Where’d it come from?” His voice squeaked. It always did when he was nervous.
“I thought you did it,” Chesric replied in a hushed voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it. There ain’t no sand fer miles around here. It’d take magic to make one o’ those.” He looked sideways at the boy. “You sure you didn’t do it?”
“No, I’m not. But I don’t think I’m up to finding out tonight.” Erwyn rolled the wand in his hand once more before returning it to its pocket. He had a theory, but he wasn’t prepared to test it. Yet.
Chesric wasn’t about to let a little thing like a magical mystery get in the way of his dinner. “Well, what d’ya say we get these birds cookin’ and get down to some serious eatin’?”
Erwyn smiled. “Sound’s fine to me.”
In a few minutes, they had the grouse plucked, cleaned and spitted, and roasting over the fire. While dinner hissed and sputtered over the flames, Erwyn took his journal out of his pack and began a new entry, the first in over a week.
We’ve made incredible progress these past weeks, pushing ourselves to the limits of our endurance. A wolf attacked our camp a few nights ago. Chesric huddled against a tree while I vanquished the beast. This sort of thing has become so commonplace as to be boring.
While studying the wand Sharilan gave me, I have learned to create huge, magical sandcastles from thin air. I will give this new development a little thought. There must be some way I can devise to use them as an offensive weapon. It could be a useful talent.
Erwyn returned his book to his pack. He wondered if, someday, he might not want a more accurate account of his journey. But he could worry about that later. The birds were done roasting, and his mouth had begun to water.
Halfway through his dinner, he realized he was eating as though he hadn’t eaten in days. He slowed down to a more civilized pace and glanced up at Chesric, embarrassed.
“I was beginnin’ to think ye were goin’ to give yerself a stomach ache, eatin’ that fast.” The edges of his mustache twitched up. “After nearly a week of watchin’ ye walkin’ around like some sort of zombie, it’s good to have ye back again.”
“Was I that bad?” Erwyn had a mental picture of himself walking stiff-legged, arms straight out in front of him, eyes glazed.
“Worse,” Chesric replied, throwing the remains of his dinner into the fire. The flames sputtered, licking greedily at the remaining bits of meat clinging to the bones. “I thought for a while there I was goin’ to have to put ye out of yer misery.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Ye goin’ to be all right, now?”
“Yes.” Erwyn smiled, his voice warm. “I’m going to be just fine.” He pulled his pack into position and lay down. Before he went to sleep, he set his wards. No trance, no meditation. He just reached out with his mind and built the energy dome around the campsite. It was easy.
Foxfire and Ice
If at First You Don’t Succeed, Try Something Else
“TRAVEL IN THE MOUNTAINS IS NOT RECOMMENDED DURING THE WINTER MONTHS.” — Sorcerers’ Almanac, Section One: On Getting the Lay of the Land
“I just don’t understand it!” Erwyn punctuated the statement by jabbing his wand into the dirt. It hadn’t taken him long to think of it as “his.” “For days now, I’ve been trying to reproduce that stupid sandcastle and . . . nothing!”
“Maybe yer just tryin’ too hard.”
There seemed to be no end to Chesric’s patience. Just once, Erwyn thought, I’d like to see him lose his temper.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Erwyn growled back, making another jab at the dirt.
They’d go
ne through this conversation at least once a day for the last week or so. Every time Erwyn tried to duplicate his sandcastle.
He’d tried it with and without the wand, lying down and sitting up, during meditation and at random times during the day. Nothing. He’d had no luck with the wand or himself.
Disgusted, he threw the wand to the ground and stood, jamming his hands into his pockets. It just didn’t make sense.
Sure, he’d gotten more and more proficient at the spells he already knew. A little confidence worked wonders. Setting the wards had become downright easy. And now he even knew they worked.
A few days before, something wandered into the network of energy, probably attracted by the scent from the remains of their dinner. When Erywn tried frantically to disentangle himself from his cloak to see what disturbed the wards, his thrashing woke Chesric.
“Think I’ll go find me a place where a body can get a little sleep,” the old man had grumbled as he headed out to hunt down the presumably dangerous beast that had awakened Erwyn.
He returned a few minutes later with the next morning’s breakfast: a wild hen out for a moonlight stroll. Embarrassed, Erwyn mumbled an apology. But, as Chesric magnanimously pointed out, at least they had proof that the spell worked.
* * *
The trek through the rolling countryside was long and tiring. But not as tiring as it could have been, in Erwyn’s opinion.
Chesric favored continuing straight and crossing over the hills. But after climbing the first two, Erwyn began whining about the amount of effort involved.
“Can’t we just go around?”
“I don’t see why. It’s shorter to go straight, and a little hike never killed nobody.”
“It’s only shorter if you fly. If you count the ups and downs, I’d bet it’s the same distance. What good is it going to do us if we die from exhaustion before we’ve climbed them all?”
Chesric reluctantly agreed.
In spite of Erwyn’s complaints, they finally reached the foothills of the mountain range Chesric called Snake Ridge.
“Why do you call it that? Doesn’t look much like a snake. Looks like a lot of climbing.”
“Because,” Chesric said, “the mountains weave through the valleys like a snake through grass.”
“The mountains weave . . . ? Haven’t you got that backward?”
“Neither the mountains, nor the valleys move, so what difference does it make, eh?”
The evening’s chores finished, Erwyn sat down, taking his journal from his pack, but he really wasn’t in the mood to write.
He thought he’d found at least the beginning of some sort of talent. Surely the wand and the sandcastle were the keys! If he could just find the right lock.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the tiny castle was only a fluke, or a manifestation of the wand.
It just wasn’t fair! Every time he gained a little confidence, something happened to shake it.
Erwyn returned his book to its place without adding anything to his story. He didn’t feel like writing fiction, and he wasn’t up to talking to himself on paper, yet. He went to bed more than a little unhappy.
They found plenty of game in the foothills and Chesric made use of their good fortune. The old warrior succeeded in bringing down a couple of the small mountain deer that inhabited the area. Then he constructed a tent from tree boughs, sort of a smokehouse to preserve a large portion of the meat.
“The trees are thinnin’ out, and so will the game,” he explained.
“If you say so,” Erwyn replied. Having little experience in hunting, he was forced to take Chesric’s word for it.
During the next few days, under Chesric’s tutelage, Erwyn learned how to skin game. Or tried to.
“No, no, no!” That word was getting awfully familiar to Erwyn. “Ye don’t hold the knife that way. Here, let me show ye again.”
Chesric took the knife from the boy and, once more, attempted to show him the technique. After the fourth or fifth try, Erwyn began to get the hang of it. Sort of.
“Ouch!”
“Do ye think ye can skin that beast without bleedin’ all over it?”
“Your concern for my welfare is touching.”
“You’ll heal, but human blood makes the meat taste terrible.”
“When did you ever try human blood?”
“Never mind.” Chesric shuddered. “I’ll tell ye sometime when I don’t have such a graphic picture in front of me. Now, bind up that nick in yer arm and finish skinnin’ that critter. After we get the meat a’smokin’, we’ll have a little instruction on how to use a sword.”
“Great! Instead of a few small nicks, I can get some lovely gashes.”
“Ye’ll do fine, boy. Trust me.”
Chesric was wrong.
“Yer supposed to stay on yer feet when ye lunge, ye know.”
“Really? I’m so glad you told me before I bruised myself any more.”
Erwyn hauled himself to his feet, brushing the dirt from his breeches. So far they’d determined that his elbow wobbled, his wrist was limp, and he couldn’t lunge without losing his balance. It seemed he just wasn’t cut out to be a man of arms, a fact that didn’t bother him at all.
Chesric sighed, reminding him of his weapons instructor back home. The one who had to witness Heatherlyn’s frequent displays of . . . affection.
“Maybe ye could learn to throw a knife?”
Erwyn eyed his belt knife. Its worn handle and ragged edge spoke of years of use and misuse. “This thing?”
“No,” Chesric produced a knife from his pack, “this one.” He handed the weapon to Erwyn.
The design on the hilt depicted a hunting scene, the horses, riders, and quarry carved in perfect detail. The silvery double-edged blade glinted in the firelight.
“You want me to throw this? At what, a pillow?”
“How ‘bout the knot on that tree over there?”
“But I might hurt it.”
“Nah, ye can’t hurt that old oak. It’s tough.”
“No, I mean the knife.”
“Ye won’t hurt that neither. Give it a try.”
Erwyn held the knife’s blade and started to throw.
“Not that way! Ye’ll cut yerself again.” Chesric gingerly removed the knife from the boy’s grasp and replaced it, hilt first.
“But I thought you were supposed to hold the blade to throw a knife.”
“Not this one. Ye could throw it that way a hundred times and never get it to stick. This way, ye don’t have to take time to turn the knife. Ye just grab it by the hilt and throw.”
He positioned the boy’s fingers carefully before allowing him to make his attempt.
The knife hit the tree sideways with a dull thud.
Chesric shook his head and patiently demonstrated a perfect throw. The knife landed, quivering, in the center of the knot.
“Would ye care to try again?”
Erwyn nodded, thinking fast. His second try worked. He buried the tip of the blade a good half inch into the wood, just above the knot.
“That’s pretty good. Try it again.”
The third throw landed in the same place Chesric’s had.
“That’s terrific, boy! I knew ye had it in ye. Since ye seem to do better with a shorter blade, maybe next time we’ll try a little hand-to-hand fighting with it.”
Chesric walked over to retrieve the knife.
Erwyn refrained from mentioning the levitation spell he’d used on the weapon. He didn’t think Chesric would understand. He also didn’t think it would help in hand-to-hand combat.
They remained at the same campsite until the meat finished drying. After that, their packs were heavier, but their hearts lighter. Food wouldn’t be a problem, for a while at least.
When the two adventurers finally headed into t
he mountains proper, Erwyn began to worry about other aspects of survival. Like warm clothing.
Their trek across the valleys and into the foothills had taken them into the first weeks of winter. Here they were, about to fight their way through the mountains in the thick of the season, without anything in the way of proper cold-weather gear.
“Stupid, just plain stupid.”
“Was that comment directed at me, young fella?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is why are we going up into the mountains at all? It’s the beginning of winter. I’m no expert, but isn’t it likely to be a little cold up there? Not to mention dangerous. Wind, avalanches, rock slides, and other nuisances. You know.”
“A sorcerer such as yerself ought to have no trouble whippin’ up some spell or other to help us along. I hate to waste valuable time. Would ye rather spend the winter holed up in them rocks doin’ nothin’?”
“No, I’d rather spend the winter in a nice, comfortable inn, thank you.”
But Chesric seemed determined not to let something like a little cold and snow stop him.
As they ventured higher along the mountain path, the air grew thin and chill. Snow began to fall in soft, icy flakes. Even Chesric, with his quilted surcoat beneath his cloak (he’d packed his armor away for the climb), felt the cold.
“SOME SITUATIONS CALL FOR VERY SPECIALIZED SPELLS. SEE APPENDIX A FOR SUGGESTIONS.” — Sorcerers’ Almanac, Section Six: On the Successful Use of Magic
“I don’t suppose ye can do anythin’ about the weather, can ye?”
“You’re the one who wanted to keep going in spite of the season. And, no, I can’t do anything. They taught us to call up wind and rain, and to stop them again, but they didn’t say anything about snow. There’s not much I can do, short of melting the stuff. And that wouldn’t do anything for the air itself. It’d still be freezing. Ice isn’t much more comfortable to wear than snow. Trust me.”
