The Wizard's Gambit

by Kylie Betzner

  “And weather resistant?”

  “They are metal, sir,” said Mongrel. “Gotta care for them like any shoe.”

  “How do they hold up against, say, magic?”

  “Magic?”

  “Wot’s that? I can’t ’ear wot ’e said,” one of the women in the back piped up. “Did ’e order magical ’orse shoes? Or an enchanted saddle?”

  Another piped in. “Speak up, will you!”

  Both men paused a moment to consider the gaggle, who went oddly quiet until the men resumed their conversation, though Walder observed them out of the corner of his one good eye.

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking,” Mongrel spoke after some consideration. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you needing these shoes for?”

  “A horse obviously.”

  Mongrel stared at him across the anvil. “I mean, what type of crusade will you be taking this horse on? Are we at war?”

  “Oh, no,” said Walder, smiling. “Just a little scavenger hunt in the woods.”

  “I see,” he said, though he was not entirely convinced. Weapons, magic, and extra traction: this man was up to something far more dangerous than a scavenger hunt.

  “Shall I shoe her, sir?”

  “No. I’ll have it done at the castle,” he said. “What Old John lacks in imagination, he makes up for in skill. He alone I trust with my horse.”

  “Understandable,” said Mongrel. “In that case, your first payment will be due at the first of the month.”

  “Never mind all that.” The man took out a large purse, bulging with coin, and slammed it on the anvil. “I’ll be paying in full. That ought to cover it.”

  And then some, Mongrel thought. But as the man took his leave, Mongrel was left with a sense of dread and a dozen unanswered questions. He lifted his eyes to the mount above the doorway. Even the rabbit looked consternated. Though it always looked that way. The problem with stuffed animals was they ever only had one expression.

  Outside the smithy, the townsfolk watched the last hour of Mongrel’s workday with dying interest. One by one they called it a day, promising to meet again for the next sewing circle to discuss what they think should have happened and what they thought would happen next. Mongrel knew they’d return tomorrow and every day after, waiting for his destiny to be revealed.

  Meanwhile, several miles away holed up in the university library, Margo set to the task of finding the lost heir who was destined to be king of Kingsbury. What should have been an easy climb up the royal family tree turned out to be the most difficult task she’d ever been assigned, since one of the branches had completely fallen off. Levitating a table now seemed a simpler task. Even transportation from one end of the room to the other was mere child’s play compared to this assignment.

  Margo set aside the book of royal genealogies and selected another, a history book by the weight of it, from a stack of books the librarian had brought her. After minutes of hesitation and mental tussling, she lifted the cover and turned to page one.

  The library was quiet aside from the occasional cough or muffled voice, which were always followed by a harsh shh from the librarian at the front desk.

  But no manner of shhing could silence the clock that ticked just above Margo’s head; it served as a painful reminder that time was moving slowly while simultaneously running out.

  “Get right on it, Margo,” Wizard White Beard had told her. “I want this loose end tied up before the competition.”

  Rub a lamp, she thought, or better yet, cast a darn spell.

  The problem with wizards, Margo realized, is that they never fully utilized their powers, at least not when it came to something important. Levitate a chair, transform an inanimate object, gift human speech to a cat—useless tricks for no purpose whatsoever! What good was magic when it couldn’t be used for something meaningful, like stopping a war, perhaps?

  Margo ruminated on these thoughts as she combed the pages of the most recent histories, from the king’s coronation to the birth of his only child, Jeffrey, and finally to his death on his way to a ski trip in the North Mountain. But no mention of the heir other than he was lost.

  With a heavy sigh, Margo closed the book and pushed it aside. She did not reach for another. She knew what information she’d gain from reading them—nothing. That’s all she’d turned up since she started the task nearly six months ago when she returned to the university in Kingsbury. Her search started in the library with the genealogies, the histories, and the pedigrees. She’d even turned to the prophecies shelved under “alternative histories” in the back of the library. All of them churned up nothing.

  And now she was out of time. Soon Wizard White Beard would be signing her out for a very long field trip to witness the competition.

  A waste of time, she brooded. It would not work out as Wizard White Beard planned. There were too many loopholes; no doubt the leaders would notice and use them to their advantage. It would get ugly, she knew, and she only hoped Wizard White Beard did too. Surely he wasn’t that addlebrained.

  Then again, he did often put his robe on backwards.

  “This is going to be a disaster,” she said to no one in particular.

  “Shh!”

  She pressed her lips together. Inwardly, she considered all of the reasons Wizard White Beard’s plan was doomed to fail: (1) there were too many loopholes, (2) other species were involved, and (3) it was thought up by Wizard White Beard, whose plans never worked out the way he planned.

  Margo saw no point in continuing her search for the lost heir. There wouldn’t be a need for one if Wizard White Beard’s plan turned out as badly as she thought it would. Besides, she had better ways to spend the last days of civilization . . . not that she could think of any at the moment, but anything had to be better than rotting away in some dusty old library with the librarian silencing her every time she sneezed.

  Wasting no more time, she gathered the books in her arms and was about to put them away when someone called her name from the doorway.

  The librarian said, “Shh!”

  Margo’s stomach filled with dread.

  “Hello, Wizard White Beard.”

  “Shh!”

  He was dressed in his roughest spun robes; a gray cloak draped him like a hideous wool curtain. In one hand, he held his staff, the orb dull and dusty, and in the other, he carried a satchel. His hat was pulled down low over his head as though he feared it would blow away. If only, Margo thought. The fake beard hung low beneath his chin. It drooped lower when he frowned.

  “There you are,” he said. “I’ve searched all over for you.”

  “Shh!”

  “Time to go?”

  “Shh!”

  “Indeed it is.”

  “Shh!”

  Wizard White Beard whirled toward the librarian. “Do you mind, madam! That noise you’re making is rather disruptive.” Then he turned back to Margo. “Now get your things. We’re leaving at once.”

  “I have to put away these—”

  “Let someone else worry about them,” he said, so she dropped the books on the table and joined him in the entryway.

  “Hurry now,” he ushered her out the door. “I’ve already signed you out.”

  “What’s the hurry?” she asked sourly. “The competition doesn’t start for another week.”

  “Which is why we must leave now if we are to be the first to arrive,” he said.

  “I don’t see why—”

  Wizard White Beard took her by the shoulders and forced her to look him in the eye. “Listen to me, Miss Margo. This is very important.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I need you to stop asking questions and just do everything I say from this point on, no argument. Do you understand?”

  “That’s very counterintuitive to what I’ve been taught. Wizard Gray Beard says there’s no such thing as a stupid—”

  “Never mind what that idiot says!” Wizard White Beard gave her a firm shake. Then he loosened his grip and sa
id more calmly, “I need you to mind me is all.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  His was a knowing look.

  “Fine, I’ll be good.”

  “Good,” he said, releasing her.

  Together they made their way to the dormitory, where Margo packed some supplies and enough robes to keep her dressed until next season. Very few personal items made the cut: a hair brush, a bottle of hand cream, and a box—the secret box containing her most secret possessions. When Wizard White Beard wasn’t looking, she slipped it into the bag and laced it shut. Then they made their way out of the university and headed for the gate, Margo trailing behind under the weight of so much baggage. Dusk was upon them by the time they reached the gate, and the sky was filled with stars. The moon was but a sliver in the purplish red sky.

  They would be traveling by starlight. Margo stopped in the gateway and peered into the darkness that choked their path. There was no way she was leaving the city now.

  Wizard White Beard paused just outside the gate to wave his apprentice after him.

  Margo shook her head, refusing to take one step outside the safety of the gate. Let him be angry. Let him renounce her as his apprentice. She never really wanted to practice magic anyway. Besides, there were plenty of other things—safer things—she could do for a living, like being a seamstress or a custodian. Anything was better than tagging after Wizard White Beard on one of his fool journeys into the wilds.

  “Come, Margo, or I’ll leave you behind.”

  On second thought, she’d already invested this much time into her studies . . .

  “Last chance.”

  Taking a deep breath, Margo hurried after him. She flinched as the gate shut behind her. Like a child, she clung to Wizard White Beard’s side.

  He patted her on the back.

  “Take courage, Miss Margo,” he said, giving his staff a good shake. On cue, the orb lit up, bathing them in white light. “You’re in the company of a Master Wizard.”

  For a moment, her fears were assuaged, but then she noticed he had his robe on backwards. So much for competent chaperoning, Margo thought.

  “Now come.” He led her onward into the night. “Destiny awaits us.”

  Destiny, Mongrel scoffed and took a swig of ale. What did these townsfolk know about destiny besides the fact that it favored young blacksmiths? Nothing really. Destiny wasn’t real, not as far as Mongrel was concerned; hard work and perseverance were the keys to unlocking a man’s fate—that and patience, lots of patience. The townsfolk would be hard-pressed to catch him chasing some destiny. He belonged here in Kingsbury. Granted it didn’t feel much like home yet, but with a little more time, he was certain it would warm to him.

  Thus far, The Moose was the homiest place the kingdom had to offer, and Jared was the only person he could call a friend. Everyone else preferred titles like “landlord” or “tax collector.” Then there was the barkeep, who rented him a room upstairs. Most of the time he was friendly enough, but six months into their arrangement, Mongrel still didn’t know his real name. And he never did offer Mongrel anything without charging him for it, unless it was advice, and for that he expected a good tip.

  At least he was among his own kind, he consoled himself as Jared jabbered from the seat next to him. What happened outside of that wall didn’t concern him anymore . . . and yet it did. No, he had a new life now, not much of one granted, but a new one all the same. It was time he stopped worrying about the past. But that was a task easier said than done, and no matter how much he drank, he couldn’t shake the worry from his mind.

  The barkeep rattled the tip jar, pulling Mongrel out of his stupor. “’Bout closin’ time,” he told the pair, taking Mongrel’s empty glass. To Jared he said, “I reckon you’ll be shovin’ off ’ere shortly, eh, gatekeeper?”

  “I’ve got a few minutes,” Jared said, taking another sip. He’d been nursing that pint for nearly an hour, though he’d spent more time talking than drinking that evening.

  The barkeep turned to Mongrel. “Early bedtime, eh, Red?”

  Mongrel nodded. He was tired, but he wasn’t so sure he’d get any sleep, not tonight anyway, not with everything on his mind.

  Jared finally took notice. “Wot’s got you so down?” he asked, nudging Mongrel with his elbow. “’Ard day at work?”

  “Something like that,” he said sullenly.

  Jared shook his head. “That’s not it. I know wot’s troublin’ you: girl problems. So which one is it, eh? It’s not Alice, is it? You don’t want wot she’s offerin’.”

  “They’re not my type.”

  “Still hung up on that Laura lass, eh?”

  “Laerilas,” Mongrel corrected him. “And he’s a guy, remember?”

  “Right, right.” Jared scratched his nose. “So then wot is it?”

  Mongrel debated the issue in his mind before turning to Jared. “You’re a member of the guard, right?”

  “That’s right. I am.” Jared puffed up to his full size. “Conscripted as a wall guard for nearly fifteen years now, spotless attendance record to boot.”

  “That’s great, because I was thinking—”

  “Of joinin’ the service? It’s ’bout time.” He slapped Mongrel on the back. “I was no older than you when I signed up. Best decision I ever made, it was. Why, I still remember the day they presented me my sword.” He took it in both hands, holding it as though it were a holy artifact. His gaze was far away as he spoke. “The Captain o’ the Guard ’imself ’anded me this sword. I’ll never forget wot ’e told me. ’E said, ‘This is yer sword. There are many like it, but this one is yers. It’s not a steak knife; it’s not a butter knife. It’s not for cuttin’ meat. It’s not for butterin’ bread. It’s a sword. It’s for killin’.’” He lingered in the memory a few minutes longer before thrusting the sword into Mongrel’s hands. “’Ere. Take it. Call it a gift from yer new best friend.”

  “Thank you,” Mongrel said and put the sword aside. “But I wasn’t thinking of making a career change. I was thinking maybe you could tell me what’s going on?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “A customer came in today, a man from the castle,” Mongrel said. “He purchased a set of custom-made horseshoes for a warhorse.”

  “So? Military goes through ’orseshoes like they go through blades . . . and fodder.” Jared laughed at this. “Come to think on it, the military goes through a lot o’ supplies.”

  “That’s just it; I think he’s planning on taking that horse into battle.”

  “Battle? No, nothin’ that serious,” Jared said to Mongrel’s relief. “’E’s entered a competition against the other kingdoms. It’s the final battlefield, they say. Winner takes complete and total victory. Losers are at ’is mercy. But don’t you worry; our champion ’as got a leg up on the others, if you know wot I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.” Mongrel could only think of one good reason a man would lift his leg, and it didn’t fit this conversation.

  “The wizard’s got them all agreed to do this real peaceable like. No weapons, no warriors, just one man from each kingdom goin’ on a scavenger ’unt,” Jared explained. “But while they’ve all got their ’eads to the ground, old Walder’s going to pull out ’is sword and chop theirs off.”

  “Wait, what?” Mongrel stared at him in disbelief.

  “That’s assumin’ they all don’t get the same idea. I wouldn’t put it past those pointy-eared demons to try to pull one over on us. They don’t even need weapons; they’ve got magic. But take away their magical powers, and they’d be nothin’ but men with pointy ears. And those dwarves”—Jared snorted—“as cold as the stone they mine. World would be a better place without them. Send them all into The Gray, I say. Let them fight it out for the scraps while we reign supreme over all the charted world.”

  Mongrel stared at Jared, mystified. “How can you say that?”

  “Easy, I’m not the one goin’.”

  “So how did they decide who gets to go?”


  “Dunno.” Jared shrugged. “Prolly the big wigs on the council decided. Doesn’t matter ’cause we’re goin’ to win.”

  “Right.” Mongrel frowned, wishing he had another drink. He didn’t want to think about dwarves, elves, and men going to war over a scavenger hunt; he wanted to pretend that everything was fine. That’s how he thought he’d left them anyway. Or had they ever really been fine? He’d overheard enough conversations to know what transpired at the borders, to know how they got along with their neighbors. But somehow, Mongrel had always managed to convince himself that everything would be all right in the end. It’s what helped him move on.

  It was as though Jared could read his mind for he offered Mongrel a knowing look. “I imagine this might all bother you, considerin’ your unconventional upbringin’ and all.”

  “And so what if it does?” Mongrel confessed, worried what Jared would think. It didn’t seem a popular topic—elves and dwarves and all that in a bar full of men—but he couldn’t just keep it to himself, not when it gnawed on his conscience like a wolf on a bone. “They were my family.”

  “Maybe so.” Jared tossed back the last mouthful of ale, then let out a belch as he set his mug down. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “But there’s no sense worryin’ ’bout somethin’ you ’ave no control over. Right or wrong, there’s nothin’ you can do.”

  “Is that so?” A smile crept to Mongrel’s face as he accepted the challenge Jared just posed. Without another word, he paid his tab and headed out into the night. Maybe it was something in the iron that put delusions in the heads of young blacksmiths. Perhaps boredom also played a role. No matter the cause, Mongrel headed into the night with all the purpose of a man chasing his destiny, or something like it.

  Meanwhile, miles away, the wizard and his apprentice made slow and steady progress by the light of his staff. At the same time, Warhammer emerged from the mountain with her three children and made the slow trek down the mountainside. Kavik and his tribesmen were close behind. Grrargh, too, made his way from the north, only his trek was slowed by the sightings of so many birds. Southeast of the mountain, Lindolyn led an entourage through the forest like the grand marshal of a parade. East of the Wandering Woods, Empress Eiko traveled less conspicuously, bringing with her only the necessities and her two daughters, Etsuyo and Etsuko, who would not be left behind. Walder brought only what his horse could carry and the warranty on his custom-made shoes. From the south, Buziba traveled with only one other man, his greatest warrior, who had won the chance to compete; he was confident his champion would claim victory once more. All of them made their way to the same destination with a single purpose in mind—to win at all costs.