by Colt, K. J.
“See what?” he said, rolling his eyes. “A song and dance. Your shoulder, you dullard! What do you think I mean!?”
Myranda rolled up her sleeve, cringing at the pain. Wolloff began to unfasten the blood-soaked bandage.
“This looks to be a week old,” he said.
“It is. How did you know?” she asked.
“I have been at this for some time, lass. Has it looked this way from the start?” he asked.
“The morning after,” she said, cringing again as he prodded at the wound with a small metal hook he had produced.
“Hold still, this will be over soon,” he said as his probing became more vigorous.
“What are you--ow--OW!” she cried.
He showed her the end of the hook. There was a small piece of blood-soaked wood clinging to the end.
“That was in my arm?” she said.
“Aye,” he said. “Were I you, I would have removed that. Clean the wound in the kitchen and we will get a fresh bandage on it. First thing in the morning, we will get you started on that arm.”
“Get me started on it? You mean that I will be the one healing it?” she said.
“Aye. To a layman, that injury is a curse, but to a budding white wizard, it is motivation. The sooner you learn the art, the sooner you end your suffering,” he said, turning back to the book he had been reading.
Myranda’s head was spinning. It was only now striking her how near she was to achieving what had been a lifelong dream. Ever since that terrible day when she lost her family to the siege of Kenvard, she had longed to find some way to undo some of the damage the war had done.
After carefully rinsing the injury clean, she returned to the main room where Wolloff stopped his reading just long enough to apply the first real bandage the gash had seen. The difference between the proper dressing and the coarse makeshift counterparts she’d been using was quite clear. Aside from doing a far better job of protecting the wound, it was worlds more comfortable, as it did its job without needing to be tied so tight that it numbed her fingers.
“Right, first light we begin with your training. Get rest,” Wolloff said.
Myranda fairly ran up the stairs. Tomorrow! Tomorrow she would take the first steps toward a new life! Imagine! In a few short months she would be able to save lives! Her mere touch would soon restore the stricken! She slid into bed with these thoughts and more rendering sleep all but impossible. The clouds outside hid the moon, casting her room into utter blackness. Eyes closed or open, images of a war-torn landscape hung in the air, with herself, dressed in white, one by one bringing the fallen back to health.
The aspiring wizard was suddenly torn from her reverie by the loud clatter of one of the shutters. She turned her head to the source of the sound. In the darkness, she could only just make out the open window to the south. Myranda stumbled to the shutter and inspected it. She could swear she’d wedged it closed earlier. Pulling it shut, she took more care to see to it that the window would not come open again. After making her way blindly to the bed, she slipped under the covers once more and tried to get to sleep. In a few moments, though, she felt a familiar weight drop on top of her.
“Oof. Myn! You know you aren’t supposed to be here! Get out of here now!” Myranda reprimanded.
In response, the dragon simply made herself a bit more comfortable.
“No?” Myranda said with a sigh. “Well, I tried.”
Now reunited with her constant companion, she tried valiantly to get some rest. The thoughts of the wonders to come kept her mind racing long after sleep should have come.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AFTER WHAT FELT LIKE MERE moments of true slumber, Myranda was jarred from her rest by a gentle prodding on her uninjured shoulder. She opened her eyes, expecting to see Myn standing over her, wanting breakfast or some such. Instead she saw Wolloff.
“Good morning,” he said with forced gentility.
“Good morning,” she said, yawning and stretching.
“Oh, please, don’t get up. Are you aware that you’ve a dragon on your lap?” he asked.
“Oh, my, I am sorry. She must have climbed in the window last night. I tried to get her to leave, but--“ she hurriedly explained.
“Never mind that. No harm done,” he said quietly.
“I thought you would have been angrier,” Myranda said, slightly concerned by the rare and excessive showing of civility she was experiencing.
“Oh, aye. I am particularly perturbed, but it is my considered opinion that when dealing with a wild beast, it is best not to provoke it with harsh words,” he said.
“So, you will not yell until Myn leaves?” she asked, sliding herself into a sitting position and waking the dragon.
“Aye, but as soon as the wee creature is out of earshot, you will hear what I am at this moment only barely able to contain,” he said, twitching with suppressed anger.
“Why am I tempted to keep her around?” she said meekly.
“Because you have forgotten that, as a wizard, I’ve a host of more powerful and far more permanent methods of disposing of the creature than a blasted sleep spell!” Wolloff said, the final words carrying a hint of the rage he was feeling.
The awakened dragon looked sleepily at Myranda, and then at the wizard. When she noticed the second human, her eyes shot open and she leapt to the floor. Situating herself between Myranda and the perceived threat, she shot Wolloff a steely stare and adopted a fierce stance. She opened her wings and bared her teeth. When the wizard refused to back down, Myn lashed her tail back and forth, knocking down a pile of books. Instantly, Wolloff grabbed his medallion. Myranda placed a reassuring hand on Myn’s side.
“Myn, don’t worry. Wolloff here is a friend! He won’t do anything . . .” she began, before glancing at the furious wizard just in time to see another twitch. “ . . . terrible to me.”
She continued to pat the dragon on the neck and soothe her until she was willing to relinquish her defensive stance.
“That is right. You must be tired of being cramped into this tiny room. Why don’t you just go play outside in the warm sun, and catch something to eat?” she said.
As Myranda gestured repeatedly to the window, Myn shifted her gaze to the broken shutter, which had once again come undone. A bird fluttered by. Myn locked onto the creature and darted out the window and down the wall in a twinkling. Myranda ran to the window and watched as the little dragon rushed toward the same stand of trees she had terrorized the day before.
Wolloff joined her at the window, concerned solely with the distance between himself and the dragon. As he watched he spoke, his voice rising as the overprotective creature moved further away.
“These books around you represent three lifetimes of tireless search. My grandfather, my father, and I have spent our youth scouring this embattled land for any scrap of knowledge that it could muster. Every hint of mystic knowledge available in the realm of healing has been assembled here. I will not allow all of that to go up in a puff of smoke because an uneducated apprentice could not follow orders and let her blasted dragon let fly a spark! Understood!?” he cried with growing anger.
“Yes” Myranda said, sheepishly.
“Right . . . then let us begin,” he said, quickly composing himself. “First, you will need to learn how to pronounce each rune. As a whole, they compose a complex written and spoken language, but for our purposes, you will need to learn only a small part of it. However, if you learn anything of the mystic language, learn it well. A misspoken arcane word can be dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” she asked.
“Aye. At best, the spell will not work. Equally likely is the mistake changing the behavior of the spell in unpredictable ways. I cannot stress this enough. Ignoring all else, you must only speak a spell with an effect that you are absolutely sure of. Years ago, a colleague of mine attempted a spell intended to light a fire. He mistakenly substituted the target rune for the self rune. Needless to say, it was an unpleasant thing to witness
. Even more unpleasant to clean up. It was, though, a fine reminder to speak with care,” he said.
Aside from two breaks for meals, the day was utterly filled with study. Learning to pronounce these words was far more difficult than any other she had learned. This was because each word carried power, and if too many were spoken together, a spell would be cast. So each attempt was separated by a long and purposeful silence. Whenever Myranda was not as careful as Wolloff would like, she would be treated to a variation on the same long lecture about the “undesirable” results that such behavior could bring. Despite the difficulty, she did manage to learn a handful of words. During dinner, she decided to ask some questions that had been bothering her.
“Wolloff?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said, as usual without looking up from the ever-present book.
“Why do we have to learn a different language to cast spells?” she asked.
“Strictly to save effort. The language that these spells are scribed in is one that the spirits are attuned to. When you speak an incantation, you entreat the forces around us for help. I’ve seen similar effects brought about in nearly any spoken language, but in those cases the mind of the caster must attune itself to the spirits. The process tends to be longer and slower. Sometimes chanting is involved. I personally cannot see the benefit, but to each his own. Nothing you will be doing will require much more than you’ll learn of the runes,” he said, as though he’d answered the question countless times before.
“What if---“ she began.
“Listen, all that needs to be answered shall be. Any question that you have that does not find an answer in the months ahead is not one worth asking. Please keep your magic-related inquiries to yourself,” he said.
From that point forward, he rigidly refused to answer any more of her questions, rather forcefully suggesting that she retire to her room and practice what she had learned thus far. She climbed the increasingly familiar staircase to her room. The fading light of the setting sun illuminated the page that she had left open on the table. After finding and reminding herself of the runes she knew, she carefully located the book she had found earlier and analyzed the spell that bore her name. Not surprisingly, most runes that she had learned were present in the spell. She grinned at the thought that Wolloff was preparing her for this very incantation. A few days more of study such as this and she would know all of the runes on the page. She could be casting it by week’s end. With this thought in her mind, she felt the wound on her arm. The sliver Wolloff had removed was enough to take from it the constant pain. Soon she would be rid of the wound, once and for all.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the violent swinging of the shutter, and she knew without looking that it was not the wind that had dislodged it. Sure enough, the little dragon was at her side again. She stroked the loyal creature’s head and continued her review. Myn delighted in the sound of Myranda’s voice as she muttered this word or that from the symbols scribed on the page. Soon the sun was behind the mountains, leaving her with no light to learn by. This was Myranda’s cue to retire, with Myn taking her usual position on top of her.
“So, how did your day go? Keeping busy?” she asked her silent companion. “New words. You know, I haven’t learned a new language since I was a little girl. It wasn’t particularly easy back then, but now there is the distinct possibility that if I mispronounce a word I could wind up as a jackrabbit or invisible. That has added a whole new dimension to the learning process, I can tell you. I’ll tell you something else, too. He may know this magic backward and forward, but he could stand to learn a thing or two about manners. I was afraid that when my time here was up I couldn’t bear to leave it, but if he remains as he is today, after six months I shall be glad to be rid of it.”
Morning came quickly, and Myranda was sure to be up with the sun so that she would have time to coax Myn to leave before Wolloff arrived, lest she receive yet another of his long-winded lectures. She managed to do so with little time to spare. Wolloff’s slow, plodding footsteps could be heard approaching just as she closed the shutter.
The day passed almost precisely as the previous one had, as did one after, and the one after that. Daylight was spent studying, night spent with Myn to keep her company. It might not have been the most luxurious life, but it was just exactly what she needed: stability, safety, and even education and companionship. For the first time in ages, she could feel her tightly-bound mind decompressing, her perpetually tangled nerves unraveling. She was living, not merely surviving. After so long, it was a state she was unaccustomed to, and brought with it the nagging fear that it would be fleeting.
Several days of travel had brought Trigorah and her men from their headquarters in Northern Capital to the southern edge of an icy field. She had most of the other Elites combing it for some sign of where the sword had been found. If the reports were correct, then the girl had passed through the nearby towns heading south. Of the three nearest towns, only the people of the village due north had any memory of the girl described in Demont’s report. They spat when they spoke of her, decrying her as a sympathizer and traitor. One man recounted with pride sending her directly through this field.
The general considered the facts. An unprepared, unequipped individual as the townsfolk had described would not likely have survived the journey to the next city, even if she’d known to head there directly. She must have found some manner of shelter before then. The only conceivable source, barring something within the tundra itself, was a small, poorly-kept place of worship. Trigorah approached it. There were horses and riders in front of it. As she drew nearer, she realized that she recognized the uniforms of the men assembled before the church as not merely Alliance Army, but her own Elite. Anger and confusion welling up in her, she spurred her horse forward.
“General Teloran!” piped one of the soldiers, offering a salute.
“At ease, what is the meaning of this? I left no orders for you. Why are you here?” Trigorah snapped.
“We’ve been assigned a temporary commander, General. Commander Arden,” he replied.
“Arden? Stand aside, soldier,” the general hissed.
Fury in her eyes, the general stalked inside. In the darkened interior of the church, near a door at the far end of the room, a massive man was clutching a frail, blindfolded old priest in one hand and an oddly elegant halberd in the other. The old man was fairly dangling from the aggressor’s ham-sized fist.
“You seen ‘im. I know you did!” he barked.
“Put him down!” Trigorah ordered.
The hulking man’s head jerked in her direction.
“Don’t in’erupt, Gen’ral. I know dis old man saw somfin,” Arden growled.
“He hasn’t seen anything, you imbecile! He is clearly blind!” Trigorah cried, yanking the helpless old man from his grip.
Arden considered this for a moment.
“That don’t mean nothin,” he decided.
“Father, if you will just take a seat in the other room, I will have a word with my . . . associate . . . and then I require a few words with you myself,” Trigorah said diplomatically.
The priest gratefully felt his way to the door to his chamber and closed the door behind him.
“What the hell do you think you are doing with my men, Arden?” Trigorah fumed, pronouncing the thug’s name in an almost mocking tone.
“You ain’t doin yer job no more, they said, so they decided I oughta. Said somebody’s gotta find the ‘sassin, since you couldn’t,” he replied.
“I found the assassin’s accomplice! Someone saw fit to hire him rather than imprison him,” Trigorah replied.
“Uh-huh. And he did his job. Probably I wouldn’t of had to get involved if he’da just been paid, but what do I care ‘bout ‘scuses?” Arden shrugged, adding. “Yer men follow orders good. I think I’ll keep ‘em.”
Trigorah shuddered with anger.
“Huh-huh. Tell you what. You gotta find that sword, right? And I gotta find that ‘sa
ssin. What’s say we make a wager? You find yer bounty first and I refuse to take yer men, even if they’re offered,” Arden suggested.
“And if you win?” she asked.
“You know what I want if I win,” Arden replied.
The general’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t flatter yerself, elf. I want what’s in here,” he said, attempting to poke Trigorah on the helmet only to have his hand knocked away. “I got a lot of questions, and I wanna be able to ask ‘em in my way. And, naturally, I’ll be hanging onto yer men.”
After a moment, Trigorah offered her hand. Arden shuffled the halberd to under his arm, its blade swiping dangerously near to Trigorah’s head, and shook her hand.
“Right. I’m off then. Have fun with yer priest,” Arden said, plodding out toward the door and barking an order to the men outside.
Trigorah entered the priest’s chambers. He was sitting in a large chair, strangely composed despite his recent ordeal.
“I apologize for the actions of Arden. They were inexcusable,” Trigorah began.
“Mmm. And yet you work with him,” the priest replied.
“Through no choice of my own, I assure you,” General Trigorah said.
“Everything is a choice, my child. Some choices are made poorly. They can have terrible consequences,” he replied coldly. “Tell me. Is that the sort that our glorious army sees fit to employ?”
“These are hard times . . . regardless, I again apologize. I shall endeavor to make my time here brief and leave you in peace,” Trigorah replied.
“As you wish, though it is not often I am graced by the presence of a general. May I offer any hospitality?” he said, the realization of his current guest finally taking hold.
“Only answers, Father. Were you visited, perhaps two weeks ago, by anyone? Anyone out of the ordinary?” she asked.
“Mmm. You’d be after the girl, then, I suppose. What was her name now? Myranda. Myranda Celeste. A sympathizer,” he recalled.
Trigorah hesitated for a moment when she heard the name.
