Razorscale strode along in a fine fit of pique. Human form was disagreeable enough at the best of times, and this did not qualify. He’d hoped to never again need to be this sense-blind, with eyes that couldn’t see far, ears that couldn’t pick up the lowest tones, and a tongue that couldn’t taste the air. The nose was useless. Everything about this form was unpleasant, including the dirty beige color in place of his vibrant blue scales. Unpleasant, and involuntary. Someone was going to pay.
He went over his options as he walked, glad that he’d thought to send the apprentice for the old bag of trainer charms. It had been with the festival supplies since the previous year; neither of them had touched it since the youth’s talent outgrew the need.
Quite a prodigy, that apprentice. They would be old enough to announce a name and a gender soon. Razorscale was quite proud. It was all down to his schooling, of course.
And it was his magic that had made the trainer charms he now carried — his only access to magic at the moment. A selection of the more expensive charms that they had been selling would have been more useful, but those were packed away and would have taken too long to reach. This was better than nothing. But it rankled.
The conversation behind him broke into his thoughts.
“Why are you taking this so hard?” That was the pixie’s voice. “A lot of people have two legs, you know.”
“Imagine if you woke up with your body below the armpits gone,” replied the centaur testily. “And everyone expects you to waddle around on your hands. No amount of ‘Oh, this is a normal shape’ would keep it from being monstrously wrong.”
“Fair enough.” The pixie was silent for the barest moment. “But isn’t this interesting? Stomp, back me up here. Don’t you just want to soak up every detail about what this is like?”
“Not really,” said the minotaur, to which Razorscale huffed a laugh. “I can’t hear or smell much at all, and I can only see in front of me. Plus when I talk, I have to be careful not to bite my tongue. I’m not used to having top teeth in the front.”
“Whaaat, really?” The pixie clamored for confirmation.
At least the centaur had already known that basic fact, and the harpy remained silent. Razorscale shook his head and refused to engage with the inanity. The dryads leading the way hadn’t given any signs, but surely they would reach the destination soon. This was far from the festival grounds.
As he thought it, they rounded a bend in the forest, and Razorscale’s (weak, human) eyes caught sight of something out of place on the wooden path. A ring of poles jutted upward to nearly tree height, leaving space between them for nothing larger than a cat to escape. Four dryads waited outside. Two humans sulked inside. Their handcart of wares stood out of reach beyond.
As Razorscale drew near enough to get a better look, he got the first hint that this wouldn’t be simple. The humans weren’t magic-users. They could surely activate the kind of charms that anyone could operate, but they didn’t have the glowing blue lines that developed on the skin of every human who handled magic long-term. Humans weren’t natural magicians, like Razorscale’s own race was, and it marked them by the time they became skilled. It had taken great skill to craft the spell that had stolen Razorscale’s shape. Skill that these two clearly did not have.
The dryads on escort duty took up a position next to the four playing guard. These four all wore mistletoe tufts like clouds of hair, though they were otherwise unremarkable. Youths, then. Old enough to be trusted with detaining prisoners, but young and rebellious enough to wear a parasitic plant on their heads. Maybe they were wrong about the culprits.
No such luck.
“You five,” announced one of the older dryads, “Have a quarrel with you two, as a result of the spell that you two activated during the recent performance.”
“It affected five people?” exclaimed the scrawny human, who was dressed like a barely-respectable gutter dweller. “Not one? I’m out.” He clutched at a necklace through his shirt, which snapped with a green flash that launched him upwards.
Right into the wooden roof that was growing into place over his head. He tumbled to the floor in a heap of swearing and failure.
His stocky partner kicked him in the ribs. “I told you we should have left sooner!” he hissed.
A similar wooden cage flung itself into place around Razorscale and the other temporary humans, then the wall between the two sank away. Razorscale didn’t need the dryads to tell him that now was the time for settling grudges.
“Reverse the spell,” he demanded, strolling forward. “Or I will eat you. The small teeth will just make it take longer.”
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The one on the floor panicked, scooting backward and searching his pockets while the other one pleaded for mercy.
“We can’t!” he said. “It’s not our spell!”
“Then whose is it?” Razorscale asked. He didn’t break eye contact while reaching into the bag of charms. When answers weren’t forthcoming, he activated a minor self-defense charm. The bag shielded his hand from view, which meant the two idiot humans didn’t see the blue stripes that flashed up his own arm: the sign of someone far more capable than they, even in this form. It might have warned them.
As it was, they suffered a swarm of invisible bee stings that was surely as alarming as it was painful.
“Tell me who,” Razorscale said.
Instead of answering, they yelled and swatted at nothing, and the small one found the pocket he’d been looking for.
A blast of fire (of all things!) lit up the wooden cage. Razorscale bared his teeth and fingered a different charm, stopping that insult before it had done more than singe the bars. “YOU DARE?”
At this point the dryads apparently made a decision about the direction this was going, because the wooden poles snapped into wooden planks, turning the cage into a box. Only narrow slits of light filtered in from above.
The floor tilted slightly. Then the box started to move, with only the barest of slow starts out of courtesy.
Razorscale kept his feet. Several thuds sounded behind him. The human who’d been standing stayed that way, though leaning against the wall, eyes wide in the darkness. The other one was breathing a steady string of swear words.
One more charm, and the pair of them were immobilized by glowing blue bands. Razorscale held up the active charm, letting them see the matching blue lines that ran up his arm to disappear into his sleeve. The whole box was lit with the powerful blue light.
“Don’t make me repeat myself again,” he said. “Whose magic is it?”
They told him before the box stopped moving.
* * * * *
A dryad spoke through the bars. “We trust your business is concluded?”
Now that the box had reverted to a cage, it was clear that the group had been ferried to the farthest edge of the dryads’ forest. The four youths with the mistletoe hair awaited Razorscale’s response.
“As much as it can be with these lowlifes,” he said, glaring at the humans. They were groveling while the rest of the group let Razorscale handle it.
“Please don’t leave us like this,” pleaded the more reasonable of the two, trying to scrub garish colors from his skin. “We didn’t know. We thought it was a personal squabble between Dergaw and somebody he used to date.”
Razorscale looked over his shoulder. “Any of you ever date a human?” At the expected round of vigorous no’s, he glared at the culprit. “Be grateful. I might still decide to eat you after all.”
The human subsided, though the other complained. Apparently the humiliation charm had produced colors that were just as distasteful to his sensibilities as to Razorscale’s own. Good. They both looked like they were afflicted with some magical disease that had left them in shades of purple-to-orange, with concentric circles of pink and green. The sickly white around the eyes and mouth was a nice touch.
“Seriously, how long does this last?” the panicky human asked.
“Find me at next year’s festival,” Razorscale told him. “We’ll see if I feel charitable or hungry.” With that he stepped away and waved a hand, a gesture that the dryads interpreted correctly. The box reformed around the two cursed humans, and ferried them away. Razorscale assumed that they would be reunited with their cart and left at the side of the forest that they had entered from, but he didn’t bother to ask.
When the containment fell away, a setting sun lit the forest’s edge in harsh light. Much time had been wasted. This seemed to occur to the others at the same time, as they all squinted and winced.
“I’ll never make it back to the herd tonight,” the centaur moaned. “And I’m not even the right shape yet!”
The minotaur and pixie voiced similar complaints about the delay to their travel plans. The harpy just looked into the sunset.
“We will transport you to rejoin your companions,” offered one of the two dryads who remained, but Razorscale interrupted her.
“No point,” he said. “If we want to reverse this spell, all five of us will need to be present. I read that much of it before the casting dissipated. Five donors, five recipients. We need to track these egg-eaters down now.”
“Can’t we go back for supplies?” the centaur demanded. “And friends?”
“Waste of time,” Razorscale said. “The man who gave those fools the casting token will be expecting them back soon for their final payment. He may flee if he suspects pursuit.”
“And how are we supposed to get there in a hurry?” the centaur insisted, leaning around the pixie. “Those guys said he’s in a human city. That’s not close. It will hardly make a difference if we take a few minutes to go back.”
The minotaur spoke up with some hesitation. “Are you thinking we’ll walk all night? I don’t think I’m up for that.”
“Fine,” Razorscale snapped. “I’ll go alone to meet their contact, then come back for the rest of you. Just stay together.”
“How are you going to—?”
Razorscale held out a hand, palm up. “My carpet, please.”
The centaur moaned about it, but got off to stand on wobbly feet with the minotaur’s assistance. The pixie hopped down too. Razorscale said the command word, and the carpet came to him like a tame pet.
“Wait, are we supposed to stay right here?” the centaur asked.
A dryad broke in. “Camping in the forest is not permitted, though you are welcome to overnight in the grasslands, as long as you do not set any fires.”
Renewed complaining had Razorscale baring his teeth again. An unexpected voice spoke up.
“Just come to my place,” said the harpy. “It’s right over the hill. There’ll be space for you to sleep somewhere, and he can find us when he gets back.”
“What about our friends?” the centaur asked.
The dryad said, “We will relay the message for you that all parties should convene at the harpy village. You may begin your journey now. Farewell! We bid you good luck on your endeavors, and hope to see you next year.”
Before anyone could reply to that, the two dryads merged with nearby trees, leaving their mistletoe puffs on branches as the only sign that they had been there.
“Fine,” Razorscale said. “Yes, good; done. I will meet you at the village. Do not stray from it.” With that, he settled onto the flying carpet and urged it toward the sky.
Behind him, one human shape limped along with help from two others, guided by a third.
Ahead of him, a true human had no idea what was coming.
Razorscale showed his teeth to the wind, and imagined he was flying.