‘Falin thorn,’ Anneliese said abruptly, only glancing up briefly from where she sat bunkered behind a toppled desk deciphering the mumbled scratchings of the wizard’s red leatherback journal. She was a lean stick figure of youth, who, despite her age, competently worked her way through the journal, her attention split between the task at hand and Shadow – her overly energetic wolf pup. The little black-haired beast nipped at her arm with playful energy as it ducked, dived, and buried its head between the girl’s retreating arm and thigh.

‘Say that again, young one,’ said Coble, the top-heavy wizard of abnormal height, who held himself with a hunched back and perplexed look, having spent his life head down in self-taught academia. His oversized melon sported a straggly, thick white beard that extended from the bottom of his neck to the round bald spot atop his head. The bald spot turned pink under mental strain, while his tongue ran laps beneath his upper lip as he sifted through a disorganized mess of potions, unmarked jars of assorted dried leaves and animal parts.

Despite his largeness, there was not a single item of furnishings built of comparable size to his frame. The stool was so short, he had to squat when seated. A table was so low, he dared not eat at it, else risk grazing his knees every time he sat down …

‘FALIN THORN. It’s the bright red one that loops in on itself. Oh, and thorns. It has thorns,’ said Anneliese, briskly sweeping up the mischievous fur baby, before placing him on the other side of the open window where only his tiny paws and fluffy head popped up between persistent attempts to jump back into the wizard’s cottage.

‘Ah, the red one,’ said Coble as he winced back and forth over the same four identical ingredients, as though tracing a pattern. Yet with little validation, he picked up the furthest jar and tossed its contents into the bubbling caldron. ‘Falin thorn,’ he said with a quick sniff of the empty jar while he strolled over to the stack of quarter-cut timber logs. As the caldron’s greyish gruel slowly leached red from the newly introduced ‘falin thorn’, an intensifying sizzle began atop its lava-like consistency.

‘COBLE,’ she yelled, turning towards the caldron. She was in utter disbelief at the sight of her master’s foolish error, which now emitted heavy red flames and a steady flow of flammable goop down the wide-bellied caldron, until the goop’s combustion dispersed, floating embers that lofted around until the negative pressure sucked them up and out the chimney.

‘Not to worry, I’ll put a lid on.’ Coble, having to use the bottom of his robe, fanned away the flames as he clumsily tossed another log onto the fire. This was followed by a quick succession of nudges with the tip of his sandals before the toasty flames made a blistering impression upon his toes. ‘Ah, buggery,’ he said, wiping his brow after having noticed the unusual amount of heat emanating from the flammable concoction. It was sufficient to spur second thoughts. ‘Change that. Best we leave. Now, right now,’ he suggested as he looked at the young girl.

Coble’s instructions, however, were a passing thought to Anneliese, who instead snatched up the parchment scrolls scattered across every nook and cranny, as she contended with the wizard’s haphazard approach to organization and cleanliness.

While outside, Shadow barked and growled, racing from window to window, trying to combat the falling embers that rained down from the now flame-engulfed thatched roof.  

With the risk of collapse near immanent, Coble picked up Anneliese and abandoned the house, the brisk wind greeting them as they broke into fresh air. However, Anneliese insisted on venturing back inside, to grab what she could of the scattered parchments, if not for Coble’s three-fingered left hand that slung her back and forced her to the damp sediment ground before swatting away the bundle of loosely held scrolls atop the red leather journal.

‘Forget them. A learned wizard does not wait for their house to burn before taking action,’ said Coble. Oblivious to her demoralized groans and rolled eyes, he swapped the red leather journal for an old wooden bucket, which Anneliese immediately threw and kicked en route to the creek that ran around Coble’s cottage.

Two bodies of water intersected the small featureless hill that Coble’s cottage sat upon. One was a roaring rapid that raced down the ravine behind a rocky outcrop, some forty feet away. The other was a small feeder creek that flowed graciously around the cottage and emanated from a mysterious rain cave, which, even on the driest of days, never ceased to fulfil its namesake. 

For the still able-bodied wizard, the act of drawing water would’ve been a mere inconvenience, yet, as was tradition, the mundane and laborious tasks fell on the junior – irrespective of how counterproductively it was to leave Anneliese to such an urgent task.

As she waddled back to Coble, she was barely able to keep the bucket above the ground; half its contents having watered the ground by the time she returned.

‘Alright, time for some real magic,’ Coble said. He then wound himself up with an ear-rupturing clap – loud and thunderous. 

From his waist-drawn pouch, he pinched an ounce of white glistening sands. The enchanted catalyst discharged its magical potential under sweaty palms that rubbed it vigorously in quick repetition. His feet gripped the ground, engaging his whole body for the physical exertion, and his chest expanded as it drew breath to the bottom of his lungs and exhaled to the sound of a high-pitch whistle into glowing hands. He then repeated this with magnified intensity as his grip fought the swirling forces emanating from his palms. With each inhalation, he compressed and molded the untamed magic into a tightly packed sphere of swirling mist, only for it to grow larger and unstable while he whistled and repeated the process.  

‘The bucket. It has water,’ Anneliese advised him while she was hunched over and panting. 

Coble positioned himself on one knee, never breaking sight of the magical ball that bent and churned with no consistent form. ‘Best you stand back. I may have rushed this one.’  

Anneliese responded with mumbled snickering and malicious compliance, planting her butt on the ground. She was exhausted and so leant back and rag-dolled as far down as momentum could carry her. All the way to a soft patch of dirt, where she could rest face down, dead to the world.

Her antics had gone unnoticed by Coble, as he focused intently on his creation, maneuvering the magical ball in a circular motion – close enough for the bucket of water to evaporate up into unstable resonance; until the ascended vapour condescended to rain, and from rain, it turned into an inverted whirlpool; until the spherical ball drained the bucket’s contents and resembled a droopy mess that waned under its own bloated weight.

Its form was held within cupped hands, flat and peaceful, until the wizard’s whistle brought sparks of lightning into its core, causing the substance to reignite its restless vigor, longing to escape. And when left unconstrained by Coble’s grip, it began floating up. Bit by bit, it constantly folded up and over itself, striving ever higher until the wizard’s ear-piercing clap sent a shock wave of light in all directions, bringing an incandescent brightness to everything it touched – except the floating magical ball, whose outer skin darkened and condensed inwards, competing against the thunderous inner core that began sparking uncontrollably. 

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Torn between conflicting forces, the skin contained the surging instability until the point of failure, whereupon multiples more water than what had originated from the bucket burst into the sky. This submerged the entire hill under a torrent of heavy raindrops that were ferocious enough to collapse the cottage roof and generate a wall of water that knocked Coble off his feet, while carrying Anneliese with her furry friend to the now-swollen creek bed. 

Caught up in the tidal flow, Anneliese bobbed and tumbled, barely able to keep her head above water. Her weak hands couldn’t clasp the various rocks and debris that played pinball with her scrawny body. Yet as the tide pulled her beyond Coble’s physical and magical gasp, her prevailing fate collided with the chainmail sleeve of an unexpected stranger. 

Gideon, the exiled prince of Mansour, who was weighed down with arm and feet locked between boulder and tree root, braced himself for the out-stretched gambit. The chainmail blunted any sense of touch as his arm played dragline through the murky waters. He grabbed equal parts hair and gown, ripping Anneliese with ill-considered force from the creek and into the direction of a soft grassy paddock while Gideon rode out the remaining tidal surge and until the fast-moving creek died to a placid, knee-high current. 

‘A hand, you lazy sods,’ said Gideon with uneven tones as he unsheathed his dagger to cut loose the leather bindings of his chainmail armour ascending the muck-filled climb from the creek bed.

Not far behind was Coble. The old wizard, with his arthritic joints and stumpy legs, gave pace across the more accommodating wooden bridge and flat dirt road – to the unimpressed and defiantly independent Anneliese, who at that point had had enough of her master’s antics. However, she stayed close, given the presence of yet another stranger.

It was Sir Bradfrey, one of her majesty’s favored squires-come-newly anointed knight. A well-liked figure among the wizardry, an honest voice among the political divide between the crown and pagan protectorates.

‘Well, bugger me to the underworld. Imagine seeing you here?’ said Coble to the unspoiled knight at arms.

Sir Bradfrey was a tall mop-haired fellow barely past his adolescence. A product of silver-spoon nepotism, he lacked the scars of merit or a voice of confidence. He was more pristine choir boy than a seasoned knight, who, instead of assisting his heroic friend, tended to the half-drowned girl. ‘Helping Prince Gideon would be a start,’ Sir Bradfrey suggested.  

‘Another prince?’ Coble asked, vexed by the impromptu visit and the implied etiquette that came with entertaining royalty. ‘At least this one’s willing to get his hands dirty.’

‘You didn’t use the right falin thorn, did you?’ commented Anneliese to Coble. She was now a wet mess of sniffling resentment, trying to cough up the last remnants of lung fluid while Shadow applied less than welcomed dog kisses to her freckled cheek. 

‘Still working with alchemy?’ asked Sir Bradfrey, full of chuckle-laden sighs. ‘You should stick to what you’re good at, Coble. Especially at your age.’

‘By God, I will bury you both,’ said Prince Gideon, and he spared no time waiting for the meandering knight and wizard as he dug his dagger deep into the root-ridden soil and pulled his half-naked body to dryer ground. His struggles were verbalised with the full dictionary of insults and blasphemy.

‘Oh, buggery. Here, let me help you,’ said Coble. 

‘AYE, don’t you dare come near me, you useless dimble,’ replied Gideon as he swiped away Coble’s attempts to assist.

‘Well, aren’t you one foul-mouthed prince? I’d suggest tightening that lip of yours before the wrong person reinforces them manners. Bare-knuckled and all.’

‘Don’t bother, at this rate he won’t live long enough to need it,’ said Sir Bradfrey.

Coble looked puzzled. ‘Oh, by what cursed circumstancing do you imply?’

‘Try being the second in line to the throne of Mansour after the king dies.’

‘Ah yes. Nothing says a royal dynasty like knifing the next of kin. Suppose there’s a hefty price for his head?’ queried Coble as he made room for the prince – who with his hairy shirtless body looked more wet dog than a well-groomed royal. It was an image not helped by the spray as Gideon shook off the remaining water from his soaked limbs. 

‘We’ve managed to dodge two hunting parties so far, and there hasn’t been a town since lacking some less fortunate soul with a hungry belly and a keen eye for outcast royalty. Hence, why we’re on our way to Vasier Castle to seek protection from his sister, Queen Venessa,’ said Sir Bradfrey.

‘You mean the regent? Her daughter is the queen, isn’t she?’ Coble asked.

‘Ha, marvelous. Sounds like she’s moving up in the world,’ said Gideon. His uneven tones stung their ears, and at his highest pitch, it felt like blood clots passing through their frontal lobes. ‘Perhaps I should start with the pleasantries. My name is Prince Gideon, the Truth Seeker, son to the late King Havious and uncle to your beloved Queen Marguen of Vasier. Pleasantries aside, I’m here to partake in all things pagan and taboo. Then, if God hasn’t completely deserted me, kiss my sister’s feet and beg for her protection before my brother’s assassins take a liking of me.’ He then looked questioningly towards Coble, ‘And you are—’

‘What’s “pagan”?’ interrupted Anneliese.

It brought a cheerful chuckle to Coble as he leant down and pointed to the wooden cross embedded in Gideon’s chest hairs. ‘That’s what them cross-worshippers call us free-spirited folk. Anything related to the old gods, superstition and magic.’

Sir Bradfrey then stated, ‘Um, this is the Grand Master Wizard of Pragian,’ as if introducing an equal. ‘The best and brightest of the pagan kingdoms. Servant to all righteous, elder to the honorable.’

‘Coble will be fine. Enchanter, my trade, but I’m more old man than wizard these days. Though I am curious to how you got the title “Truth Seeker”?’

‘Bit of an inside joke. I have this innate ability to only hear the truth and nothing else,’ said Gideon.

‘So, you’re deaf?’ said Anneliese, turning towards Gideon with her hands on her hips. She was suspicious of royalty and withheld appreciation for her savior's heroics.

‘Ah, you’re a thinker,’ said Gideon, roughing up Anneliese’s hair for playful effect, only to further entrench her stubbornness. ‘Now, what shall I call the wizard’s apprentice.’

‘Your Majesty,’ Anneliese replied with her utmost pretentiousness, offering her hand as though Gideon were of lower class.

‘Is that so,’ said Gideon. He was able to sense the skittishness of Sir Bradfrey without even a side glance, who at that very moment grasped his sword’s hilt with tight-handed insecurity. ‘Well then,’ he said, a look of judgement upon his face as he kneeled before the girl. He then placed his right hand over hers, with distinct emphasis on the thick insignia ring upon his opposite ring finger. ‘This is a mark of royalty. Better you have it than I,’ he said, threading the oversized ring upon the girl’s thumb. 

‘Your Majesty?’ repeated Anneliese.

‘Your name, young one. Best not to test a prince’s patience,’ suggested Coble.

‘Fine. You may refer to me as “the lady of the rainy cave”,’ said Anneliese, taking hold of Gideon’s free hand and returning the ring. ‘I expect diamonds next time.’

‘Master Wizard, surely she has a name,’ said Sir Bradfrey. 

‘There is a reason I call her “young one”,’ said Coble with a cheek full of grin and an embarrassed shake to his head.  

‘Yeah. Lady, it is. “Lady of the rainy cave”.’ Gideon expressed a deadman’s indifference, gently grabbing the girl’s hand to perform the ceremonial kiss of the non-existent ring before correcting her loose-fitted garment that was still weighted down by the water-soaked linen. ‘Do me a flavor. Pursue whatever makes life worth living and damn the rest.’ He then rose to fling the royal insignia far into the river rapids.

‘I intend to be the greatest wizard who ever lived,’ said Anneliese, chest out and proud.

‘You never told me you had a new apprentice. What’s her specialty?’ Sir Bradfrey asked. 

Coble immediately played down the comment with the nonverbal reply, ‘Pretend.’

Sir Bradfrey smiled before asking Coble, ‘We heard the local wizardry were gathering at Pragian for the summer festival and thought you could escort us there?’

Gideon piped up with, ‘Is it true what they say about pagan mead? I’ll be adding blind to my list of ailments before nightfall.’

‘Not that we’re intending to interfere. We’re looking for shelter and protection until we secure safe passage to Vasier?’ asked Sir Bradfrey.

‘Any other day, I would gladly’ said Gideon with a shrug and roll of his eyes.

‘But you’re Pragian’s Grand Master Wizard?’

‘When I need to be. The rest of the wizards pretty much squabble among themselves these days, but I guess I’m still a subject of the Regent Venessa. So sure, I will escort you. Just tell the Truth Seeker here to cut the sap, would ya?’ said Coble. He then gave a cheeky wink and a bell-ringing slap to Sir Bradfrey’s back, which somehow failed to shake the young knight’s anxious jitters.

They then all gave good reddens to the smoldering remains of Coble’s cottage and took off on to their next adventure.