A scrawny, cross-eyed man of geriatric weathered age stood alone outside the fortified gates of the lively pagan township of Pragian. This tragedy of a man, who was succumbed to rags and ruin, balanced himself against a sleek walking stick to control his tremors while he offered insults and nuisances to those seeking entry into the town. ‘By what incarnation brings a buggerer like you into my domain,’ he said to the villager that arrived with his donkey and cart in tow stocked high with wild boar, fresh from the day’s hunt.
‘Burtrew, aren’t you a fine figure of health? Would you kindly permit us safe passage to tonight’s feast?’ asked the villager.
‘Ah, Dugry. You dastard. Get along before I make a munster of ya.’ With a disgruntled nod, Burtrew permitted entry. His cross-eyed gaze then veered from the endless fields of wheat and barley and down the single dirt road that weaved into the sunset. It was then that he noticed the shadowy outline of the four horseback riders, who brought disdain upon the old man’s already disgruntled demeanor.
And then the timid arrival of his hobbling son, Weddle, diverted his gaze away from the four riders.
‘Father,’ Weddle said. ‘The evening is too young for such grumbling.’ He was a stubby man of gentle nature and a deformed right leg – the injured appendage threatened to collapse his overweight frame, if not for the ridged knee brace that kept him upright.
‘I am doing my fublen duty,’ mumbled Burtrew through gritted teeth.
‘And we are thankful for it. Now come. There’s a new prodigy in need of your presence,’ said Weddle with a gently nudge, attempting to guide his father back behind the fortifications.
Burtrew resisted with what strength he could muster. ‘Prodigies nothen but a misunderstanden. Foolballs of hype and misguided talent,’ he said. His red-ridden face was scrunched as he cold-shouldered his son’s gentle guidance.
The four riders arrived in single file, with Coble up the front, and the ‘lady’ on his lap. A hooded Prince Gideon was in the middle, and Sir Bradfrey protected their rear with his chain mail armor disguised under a thick, muddied black cloak.
The young wolf pup wasn’t far behind.
‘Greetings, old friend,’ said Coble to Burtrew.
‘You’d be not welcome. Turn back, you dieded weasel, before I curse of night upon you.’
Weddle was quick to take over, saying, ‘I apologize, Coble, he’s been like this all afternoon.’
‘Why? You imply that there’s a time of day when the old wizard doesn’t hold a grudge?’ said Coble, who embraced the insult like a badge of honour.
‘Buh,’ said Burtrew as he threw down his walking stick and persevered to hold himself up unassisted. It was a feeble show of defiance, lasting a few seconds before frailty brought Burtrew into fainted freefall. His son’s open arms saved him from complete muddied embarrassment.
Weddle then said, ‘Once again, I’m tremendously sorry. Please, allow me to escort my father to the dining hall, and I’ll be right with you.’
Coble nodded and gestured for the three others of his party to head to the stable.
As they secured their horse, Gideon asked Coble, ‘I suppose there is an interesting story between you and that fella?’
‘A tale of hubris,’ said Coble.
Anneliese then added with a hint of mystery, ‘Burtrew was a foreteller. The Grand Master Wizard of Pragian, until he wasn’t,’ said Anneliese.
Coble turned towards her with a look of displeasure, but Anneliese just shrugged.
Sir Bradfrey chimed in with a quick tap of Gideon’s shoulder.
And the prince focused in on Sir Bradfrey’s lips and what few discernible words he could make out, given his limited hearing.
‘Foretellers can see the future,’ Sir Bradfrey stated.
‘Hm, I suppose his magic has gone the same way as his health?’ said Gideon.
‘No one knows. He’s been speaking nonsense ever since Coble became Grand Master Wizard,’ said Anneliese, waltzing back and forth as she led them to the great hall.
‘Not to belittle your profession, but an enchanter replacing a foreteller,’ said Gideon.
‘Hence the hubris.’
‘Try knowing everything and still being wrong,’ said Anneliese.
‘Then lying to conceal your failings, before being found out,’ said Coble with the taste of bitterness and impulse to deflect from any further discussion on the topic. His attention then transfixed on Anneliese’s free-spirited hop and skip around the puddles that littered Pragian’s unsealed streets. He felt the desire to give her a firm wording about the need for discretion when discussing private matters, but he lacked the backbone to follow through.
‘Aye, such things can bury a man alive under his own insanity,’ said Gideon. He was familiar with the empathetic look upon Coble’s face, which spoke of human frailty that stalked everyone.
Inside the hall, two dragon-carved cauldrons held fissured stone cubes, which emitted the dragon’s fiery breath that welcomed the riders into the roaring sounds of bards and badly sung folk songs. Each table was near capacity, lining five by three lengthways across the hall. Jolly compatriots fumbled with fists full of ale, while the furniture and floors compiled layers of wet, sticky veneer.
‘Grand Master Wizard,’ said Weddle, as though their previous encounter never happened. It was an uncanny shift in attitude, and he wrapped his arm around Coble’s shoulder and whispered as loud as was necessary among the rabbling crowds. ‘You never told me you were bringing royalty?’
‘It wasn’t a planned visit. We’re trying to keep him safe until he’s reunited with his sister, Regent Venessa.’
‘In that case, avoid the bald gambler at the far table. You know what I’m talking about,’ said Weddle behind a smile of insecurity.
From behind the wizard’s shoulder, Sir Bradfrey asked, ‘You’re sure about this?’ He surveyed the venue for stray glances and sober patrons – anyone out of sorts with the flow of festivities.
‘I’m the son of a dishonest foreteller. I might not know the truth, but I can definitely pick the liar,’ Weddle admitted.
‘Meh, braver men have tried,’ said Coble, unafraid to pass a cheeky wink to the gambler – who, without even an upward glance, reverted to a deafening stillness. He then gave barely a flinch as the gambler’s numbers came up short and his solid stack of coins transferred to a lively heckler across the table.
‘I don’t understand. Are we truly safe here?’ said Sir Bradfrey.
‘Ha. That will depend. Do you put your faith in the cross or good old pagan magic?’ asked Coble. His confidence was bleeding out from his subtle downplay, as Sir Bradfrey’s doubts brought the fuel to his self-worth.
‘My faith lays somewhere between my trust in you and the quickness of my sword hand, but neither in isolation,’ admitted Sir Bradfrey.
It wasn’t much longer before the various wizards arrived from a rear entrance that, given the external dimensions, couldn’t by rights have existed.
Yet, two by two, they arrived.
Wizards and their apprentices entered – a gathering of white and grey robes, with the occasional unkept brown-stained grubs of the bare-footed variety. Plus, one unholy minotaur-like creature that gave Sir Bradfrey the full body look over and raised eyebrows.
The wizards all seated themselves around the sectioned-off firepit. A circular stone-cut amphitheater segregated wizard from villager via a large arch entrance that by Coble’s instructions remained open for all to see. A rare glimpse into the mysterious world of magic, that for many appeared more drama than the legendary heritage on which this amphitheater was built. For their once history-defining institution now resembled a small scattering of well-known but far from awe-inspiring wizards. Their numbers merely able to occupy the first few rows, of which Coble took his place front and center, and his guests spread out across the conspicuously vacant seats that aligned Sir Bradfrey in proximity to the wondering-eyed minotaur. Not that the uncomfortable vibes weren’t obvious enough for Sir Bradfrey to keep Weddle between himself and the beastly creature.
While atop in the far corner, Burtrew kept to himself. The former Grand Master Wizard, lost in his own cross-eye, stared at the purple incandescent coals, whose flames crawled up two metal pyramids stacked point to point from ground to ceiling like an hour glass, with the top inverted pyramid containing a lava-like substance that flowed down in constant trickle to the coals below. He was oblivious to the conversations as the gathering commenced with the sound of open protest by the eldest of the attending wizards.
‘How far have we fallen?’ said Draconian. The senior wizard threaded his long skeletal fingers through the thick grey beard that concealed his small near-non-existent chin. His displeasure was directed towards Anneliese and her little furball friend. ‘Is it not enough we have to bend the knee to these cross-worshipers’ He then stared directly at Sir Bradfrey, before back at Anneliese. ‘But feral animals. No wonder our numbers dwindle when this is how we uphold our dearest traditions.’
‘Aw,’ jeered the crowd of commoners.
The insult struck a nerve with the wide-eyed minotaur, who spoke with a lisp, like she was still figuring the ins and outs of her animalistic tongue. ‘Should I take offence at that? Less I turn myself into a wolf-bear just to spite you.’
‘Zizrum, where’s your apprentice?’ asked Weddle of the minotaur as he attempted to change the subject.
‘The missing link to full minotaur is a little extra bulk where it matters,’ said Zizrum with a cheeky wink and a firm slap to her backside. “Witness … Britony and I are one, and we are …’
It brought several nearby wizards to a collective, ‘Ohhh, eww.’
‘You ate Britony?’
‘Oh no, God no. Melding. The missing link to Metamorphosis. I am on the brink of a momentous discovery. It will change everything’.
‘Ok, so will we expect to see Britony soon?’
‘Ahhh, I kind of haven’t figured out the reverse melding process yet. But when I do, she’ll have a lot to say about. I assure you.’
Then another wizard of pale skin and wide-eyed enthusiasm interrupted, ‘Still a less repulsive odor than our dear Draconian. Honestly, how does a water elementalist neglect to bathe themselves?’
‘That’s funny, coming from you,’ said Ravenna, one of the few female wizards of the bunch. She spoke with a detached, offhandedness while making herself scarce as though she were the first among equals. It was a trait that was exemplified by her adornment of silk and jewellery – all tributes to her greatness. ‘Can anyone recall the last time this debaucherous necromancer courted a companion who actually drew a breath?’
The crowd erupted as they bashed mugs and utensils against whichever surface echoed their excitement.
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Coble interrupted, ‘It is true. Our numbers have dwindled, with many either deserting our beliefs or being turned by the cross. Whether god or guild, they should be free to choose their own path.’ He paused and then turned towards the senior wizard. ‘Draconian seeks to defend the old ways, and that’s his right, but our purpose is to preserve peace. So, all creeds of belief and worship shall not fall into petty tribalism.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’ Draconian asked.
‘Be open to all possibilities,’ said Coble, to the abrupt jeers of the villagers inside the main hall, who were clearly dissuaded by Coble’s deflections and nothing answers. ‘What if we’re wrong? I mean the pagan histories are littered with tyrants and ill-founded benevolence. As good as we have it now, that does not mean there isn’t a better way, or that this is the way it should always be.’
‘Such words speak nothing of the fate that awaits our fellow pagans,’ said Draconian.
‘Such words distinguish us from the battle mages who bastardize our beliefs in pursuit of their own violent ends,’ said Coble, his voice amplified like an abrupt change in wind, which had everyone taken aback.
The silent unease was finally broken by Draconian as he spoke with a soft diligence, in acknowledgement of his lower status. ‘Perhaps the battle mages persist because we refuse to show leadership against those who wish us wiped from existence.’
Sir Bradfrey then stood and said in an uncomfortable voice, ‘All due respect, my good and honorable Draconian, but don’t underestimate the military might of the church, nor your influence on it. They share Pragian’s concerns about the battle mages, but their greater fear is how quickly pagan allegiances might change if the regent acts against them. Your ambiguity towards the battle mages is the balancing act that keeps sharper minds than I up at night, and I’d rather they not sleep.’
‘If I may interject, but tonight’s guests have arrived,’ said Weddle as he broke his seated position. ‘I present to you Grib and his son Kulum, the fire breather.’
‘Ah, excellent. Another elementalist,’ said Draconian.
Their presence cut quiet the crowd’s drunken antics, with only the sound of screeching benches heard over dry-mouthed anticipation at this foreigner and his strange attire. The father wore a long white tunic, and the son, a ribbed red suit folded over a silk skirted bottom. It was an outfit of considerable expense, clearly bought for this one occasion.
‘Please proceed?’ said Coble.
‘Aye,’ said Grib in his thick foreign accent.
‘Kulum,’ said Weddle with exaggerated hand gestures, directing the son to the firepit. He then turned towards the other wizards and said, ‘Kulum will now demonstrate his skills, and you may assess his talents and decide if you wish to have him as your apprentice.
‘Of course,’ said Kulum in a slow, barely audible voice, emblematic of the linguistic divide. He then fought his own ridged fearfulness with whispered prayer, before finding his flow with clawed hands that drew in a spiritual energy. His eyes then became clouded by a black smoke as he summoned the magical energy to reach deep into the firepit.
The flames distorted around a protective air pocket until finally becoming one with its essence, able to elevate the flames entirety from the now-smoldering coals.
His inexperience was expressed with repetitive motions as the smoke eyes glowed a deeper black over a face of anger. The flames contorted with a ferocity of emotional energy until distortions formed ever more intricate shapes. The result was a blank, ghostly face that mimicked his own. ‘You see me,’ said Kulum’s creation. Its voice was a haunting sound of inhaled distortion as it continued to speak in a foreign dialect.
‘Interesting,’ said Draconian with great introspection. He ran his eyes over every aspect of the boy’s technique – from posture to foot placement, anything and everything, bar the fiery creation.
‘And what are your thoughts on Kulum’s talents?’ asked Coble of the surrounding wizards.
‘Raw, very raw,’ said Draconian.
‘Such untamed potential,’ said Verivix. ‘He could almost put you to shame, Draconian.’
‘Oh,’ said Ravenna, lost in her own cloudy, white-eyed glow.
Her silence was noted by Coble, and he shook his head in Draconian’s direction and said, ‘Aye, his magic is strong, but his spirit is tormented. I’m afraid he is too much trouble for what we have to offer.’
His words were met with unchallenged acceptance by the otherwise disagreeable Draconian.
‘Why! I’ll take him, if no one else will,’ said Verivix in wide-eyed astonishment, insulted by the quick rejection.
The awkward silence that proceeded Verivix’s protest was enough to breach the linguistic divide that sunk Grib to soul-crushing depths. ‘Kulum,’ he said with a fragile voice, trying to easy his son away from his wizard state. But it was to no avail.
Kulum, unshaken, stared into the depths of the fire.
‘Kulum,’ Grib said louder, before turning towards the other wizards and pleading with his eyes for someone to help him.
‘KULUM,’ yelled Coble.
‘Is this normal?’ asked Weddle.
‘Far from it,’ said Draconian, rubbing his index finger against his thumb, sparking dim flashes of light as he drew the room’s vapor into his palm. The accumulated condensation formed into long rope-like strands, controlled with great physical excursion, as the wizard raised his hands as high as his age constrained his physical limitation. With whispered words, he said, ‘Val Carum,’ and then he unleashed a whip of water to fiery aberration, which upon contact, burst into a wave of water.
While the flames were strong and enduring, the water inevitably extinguished them, and with it, the boy’s concentration.
‘As expected, the boy’s not a natural elementalist. He is possessed by a fire demon, which grants him his magical potential, but in return, it seeks to corrupt his soul. It is said that the greater the demon, the greater the master, and given his abilities, age and having no formal training … I am deeply sorry, but this demon will consume him, and we lack the expertise to take on such a dangerous apprentice.’
‘But with the right training?’ said Weddle, spoken with polite yet desperate objection.
‘Young is good, but such insidious demons require an equally proficient druid. Of which we lack. That’s not to say, it’s beyond my abilities, but I’m old and preoccupied with Maneesh. So, no, I will not train him’ said Draconian.
‘Ravenna?’ asked Weddle.
‘It is no business for a mystic.’
‘Coble, Verivix?’
‘Surely, I am ready for such an apprentice?’ said Verivix.
‘No. He is too dangerous,’ said Coble.
‘Yet, if we let the boy go. … who’s saying the battle mages don’t catch wind of his existence?’ said Draconian.
‘True.’ Coble gazed to the ground in his usual perplexity while his mind drifted towards Anneliese and the nauseating guilt that accompanied her fate, should he accept responsibility for training Kulum over her.
‘I will train him,’ said Anneliese from atop the stone bench, spruiking the superhero pose while her trusty sidekick, Shadow, sat by her side with his paw raised.
‘May I pose a different proposition,’ said one armored, highbrow figure from behind the pagan commoners. It was a shining knight, draped in checkered red and blue with the bright-yellow cross insignia – the sign of his allegiance to the throne of Mansour.
‘Baraden,’ said Sir Bradfrey as he launched to his feet with a half-drawn sword.
Coble quickly placed a glowing hand upon the frantic knight, inoculating him with calmness. He then asked this new attendee, ‘What be your business?’
‘My employer is offering five thousand gold pieces to whomever brings me Prince Gideon. Preferably missing any appendages below the neck,’ said Baraden.
Gideon, glued to his stone-cut seat, could only watch as Cobble clicked his fingers – the subtle instruction for Shadow to jump into action and guard the firepit entrance while the remaining wizards blended into the walls.
Their retreat made way for five accompanying knights, who stood in parallel lines with unsheathed swords and readied stances.
Sir Bradfrey quickly interjected, ‘Pragian is the rightful protectorate of the Regent Venessa of the royal family Vasier, and her daughter, the future Queen Marguen. Knights of Mansour have no right to be here.’
‘Ah, good knight, be it a good night and shut your trap. I hold no ill will against you, nor pagan blood,’ the Mansourian knight replied.
‘Five thousand gold pieces, you say? That’s a little underwhelming,’ said Coble as he dug his fingers into his small waist-bound sack, to find a pinch of fine white sands, which with the right rhythmic motion grew to encompass more than his thick, callused hands. The excess scattered onto the floor.
‘I’m fully aware of your reputation, enchanter. I also have a reputation. A heavy-handed one, so let’s not tempt trickery.’
‘Is that so?’ Coble asked. He then cupped the confused-looking Gideon’s hands and whispered, ‘Trust me.’ He helped Gideon to his feet and passed onto him the enchanted sands. Coble then asserted an open palm towards the sword-wielding Sir Bradfrey and continued to guide Gideon before the knights of Mansour.
All the while, Weddle backed himself closer to his father’s side to gain vantage over the entire hall, to assess the many scared and begrudged pagan faces. Some appeared close to the point of reckless heroism, with little forethought about the effectiveness of tin mugs against shield and chain mail. Yet it was not the built-up tension between foreign knights and drunken pagans that worried the foreteller’s son. It was something else unseen. An ill intent that he couldn’t define.
Coble assessed the situation and muttered sporadic thoughts.
Gideon was now positioned in the center of the hall, with such precision as to need several adjustments. All the while, his hands remained cupped. The now-glowing sands were emanating a murky yellow haze that mesmerized the crowd.
Even Baraden was unable to conceal his confused paralysis. ‘Ifff you don’t hand Prince Gideon over at once.’
‘He’s there. At least he should be. But … I could be wrong,’ said Coble.
The seeds of doubt conjured by Coble’s nonchalant compliance had even Gideon second-guessing what exactly was going on.
‘You are playing games with me, wizard. Need I remind you again?’ said Baraden with a heavy top lip and grisly voice.
‘I’m an honest man who means no ill upon anyone,’ said Coble, kneeling to apply a simple index finger to the rough stone floors, which triggered the many layers of enchantments, prearranged for such a predicament. Beams of blackened light then emerged through cracks that formed satanic symbols. Dark chaotic magic ripped its way towards the god-fearing knights. ‘Now, tell me, which one of you limp-legged lizards dare take the first strike.’ His eyes burnt a smoky white. His wizard state was in full display as his enchantments unleashed a magical whirlwind around him.
The aura distracted all but Weddle to the visual distortion hovering closer and closer to the kneeling Grand Master Wizard. ‘COBLE, BEHIND YOU!’ Weddle hopped from the upper seats, more stumbling as he strained to compensate for his physical limitations.
His actions brought the other wizards to their feet, as the realization ricocheted throughout the firepit.
However, they were too late!
A human form broke through the visual distortion, revealing a black-bladed dagger. Its downward thrust contacted the side of Coble’s neck.
Yet for all its ferocity, no blood was drawn, nor skin pierced. Instead, the bud of the dagger rested against Coble’s neck, with the blade inverted in the opposite direction.
The assassin, not letting this moment of foolishness impede his duty, struck again to Coble’s kidneys, only to find the blade inverting on itself and the bud once again causing negligible blunt force trauma against a less than pleased wizard.
‘Sambal!’ yelled Draconian, able to recognize the assassin through his methods. Yet he found himself unable to cast a spell before the hobbling Weddle threw his far-heftier weight into the fray.
A fumbled tussle then ended with them both on the ground.
The assassin, Sambal, had his forearm around Weddle’s throat and was punching his free-handed dagger into Weddle’s side, falling foul of the same impotence that had prevented him from striking down Coble.
The commotion distracted Sir Bradfrey enough for one Mansourian knight to take aim at Gideon’s protector. The intruding knight swung hard without any concept of technique, yet it was from a distance that permitted Sir Bradfrey a split-second reaction. His youthful reflexes permitted him a quick but ill-placed parry, enough to draw metal on metal but still had him tumbling backwards past the firepit.
Only the mysterious glowing sands were now standing between Gideon and the remaining Mansourian knights.
The advancing knights – who were inspired by their comrade – stormed Gideon from all sides. Each was vying to inflict the first and final blow upon their king’s rival. Yet as they approached, the air grew heavy, their swords brittle. The glowing haze that rested between Gideon’s fingers extended out in the form of a white-hot friction upon their metal blades – as if the grains of sand had permeated throughout the room and were now oxidizing their metal armaments. Their blades cracked and popped before disintegrating into powdered rust, much like their armor as the airborne contagion rid the knights of any discernible advantage.
Afflicted by the same corrosive force, but not deterred, Sir Bradfrey launched himself at the closest combatant. His lack of self-preservation inspired the villagers from the main hall to enter the fray. Broken stools and wild fists were a plenty as they turned the odds very lobsided against the intruding knights.
However, the wizards stood back, waiting for an overly eager minotaur to rush in horns and all, to the detriment of both the Mansourian knights and pagan villagers. For they felt the brute force of a bull–human hybrid launching them around like disobedient children to a battering ram, under Zizrum’s mumbled yelling, ‘I am MINOTAUR.’
As Gideon tried to move his hands, he yelled out to Coble, ‘By what magic am I bound?’ before a miss-guided sandal swiped his head, causing him to break stance in the culprit’s direction.
‘Your own gullibility, my friend,’ said Coble, waving him off dismissively, permitting the prince into action.
‘Ah … funny,’ said Gideon, breaking through the pagan mosh pit, to Weddle’s aid, where he offered a firm right boot to the assassin’s lower ribs.
The winded assassin, after rolling some distance, with little more than desperation in his arsenal, made another feeble attempt to maim his true target. However, his attempt to impose a final blow upon Coble failed yet again. Only this time, the assassin’s full weight was against the bud of the dagger as it inverted into himself.
The assassin let out a high-pitch screech behind clenched teeth, the poisoned blade festering dry black sores across his whole body, which in time crumbled away until only his dagger and black dusty clothes remained.
‘Is that normal?’ said Gideon – more disappointed than relieved at the assassin’s demise.
Draconian came to Gideon’s side and replied, ‘I’ve never known a wizard to specialize in normal, though there are plenty who specialize in stupidity.’ He gave a half-smirk, constrained by his stoic demeanor, as he assisted Coble.
All the while, the wolf pup ran circles around the apprehended Mansour knights, barking at the bloodied and bruised men.
‘Damn good show,’ said Gideon, walking to embrace the pale-faced Coble, whose jovial smile dwindled into lightheaded disorientation. ‘But I must ask. Those spells, the sands. What was all that?’
‘Eh,’ said Coble, needing every bit of air before figuring his words.
‘Let him be. He’s exhausted enough as is,’ said Draconian.
‘My dear, Gideon. It was all a lie. The sands did nothing but keep you in check.’
‘A trick, then how did our swords and armor disintegrated into sand?’ said Sir Bradfrey.
‘It was all a distraction from the real magic,’ said Coble, before his disorientation deteriorated into an unconscious collapse, and he started foaming at the mouth. His clear smokeless eyes then rolled back to white.
Many hands scurried around him, trying to revive the stricken elder. Cries of poison and treachery were heard. The crowd’s hopes were held in suspense until time didn’t permit a single breath that could sustain his stricken state.
The Grand Master Wizard Coble was no more.
And from the distant amphitheater seating, the cross-eyed, delirious Burtrew remained, and only a single tear was shed for the fallen as he stared into the abyss. ‘What a cursed night.’