Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  “That,” she pronounced, “is incredibly manipulative!”

  “It isn’t any less true,” I sighed. “Do you think it makes me feel more of a man for asking for this?” I challenged. “I’m weak, right now, Alya,” I pointed out. “I am at my weakest when the stakes have never been higher. I have no magic to rely on. Just my wits – which could very well mean we’re all doomed. Not just me, you, everyone we love, but the entire world. But I damned-sure will be doomed if I don’t have anyone looking out for me. Someone who will come for me, no matter what, if things go awry.”

  “Things usually go awry,” she snorted.

  “My point, exactly,” I nodded. “I’m going to talk to a quite possibly mad wizard who’s been hiding in a land where magic doesn’t work, about things that he may well not even understand. With goblins and a dragon in the neighborhood. There is a lot to risk, in doing so. Knowing that I have support ready to come and get me if things go wrong will give me the confidence I need. Having to watch out for my wife’s safety will diminish that confidence when I need it the most.”

  I thought it sounded reasonable. Hells, I’d practiced this speech long before this conversation had arisen. I’d figured it was inevitable. I just hoped that it was convincing.

  “Fine,” she grudgingly admitted – finally. “You have three days. You have to take those talking boxes with you – the radios – and let me know your status. And I want you to teach me how to use those ancient weapons before you go,” she demanded. “If I have to come and get you, it won’t be with a dagger.”

  “I . . . all right,” I conceded, with a sigh. “We’re being stingy with the ammunition, but Gareth found two additional pistols in each vehicle, for emergencies. They’re smaller than this one, but they should be effective. But they’re loud,” I reminded her.

  “My ears can take it,” she said, still staring at me. “Three days,” she reminded. “Three days, and then I come looking for you.”

  I knew that was about as good as it was going to get. I shut up and kissed her. A lot. You’d be surprised at how well that ends an argument.

  Lilastien had not stopped her nostalgic reminiscence with Ancient humani culture. Indeed, the paltry remnant of culture that this remote station contained in its unseen bowels seemed to sustain her more than songspells or Alka Alon nut juice. I never encountered her without some song or other haunting our conversation in the background. She claimed there were only six thousand seven hundred and sixty songs in the archives, but I swear she listened to every single one. Twice.

  She had favorites, of course, just as she favored some dramas and comedies from my ancestor’s cultural legacy. I didn’t understand half of it – I lacked the context she had gained on Perwyn, experiencing life as a humani colonist. But I observed enough of her indulgence in our ancient culture to detect some patterns of behavior. For instance, her preference for instrumental music was obvious.

  “It’s because most Alka Alon music favors vocals – what your folk would call a cappella, in one of the ancient dialects,” she explained, the day before we set out. “We elevate the voice over all other instruments and treat them as mere accompaniments. Even the Vundel favor the voice in what passes for music in their culture.

  “But me? I like the drums. And the horns. Especially the horns. They make me . . . well, let’s just say that Narasi doesn’t have the subtlety to treat with that subject,” she sighed.

  “Why are you so enthralled with our music?” I asked, curious. She got a faraway look in her eye as she recalled the past.

  “I spent decades on Perwyn, while I was studying your culture. I spent a lot of time in your clubs – taverns, music halls, and auditoriums. To know a people’s music is to know a people,” she declared.

  “I’ve heard what the Alka Alon think of human music,” I reminded her. “Even masters like Jannik.”

  “Which is incredibly short-sighted of them,” she insisted. “The strength of humanity’s music is not in its voices, as impressive as they are. It’s in its rhythms and its melodies. Its lyrics. And all the instruments! The trap set. Tympani. Bongos. The bass guitar. Harmonica. Banjo. Harpsichord. The Moog synthesizer. And the horn section. Dear gods, I enjoy a good horn section! Especially live music, not recordings. All those bold sounding instruments, all in brass. It was almost bawdy,” she reflected, fondly. “And once you add in an electric guitar . . . one of your ancestors, Les Paul, invented the instrument. It changed your music forever,” she informed me.

  “But why is it so compelling?” I insisted. “I’ve heard Jannik the Rysh keep a crowd near tears with one simple mandolin. Why the need for all of those drums and horns? And why do you like them so?”

  “I suppose because it’s an element lacking in my people’s music,” she reflected, after a moment’s consideration. “Alka Alon music isn’t mere entertainment, it’s how we keep our world functioning. It has practical purpose. But because of that, it’s extremely structured and limited in scope, each element filled with predetermined meaning. Oh, it’s powerful, enough,” she conceded. “But it’s missing some of the things I found intriguing about human music.”

  “Like what?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Like . . . improvisation,” she decided. “The ancient discipline of Jazz is the best example. Musicians understood the melody and rhythm so perfectly that they were able to improvise on the music as it was composed.

  “Each performance was a unique artistic experience. It’s subtle . . . but it’s something my people lack. We wouldn’t know how to improvise a melody. Our music is fixed, more doctrine than indulgence. Jazz would scandalize our sacred melodies. Blues? I shudder to think what would happen if we incorporated that into our music. We might discover something new about ourselves, or something,” she said, sneering at her own culture. “Departing from the accepted performance for the sake of entertainment? Children would do that, but never adults. Anything with a strong drumbeat is automatically suspect, amongst my folk,” she explained.

  “I like your epics,” I pointed out. “They’re quite compelling.”

  “But imagine how much better they’d be with a decent beat!” she insisted. “Or a little flamboyance in the musical presentation! But, no, we see the highest art as performing the exact same way our ancestors did, thousands of years ago, without variation or interpretation,” she said, with disgust. “Can you imagine the ‘Lay of Iridel and Lysavala’ with a sultry blues theme? No, you can’t. But it would be incredible. Or how about the ‘Epic of Tangoreal’ with a Jazz interpretation exploring his indecision between his two mates? Throw in a dance number and you have perfect art. But, alas, my people are musical prudes,” she pronounced with a sigh. “They hear a drum beat or a horn and they’re scandalized.”

  I didn’t argue. I barely knew how to sing a few bawdy army songs. I knew music was the basis for Alka Alon magic, and influenced a lot of their culture, but Lilastien might as well have been discussing alchemy or dimensional magic or some other art I had little training or interest in.

  “I have to trust your judgement,” I conceded. “I just don’t see why you’re so obsessed.”

  “It’s more an acute interest than an obsession,” she confessed, as she began a new song. “But your people’s music – and your drama, which was quite sophisticated – had a certain basic barbaric simplicity to it that intrigues quite a few of my people. Well, the pre-Contact portions,” she reminded me. “Once you got involved in other races, your art went to shit. But the early recordings? Pure genius,” she declared.

  “Some of it is catchy,” I conceded. “Even in translation, it’s compelling. But compared to a grand Alka Alon epic, it’s hard to take seriously.”

  “You just lack context and appreciation,” she said, shaking her head. “Length and complexity don’t necessarily translate into great art. Give me a good bass riff and a dazzling brass section, and I’m in heaven.”

  I tried to appreciate her perspective; I really did. In between lessons in hist
ory and technology that Forseti was able to provide, I indulged in the art she recommended. It was my legacy, after all. What little was left as a remnant of Old Terra’s grand culture was important, I recognized.

  But that didn’t mean I had to like it all.

  Oh, there were some elements I became quite fond of. Some were inspirational or invoked powerful emotions. There were songs that made me cry, they were so laden with emotion regarding grief, loss and perseverance in the face of adversity. There were many, many songs of love and slightly less concerning the loss of love. My people seemed to be obsessed by the subject.

  That seemed to explain a lot, actually.

  But there were pieces, entire genres of ancient music, that I took a dislike to. I don’t know if that meant I was disrespecting my ancestors, somehow, but I know what I like. And what I don’t.

  I don’t know if there was some hidden mystery in my ancestors’ music, but it was an intriguing way to approach their contributions to Callidore, I had to admit. As we prepared for the next phase of the expedition, Lilastien played it constantly. She spent time watching their dramas and comedies captured within the tekka of the cave. That was both a comfort and trial. I did my best to absorb the wave of ancient culture she threw at me. But I confess only a tithe of it stuck. Much of it was just noise, and a smaller part was interesting, but not something I’d pursue on my own.

  That didn’t matter. I was trying to understand my ancestors. I didn’t need to like their taste in music.

  When, at last, we departed the Cave of the Ancients to explore the desolation in search of mystic answers, I felt I had a much better – and admittedly flawed – view of the first humani who had come to Callidore. I tried to keep in mind that this was a remote outpost, not a central hub of human culture. That was much-needed perspective. I hoped that would prove helpful, somehow, as we ventured into the unknown.

  My fellow expeditioners did not seem to share my concern for such preparation, though they did enjoy the delights even such a simple place provided. Hot showers, for instance. A simple pipe in the wall sprayed a steady stream of water over your head, allowing you to wash, the water heated by the geothermal springs. I found it more efficient than a bath, and faster.

  The mechanical chamber pots near at hand were likewise effective without magic, and the basin provided for washing had perpetual water – clean, clear water, not like your usual well water – available without a pump. You can do that sort of thing with magic, but our ancestors had systems designed to provide them mechanically, as a matter of course. That was as impressive to me as their weaponry. The box that heated food was also intriguing, as was a miniature cooling chamber that kept things cool, or even frozen – all without magic. It gave me ideas.

  But I also studied the guidebook Forseti had given me. While it was six hundred years out of date, it still contained some interesting – and tantalizing – information about Anghysbel. It had maps, pictures, and charts that Forseti had translated into Narasi and produced somewhere in the bowels of the tekka he now controlled. It showed the volcanically active regions, the safe regions, and the regions where the animals, plants, and other things were considered dangerous. Travid, the Kasari lad, helpfully updated some of the things he had seen and positioned them on the map. Thankfully, the first expedition was going someplace he’d visited.

  “My people call the place Vista Ridge,” he informed me, the night before we left. “The view from the highest point is stunning. The entire ridge is filled with caves and holes, so you have to be careful. There are sometimes . . . things, in those caves. The hunting is usually good up there, but it’s too far to comfortably bring back to the camp. And there are dangerous beasts,” he added. “That makes the hunting more of a challenge.”

  “Of course there are,” I sighed. “This place wants to kill us.”

  “Oh, it’s not as bad as most places in the north of the valley,” he chuckled. “We shouldn’t have too much trouble, I think. As long as we’re careful and prepared. Why aren’t you sending in Nattia first with her bird?” he asked, suddenly. “That would make more sense.”

  “You would think so,” I agreed. “She can be there in a few minutes. But then she would be there alone,” I reminded him. “I figure we’ll make the trip by horse and have her join us once we arrive. With the radios, we can summon her if we need her help by air.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” he sighed. “It won’t take long to get there, anyway. We’ll take boats up to the very north of the Hot Lake, which is also the hottest part of the lake. There’s a dock there. And I’ll have the big boat come, one that can ferry horses. From there, it’s a straight shot north, between the Leshwood and the Plain of Pillars. Shouldn’t take more than a half day if nothing goes wrong.”

  “Like lizard men popping up and trying to eat us?” I asked, cocking my head.

  “The luachra?” he asked, skeptically. “Not this time of year. It’s summer. They stay in the coolness of their swamp. They only seek the Hot Lake during the long winter. In the fall mating season, sometimes you’ll see the males fighting each other. Oh, there might be a few hunters this far out, but the luachra don’t bother you, usually, if you leave them alone.”

  “You seem to know a lot about them,” I observed. “Are they sapient? Or merely sentient? They seem to have some culture, from what I’ve heard.”

  Travid shrugged. “I’d say they’re sapient. They’re no worse than the gurvani,” he considered. “A little more primitive, perhaps, but less warlike. As long as you don’t venture into their swamps, especially during hatching. They’re very territorial and protective of their eggs.”

  “Why would anyone want to menace their eggs?” I asked, confused.

  “Oh, they’re supposed to be quite tasty. The Kilnusk consider them a delicacy,” he explained.

  My jaw dropped. “What kind of monster would eat some poor frog lady’s eggs?” I asked, appalled.

  “They’re lizards, not frogs. And I’m certain that the chickens ask the same thing about us,” he pointed out. “Life requires sacrifice in order to survive. Still, the luachra put up enough of a fight so that the Kilnusk only enjoy that delicacy rarely,” he chuckled. “They don’t work metals, but they use tundra glass as spearheads and polish it until it’s as sharp as a razor. And clubs – they like clubs. But they mostly keep to themselves.”

  “And the Leshwood?” I asked.

  “We stay out of the Leshwood,” he directed, bluntly. “It is forbidden. Protected.”

  “Why?” I challenged.

  “There are things there that should not be disturbed, so the place is forbidden. We avoid it.”

  “What kind of things?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Things that should not be disturbed,” he repeated. And he wouldn’t discuss it further.

  But it was interesting that the ancient map of the place also had the swath of forest we called the Leshwood listed as a restricted zone. I suppose every strange and wonderous land has to have a forbidden forest. I think it’s some kind of cosmic rule.

  “Aren’t we going to be crossing close to the Plain of Pillars?” I pointed out. “Are we in danger of running into a stora?” I asked, remembering what I learned of the beasts in Kilnuskum.

  “Probably not this time of year,” he predicted, shaking his head. “They rarely go that far east. Especially in summer. They’re more docile, now, too. We might see a few in the distance, but I think we can avoid them. We might even see the dragon eat one,” he smiled.

  “The dragon eats them?” I asked, surprised.

  “About twice a month,” he nodded. “It’s actually helping to trim the population down to a manageable level. As bad as an enraged stora can be, it’s no match for a dragon,” he said, clearly impressed. “I saw that once, out on patrol. It was brutal. But there’s a pretty straight path between the Hot Lake and the ridge, so we should be able to avoid them both. And the Leshwood.”

  “How do we find Rolof once we get there?” I
asked. “Just started shouting into caves and making inquiries at the local taverns?”

  “There are no taverns up there,” he chuckled. “So, shouting into caves is probably a better approach. Don’t worry, we’ll find him,” he assured, confidently. “The ridge is only so big. He’s been spotted by our patrols several times. He’ll only be hard to find if he doesn’t want to be found.”

  Which brought up another interesting question . . . assuming he was still sane, why would Rolof flee the civilized world for this magic-less wasteland when he had just been given a shard of irionite? That did sound like a man who didn’t much want to be found.

  And that could be a problem.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Into the Wild Desolation

  Despite the grand adventure, good booze, and the allure of exotic minerals, I’m really starting to hate this place.

  from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

  Recorded by Ormar the Alchemist

  “This is where we leave the fertile region and step into wild desolation,” Fondaras informed us, leaning on his staff.

  Lilastien and Ormar were leading their horses off the little barge the Kasari used to ferry us to the northern dock of the Hot Lake. It had taken three trips to get us all here. We’d spent the time waiting for the rest of the expedition watching the fascinating display of steam and water bubble around us, until the heat and humidity became too much of a bother and we retired to the shore. There were all sorts of strange and interesting creatures prowling amongst the reeds and grasses of the shoreline. Travid had given us a brief lecture on which ones to be afraid of as we spotted them. And which ones we could eat.

  “It’s not that desolate – a Kasari patrol returned from here not three days ago,” boasted Travid, hefting his rifle on his shoulder. “Nothing unusual to report,” he added.

  “It’s all unusual,” Ormar objected. “We saw a frog on our way over – a frog the size of a dog.”