Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

  Recorded by Alya of Spellgarden

  As summer waned, it was clear that our time in Anghysbel was growing increasingly limited. The moon had shrunk to a sliver. After a few days spent at the Cave of the Ancients resting up, I knew it was time for one last expedition into the wilds of the northern valley. Specifically, I wanted to travel back to Rolof’s ridge-top croft, speak to Avius once again at the lake, and perhaps take one final look at the sealed Alka Alon vault.

  Of course, I was telling myself that as a convenient excuse.

  Rolof and Ameras were eager to return to their wilderness camps; while they enjoyed the hospitality of the cave and delighted in seeing some of the Ancient’s technologies, they soon grew bored of the place. It was high summer, after all, and the valley only received so many weeks of the gorgeous weather. With an impending evacuation and eruption, they wanted to start saying goodbye to their home.

  I was sure to detail everyone else in the expedition to duties I knew would take them some time. Taren and Tyndal continued to hunt the gurvani with the Knights of Callierd and tried to screen them from escaping, with Ithalia and Nattia’s airborne assistance. Lilastien was preparing to salvage what medical equipment and other tekka she wanted for her new hospital. Ormar was finalizing the collection and organization of his many mineral samples, and Fondaras was making the rounds of the various districts again to encourage everyone that the evacuation was indeed necessary and prudent.

  I wanted to take a few days to enjoy the summer with Alya, too, and get in a proper holiday. All too soon we would have to don those horrible leather masks, brave the acrid wastes, and then, once we were back home, we would have to contend with preparing Vanador for winter. Our time together would be limited. The beautiful allure of the northern wilds of Anghysbel was just too potent, I argued to myself. And the Ancient’s guidebook assured me that this was the peak of the season.

  But I was fooling myself. I knew the real reason I wanted to return to the ridge. I just wasn’t ready to admit it to myself, yet.

  Rolof and Ameras proved a merry couple, once it was just the four of us. Rolof rode his borrowed horse double with the diminutive Alkan maid, while Alya and I rode separately. I carried a heavy hamper on my rouncey, as I’d stocked up on some victuals at the Midmarket market when we were there – including several pint-sized gourds of the Lakeshire beet rum.

  Rolof and I sang a few songs and told war stories of our time in Farise while we rode, always wary for predators. Twice he directed us to alternate routes because of the dangers of the wild, but we made it back to his croft by midafternoon and had a lovely supper up on the heights before retiring. Rolof and I even hiked up to the magical gap and did a few experiments with his witchstone and the Magolith to help determine the extent of the weakness in the jevolars’ field. The next morning, we broke camp and rode leisurely down to Ameras’ lakeside encampment.

  It was a glorious day, hot but not too hot, thanks to the western breeze that blew off the lake. We spent the rest of the day relaxing in the sun, or swimming in the cool waters of the lake, and apart from a brief earthquake midafternoon, we were untroubled by the rest of the world.

  Just after the ground settled down to being solid, again, Ameras called out: Avius was coming for a visit.

  “Are you ready to speak to a dragon?” I asked my wife, as she stood up, eyes wide. She only wore her linen shift in the heat, and her hair was down.

  “Am I dressed appropriately?” she asked, smoothing her shift.

  “I’m not certain she could tell,” I admitted, as I watched Avius take flight from her island retreat. “She mostly speaks to Ameras, and she’s not dressed at all. Don’t worry, she’s friendly,” I encouraged her. “She was forced to fight, like the other dragons. She bears humans no enmity.”

  “I just hope she isn’t hungry,” she said, nervously, and swallowed.

  “She just ate yesterday,” Ameras informed us, as she jogged down to the beach. “I’m sorry you missed that. It’s a spectacle.”

  “I’ve seen dragons eat,” I said, not mentioning that it was people they were eating. “Be careful what you think, Alya,” I cautioned. “She can hear your thoughts if you think them loudly enough. Try to keep them simple. Avius is intelligent, but she’s very young, still. Think of her as a five-year-old girl . . . in a giant fire-breathing reptile costume that can kill you.”

  Avius glided gracefully over the bright blue water until her wingtips and tail dragged the surface, then she elegantly came to a stop offshore, barely making waves. In a few moments the wagon-sized head threaded up into the little cove and came to rest on the broad beach.

  Good afternoon, humani, she said, politely, clearly pleased that we’d returned. And Alon. What have you been doing?

  “Gods! I can hear her in my head!” Alya whispered.

  “Visiting the settlements in the south and warning them of the eruption that will happen in a year and a half,” I told the dragon, as Rolof joined us. “We are going to move them from harm’s reach for a few years.”

  Will the stora be affected? she asked. As that was her primary food source, I could appreciate her concern.

  “No, from what my . . . one of my friends has told me, the stora are far too hardy to fall to the eruption. But there might be some disruptions, so you should plan accordingly,” I explained. “Avius, this is my mate, Alya. I wanted her to meet you.”

  Your mate? she asked, amused.

  “Yes, we have two children together,” Alya nodded. “It is nice to meet you, Avius. I’ve . . . I’ve never spoken to a dragon before.”

  Few humani have, agreed Avius. But your mate has been very polite to me, and he is a friend of Ameras. He is going to bring me eggs from my sister, she added, excitedly. Then I will be a mother, too!

  We talked casually to the titanic beast all afternoon, eventually breaking out the beet rum and mixing it with some local fruits Ameras picked that were mostly water. I couldn’t identify a single one. But we were feeling relaxed a little tipsy by the time the sun began to descend toward the horizon.

  By that time, we were demonstrating what human music was like by trying to sing some of Jannik’s songs, the “Road to Vanador,” and even a few of the tunes of the Ancients. I almost wished I had grabbed one of Lilastien’s medical tablets so that I could play her a few more complicated pieces. It’s rare you find a dragon who has some appreciation of music. Usually they just want to kill and eat you.

  But Avius did, indeed, have a keen ear, it turned out, and she enjoyed the melody.

  Ameras sang to me, when she first taught me how to talk, she explained. But her music is very different than yours.

  “There are many kinds of music in the world,” I agreed. “Nearly every people create their own. Even the Vundel, the Sea Folk, apparently have a kind of music.”

  “I wonder what a dragon’s idea of music would be?” Alya asked, thoughtfully.

  I don’t know, Avius confessed. I’ve never heard any before. Perhaps I will make some and find out.

  “I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t try,” Rolof agreed. “I’m wondering if it wouldn’t involve dragon fire, in some way.”

  “And flying,” Ameras nodded, smiling at the thought. “Like what you do at twilight. Have you tried singing?” she asked, suddenly. “I’ve heard the call you make after a hunt. Wouldn’t it be like that?”

  What do you mean? I can’t speak with my mouth. That’s something you do. I speak with my mind.

  “But you can make noise,” I reasoned. “I’ve heard dragons bellow in battle. Music is just noise that you make, usually with some order and sense to it. Song doesn’t require actual speech. Perhaps if you tried . . .”

  I think I will, she said, lifting her head and body abruptly, and standing on her hind legs. She thrust her mighty head into the air and bellowed. At first it was just a howl, but apparently Avius had absorbed some of the principles of music from our discus
sions and performances. In a few seconds, the bellow modulated into a regular rhythm and began to vary in tone.

  It wasn’t quite music, but then it wasn’t quite noise, either. It was also extremely loud. Enough so that Alya had to cover her ears.

  But then Avius took a deep breath and tried again. Ameras began to clap her hands in a simple rhythm, and Avius began to experiment with the great voice she was discovering.

  Soon she began to twitch her wings in time with Ameras’ clapping, and alter the melody – dear gods, I realized, there was actually a melody! – and suddenly there was music. Basic, crude, extraordinarily loud music, but there was no denying that the simple tune was music.

  She ended with a short burst of dragon fire that arced into the air before she slowly sank back into the water.

  How was that? she asked, hesitantly.

  “That was music!” Ameras praised clapping happily. “Real music!”

  “We’ve just been treated to the first dragon song recital in history,” nodded Rolof, thoughtfully.

  “It was loud!” Alya laughed, “But I enjoyed it.”

  “Beating your wings was well done. The fire at the end was quite nice,” I agreed. “Well done, Avius! You should do that every evening before the kintilla come. To complement their performance,” I encouraged

  You really liked it? she asked, clearly enjoying the praise. I did! It was fun. I’m going to practice more, she promised.

  “As long as you enjoy it, it doesn’t matter if others like it,” Rolof pointed out. “Singing is for your soul, first, and for entertainment, second.”

  “What are the kintilla?” Alya asked me in a whisper, concerned.

  “You’ll see in a moment,” I promised. “They and Avius are why I brought you here. Don’t worry, they’re harmless. That was a unique performance, Avius. Quite engaging. I encourage you to continue to practice.”

  Thank you! she answered, politely, and looked quite pleased with herself. I think the lizard people liked it, too. There are some of them gathering around that shrine they built across the lake. Shall I go sing to them? she asked, eagerly.

  “I think they would see it as a sign of your favor,” agreed Rolof. “It’s often good to practice in front of an audience.”

  I will do that! Avius said, excitedly, and began to withdraw from the cove.

  “I can’t believe I just had a lovely afternoon with a dragon,” Alya said, shaking her head in disbelief, as she watched the great beast swim across the lake, only her head above the water and her wings folded behind her.

  “I can’t believe we just encouraged a dragon to explore musicology,” I agreed. “We live a very unusual life.”

  “It’s a good life,” she sighed. “Despite all of the . . . distractions. Would you like another drink?” she asked, suddenly.

  “That would be wonderful,” I assured. “We can watch best from up on those rocks. But don’t tarry – you’ll want to see the whole thing.”

  By the time she had returned with a couple of small gourds, Avius had arrived at the other end of the lake and had begun her serenade for the lizard folk. The sun had begun to set. The air was cooling a bit with the breeze off the lake, and the sky began to turn the most glorious shades of pink, purple and orange. Clouds of insects took flight, large enough to cast long shadows and reflections of their combined dancing in the air over the lake on its darkening surface.

  “She’s actually not too bad, when she isn’t standing right in front of you,” Alya commented, gesturing toward Avius’ distant concert with her gourd. “It’s almost pretty. Like a child’s song.”

  “One that ends with dragon fire,” I chuckled. “Oh, look! There’s the first one!” I said, as I saw a faint glimmer of light emerging from the lake.

  I got to enjoy the spectacle of the kintilla’s bioluminescent performance all over again, this time compounded by witnessing Alya experience it for the first time. The novelty of the unexpected show was mesmerizing to her, and her face lit up nearly as brightly with childlike glee at every new glimmer in the lake. I was as gratified by her reaction as if I had constructed it myself.

  When Avius finally took flight, she began singing a new song as she flew. There was a decided change in the cadence and the tempo, slow, at first, then speeding up until she began bellowing a kind of tune. I realized that she was timing it with the strokes of her massive wings taking the air. She gained height over the lake, and in the light of a dying day she did a slow, graceful decent in a spiral that tightened with every rotation.

  “Oh, Minalan,” Alya breathed, as Avius began her descent. “I only wish there was a moon out tonight so we could see her better!”

  “Me, too, more than you know,” I sighed. “But we can see the kintilla better in the dark.”

  As the tiny fish – or whatever they were – began changing colors in great swaths, I took my wife’s hand and squeezed it, earning a priceless smile. I could see the reflection of the kintilla’s dance in her eyes.

  It was a perfect moment, the kind that reflects a deep sense of personal happiness and fulfillment. I would imagine that few of us have more than one or two of those, in the course of our lives. I cherished every one of mine like jewels, I realized.

  I sighed, and kissed her, as dragon fire erupted beautifully overhead, the kintilla started to recede, and darkness finally fell.

  I dreamt beautiful dreams that night, after making love to my beloved wife.

  We were curled up near the fire, while Ameras and Rolof slept in her little lean-to shelter. Alya was drunk and exhausted enough to be undisturbed by the noises of the night, even the strange ones that this lost world contained.

  She’d never trained or served in military service. Even without wards, I startled awake with the realization that someone was lurking at the edge of the encampment. The fire had died, and the only light came from the thousands of tiny stars in the moonless sky above.

  My blurry eyes tried to focus in the darkness while my hand fumbled for my weapons when a voice came through the darkness in a quiet whisper.

  “Minalan,” Lilastien called softly. “It is time.”

  I groaned quietly, hoping I was still dreaming. I closed my eyes and prayed to Briga to answer. But the Flame that Burneth Bright did not answer, despite the fire nearby. Maybe she doesn’t work with mere embers, I reflected.

  With no prospect of divine intervention, I sat upright and rubbed my face.

  “Do I have to?” I complained.

  “It’s the first night of the new moon,” she reminded me. “It’s time.”

  “This isn’t really a good time for me,” I said, patting Alya’s rump.

  “It looks like you just had the good time,” she observed. “Come on. Get up. It’s time to save the world.”

  I let out massive sigh. But I got up.

  “Maybe we misinterpreted . . .” I suggested, weakly.

  “We did not,” Lilastien said, insistently. “We both heard the words of the Grandfather Tree. He said at the new moon. That’s now. Tonight. Well, what’s left of it. Careful you don’t wake the others,” she said, leaning on her plasma rifle. “We don’t need to waste time with explanations and arguments.”

  “I know, I know,” I said, rising to my hands and knees. I paused to give Alya a farewell kiss. “They’re all drunk on beet rum and fruit juice, anyway. So am I,” I added, hoping that would somehow excuse me from what was ahead.

  “That’s probably wise,” she nodded, unhelpfully. “I’m not certain you could do this, sober.”

  “That’s not very encouraging as to the wisdom of this,” I complained, as I gathered my own rifle, drew on my tunic, and looked around for my pants.

  “The wise thing is not always the correct thing,” she said, sounding like Fondaras. “This is the right thing to do, and we both know it. But it is far from wise,” she said, sadly.

  “For you, it will be an interesting object lesson. For me, it might mean my death,” I said, as I buckled on my belt and
sword. I carried my inert mageblade on my left hip, now, to keep it from interfering with either the plasma rifle, when it was slung, or the pistol on my right hip.

  “He was a bit vague on that part,” she reminded me, encouragingly. “This may not actually kill you.”

  “The term ‘death’ was definitely in his words,” I muttered. “I heard ‘death.’ My death. And I don’t think the ancient woodpile speaks in allegory.”

  “He also said that if we do this, we may have a real chance to save the world.”

  “I’m still trying to get around the whole prediction of my death,” I said, snagging another bottle of beet rum from the hamper. I didn’t think I wanted to sober up any time soon. “That sounds like prophecy, and I dislike prophecy. Especially when it concerns my death.”

  “How can you save the world if you’re dead?” she challenged. “The truth is, I think he meant that there was the risk of death. Which there is,” she reminded me. “Even if things go well.”

  “Maybe you get so inspired by my death that you save the world in my memory,” I proposed, gloomily.

  “I’m not the mighty Spellmonger,” she countered, as I prepared my horse. “I’m a sage, a spellsinger, a scientist, and physician. I’m not a wizard. And, as you said, the Grandfather Tree probably doesn’t use allegory.”

  “May Briga damn his lack of literary merit,” I grumbled, as I fastened the saddle. “Didn’t even send his prophecy in rhyming couplets – who doesn’t use rhyming couplets?” I demanded.

  “From what I understand, the art of the Met Sakinsa involves more pollen and pheromones than subtle literary devices,” she offered. “I look forward to sneezing my way through one, some day. But his meaning was clear enough. It’s up to the two of us, if Callidore is going to be saved. And only if we do this.”

  “Then let’s do this,” I said, as the toe of my boot sought the stirrup. “Before I sober up, lose my nerve, and come to my senses.” I heaved my way up into the saddle. I nearly fell off the other side.

  “Off to glory we go, then,” she said. “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”