Fantastic Schools, Volume 3

by Emily Martha Sorensen

  “—implore you, the great protector of… Um, what?”

  Vurnerrah stretched languidly, mostly to show off his beautiful and magnificent wingspan. He hadn’t felt the “bard” was appropriately inspired. “It’s just that I didn’t demand that lunch be brought to me, and I prefer my meals a little less pickled. So, either this is a hazing, or you’re trying to butter me up before asking a favor.”

  Relieved of having to come up with a speech, the human relaxed visibly, which told Vurnerrah everything he needed to know about the human’s career potential as a bard.

  The man said, “Well, you see. There’s this troll.”

  “Wait.” He gestured for the others to bring the cask of wine. He popped the cork with one sharp claw and took an experimental swallow. Light, fruity, a hint of pixie oak… Acceptable payment for his attention.

  In the valley, there was an explosion. The Piotas exchanged worried glances. Mortals.

  Vurnerrah smacked his lips and recorked the cask. “Now, what about this troll?”

  Ted had told Gurlurk not to let negativity hold him down. “Just crush all that negativity—really crush it!—and push away the people who would hold you down. Then, you’ll find yourself surrounded by people who will support you in your goals.”

  Gurlurk was trying to do that. He really was. So far, he’d crushed the Phi Iota Tau Sigma frat house, destroyed the lobby of the admissions office, and ripped up a couple of dubious-looking trees for good measure. He’d flung away the nay-saying Piotas (those that hadn’t run), and when Piccs demanded he leave, he’d stomped on him.

  But no one had stepped up to fill the void with positive support, and it was starting to annoy him.

  “Gurlurk want be Piota!”

  He ripped up an oak tree and flung it roots first through the wall of the admissions building.

  “Gurlurk want learn spells!”

  He grabbed the centaur charging him and flung him into the advancing squad of security officers.

  “Gurlurk want do magic!”

  Suddenly, the sky darkened. Gurlurk cheered. He’d done it! He’d made weather magic!

  Then huge claws grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him into the air. It wasn’t weather magic. It was a dragon blotting out the sun. He howled in disappointment and struggled.

  The dragon spoke to him in perfect Trollese. “What wrong with you? Trolls no do magic. Trolls no do magic; magic no hurt trolls. That deal. That deal since alwaystime.”

  “No! Not this time. Gurlurk believe. Ted say, ‘Believe and achieve.’ Gurlurk believe.”

  “Who Ted?” The dragon twisted its neck so it could look at him. It sniffed his clothing. “A Mundane? You took life advice from a Mundane?”

  Gurlurk’s uppercut caught the dragon in the jaw. The dragon yelped and dropped him, then caught him with his tail.

  “Be thankful you don’t go with a sweet zinfandel. Behave or I eat you,” the dragon warned, then spoke more calmly. “Mundanes no understand trolls. Ted no know trolls no do magic.”

  “Ted different! Ted ‘get’ Gurlurk! Ted understand.”

  “Really? Ted know you plan eat him?”

  Gurlurk thought. Ted had seemed rather surprised when he hit him with the rock. “Nooo….”

  “Ted Mundane. Ted no know trolls. Ted no know trolls eat people. Ted no know trolls not magic. Ted idiot.”

  Gurlurk beat on the dragon’s tail. “No! Ted smart. Ted say Gurlurk do anything Gurlurk believe!”

  “Listen, Meat…”

  “Prince Gurlurk. No, wait. Mage Gurlurk, Gurlurk the Great!” That had a nice sound to it.

  “Prince? Prince Gurlurk need go home. Need rule caves. Need make troll babies.”

  “Dragon sound like Dad!”

  As expected, Prince Gurlurk did not see reason. Even worse, he had caught a piece of Vurnerrah’s tail and was trying to bite through the scales, which didn’t hurt but did involve a lot of drool. Time for Plan B.

  Vurnerrah rose above the clouds and hovered, waiting while the troll realized it was a long way to the ground and screamed until he passed out from the thin air. Then the dragon headed to the entrance of a cave where the Piotas waited with sturdy ropes and a large donkey-drawn cart. They quickly bound the unconscious troll and wheeled him into the cave and down into the dungeon. Vurnerrah used magic to shrink himself small enough to follow.

  They took a meandering path through the halls, some of which were still under construction, until they came to a large room filled with oddities: ropes, wheels, gears, a couple of banged-up lab tables, and the components for spell-making. At one end of the room, a pair of 20-foot doors opened into a smaller but still large closet.

  A half-dozen Piotas, now partly sober, swarmed about, discussing strategies and making preparations. Some were creating lights in the closet while others were piling food and blankets into it. Still others giggled as they discussed a spell.

  The leader of the Phi Iota Tau Sigma fraternity greeted Vurnerrah with open arms. “Welcome to the Dungeon of PITS, where would-be brothers face tests of the heart and mind!” he boomed. Then, his voice lowered to a more casual tone, and he said, “It’s a good thing, too. This room is where pledges are supposed to create a spell to keep the doors magically sealed before the troll can break them or open it from his end. What a coincidence, huh?”

  Dragons can’t raise their eyebrows, so Vurnerrah tilted his head curiously at the Phi Iota Tau Sigma leader.

  He shuffled his feet. “Well, we weren’t going to use a real troll, just a magical facsimile.”

  They dumped the moaning Gurlurk into the closet and untied him while Vurnerrah made himself large enough to fill the room, just in case the troll decided to come to fighting. They dashed out as Gurlurk sat up.

  Vurnerrah stuck his face close to Gurlurk’s. “Gurlurk been bad troll. Do much damage. Kill many people Gurlurk not eat. Gurlurk in Time Out now. Stay calm. Think about place in world.”

  He saw the troll tense and bared his teeth in response. “Time Out, or I eat you.”

  Gurlurk glared at him, then went to the blankets and shoved them into a nest. He pulled one around his shoulders and squatted. “Gurlurk hate dragon!”

  He wouldn’t be the first mortal to say that. Vurnerrah backed out, and the Piotas shoved the doors closed. While a group of them started working a spell, he spoke to the leader.

  “I’ll go to his village and tell his parents where he is and explain the situation. They’ll come to fetch him after they think he’s had time to calm down. In the meantime, my payment?”

  The Piota leader touched his fraternity pin. It was a nice pin, white gold, with the letters surrounding a dragonstone chip embedded in sapphire. Some dragons were all about the gold coins and precious gems; but Vurnerrah leaned toward crafted items with unique stories, and this was a story worth remembering.

  The leader grinned apologetically but spoke with the conviction that had earned him the title of Piota Prime. “I’m afraid we can’t just give you the sacred jewelry of our order. We’ll need to induct you into the rolls. Will you swear to be loyal to your fellow brothers and obedient to the rule of the Sacred Order of Phi Iota Tau Sigma?”

  “No.”

  He shrugged. “Well, you can be an honorary member, then.”

  Piotas dressed in ceremonial robes began filing in from the hallways, singing the fraternity anthem. In the meantime, the students working the spell finished their last touches. Ropes glowing with magic swirled over the door, twisting and knotting themselves until they resolved into a combination of runes and Greek letters. They read: Phi Iota Tau Sigma. We plumb the depths to reach new heights.

  In the closet, Gurlurk picked up a rock and threw it against the wall. It was a tiny stone and made a puny little sound.

  “Believe, Gurlurk.”

  Plink!

  “Achieve, Gurlurk.”

  Clink.

  Karina Fabian is Vern’s much-harassed biographer. In between writing his stories—and heari
ng him nag about her not writing his stories—she writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror. To pay the bills (because Vern’s broker than she is), she writes product reviews for Fit Small Business. Learn more and check out Vern’s adventures at http://karinafabian.com

  Troll In the Garden

  J. F. Posthumus

  Mundane substitute teacher Harold Sylverson has introduced much to his magical pupils, including his love for tabletop gaming. At the begging of his students, he brings in enough dice for his classes as well as the books and sheets required to play the fantasy roleplaying game. But not all his students are thrilled with him bringing the Mundane to the Magical. When one of the parents of the school's bullies arrives to deride Harold for his teaching methods and the fact the game is nothing like reality, chaos ensues when the father brings a troll from the book of monsters to life. Now there's a troll in the garden, and Harold, with his fellow instructors, have to figure out how to get rid of it!

  “Troll in the Garden” is the third story featuring Harold Sylverson; the first can be found in Fantastic Schools Vol. 2 and the second can be found in Cracked: A Chicken Anthology.

  Troll in the Garden

  Chapter 1

  “Master Sylverson! Did you bring it?”

  “Can we see it now, Master Sylverson?”

  “Who wants to see that boring stuff the Mundanes play with, anyways.”

  “Get stuffed, Wesley! I saw him bringing the boxes in and it looks cool.”

  “Students, please calm down.” Howard Sylverson instructed in a calm, if bemused, tone. “To answer you, in order; yes, I brought it. No, first we have attendance and homework review to do. No one is required to look at or interact with anything I have brought from the non-Magickal sections I’ve lived in. And Ashley? Watch your language. Master Westerford has a right to his opinion.”

  He paused, dropped his chin so that his bright eyes twinkled over the rims of his glasses. He dropped a wink in the direction of the last student he’d addressed.

  “Absolutely spot-on, Ashley. It is cool.”

  Most of the classroom’s occupants cheered. Howard Sylverson, who taught World History in this classroom five days a week, smiled at his students. Even at Wesley Westerford and his small pack of brooding sidekicks. He knew Wesley was a bully, and his company of five other students here at Hogsback Creek Academy were empowered by him to act just as vulgar and entitled as he did.

  Hogsback Creek Academy, School of Magecraft, here in scenic Virginia. Howard silently reflected. Home to the Fighting Bumblebee, witches and wizards of all levels. I came here by mistake, and was asked to stay on after my first week as a substitute.

  Staying was precisely what he had done. His so-called ordinary life of streaming entertainment, texting, overpriced coffee to go and microwave meals in between substitute teacher gigs? That had been turned completely upside down and front to back in the course of a single phone call and car ride up Hogsback Mountain. Old road signs that he was apparently not supposed to be able to see led him when the cell phone service and GPS failed. He’d parked, asked to be shown his assigned room, and then the world stopped making sense. The world he had known, at least.

  That was six weeks, or a figurative lifetime, ago.

  Since then, Howard had been given full-time teaching privileges by the headmaster of the school, Angus McMillan. He had living quarters complete with running water that he used at the Academy. On weekends, he often returned to his apartment within the Mundane, or non-Magickal, community.

  The majority of his students had taken a quick interest in “Sylverson’s life as a Mundane”. Once it was established that he did, in truth, have no knowledge of the Magickal that existed all around? The questions and requests seemed never-ending.

  What do you have on your portable phone thing? Does it even work here?

  How do you keep from being bored all the time if you didn’t see all this stuff?

  Is it true that Mundanes don’t read from paper or parchment anymore?

  Why can’t Mundanes know about us? Because they don’t understand us? We have to learn Math! I don’t understand that at all!

  On and on it went from the first day. Howard didn’t mind it, though. He had so much to learn about their lives, so their questions gave him a chance to teach them about his.

  “Students, please get to your seats and raise your wands. Flares up, if you would.” He instructed the gathered crowd. Groans of disappointment, followed by the loud shuffling of bodies into wooden desks.

  The thirteen students each held up a carved wooden stick in one hand. Sparks or small flames of various hues began sputtering from the tips. Howard had learned early on to employ this method of counting his charges. Some of these children had advanced enough skills to project illusions of themselves or others, albeit temporarily. In the first fortnight of his time here, there were several times that truant students had evaded being detected as absent until he had been educated by other instructors.

  Howard verified that all of his students were in class. He smiled to himself once this was accomplished. No surprise that they were all here, even Westerford and his lackeys.

  Today was the day that Howard had agreed to bring all the materials for his favorite teen-years activity. Thirty years’ worth of Medieval fantasy role playing table top games and all the silly beloved junk that he’d acquired to go with it. The books, adventure modules, maps, figures and of course the dice.

  Enough dice for each student to have a set to play with. Okay, Howard silently admitted, enough for each student to have four sets to play with. I admit I have an obsession!

  “Thank you, everyone. You may lower your wands, and pass forward your homework.”

  Most of the homework came to him via parchment scrolls. There were a surprising number of assignments that came to him today on ruled paper, written with number 2 pencils. More and more of his students were adapting to “his” way of writing down work.

  Howard knew some of his students would never try the Mundane practice of paper and pencil. That was fine. He couldn’t get the hang of using a quill and ink to save his life or dignity.

  Once all the homework had been gathered, Howard turned the pages of his handbook to the answer portion of the assignment he’d given. This was his routine. After everyone had turned their work in, he reviewed the proper answers to the class. He had tried to accommodate his former method of reviewing before students turned in their work, to give them a chance to change incorrect answers. That had changed when he had been offered to stay here, full-time.

  He no longer had to worry about giving students easy “A’s” so they wouldn’t whine to parents and guardians. Which would make his ability to return to a school for more work difficult.

  Granted, he hadn’t had to worry about dodging fireballs, noticing sleeping potions next to his packed lunch, getting literally cursed or dozens of other unexpected tribulations, either. At least he considered his life to be vastly more interesting as a result.

  As Howard looked up from the handbook, two things made him pause. The first was the heavy, pregnant silence in the room. The second was the wide, expectant stares of most of the students.

  “I get the impression that few of you are interested in the homework’s answers. More so than usual.” He added the second sentence as a joke. No one responded.

  “You are that curious about an old game based on the imagination of Mundanes? Or dice that don’t roll themselves or do anything besides show numbers?” Howard proposed.

  The energy in the room felt immediately thicker, and he swore he could hear it humming all around him.

  “I’m not,” Westerford declared flatly. Some of his group grunted in agreement.

  “Master Sylverson?” A lad with long strawberry blonde hair and twinkling brown eyes spoke up. “Can we use Wesley’s homework as the example for last night’s assignment?”

  “That is a fine suggestion, Xolyn.” Howard replied with a little more cheer than he should have.
He moved towards the pile of scrolls. His eyes kept Wesley Westerford in the peripheral so he could enjoy how rapidly the bully’s face blanched.

  It was not disappointing.

  “Fine, get your dumb game,” Wesley grumbled. Snickering came from all around the classroom. Young Westerford looked like he wanted to curse every person he could see.

  “Well, since we have your illustrious blessing in the matter,” Howard said while making a dramatic flourish with his left hand, “I shall do just that!”

  Cheers erupted.

  Chapter 2

  Some of the students helped Master Sylverson move the boxes of gaming materials out of the closet and onto a summoned grand table. Since Master Sylverson was unable to summon so much as a cup of coffee, the student who was best at casting such spells did the best she could. Katherine Butler, the student in question, managed just fine. A table of requirement appeared even as the first boxes were being brought out.

  The table was long enough to seat all the students and the teacher. As more boxes were brought out and the contents moved around, the table’s width expanded to accommodate. By the time the maps, books and other paraphernalia were spread out for all to see, the table took up half the classroom.

  Howard was grateful that his students could command the chairs and desks to stack themselves against the walls to make room. He’d had to use Mundane methods to rearrange classrooms plenty of times before. The class might have had five minutes to look over everything before time was up if it wasn’t for Magick being used.

  In addition to getting to watch something as nifty as furniture walking and stacking themselves, there was still plenty of time to do this particular “show and tell.”

  While the helpful students had been busy, Howard noticed Wesley and his group huddled together. There seemed to be some chatter happening, although he could only see Wesley’s lips moving. A mental note to be on the watch for some extra trouble was made.