Fantastic Schools, Volume 3

by Emily Martha Sorensen

  “Master Sylverson? What’s this?”

  Howard was brought out of his pondering by the voice of a cheerful, eager student. He located the source and smiled.

  “Ahhh, good catch, Daphne!” Howard said earnestly. “That is The Great Book of Monsters! It’s an illustrated listing of the different races and creatures you encounter in the game.”

  “Really?” Daphne’s eagerness seemed to double immediately.

  “It says great book of monsters on the spine, dummy,” interjected Shaun. He and the rest of Wesley’s group were approaching the table.

  “Yes, Daphne, and it’s a pretty cool collection,” Howard replied, as if the other student hadn’t spoken.

  “Is this supposed to be a dragon on the cover?”

  Howard nodded, and added, “Yep, that’s how some Mundanes imagine dragons look like.” He pointed to the book cover’s illustration. “And that’s supposed to be a dwarf getting ready to fight it.”

  Daphne glanced once more at the illustration and burst out laughing. She began to show it to the students closest to her.

  And the questions started coming from all around.

  “Why does the dragon’s face look like it’s part horse?”

  “Can you fight dragons in the game, too?”

  “Are you sure that’s supposed to be a dwarf, Master Sylverson?”

  “Show us how the game works?”

  “I’ve got a book that says ‘Spells’? Did the Mundane people get any right? Can I look inside?”

  “What are these for, Master Sylverson?”

  “You’re going to let us play the game, right, Master Sylverson?”

  “Why don’t these dice do anything besides roll?”

  “Can I stay here after class?”

  Taking in a deep breath, Howard prepared to answer the questions.

  At that moment, the door to the classroom swung open. Even though Howard had never met the person in the doorway, he knew the man’s identity. The features were too much like the son’s, right down to the haircut. Overpriced robes and gold filigree along the sleeves spoke volumes about how much this chap wanted to impress and intimidate. Lessons he’d taught his offspring.

  The oft-mentioned but never met William Weatherford, in the flesh.

  Mister Weatherford strode into the classroom like a celebrity at the opening of a film with their name at the top billing. Howard expected smartphones and paparazzi to suddenly appear and blind them all with photographic flashes.

  When the senior Weatherford spoke, he even sounded, to Howard, like an actor taking the stage to begin a monologue in a lousy Shakespearean production. One that couldn’t afford a classically trained thespian.

  “So… this is what McMillan pays a Mundane for: Rubbish instead of history.”

  “I know, right?” the younger Weatherford replied in an eager tone.

  A part of Harold’s mind told him there was a time to put a parent in their place, to respect the classroom. And that time was not now. This was a fully trained wizard, and one that obviously expected his words to carry weight. Possibly even wanted to make an example of whomever failed to pay fealty to his supposed greatness. Someone Harold had no clue how to properly deal with.

  Of course, that part of Harold’s mind got promptly booted to the far corner.

  “You must be the janitor,” Harold said. “So good to see you. I’ve been asking for the windows to be cleaned for weeks, now. Get along with it, and don’t interrupt my class.”

  Somewhere in the ensuing silence that followed, one of the students dropped a single die on the table. It rattled and rolled loudly in the empty air. Harold was pretty sure it was a twenty-sided die. He wondered what number had come up when it ended its journey.

  Energy crackled in the room. Harold felt the fine hairs on his neck and arms start to stand up. Mister Weatherford swore violently in Latin even as his left hand dove into the folds of his robes. There was movement all around Harold, but he dared not take his eyes off of this newly made nemesis. He braced himself to move as soon as the wand came out of Weatherford’s absurd outfit.

  “I thought I smelled you on the grounds,” a thickly accented voice growled. “Shall I presume you’re about to show Master Sylverson your favorite card trick? Mayhap astound him with a trained dove or two?”

  A few of the students snorted with laughter. Weatherford the elder spun back to the doorway, hand still buried beneath his clothes.

  Olan Kram, professor of herbology, leaned casually against the door frame. His head brushed the top of the frame, giving full view of his impressive height and considerable scowl. The flaming red hair which was normally captured in a long ponytail lay across his broad shoulders.

  “Kram,” the older Weatherford muttered. More than a little contempt in that voice.

  “I’m waiting, Billy boy,” countered Master Kram.

  Slowly an empty hand came out of the robe and came to a stop at Weatherford’s left hip.

  “Well, damn. I was hoping to see if you could guess my card,” Kram said with a deadpan expression. “It’s the Ace of Spades, incidentally.”

  Harold took a moment to look behind him at his students. Emily, Andy, and Jackson were trying to stuff their wands back into their robes. The rest were concentrating on the confrontation at the front of the class. Some looked stunned. Most looked eager.

  Bless those three, Harold thought, they were going to try and defend me.

  “Shouldn’t you be squeezing tubers or boring children with your technique for extracting thorns from roses?” Weatherford’s adult voice brought Harold back to the situation.

  Master Kram chuckled. “By your granny’s beard, Billy boy, you are feeling mighty bold today, aren’t you? Did the wife let you have an extra cookie?”

  Silence held for a long moment, Weatherford finally turned away, walked to the large table, and snatched up a book.

  “I suppose you approve of this drivel?” Weatherford the elder asked over his shoulder to Master Kram. “Our students being taught the ignorant ways and beliefs of the non-Magickal?” He began flipping through the pages of the book he’d taken.

  Harold noticed it was the Great Book of Monsters, volume two.

  “There is plenty to know if any of our students wind up living or working among them.” Master Kram countered. “As for today, the faculty were notified that Master Sylverson was bringing these materials in. Mostly as an educational entertainment for his classes.”

  “Exactly!” Howard interjected, “It’s all rather silly stuff. Even more so when you see how wrong we mundane beings are about so many species. I mean, the fact that most deny their existence is amusing enough, but how we imagine their appearance is just-”

  “Look at the pictures of the unicorns, Father!” Wesley interjected. He began flipping pages violently in the book his parent held. With a triumphant sneer on his face, he suddenly stopped, smacked a page. The older Weatherford scowled.

  “Oh, how pretty!” Mister Weatherford said. He balanced mockery and contempt quite well with his voice and facial expression. “I suppose this abomination also defecates flower petals and grants wishes to children!”

  “Rainbows, actually, depending on the mythos you follow,” Harold automatically corrected. “And they’re supposedly only fond of young female virgins!”

  Harold knew he was attempting to make light of the unicorn mythos he was familiar with. It took no time at all for him to see the effort was wasted on the Weatherford males. The younger looked as if he were a giant toad who watched a fly come just a little too close. The elder was scowling even deeper than before. Red color was rising in his face.

  “Bad enough that mundanes encourage their children to think a terrifying and xenophobic species is fair to behold, but they make them pedophiles as well? Is there any end to the ignorance?” Mister Weatherford demanded.

  “Best pay attention,” Master Kram called from the doorway. “If Billy boy is calling anyone ignorant, he’d certainly know. Can s
mell his own kind, after all.”

  And then, Master Kram made a more than passable imitation of a goat bleating.

  A rather loud imitation, to give an honest account. Complete with his forefingers pointing up to indicate tiny horns at the side of his head.

  Harold couldn’t help but bark laughter. Which gave many of the students the courage to join in.

  Upon later reflection, that may not have been the best response.

  Chapter 3

  “What other atrocities is this mundane teaching the children?” the elder Weatherford roared. His eyes were too wide, his face rigid. He flipped a few pages in the book. So roughly that the action ripped the bottom of at least one page.

  “I suppose this ridiculous depiction of a troll is supposed to be intimidating? Or frightening?” he continued. “At least it barely resembles an actual troll!”

  The younger Weatherford had been standing rather close to the elder. With his father’s rage really coming to the foreground, Wesley had begun to edge away. His hands fidgeted near the inner pocket in his robes. The robe, although neatly pressed and spotless, was standard issue for all students, as was the inner pocket. That was where most students kept their wands.

  Isabella, a favorite student of Harold’s, stood up. Her long black hair, which normally fell down her whole back, was cascaded across her entire torso. Complete with her lowered brow and angry body language, she made her teacher think of a Japanese horror film creature.

  “Master Sylerson told you this is all for fun! None of it is supposed to be taken seriously or as how anything looks or acts!” she said with all the dignity and steel of an angered adolescent.

  Mister Weatherford did not acknowledge her directly. He did raise his voice as he began to read from the book.

  “Trolls often carry simple weapons such as clubs. If they are found carrying more sophisticated weaponry such as swords or axes, the weapons would have been scavenged from trolls’ victims, or, quite possibly, a former meal. They can only attack once per melee, and are prone to confusion.”

  He put the book down on the table with a bang. It stayed open to the pages he had been looking at. As he lectured in his loud, booming voice, Weatherford looked back and forth to his son, other students, and Master Kram. He made no eye contact with Harold, or any of the students who had made any effort to defend their mundane teacher.

  “What if the troll council saw this? They would be livid! This generation will be clueless how to engage or keep negotiations with any other species if they are taught this rubbish!”

  Making a mental note to ask Olan Kram about troll councils at a later time, Harold cleared his throat and tried to get through to the older Weatherford. The younger one looked petrified.

  “We mundanes make up for knowledge with a great deal of childish imagination, Mister Weatherford. I don’t deny that. We usually can’t manage negotiations with each other! Attempting to do what you or other Magickal persons do would be, absolutely, ludicrous. None of what you’re concerned with is what is actually happening here, however.”

  Just as Harold was prepared to go on with his attempt at de-escalation, William Weatherford stomped over to his son. Wesley cowered. His father yanked the boy’s wand out of his robe pocket, tearing the cloth.

  “I will show you all how wrong these books are!” promised Mister Weatherford. He pointed his son’s wand at the open book.

  Olan Kram charged from the doorway.

  “Billy, you idiot!” he yelled. “Don’t!”

  There was the sense of pressure building in the air just before the flash of light obscured the book, the wand, and most of Mister Weatherford. A second flash came right after as Kram shot the wand out of Weatherford’s hand with a bolt of energy from his open palm. As the students were trying to understand what happened, Kram tackled Weatherford. The two men crashed to the classroom floor.

  All of the students were in a frenzy of confusion and excitement. Harold clapped his hands together. The sharp sounds brought the chaos to an end. The collective adolescents stilled, found chairs to sit in or places to stand on. The sole exception was Wesley, who seemed torn between going toward his father or finding someplace else to be. Harold was about to address him, when his eyes fell upon the open volume of the monster guide.

  “Ummm… the picture of the troll is gone. From my book. Can someone explain why there is a big blank space in my book?” Harold asked no one in particular.

  “Because Billy the goat-fucking idiot just embued it with life,” Master Kram grumbled from his place on the floor.

  He and Mister Weatherford were both rising up onto their feet. Several feet separated them, but neither man looked ready to attack the other. Both looked disheveled, irritated, but kept their eyes to their own feet.

  Two students snorted brief laughter. But Isabella spoke up.

  “He used Magick to make the picture come alive, Master Sylerson. It’s a restricted spell, because people use it badly.”

  “Wait, that can be done?” Harold asked, aware that he should close his still-hanging jaw.

  “It’s only temporary,” Mister Weatherford tried to sound non-plussed. “The spell only grants a limited life span. But you’ll all see it’s nothing like an actual troll.”

  “Only temporary?!” barked Master Kram. “A creating spell from a well-worn witch or wizard may live as long as a century, and might resist being disapparated! Now we have one made by a pandering fool with no impulse control!”

  That’s when the “troll” smashed the windows from the outside.

  Chapter 4

  Harold instinctively put himself between the flying glass fragments and as many of his students as possible. He didn’t know what was going on. Until he opened his eyes and looked at the eight-foot-tall creature walking out of his childhood imagination and into his classroom.

  The book troll was having to pull itself in through the broken window frame by its abnormally long arms and claws. The legs were half the length of its arms. A black loincloth was the only garment. Black hair, the only hair that this troll appeared to have, hung from the ape-like face and down its chest. The skin was a mottled green. Claws on both hands were at least six inches long. Red eyes scanned the room and occupants.

  “Cachu,” Master Kram swore. With a movement like throwing a heavy object, Kram thrust his fist in the direction of the book troll. A cloudy shape that looked like a war hammer ejected from the knuckles, flew with astounding speed to strike the creature in the chest.

  The spell struck the book troll hard enough to push it back out the broken windows, plus another fifty yards away. The large mass hit the back courtyard with a wet crunch, rolled for another few yards, and came to a stop.

  No movement came from the book troll’s crumpled form.

  A wiry student with shoulder-length dirty blond hair and sharp blue eyes spoke up.

  “Well, Wesley’s dad was right. That looked more like a goblin with lousy hygiene than any troll I’ve ever seen.”

  From behind him, Harold heard Ashley reply, “Just shut up, Alfred!”

  “See?” Wesley blurted out, his swagger seemingly restored. “Like my dad said, not going to be a problem!”

  Without realizing he was going to say it, Harold declared, “None of you have watched movies, have you?”

  The troll started to get to its feet.

  Harold would later reflect that this day was the one with all the long, pregnant silences. Another occurred while the occupants of the classroom watched the book troll stand and begin to walk towards them again. The monstrosity looked more like it had woken from a nap than been physically thrown a considerable distance.

  Grabbing William Weatherford by the neck, Master Kram demanded, “Are you going to keep gawking, or get rid of your little creation?” before pushing the man towards the shattered remains of the windows.

  After keeping himself from fumbling over his own feet, Weatherford the elder pulled out his wand. It was as eye catching and full of frippery
as his robes. Gold leaves wrapped around the wooden shaft. Some dark scaled hide made up the bottom of the wand like the grip of a sword. An ornate uppercase W was carved at the bottom.

  Weatherford raised the wand toward the advancing creature.

  “Disperse!” Weatherford commanded.

  Another brilliant flash, similar to the one he had caused with his son’s wand, burst out.

  And the book troll was still coming.

  Now may be the time for me to dismiss the class so we can all run, Harold reasoned.

  “TROLL IN THE GARDEN!”

  That panicked declaration came from the open doorway of the classroom.

  Harold looked to the hallway, where the voice had actually come from. Announcements were made via Magick, so they sounded like they came from everywhere. This was a voice from somewhere down the hall, coming this way.

  An older school master ran by the opened door. He was holding his robes up with both hands to prevent tripping. He yelled again as he continued moving away, so it sounded like: “TTTRRRRROOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLLL INNNN THE GAAARDEEEEEN!!!”

  A moment later the sound of someone colliding with something far more solid, such as a door or wall, was heard, followed by a thump. Harold looked to his students. They looked to be as confused as he was. The troll, which wasn’t even a real troll, was in the courtyard. It was almost back in the building! The garden was past the courtyard, in the opposite direction.

  With an uneasy tone in his voice, Master Kram explained, “There’s one that lives in the woods near the garden and hedges.”

  “A...real troll,” Harold replied.

  “Yes.”

  “Why the hell didn’t Daddy Dipshit just take us out there and hold the picture in the book up next to it?” Harold screeched.

  “He.”

  “What?”

  “The troll that lives off the grounds. Male. Not an ‘it’ unlike the sexless thing that Billy boy made,” Kram said, before adding, “Daddy Dipshit. I will need to remember that one!”

  “Why wasn’t Weatherford able to get rid of the uh, book troll?” Harold asked.