A Wizard's Tears

by Gilbert, Craig

  “Daddy, look!” shouted a tiny voice in excitement behind him. Keldoran watched with interest as a small boy dragged his father over to the Bu’kep. “The juggler!”

  The father nodded to the Bu’kep. “Please forgive my son, he gets a little headstrong,” he muttered apologetically.

  “Nonsense!” beamed the Bu’kep, grinning broadly at the little boy. “I like his carefree attitude.”

  Keldoran was dumbstruck. The accent of the man’s words! It was unlike anything he had heard before. His voice sung. It was magical.

  “Will you juggle for me? Please! Please!” jumped the boy, pointing to a small pouch resting on the Bu’kep’s belt.

  “Why, of course, little one! What better way to pass the time then to juggle, to tease, to delight?”

  In a fluid motion, the Bu’kep reached into his pouch and produced three, small wooden balls. In seconds they were above his head, seeming to almost hover in mid-air before they were caught in his dextrous hands. Then they were spun into the air once more, to the delights and cheers of the crowd.

  Keldoran decided then and there that he wanted to learn that trick. It was amazing to watch. The man was so athletic, so lithe, he was dancing about, hopping from one foot to the other, his horn glinting in the morning sun, and he did not drop a ball, not even once.

  The crowd clapped thunderously when he finished. Keldoran joined in, shaking his head in amazement. He turned to see if the blonde girl had seen the spectacle, and stopped clapping his hands. She seemed oblivious to the Bu’kep’s juggling, seeming to stare at the open road before her as if that was all there was in the world. Her mood made Keldoran frown slightly.

  A hush descended onto the crowd.

  His thoughts on the girl gone, Keldoran looked at the road. He could see a horse trotting along it, dragging a carriage behind. He squinted, for they were far away, to see if he could make out the rider on the horse. Moments passed, and then he could see the mage: a dark grey robed figure, hood over his face. He rode with a calm-like superiority. His horse wore a grey robe itself, and even it seemed to hold its head high, proud to be ridden by one so exalted as a mage.

  The horse stopped silently in front of the crowd. Keldoran looked up at the mage in front of him, a tall, imposing figure. His heart was in his mouth.

  Slowly, almost regal in his movements, the mage stepped down from his steed. He removed his hood, showing his chiselled, wise features. His eyes shone a bright blue, penetrating in their gaze. His hair was white, and long. His forehead had lines of age. To Keldoran, he looked in his late sixties. He was surprised the mage had no beard; he thought all mages had beards.

  “I have come to your village seeking new apprentices,” boomed out the mage in a powerful, strong voice. He did not bid the village a greeting, nor did he smile. His demeanour seemed arrogant, and Keldoran remembered his father’s words, but only for a moment.

  “Those who deem themselves worthy to follow the path of the mages, step forward.”

  The mage stood to one side, and gestured with his arm. He then stood solemnly, waiting.

  For a few brief moments Keldoran was rooted to the spot, his legs suddenly very heavy and sluggish. He had a quick thought – was he worthy to become a mage? Then it was gone as he watched the Bu’kep step forward with no sign of nerves. The juggler smiled at the mage, and nodded at him, rather cheekily. The mage showed no sign of concern.

  Ok, thought Keldoran, if he can do it, so can I. Breathing deeply, Keldoran stepped forward to stand next to the Bu’kep.

  Moments drifted by. The crowd started to shuffle and mutter among themselves. Only two this year, it would seem, wanted to become a mage. It grew less and less each year.

  No, Keldoran could see some of the crowd parting at the back. Someone was struggling through them, cursing and swearing. Relb appeared finally, dusting himself down, as if he had fallen onto the ground. “Pardon me,” he spluttered to the mage, “I was waiting at the other end of the market. Didn’t see you until the last minute.” With that, he stepped forward, next to Keldoran. Secretly, Keldoran was relieved to see another human join him.

  The blonde girl stepped forward, much to Keldoran’s surprise. She tugged at Relb’s sleeve. He turned to look at her. “Please, could you help me with my luggage?” she asked sweetly. Relb smiled down at her, for she was very small. “Of course I will. Where is it?”

  She nodded towards the three large backpacks.

  “All of those?”

  She nodded at him, smiling all the more sweetly.

  Coughing, Relb walked over to the backpacks, and carried them over to the carriage in turn. The mage motioned for the door to open, and it did so, silently, without aid from any hand of a human. The crowd gasped in awe.

  “Are there any more?” asked the mage. “If so, be swift.”

  The crowd looked at one another, then back to the mage. Nobody else joined the four stood at the front.

  “Then I bid you all farewell,” stated the mage. “May Untaba protect and guide you.”

  He motioned for the four to enter the carriage, then once more mounted his horse. Seeming just to gesture at his steed, the horse snorted slightly, and turned in the road, starting back the way it had come.

  The crowd slowly dispersed, and moved back to the market. The little boy and his father remained, waving at the carriage as it left. Keldoran knew it was probably for the juggler, who sat next to him in the carriage, but he was glad anyway. It seemed a fitting end to the village of his birth: a fond farewell. With a lump in his throat but intensely excited, Keldoran stared back at the village until it was lost from view.

  “So,” began the Bu’kep, his musical voice filling the carriage and warming their ears, “I shall begin with the introductions, for it is a long road to Malana and pleasant conversation is required! I am Corg, at your service.” He nodded to them all, grinning all the while. So many white teeth, Keldoran observed.

  “Keldoran,” he said, extending his hand to the juggler, who shook it violently.

  “I’m Relb,” nodded Relb at the juggler. “Pleased to meet you!”

  “Yvanna,” stated the girl flatly, as if the conversation bored her already.

  “Pleasing names, all,” admired the Bu’kep. “A pleasure to make your acquaintances. You know, I thought I’d be the only one in this carriage today.”

  “Really?” said Relb, curious.

  “Indeed! Have you not heard the story of last year’s recruits from Demorbaln to the city of gold?”

  Relb shook his head.

  “Ah, that would explain why you are here then. I heard that the six people that went last year to Malana are all dead.”

  Relb looked horrified. “Dead?” he exclaimed.

  “Oh yes,” smiled the Bu’kep, “apparently they didn’t cut the grade and the chief mage had them executed.”

  “Oh my goodness!” Relb shuddered. “If I had known that, I surely would not have come!”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Yvanna. “One writes to me, for he was my boyfriend. He is doing fine.”

  “Ah, then my lady, you have undone my little joke!” chuckled the Bu’kep. “For that was all it was, a mere token, to break the ice herein.”

  Keldoran smiled. He liked this juggler. He seemed roguish, interesting.

  “You scared me, there,” said Relb, smiling halfheartedly. “I was taken right in by that.”

  “Indeed you were,” scoffed Yvanna. “Everyone knows mages don’t execute their own!”

  Keldoran kept quiet, refraining from entering the conversation. He could see the different personalities already, and it made for an interesting journey. Corg, the happy and mischievous juggler, Relb, slightly gullible, maybe a bit slow on the uptake, and Yvanna, pompous and arrogant, not taking jokes at all well. Then there was he, a curious adventurer. He had much to learn about the ways of people. It unnerved him slightly that he found the high and mighty Yvanna oddly attractive.

  The conversation continued, the Bu’k
ep asking most of the questions and talking the most. Keldoran did not mind, for Corg’s voice was wonderful. He could listen to it all day, and the juggler was incredibly witty and funny. Relb was laughing loudly at the juggler’s jokes, and it passed the time in the carriage well. Yvanna fell silent, not speaking hardly at all, just staring into space like she did in Demorbaln when waiting for the mage.

  Keldoran tried to catch a glimpse of the mage riding outside, but his viewpoint in the carriage was limited. He looked out at the land travelling by outside, and was pleased to see the sun bob on the horizon, almost winking at him. He was glad it wasn’t raining, for he could see the world unfold before him. Rolling fields of green, and trees stretching tall and wide. He enjoyed the ride immensely.

  They stopped briefly on the first day of travel, to get some food, water and to stretch their legs. The mage said very little, simply opening the carriage and pointing to the supplies at the rear. A plentiful supply of fruit and bread was loaded at the back of the carriage, together with some barrels of water, enough sustenance to last a good week on the road. Corg had informed them all it took about three days of travel to reach Malana. He had done it before, apparently.

  Keldoran was in awe of the mage, who said nothing but motioned for them to eat. He admitted to himself that he was a little scared of the mage, and of the journey ahead. Relb stayed away from him too, choosing just to get his head down and eat. Yvanna walked a little way from the carriage and the road, in a world of her own. Keldoran wondered, not for the last time, what she was thinking. Corg, on the other hand, positively chatted to the mage, who seemed very ignorant of the conversation, rarely contributing to it.

  Corg wandered over to Keldoran after such a conversation, grinning all the time. “He doesn’t say a lot, does he?”

  “No,” agreed Keldoran, “nor does Yvanna there.”

  “A right bunch we happen to be travelling with, “ chuckled the juggler. “Still, I did manage to glean our travel agenda for the next three days. Tonight we are camping on the roadside in two tents – us four in one and the mage all on his own, the lucky swine. Then, tomorrow we travel through the woodland area to the north of here, finally ending up in the evening in the small village of Roth, where we will be staying in a tavern there. Sounds fun to me! Maybe they’ll be a buxom lass or two to share, eh?”

  Keldoran giggled to himself, not sure how to respond to this horned humanoid. The journey did sound fun, though. What an adventure, and not a farm in sight.

  “Then, day three,” carried on Corg regardless, “we will reach Malana.”

  “Is it as beautiful as it sounds?” asked Keldoran.

  “Truly,” said Corg. “I find all places beautiful, however.”

  That night, the stars and moons of Elrohen shone brightly.

  They had travelled far, certainly further than Keldoran had ever been before, and his excitement kept building.

  The mage had set up the camp, creating two tents using some fabric in the rear of the carriage. The first, his, was immaculately clean and vast, enough to house seven or eight mages, let alone one. The tent he gave the four of them to share was a small, dirty looking one, not even fit to throw on a fire. Yvanna was not impressed.

  “With respect,” she asked carefully to the mage, “How do you expect the four of us to sleep in that?”

  “It is quite simple,” stated the mage. “You lie down, and you close your eyes.”

  Yvanna was left with her mouth open in astonishment, for the mage then ignored her and entered his luxurious tent.

  “How can he be like this?” she fumed, stamping her little foot.

  Keldoran opened up the tent and peered inside. “It’s small, but we’ll all fit.”

  Yvanna sub-consciously stroked her hair, annoyed that it was going to become unruly, and make her look like a vagabond. “Well,” she declared, “I shall sleep in the carriage. You three can sleep in the tent. It’s a matter of privacy.”

  The Bu’kep chuckled at this, and grinned at the other two. “Well, you heard the lady lads, the tent is our privilege!” With a merry hop, Corg entered the tent to settle down for the night. Sighing, missing his own bed, Relb entered the tent after him. Keldoran stood looking at Yvanna for a moment, wondering whether he should say something to her, try and persuade her out of sleeping in the carriage. Her face looked resolute, however, and Keldoran knew deep down his words would be ignored. Sighing, he nodded goodnight to the blonde female, and entered the tent.

  Yvanna stood for a while, looking out at the stars. Only two more days of this wretched journey, she thought. What a bunch of miscreants she was travelling with! Soon, at least, she would enjoy the luxuries of the big city, be surrounded by gorgeous looking men showering her with expensive gifts. The thought comforted her, and she went to open the carriage door. It would not budge.

  She tried it again, no movement. She then remembered to her distress that the door was magical. The mage opened it with a gesture from his hands, not with a key or a handle. Oh, curse him! Curse this rotten trip.

  Reluctantly, she approached the muddy tent. She could hear jostling inside, as if the three within were struggling to find room. The night grew cold about her. She was damned if she would join them. One of them might even try and take advantage of her good looks.

  Yvanna decided to go to the rear of the carriage, and she clambered up behind the food and water barrels. Here at least was dry. She opened up one of her backpacks, rummaged for a moment, then came up with a blanket. Now she would be warm.

  The stars winked at her as she finally succumbed to sleep.

  4. Storm Yvanna woke to the wind in her face. Sleepily she yawned, and stretched. Her back ached. She had not had a pleasant sleep in the back of the carriage. Still, better than the tent and those three imbeciles!

  The wind was uncannily strong, and this roused her quickly from slumber. It was night still, she noted with chagrin. She could only have been asleep for a few hours. Groaning, Yvanna looked out at the sky. No stars were out. It was ominously quiet, save for the foul wind that whipped through her hair. Where had this come from? It had been quiet when she had settled down to sleep, and she remembered there had been stars. Something was wrong.

  The feeling of disharmony grew on her, and she did not know why. She clambered down from the carriage, slightly bruised, and cold. She sneezed. The sound seemed to drift slowly away, hanging on the stifling air. Yvanna frowned. The air was thick, the wind not fresh but seeming to have its own, tenacious form.

  She glanced over at the tents, first the mage’s lavish dwelling, then the small tent. All were quiet. The others were still asleep, then. Snorting to herself in disgust, she took a few steps away from the carriage, peering into the gloom, for there were no lights to guide her. She saw nothing.

  The horse in front of the carriage grunted. Yvanna walked to the horse, and patted it on the nose. “So, you’re awake too, I see,” she remarked casually. “I think we could be in for a long night, you and I.”

  Rain began to fall, soft drizzle. Sighing, Yvanna stomped to the back of the carriage. It offered little shelter, and soon the rain grew heavier, enough to start annoying her considerably. Still she would not go to the relative safety of the tent, her own pride and stubbornness refusing to make her budge. Pretty soon she was soaking.

  Misery and cold overcame her arrogance after several more moments, for the rain became a torrent, and the wind enveloped her in its mounting anger. So suddenly the weather had turned on her, and it was all she could do to stagger over to the tent. Noises were coming from within, so it seemed the others had finally woken to the sound of the rain above their heads.

  “Let me in,” she shouted into the wind, “I’m getting soaked!”

  The tent opened and a hand pulled her inside. Corg grinned at her. “So you have come to join us, after all, young lass!”

  “Unhand me, you foul man, “ she bellowed, wrestling free of his grip. “I will not be handled so!”

  “For
give me, I was just rescuing you from the storm, lady,” bowed Corg before her. “Things are taking a turn for the worse. I have not heard such a wind for a long while!”

  She glared at him, and looked at the others, who were peering out from their warm blankets. They nodded at her, noting with some amusement her bedraggled appearance. Subconsciously she parted her hair with her fingers, trying to untangle the wet knots that had come to know her there. She hissed at them. “No-one had better laugh,” she warned, “Or things might turn nasty in here.”

  A close rumble stopped any retort the others may have had. It was very near, sounding right above their heads, a fierce growl from the sky. Corg shook his head in amazement. “This is going to be a bad storm,” he stated.

  Keldoran listened intently to the pounding of the rain on the side of the tent. The fabric of their temporary abode was flapping in and out as the wind pummelled into them. Relb appeared from under a blanket, eyes wide, almost frightened at the gathering of forces outside. “I wonder what the mage is thinking of all this,” he whispered to Keldoran.

  “Maybe he started this, “ answered Keldoran. “This might all be a crazy mage’s test for us!”

  “Interesting notion,” said Corg. “I don’t think so, though, young Keldoran. This storm is the full furies of the skies themselves, not some bizarre spell incantation.”

  Corg spoke true. The tent swayed alarmingly to and fro as torrential rain hammered into it, the wind howling round them like a mad ghost. Thunder pealed, the loudest Keldoran had ever heard, right above their heads. A flash came from outside the tent, and they knew lightning was racing across the heavens.

  “I don’t know how long this tent is going to last in this,” said Relb in a frightened voice. “Maybe we should rouse the mage and get into the carriage.”

  “Well, you go!” answered Yvanna. She was certainly not going back outside. She squeezed some water out of hair miserably.

  A fierce gust enveloped them, and suddenly the tent’s fabric ripped, letting in harsh rain and cold. “Oh no!” said Relb, not happy at all that he had been proved right.