Tales from the New Earth: Volume Two

by J. J. Thompson

  Simon sank back into his pillows and closed his eyes tightly.

  “Those poor bastards,” he murmured.

  “Indeed. Thankfully such things haven't occurred in ages. And now I think that the people have learned better. Perhaps even become more tolerant. At least I hope so.”

  The cleric sighed and looked away, lost in thought. Simon hadn't seen her looking this sad before and he felt a great affection toward her and her big heart.

  “So, I'm to go before the council and be questioned. Any ideas on what they'll be asking me?”

  “Oh, routine things, I'd imagine,” Opheilla answered, looking at him and trying to smile. “Your health, perhaps some questions on your encounters with dragons, that sort of thing. Also, it will give them a chance to meet an actual living wizard. Perhaps they will see that you and your kind aren't as scary as old legends make you out to be.”

  Simon had to laugh.

  “Lady cleric, any of your people, including the kids that I've seen passing by in the hallway, could snap me in half without any effort at all. Scary I am not.”

  She laughed in return.

  “Exactly my point, Simon. Legends and old stories grow with the telling but you are real. Flesh and blood. And you consort with elementals. My goodness, imagine it. An elementalist! The first one that has existed since time immemorial. Why, there should be pipes and drums playing every time you go out in public.”

  Simon gaped at her and her ridiculous statement and was met with an impish grin. He cracked up and the cleric nodded.

  “That's better. We were both becoming too solemn with this talk of kings and laws. Take the meeting for what it is; a chance to meet the council and get to know my people better. It works both ways, you know. They want to see you and understand you and in return, you get to do the same. It is a golden opportunity for both sides.”

  “Yes, I understand. Thanks, Opheilla. You've eased my mind and given me something to think about as well.”

  “Good.”

  She stood up and walked to the doorway.

  “Now, get some rest. You will need your strength tomorrow. I will return in a few hours with your dinner.”

  “I'll try. Thanks again.”

  The cleric smiled and walked out, closing the door behind her.

  Simon rolled over to the far side of the bed, reached down and picked up the staff that was lying on the floor. He left it beside the bed now and often held it, getting used to its presence.

  He moved back to lean against his pillows and laid the staff across his body. Shandon had advised him to seal the weapon to himself the same way he'd once been bound to his first staff; with blood. So in private he had pricked his finger with a needle he'd found in the chest of drawers and had written his real name on the staff with blood: Valagar. Nothing dramatic had happened but Simon had a feeling now whenever he picked up the weapon; the feeling of a connection being made, of something clicking in his mind. It felt good.

  “So, my inanimate friend,” he said to the staff as he rolled it forward and back. “What should I call you? All of the old tales say that enchanted weapons should be named and you are definitely that.”

  He stared at it thoughtfully.

  “My first staff was called Bene-Dunn-Gal, the Bane of Night. I didn't christen it myself but it was a good name, don't you think? You need something equally fitting.”

  He ran his fingers down its length almost in a caress, not stopping to wonder if it was healthy to sit alone and talk to a length of metal as if it was alive.

  “The problem is,” he continued, “I don't really know what you can do. Shandon said that you were made to slay dragons. Sounds nice I guess, but I remember those old advertisements from back in the day. Big talk, small return. All of the taste, none of the calories. I don't doubt his prowess as a smith, but copying some old runes on to a metal staff doesn't really mean anything until it's used in battle. Right?”

  He began rolling the staff again, down his stomach to his thighs and then back up again. Simon knew a lot of words and phrases in the old language, the language of magic. It reminded him of Latin and he'd often wondered which one had come first. He filtered some of the words through his mind, trying to come up with a name that was easy to remember but significant as well.

  Then he stopped moving the staff, pushed back the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed.

  “I've got it,” he said. “It's so obvious. I must be even thicker than I thought.”

  Simon stood up and picked up the staff. He felt slightly ridiculous standing on the cold stone floor wearing nothing but a loincloth, his skinny scarred shanks covered in goosebumps. But he felt that he had to stand up for something as formal as the naming of his new staff.

  He rested the spiked end of the weapon on the floor and held it upright with both hands.

  “All right, my friend. I hope you like this.” He took a deep breath. “I christen you Mortis de Draconis: Killer of Dragons.”

  He hadn't expected anything to happen when he named the staff. After all, unlike Bene-Dunn-Gal, it wasn't an ancient artifact. It was a newly made weapon and had no history behind it. But perhaps Shandon had done a better job than even he would have believed. Or maybe Simon's touch ignited something within the staff; some deep power. Either way, what happened next caught him completely off-guard.

  The staff erupted in fire. Simon shouted and tried to fling it away but his hands seemed to be locked on to it in a death grip; he couldn't let go. But there was no pain, just a burst of intense red flames burning along the length of the staff like dragon fire. His hands were engulfed and then the fire raced up his arms to his shoulders. Suddenly all Simon could see was flame. It was a terrifying reminder of his last memories, of being attacked by a red dragon.

  But again there was no pain, no damage. Just a gentle warmth, like standing in the sun on a mild summer's day. It was actually quite pleasant, he thought, as his racing heart began to return to a more normal rhythm. There was a tingling along his skin, like the caress of an unseen breeze. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck were standing up as if he was being exposed to static electricity.

  And then the fire was gone as if it had never been and Simon was standing there, staring at the staff in a room that seemed much darker without the bright flames.

  “Wow. Never do that again, okay?” he muttered at the staff. “That totally freaked me out.”

  He sat down on the bed with a heavy thump and leaned the staff against the bedside table. His hands were trembling and he was covered in a thin layer of sweat. The fire had been real enough; his loincloth had burned off in the intense heat and he was completely naked.

  Simon wiped the moisture off of his forehead with the back of his hand and then stared at his skin. Something was different. What was it?

  He stood up and walked across the room to rummage around in the closet, looking for a towel. When he'd found one, he wiped off the sweat and then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

  “Well, that was unexpected, wasn't it?” he said and grinned with embarrassment. His reflection grinned back, a strangely innocent expression considering how much death and destruction he'd seen in the past few years.

  Simon winked at himself, very pleased that his hair hadn't burned off. He laughed lightly and turned toward the bed. Then he spun around and gaped at his reflection.

  He stepped closer to the mirror and peered at himself. He smiled and the smile was returned. He reached up and touched his face, running his fingers over the smooth, young skin. Skin without mark or flaw. The scars were gone.

  “Oh my God,” he gasped as his eyes filled with tears. “I'm me again.”

  He looked down at his body. Same skinny frame, same knobby knees. But the spiderweb of scars had vanished. It was as if he had never encountered the dragon and been burned.

  Simon was stunned. How was such a thing possible? Opheilla had said that the scars were beyond her ability to heal, that they were permanent. But now they
were gone.

  He shut the closet door and turned to look across the room at the staff. With some hesitation, he walked over to it and picked it up carefully. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at it.

  “How?” he asked it. “How did you do that?”

  There was, of course, no answer. The staff was a simple length of metal again; covered with runes and intricately carved, yes, but just a staff.

  “Mortis de Draconis,” he whispered in a strained voice. “Killer of Dragons. Well, I guess you liked your name. Thank you so much for this gift.”

  Simon thought and thought about his transformation. Obviously the fire that the staff had ignited along itself and then on to him had, somehow, re-injured his body, undoing the damage from the original attack. How it had done that without any pain was the great mystery. But he had no answers, only gratitude.

  He put on some new underwear, lay down again and stared blankly at the ceiling, feeling grateful and numb at the same time. He finally slipped into a fitful sleep and, when he woke up several hours later, it was to the sound of Opheilla's loud gasp.

  The wizard sat up slowly and turned toward the open door. The cleric stood there gaping at him, a covered tray in her hands.

  “Hi Opheilla,” he said, still groggy. “How's it going?”

  She entered and set the tray on the bedside table. Then she put her hands on her hips and ran her eyes along his arms and then over his face. Her expression was one of disbelief.

  “By the gods, Simon. What happened to you?”

  “Happened?” he replied, dragging out the moment for a bit. Seeing the normally unflappable woman caught totally flat-footed was delightful. “What do you mean?”

  She scowled and shook a finger at him.

  “Don't play the innocent with me, young man. Your scars. They're all gone. How is that even possible?”

  Simon explained what had happened earlier when he had christened the staff. Opheilla sat down beside the bed and listened quietly, nodding several times but allowing him to tell the story.

  When he was done, she sighed heavily. Silently, she stood up and examined his arms. Then she pulled back the quilt and checked out his chest and legs.

  Having become used to the cleric's ministrations, Simon allowed the examination without comment and without any embarrassment.

  When she was done, Opheilla covered him again and set the tray of food on his lap after helping him sit up and arranging his pillows to support him.

  She sat down and stared at him in wonder.

  “This is the most extraordinary thing that I have ever experienced, my friend. Scars are not wounds and rarely answer to my prayers. But your idea is probably right. The fire from the staff somehow corrected the earlier damage from the dragon attack. Amazing. How do you feel?”

  Simon was digging into a bowl of mushroom soup and paused, the spoon halfway up to his lips.

  “Feel?” He put down the spoon and looked at her. “I feel relieved, to be quite honest. I am more grateful than you can ever know for your life-saving healing. I really am. But going through life with that twisted horror of a face was a difficult thing to accept. If I had to, I would have managed, of course. Accept, adapt. That's always been my motto.”

  He felt his face turning red.

  “But I was not an attractive man, back before the Change, so I never had much of an ego about my looks. Being Changed into...” he stroked his cheek, “this, well, I kind of like the new me. I'm pleased that people seem to find me easy to look at. And so, as bad as it may sound, I'm thrilled that my face is back to looking the way that it should. Is that egotistical?”

  The cleric laughed and waved away his concerns.

  “Of course not, Simon. Even as a dwarf, I was dismayed by the evidence of your injuries. There is no shame in wanting to look like yourself.” She patted his cheek and winked. “And even though you are a human, you are rather cute.”

  He chuckled and began eating again.

  “Thanks. What I can't wrap my head around is what really happened. This staff isn't like my old one. That staff was a relic of the past and very powerful. This one,” he nodded at the weapon where it leaned against the wall, “is brand new. I have no doubt that Shandon is a skilled blacksmith and artisan, but I would never have believed he could have created something so extraordinary.”

  “He couldn't,” she replied flatly. “And I'm sure that Shandon would say the same. Those runes he found must have been the key. I think we should count ourselves lucky that they didn't have an adverse effect. They easily could have.”

  Simon finished his meal and thanked the cleric. They chatted for a little while and then she left with an admonishment to get some sleep.

  “It may be a trying day tomorrow,” the cleric told him. “You will need all of your strength.”

  After she was gone, Simon stared pensively at nothing, worried about a laundry list of things. The council meeting was just one item. He wondered how Kronk and Aeris were doing without him. And about Liliana, Tamara and Sebastian. What was their new home like? Had they found any more survivors?

  He snuggled deeper under the covers.

  And now they all lived in a castle. A castle, of all things! What was that like? It sounded like a fairy tale.

  The smile on his face faded as he remembered some of the original stories.

  The problem with fairy tales was that they didn't always have a happy ending.

  The next morning, Simon was up early and washed and dressed before Opheilla showed up with his breakfast tray.

  “Well now, this is a surprise,” she said as she walked in.

  The wizard was sitting on the side of the bed, going through his list of permanently memorized spells.

  “Good morning,” he said with a wan smile.

  “Good morning, my friend. I'm glad to see you up and ready to go. But you look a little peaky this morning. Is something wrong?”

  Simon accepted the tray politely and set it down beside him on the bed. The cleric pulled the bedside chair back to give him some room and sat down, watching him closely.

  “Not really. I've been thinking about this meeting, that's all. Except for you and Shandon, I haven't really spoken with any of your people since I got here. And now I'm going to face your rulers and possibly the king. It's a bit worrying, that's all.”

  “I understand,” Opheilla replied as Simon began to eat his porridge. It was actually some form of fungus, but it looked and tasted remarkably like oatmeal and he liked it.

  “It would be an overwhelming prospect for anyone, I suppose,” she continued. “But as I've told you, they're just a collection of people elected to do a job. One thing we dwarves do pride ourselves on is our manners. At least when we are at home,” she added with a slight smile.

  “The council will be courteous, Simon. Even if some of them aren't exactly fond of magic-users, they will follow the accepted forms and remain polite, I have no doubt.”

  Simon finished his breakfast and began sipping a hot beverage that he was convinced was green tea, even though he'd been assured several times that it was actually made from the roots of some plant he'd never even heard of.

  “Wait a second,” he said as the cleric's words sunk in. “You never said any of them didn't like spell-casters.”

  “I said that they were a group of individuals, my friend. Of all types. Some are bound to be less than pleased that we've harbored the only known human wizard for months. I have no idea how many there are, but I doubt that the number is very high. If it had been, you never would have been allowed to stay, would you?”

  “That's true, I guess. So when do we leave? Or should we wait for Shandon?”

  “He may join us at the meeting; he had some prior commitment. We, however, can go as soon as you finish your breakfast,” Opheilla said and smiled as he hastily gulped down the last of his drink.

  Simon set down the cup and stood up. He walked over to the closet and checked himself out in the mirror.

>   His hair was long enough to cover half of his ears now and Simon was happy to see it growing back. He'd felt naked with short hair. He pushed it back and it fell naturally to frame his face. He had selected a somber brown robe appropriate to the seriousness of the upcoming meeting and smoothed it out, hoping that it wasn't too wrinkled in the back.

  After a last look at his too-young face and large, mismatched eyes, he walked back to the bed and picked up his staff.

  “I'm ready,” he said to Opheilla. “Or at least as ready as I'll ever be.”

  “Very well, sir wizard,” she replied with a warm smile as she stood up. “Let us go and meet the council.”

  Chapter 5

  The council chambers were a half-hour's walk from Simon's quarters at a normal pace, but Opheilla moved slowly, letting him conserve his strength. The pair passed dozens of dwarves going about their daily routines. The cleric was greeted respectfully by many of them.

  Apparently it wasn't a school day and children ran in and out of the tunnels and around the adults just like children did everywhere. Simon had only glimpsed a few of the youngsters since he'd arrived and had almost expected them to be as grave and serious as most of their elders seemed to be.

  But the little ones laughed and played, shouted and squealed, and behaved pretty much the same as human kids would. The wizard couldn't helped grinning at their antics and his anxiety about the upcoming appearance before the council members dissipated as he was distracted by the children and their playfulness.

  “Are they bothering you?” Opheilla asked at one point as she saw him watching two youngsters chasing each other.

  He chuckled and shook his head.

  “Quite the opposite,” he replied as he saw one boy tag the other and race away, the second boy hot on his heels.

  “It's pleasant to see kids being kids. No offense, but your people are usually quite a serious bunch.”

  The cleric nodded with a smile as she continued walking, the crowds moving out of their way politely.

  “Yes, we are, aren't we? It can be a hard life, living in the depths of the world. We are constantly on our guard against many things, including the very earth around us. And now, with the old gods returning, we have to contend with monsters and other magical threats again. It is a sobering situation to be in. I suppose we aren't as loud and boisterous as others, like the elves, might be.”