Murland wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he had always loved her, but before he could speak, she kissed him. His heart leapt and his stomach fluttered as her soft lips met his, and just as quickly as it had happened, it was over.
“Go now, my champion, and the sooner shall be your return.”
Murland could only nod, for he did not trust his voice. He turned from her and followed Kazimir down the road. Soon they crested a hill, and Murland was overcome by the urge to look back one last time. He knew the old saying about never looking back, but he did it anyway. Caressa stood watching him from afar, her long red hair dancing in the wind. His heart sank, and he realized that the old saying was true.
That night, when they made camp, Kazimir suddenly disappeared, saying that he would be on watch. Murland didn’t mind so much, but he felt very alone sitting in his small tent in the clearing beside the tree line, wondering what might be out there in the dark.
Murland rummaged through his pack for the box that held the wand of Allan Kazam. He found the box, but also something that he had not noticed before. Beneath his extra clothes and food, wrapped in cheesecloth, he found an old and surprisingly heavy tome.
“What’s this?” he asked the winged backpack, but of course it did not answer.
The tome was bound in dark leather, and even before he had opened it up, Murland knew what it was, for he could feel the magical power within. The cover had strange golden text that Murland could not understand. He recognized glyphs and runes that looked to be Old Elvish, but he had never been very good at the old languages, and this was a variation that he had never seen.
He opened the book slowly, its old binding creaking. A great gust of wind blew from the pages and a deep voice echoed words in a foreign language. There was a flash of light, and Murland snapped the book shut.
He sat their panting, both terrified and exhilarated. It was then that he noticed the small piece of paper that had landed on his leg. He set the tome aside and carefully unfolded the note.
Murland, I have bestowed upon you the wand of Allan Kazam, and now you have found his spell book. You will no doubt have trouble reading it, for it is written in the language of magic. But I believe that you will soon discover your magic, and I believe that you can mend the wand that was broken. I see greatness in you, Murland, even though you cannot see it yourself. Go forth into the wilds beyond the Wide Wall with confidence. You are destined for great things.
P.S. It wouldn’t hurt to grow some wizard leaf!
P.P.S. DO NOT tell Kazimir about the spell book.
P.P.P.S. This note will self-destruct as soon as you finish reading it.
-Headmaster Zorromon the Off-White
The piece of paper suddenly burst into flames, and Murland cried out and pulled back his singed fingers.
He looked to the tome with newfound curiosity and respect. Why would Zorromon give him such priceless magical artifacts? Had the high wizard lost his mind? Or could Murland actually have powerful magic hidden inside him, waiting to be unleashed? The fact that he had been chosen out of thousands to be Magestra’s champion said that at least Kazimir thought so. And now Zorromon had bestowed not one but two powerful magic relics upon him.
But why had Zorromon said not to tell Kazimir about the book? Why the secret?
Murland lay back on his bedroll and studied the broken wand by candlelight. He could feel a soft hum of power radiating from it.
If Zorromon and Kazimir think I’m so special…maybe I am, he thought.
He looked to the wand, wondering if he could cast a spell with it. The shaft was cracked, but it was still in one piece, and the tape seemed strong enough.
Can’t hurt to try.
Murland glanced around, looking for something to experiment with. He decided upon another candle, thinking that it would be easy enough to produce a small flame to light it with. He prepared himself the way the high wizards had said to: he closed his eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and imagined gathering his magical energy in his core. Holding the wand an inch above the wide candle, he focused the imagined power into his arm, down into his hand, and out of the wand.
“Ignis,” he said softly, not wanting to overdo it.
BOOM!
Murland was blown straight up into the air—taking the tent with him—and screaming, fell blindly in a tangle of tarp, tent poles, and rope. He hit the ground with a thud and lay there, panting and clutching the wand in his right hand. With a groan, he untangled himself from the smoldering tarp and looked around. The soot-covered backpack was hovering above the scorched bedroll, and the ground was on fire. He checked the wand, worried that he had destroyed it, but the wand was still in one piece. There were scorch marks on the tip and along the crack, and the tape had been completely blown off.
He got up and stomped out the fire before it reached the dry forest, and then shook out his blackened blanket and bedroll. Smelling burnt hair, he realized that he too was covered in soot.
“What a mess,” he said. “You alright, backpack?”
The pack came to land at his side and quivered, and Murland apologized for nearly blowing it up. After dusting off the backpack, he carefully put the wand back in its wooden box.
“I think it’s best not to use that again until it’s fixed,” he told the backpack. Then something occurred to him—he had cast a spell. It had been a disaster, and much larger than he intended, but he had caused something to happen with magic. Granted, it was probably mostly due to the very powerful wand, but still, it was something.
Feeling quite pleased with himself, he washed up in the creek beside camp and changed his clothes. He hung the bedroll and blanket to air out, and curled up beside the fire and stared up at the starry sky.
The fatigue of the long day’s march hit him suddenly then, and sleep found him easily, as did dreams of dragons and magic.
In the morning, Murland found the campfire smoldering and Kazimir standing beside the road, looking west. The weather was mild, and the song birds sang in the forests, greeting the new day with great enthusiasm. Murland took in the crisp air and stretched and yawned before smiling up at the clear blue sky.
“Good morning,” he said to Kazimir happily. “You didn’t happen to make any breakfast…did you?” Murland asked as he pulled on his trousers.
The Most High Wizard stood rigidly, staring at the path back to the road, unmoving, unspeaking.
Murland decided not to press the issue. He was hungry, to be sure, but he wasn’t that used to eating regular breakfasts anyway—and besides, there was some bread and cheese in his pack.
He went about tearing down his scorched tent with single-minded determination, hoping to impress the old wizard. When he was done, he loaded his tent, bedroll, and pillowcase full of clothes inside his large, winged backpack. Once he had secured the cover strap, the backpack beat its wings furiously and took to the sky to soar above.
With the flying pack in tow, Murland moved to stand beside Kazimir. “I’m ready to set out.”
Kazimir said nothing. He remained staring at the path to the road with eyes as blank as a dead man’s, and for a moment, Murland wondered if indeed the ancient wizard had died standing up. Suddenly, however, Kazimir came alive and headed for the road without so much as a word.
Murland hurried to catch up. “Say, uh…Most High One, we’ve got a long road and all, and I was wondering if you could give me some pointers on growing wizard leaf.”
No response was forthcoming. Kazimir just continued in his swift march.
“Do you, uh…think then, maybe…perhaps, you could show me how to mend this wand?”
Still nothing.
Murland was beginning to very much dislike the old wizard. He was a Champion of the Dragon after all, and surely, he deserved the respect worthy of a simple answer.
Still, he trudged on, knowing that soon they would reach King’s Crossing, and there he would meet the other champions.
Chapter 7
Slur Sirsalot<
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Sir Eldrick awoke beside a woman he didn’t recognize. She wasn’t terribly good looking, but a careful raising of the sheets told him that she was at least well endowed, with good round birthing hips and plump breasts. She was his type of woman, to be sure.
His head pounded, and his mouth tasted like the pit of a tobacco pipe. Still, he hadn’t yet been found out—he was still a free man. The events of the previous days slowly lumbered through the fog of his muddled mind, and he gave a chuckle that caused his sleeping friend to stir.
The king sold me out to Kazimir, that son of a bitch, thought Eldrick. Hah! Who’s the fool now?
“To the hells with the king, and to the hells with Drak’Noir,” he mumbled as he reached for the flask on the nightstand beside the bed—which was now half full of water. After wetting his whistle, he gathered his things, and he gave one last glance under the sheets and bade the sleeping not-quite-beauty good day before silently slipping out of the room.
The inn was quiet this time of morning, but the barkeep was there at the long oak bar, trying to fish a pickled egg out of a jar. The squat man’s mustache leapt when Sir Eldrick approached, and he pushed the jar aside—though his fingers were still stuck inside.
“Welcome, welcome. How was your sleep?” he said cordially whilst trying to discretely wrestle his hand from the jar. “Better than mine, I’ll bet. The lass I sent to your room sure knows how to take care of guests, she does. Did you find the room to your liking? How were the pillows? Fluffier than a wood elf I reckon, eh? Was there enough water in the basin? I been meaning to—”
“Please,” said Eldrick, rubbing his head. “That is too many questions before breakfast.”
“Ah!” The man beamed, slapping his leg with rehearsed affability. “Breakfast it is then. What’ll it be?”
“Water, and it better not taste like shit.”
The man just stood and smiled, as though waiting for the punch line. “Ah, you’re serious. Well of course you are. Water it is. Coming right up. Anything else, good Sir?” he added before finally extracting his hand from the jar and smiling stupidly at Sir Eldrick.
“Eggs, four of ‘em, all whipped together and fried till brown. I hate soggy eggs, and I’m warning you now, I won’t pay for ‘em if they come out that way. A big heaping plate of side pork to go with it. And fresh bread, half a loaf.”
Eldrick flicked a silver piece at the round man, who caught it deftly and put it in his pocket with rehearsed grace. “Of course, coming right up.”
The excitable man poured the water and set it in front of Sir Eldrick before disappearing into the kitchen and ordering someone around.
A prickle swept across Sir Eldrick’s back. He didn’t have to turn around—he knew from whom the heavy magical energy came.
“Kazimir…come to steer me back to the herd?” Sir Eldrick wasn’t wearing his elaborate armor at the moment, but he was carrying a sword, and his hand was now gripping the hilt tightly.
The ancient wizard sat down beside him at the bar with a groan. “Don’t be a fool. Never mind your silly sword.”
“I know that the king put you up to this,” said Eldrick. “Do not deny it.”
“I deny nothing, but you would be wise not to threaten me before I have had my breakfast.”
Eldrick relaxed his grip slightly. “It is said that you are wise—you know the tales of my heroism are true. I defeated the Giant of Calamity when it marched on Vhalovia, I slew three hundred trolls in the battle of the Northern Blight, and it was I who laid low the Witch of Agnar. Yet, you are calm, even knowing that I would rather die than go on this fool’s quest.”
Kazimir regarded him with skepticism as his eyes traveled up and down Eldrick’s out-of-shape body. “That was many seasons ago, my queen-bedding friend.”
“Indeed,” Eldrick shot back quickly. “Still, a charlatan wizard whore for Drak’Noir should be no challenge.”
Kazimir remained relaxed. He even grinned. “Yet you do not strike.”
“I haven’t had my breakfast either.”
“Then it is decided. Breakfast first. Until then, a truce.”
Eldrick took his hand off his hilt and rested his elbows on the bar. “As you wish. A parley until breakfast has been eaten.”
Kazimir nodded, stroking his long beard.
Eldrick got the feeling that he was formulating a great lie. He looked to the ring on his finger, the one that was supposed to keep wizards and witches from finding him, and shook his head.
The barkeep rushed through the swinging doors just then and stopped short, eyeing the famous wizard wildly. He nodded, as if answering a command from Kazimir, and then poured a tall tankard of mead before placing it in front of the odd couple at the bar. He then disappeared back into the kitchen, to fetch the wizard’s breakfast, no doubt.
Kazimir rubbed his hands together and settled over the glass. As an afterthought, he regarded Eldrick and raised it. “To heroes and fools, and those who know the difference.”
Eldrick clanged his glass with Kazimir’s, never taking his eyes off him.
The drinks were tossed back, and glasses hit the bar. Kazimir rested his gnarled staff against the worn counter and eyed Eldrick in the long mirror on the wall across from them.
“They say you’ve defiled the queen.”
Eldrick snorted at that. “I wasn’t the first, and I won’t be the last.”
“Indeed. But you are a marked man, nonetheless.”
Eldrick waited.
“You are no fool. I can see that,” said the wizard. “You know as well as I do that the Champions of the Dragon are no more than food for the beast.”
“And…” Eldrick prompted.
“And, you needn’t be like the others.”
Eldrick was suddenly interested. “Go on,” he said cautiously.
The barkeep twirled out of the kitchen once again, this time with two steaming plates. “There you are, gentlemen. If I can get you anything else, just ask. I’ve got a nice apple pie just came out of the oven. Hot as a lass’s—”
“That will be quite all, my good man,” said Kazimir. “Some privacy please, if you don’t mind.”
The barkeep nodded his way back through the swinging doors and disappeared, and the ancient wizard regarded Eldrick once more in the mirror.
“I am old, Sir Knight. I may not look it, but I am very old indeed.”
“No, you totally look like it.”
Kazimir glared from beneath bushy eyebrows. “I have ushered seven generations of bumbling idiots to the mouth of Bad Mountain, and I have fought through the wilds beyond the Wide Wall more times than I care to remember. I am just as much a pawn to the dragon as the rest of you.”
“Then you would help to defeat Drak’Noir once and for all?” said Eldrick with cautious optimism.
Kazimir gave a croaking laugh that ended in a long cough.
“No…no, you fool! Drak’Noir cannot be defeated. Listen to one who has seen her grow these last two centuries. She is a thing of legend! From head to tail, she measures no less than two hundred yards. Her breath is born from the depths of hell. Her crashing tail is like a felled sequoia, and her claws can crush stone to dust. No, there is no way to defeat a beast so powerful. She is as impervious to magic as she is to steel.”
Sir Eldrick nodded understanding. “So you want me to make sure the others arrive on time, is that it?”
Kazimir arched a brow and nodded. “Not as dumb as they say, are you?”
Eldrick chewed on that for a moment as he shoveled eggs and toast into his mouth.
The wizard ate leisurely.
“That’s how you survived, isn’t it?” said Eldrick. “You were one of the first to be chosen for the quest when the dragon appeared those centuries ago. You were the only one to return victorious…you made a deal with her.”
“Perhaps too smart for your own good,” said Kazimir, sitting back and laying a hand on his staff. “Your cleverness leaves me with few options.”
Eld
rick’s hand slowly found his hilt once more as they stared each other down in the mirror.
“Lead the others to Bad Mountain and take my place as the Caller of the Champions. You will return victorious and be declared a hero. Your family name will be honored for generations to come. No longer will they call you Slur Sirsalot, and Defiler of the Queen. Women will flock to you in droves. The power of Drak’Noir will see you through many long years if only once per generation you lead the fools to their death.”
“What do you mean, the power of Drak’Noir?” Sir Eldrick asked, turning to look at Kazimir straight on for the first time.
“She has a magic all her own. That is all you need to know for now.”
“Then why do you want out?”
“I have grown tired of this world. There are many others that I wish to explore before my time is up. Call it a permanent vacation. But I cannot in good conscience leave Fallacetine to its fate. It is high time that I found a replacement.”
Sir Eldrick knew that he had only two options—fight Kazimir here and now and hope for the best, or go along with the scheme. Either way, he figured himself a dead man. He gave a belch and rubbed his stomach as he called for the innkeeper.
The little man came waddling through the doors as if he might have been right there listening. “Yessir!” he said happily.
“Your finest bottle of rum,” Eldrick ordered, knowing that if he had any chance of defeating Kazimir, he would have to drink liquor.
Kazimir raised a staying hand. “For this quest, my drunken friend, you must remain sober.”
Eldrick scoffed at that. “You there—barkeep. You heard my request.”
The scared little man eyed the wizard warily, clearly fearing him more, and Kazimir easily waved him off.
“What’s this?” said Sir Eldrick. “If I wanted some miserable twat telling me what to do, I would have gotten married long ago.”
Champions of the Dragon: (Humorous Fantasy) (Epic Fallacy Book 1) Page 5