Oakey, hints of leather and quartz, a strong first impression, but a smooth finish and a dry tail. Pleasantly hot in the belly. It was a warm and wet summer when the sugarcane was grown… He noted all of this absently, eyeing the firelight crookedly and murmuring to himself despondently.
“Pipe,” he said, and his old trusty ivory pipe floated to his lips. He packed it with fine Vhalovian tobacco and sprinkled a bit of fairy dust on top before lighting it with a flame from the end of his thumb.
He sucked in the smooth smoke softly, contemplatively, and his eyes wandered to the note on his desk as he puffed. Opened a week ago, read thrice, and still curled at the edges, the note on his desk stared back blankly.
And though he received two dozen or more letters a week, this one vexed him more than any before it. Indeed, it had him giddy and horrified at the same time.
He picked it up and called to his spectacles, which floated to the crook of his nose and rested.
He cleared his throat, though he did not read aloud.
High Wizard Hinckley,
It is with delight and dread that I write to you this fine spring evening. I am looking out over the gardens of Abra Tower, listening to the lovebirds sing their songs of adoration, yet my heart does not leap, for it is weighed down by the burden of apprehension.
I have written you previously of one Murland Kadabra, son of Lord Albert Kadabra. To many he is of no consequence. Indeed, to many he might seem a bumbling fool, the worst wizard to grace Abra Tower’s many halls. But I see more in the unassuming lad.
If you recall, you taught the divination class one hundred and some-odd years ago at Abra Tower. I was just a first-year then, but you took an interest in me. You said then that I had, “the gift of sight.” I never amounted to much in that regard, and I must admit, I believe it was because the gift scared me, for I saw my own death those many years ago. But that is of no consequence in this conversation.
Since becoming headmaster two decades ago, I have begun to dabble in the art of divination once more, and I now relay a prophecy to you, my most revered of teachers.
I know that this will come as a shock, as all good prophecies shall, but I believe wholeheartedly the visions I have seen. During a thirty-day fast, throughout which I only ingested wizard leaf and fairy dust and water, and slept on a bed of nails, I heard the voices of the gods. I saw the sacred geometry. And this is what I have learned.
I believe that this Murland Kadabra, this fool in wizard’s robes, is destined to defeat the Dark Lord Zuul after the second coming.
Now, I must warn you. As all good prophecies do, this one has two possible meanings.
One—Murland will defeat Zuul outright, using the wand and spell book of Kazam, as I have given them to him.
Or…
Two—Murland’s actions will cause Drak’Noir to descend upon the land, killing Zuul, and indeed everyone in Fallacetine. Thus bringing about the defeat of Zuul.
These things are tricky…
I do not assume to possess the wisdom to know which one is true, and I implore you to choose for me. Meet with the young wizard, and judge for yourself. Is he the one spoken of in the Prophecy of Kazam? I do not know. For your reference, and though I assume that you know it by heart, I have added the Most High Wizard’s last words.
“9 Shalls”—the Prophecy of Allan Kazam—the second age of men—A.M. 1984.
For though I shall be victorious against Zuul, I shall surely fall.
There shall be a thousand years of peace.
But then the Dark Lord shall rise again.
One shall rise to challenge him, one who has not been seen before.
He shall be born from the far east.
His eyes shall shine with innocence and kindness.
He shall not know his true power.
And none shall believe in him. None but one.
I know that there have been false saviors before, but a thousand years have passed, and power emanates from the Twisted Tower once more. We have arrived in the dreaded future. The day of reckoning draws near.
Look into young Murland’s eyes, and if you do not see what I see, strip him of the wand and tome, and send him to his death. For you know what awaits him on Bad Mountain.
But if you see as I have seen, if you believe as I believe, then nurture the young man as I have tried to. Surely Kazimir the Most High (and most selfish) cares not about such things, and has taught him nothing. But I believe that young Murland needs only a small amount of guidance, and he will become a great wizard. Indeed, he will be a wizard of legend.
I beseech you, my master, my greatest of teachers and most revered of wizards. Give him a chance.
Yours in Magic,
Headmaster Zola Zorromon the Off-White
Abra Tower
High Wizard Aldous read the note again, and then again. Finally, he put it down and poured himself another drink. Tossing it back, he considered Zorromon’s words. He lit his pipe and blew out multicolored smoke, pondering the meaning in the swirling patterns.
At length, he rang a bell. His chamber doors opened, and his apprentice walked in and bowed.
“You rang, Headmaster?”
“Yes, Jonathan. I wish for you to summon one Murland Kadabra to my quarters. He and the other Champions of the Dragon have just arrived.”
“Yes, Headmaster.”
Aldous turned and peered out the window, looking west toward Bad Mountain.
Chapter 40
The Wide Wall
Murland awoke to someone lightly slapping his cheek.
“You’ll want to see this,” said Sir Eldrick, smiling down at him.
With the knight’s help, Murland sat up. He was in the back of a wagon with a half-dozen injured soldiers. Behind them, more followed, some limping, others helping their brothers along. Brannon, Willow, and Gibrig followed as well, and like Sir Eldrick, they too sported numerous bandages.
“Behold, the Wide Wall,” said Sir Eldrick stoically.
Murland turned and sucked in a surprised breath, for the Wide Wall loomed overhead, silver and gray and shimmering with the colors of magic. The enchanted Wall hummed with steady power, and Murland felt it in every quivering hair on his body.
“We did it,” he said in a whisper of disbelief. “We did it!” he shouted and leapt off the wagon, landing on legs that were suddenly energized and strong.
The wagon train stopped before a pair of twenty-foot doors of wrought iron set on giant hinges.
Sir Eldrick stepped forth and raised his fairy blade, Cryst. “Open the gates. For it is I, Sir Eldrick van Albright of Vhalovia, Champion of the Dragon.”
The companions shared eager glances as the door creaked, rumbled, and slowly began to open.
They were led through the threshold, beneath the watchful eyes of the soldiers peering out through two dozen murder holes set in the stone on either side of the passage. They came to another door, and yet another after that, and finally into a large stone antechamber with three tunnels leading deeper into the keep, and a lift situated against the northern wall.
A well-decorated man in shining metal armor and a blue cloak stopped before them and glanced at Sir Eldrick and the companions. One Captain Whillhelm, next in line after the late Captain Markus, stepped forth. “Lord General, we were attacked by a flock of harpies a day’s march east of the Wall.”
“Harpies?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Where is Captain Markus?”
Whillhelm glanced around. “Taken in battle by the harpies. He died singing the Magestrian anthem. I have assumed command.”
“And the Champions of the Dragon?” he said, glancing over the captain’s shoulder.
Sir Eldrick strode forth and extended his right hand. “Sir Eldrick van Albright, at your service,” he said.
“Carthage, Lord General of the Guardians of the Wide Wall. It would seem, good Sir Eldrick, that it is I who is at your service.” He turned to his soldiers and raised an arm. “All hai
l the Champions of the Dragon!”
“Hail!” cheered the soldiers, fists pumping into the air.
Sir Eldrick gave an appreciative bow, and Murland and the others copied him.
Brannon strode forth and shouldered past Sir Eldrick. “I am Brannon Woodheart, Prince of Halala, and I require a long, hot bath.”
The guardians of the Wall laughed, and the general nodded.
“Yes, of course. Though I assume you will be setting out shortly?” he said, glancing at Sir Eldrick.
“A few days’ reprieve can’t hurt. Wild land it is out there beyond the Wall. We will not be staying here long enough to get soft, though, I promise you that.”
“Excellent. Please, my friends, follow me.”
The champions were brought to the lift, which groaned and creaked when Willow added her great weight to its burden. Nevertheless, it crawled upward when the wheelmen began to turn the large gears. The lift rose slowly for one hundred floors before suddenly emerging into the morning sunlight.
“Come, you will want to see this,” said the general as he walked toward the battlements along the western wall.
The companions followed, intrigued. The wind was brisk up so high, and a slight chill rode upon it. Murland found himself feeling bad for anyone who had to be stationed up here in the dead of winter, especially those farther north at the other outposts.
“This, my champions, is a sight that few people ever get to see,” said the general, spreading his arms over the wide world west of the Wall.
Murland gazed west and was amazed at how far he could see. The Forest of the Dead stretched out for a hundred miles before him, and it did not look damned at all, but lush and green and beautiful.
“Well, that don’t look so bad,” said Gibrig, glancing at Murland.
“No, it doesn’t, does it?”
“Don’t let it fool you,” said the general. “Plenty of guardians have thought the same thing upon looking west from the Wall, and many of them were swallowed up by the horrors lurking in those forests. Sir Eldrick has been beyond the Wall. Surely he has told you what manner of nightmares await you there.”
“Yes, of course I have,” said Sir Eldrick, looking slightly annoyed.
“Right then, I’ll have my squire show you to your lodgings. Stay as long as you need to before you set out on your heroic quest. I will see you before then, I imagine.”
Just then, a young man in apprentice robes strode over to them and offered a small bow. “Greetings, Champions of the Dragon. I am Jonathan Tibbets.” He looked to Murland. “I have been sent to guide you to Headmaster Hinckley’s quarters. He is very eager to meet with you.”
Murland glanced at the others, and Sir Eldrick offered him a nod.
“I’ll be right back…I think,” said Murland, and he followed the older apprentice north along the Wall.
Jonathan said not a word, but brought Murland briskly to the tall white tower set at the center of the Wall. Murland stared up at Kazam College, awed not only by its size, for it was seven stories high, but also by the raw power humming within those stone walls. The base of the tower was wide, and the ascending levels were stacked one upon the other, each one smaller than the one beneath it.
Murland had seen the enchanted tower once before, when it had set down in Magestra five years ago. It was often moored to the Wide Wall, but with the tower’s ability to fly, the high wizards could bring it anywhere in Fallacetine, and perhaps beyond.
They walked through the large double doors, which opened on their own accord and closed behind them just the same. The drawing that Murland had seen of the inside of the tower did nothing to relay its true beauty. The inside of the tower was wide open all the way to the glowing capstone. There were six balconies overhead, one for each level, and branching off from them were dozens upon dozens of walkways spanning the wide expanse. Staircases connecting every level stretched across the center as well.
Those wizards young and old on the bottom floor all stopped when the doors boomed shut, and Murland tried to stand tall beneath their inquisitive gazes. He felt naked, as though the wizards could all see the truth of him just by looking. They leaned in to whisper to one another. Their harsh whispers surely expressing disgust at Kazimir’s choice.
“This way,” said Jonathan, and he led Murland to a staircase.
They climbed the many zigzagging stairways up to the top-floor balcony, and all the while the wizards stared.
“This is the room. Please, he is waiting for you,” said Jonathan, stopping before a door and opening it.
“Thanks,” said Murland, and he walked through the threshold, rather unsurely.
The room was dark, illuminated by only a handful of candles and the low burning fire in the hearth directly opposite from him. A map of Fallacetine was stretched out over the fireplace, and looking it over, Murland realized just how far from home he really was. To the left of Murland was a window facing west. A gray-haired man in burgundy robes, presumably Headmaster Hinckley, sat staring out of it. The stone walls held dozens of framed portraits, with the names of one headmaster or another embossed in gold at the bottom. A wall of bookshelves dominated the right side of the room, and lower on those shelves were a variety of jars with many strange things floating inside. One held what was obviously a brain, and another a heart. In some jars, eyes floated in murky liquid, and in another a disembodied hand sleepily grasped at nothing, the fingers moving like the tentacles of an octopus. The room smelled of wizard leaf and incense, the smoke of which hung in the air stagnantly.
“Well then, come in,” said Hinckley as he stared out the window.
Murland moved on weak legs to stand before the large wooden desk, which had clawed feet like an eagle. He thought of Packy then, and wondered if the desk could walk.
Headmaster Hinckley finally turned around, and Murland shrunk under his steely gaze.
The wizard looked to be over a hundred years old, with large, droopy eyes cradled by puffy bags. He had a long, unbraided beard, thin and straight like his frame, and a shock of curly gray hair spilling out from beneath his tall wizard hat.
“Murland Kadabra. I have heard much about you,” he said, extending a hand from across the table.
Murland shook the old man’s weathered hand, and though the skin was paper thin and the fingers boney, the grip was strong.
“Hello, Headmaster.”
“Please, have a seat.”
Murland sat in the tall, straight-backed chair, feeling very much like he had as a child, waiting to be interviewed by Headmaster Zorromon. His hands were sweaty, and he found himself wondering if Hinckley had noticed.
The headmaster said nothing for many uncomfortable moments. He regarded Murland intensely, his brown eyes looking him over slowly. Murland wondered what it was that the headmaster saw. His aura? His magical energy? Nothing?
“I am gladdened to see that you have all made it to the Wall,” said Hinckley.
“Thank you.”
“Headmaster Zorromon has many good things to say about you.”
“He does?”
Hinckley nodded. “Does that surprise you?”
“I, well…” Murland let out a sigh. “Truth is, I’m not the best wizard apprentice.”
“Humble,” Hinckley noted. “That is a good trait in a wizard.”
“I suppose that I got good grades though. I memorized all the basic spells, did well in potions, but I could never get my wizard leaf to grow to maturity.”
“I saw magic in the sky during the harpy fight. Was that you?”
“Yes, I have recently managed to grow some leaf, with the elf prince Brannon’s help. And I have made my own wand, though I think I broke it.”
“Zorromon said that he bestowed upon you the wand that was broken. The wand of Kazam.”
Murland nodded.
“May I see it?”
“Of course,” said Murland. He fished it out of his pocket, careful to not put any undue stress on the fracture.
Th
e headmaster received the relic as one might a newborn baby. He held it in two hands, staring at it with an unreadable gaze. He turned it in his hands, eyes widening slightly and taking on a dreamlike glaze.
Hinckley jerked his head as though Murland had said something. To Murland’s surprise, the high wizard handed it back to him.
“You intend to try and mend it, I presume.”
“Yes, but, well, I was wondering. Haven’t the elders already tried to mend the wand?”
Hinckley took a pipe out of his drawer. He took his time to pack it with wizard leaf, as though considering his words carefully, or perhaps guardingly. “It is thought that there is only one who might be able to mend it.”
“He who is destined to defeat Zuul? Zorromon said something about that.”
“And what do you think about that? If you are going to attempt to mend the wand, then you must think yourself worthy.”
Murland gulped. “Well, I have been trying to focus on one impossible quest at a time.”
“Hah!” Hinckley suddenly laughed, for he had been puffing on his pipe, and now multicolored smoke issued from his nose and mouth as he began to hack.
Murland gave a nervous laugh and wondered if he should do something. Hinckley was getting red in the face.
The high wizard recovered and took a drink from a mug on the desk. “Please, continue,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“I don’t know about Zuul,” said Murland, choosing his words carefully. “All I know is that I must help to defeat Drak’Noir. For if she is not defeated, Zuul will no longer matter.”
“Indeed,” said Hinckley. “That is a good way to look at it.”
“Headmaster…What will happen if I cannot mend the wand. What if I am not meant to have it? What if…”
“Go on.”
Champions of the Dragon: (Humorous Fantasy) (Epic Fallacy Book 1) Page 28