Deep Magic - First Collection

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Am I interrupting your break?”

  Artis whirled around to see Archmage Harpus Binkle glide into his cell, his robes and eyebrows trailing behind him. “I need a new draft of the Dramshire incantation,” he said, tossing a scroll onto Artis’s desk. “The client now wants his statues to glow with moonlight, not sunlight.”

  “No problem,” Artis said as he reviewed the scroll. “Let’s just reschedule the incantation for nighttime.”

  “Nah, that raven won’t fly,” said Harpus distractedly. He was already on his way out. “I have a royal function that evening, so let’s keep it at noon.”

  Artis sputtered. “Oh, well, maybe another night . . .” But Binkle had disappeared. Not that it mattered, of course, as arguing with an archmage was pointless.

  After a few moments dumbstruck, Artis began to brood over the elements he’d need to make the moon shine at midday. Sun-dampening cucumbers? Ether lenses? Permits from the Ministry of Skybound Orbs? It wasn’t even his practice area! He groaned and hoped his colleagues in the astrology department would have some ideas.

  The swallow on the windowsill chirped impatiently. Artis grunted and hastily scribbled a response: Happy to talk dragons, Mom, but again, I’m not that kind of wizard.

  * * *

  Artis arrived at his childhood home the next day, dusty from the road and exhausted from having spent all night working in his cell. The eel pie waiting in the kitchen brightened his spirits. Five years earlier, he’d barely managed to eat half. But, as the years at GB&S expanded his mind, his belly had kept pace. Artis ate the whole pie, washed up, and then collapsed onto his childhood bed.

  He awoke to the sound of guests in the field behind the cottage, where Artis’s mother, Chara, had set up the large banquet table for the solstice feast. Artis mingled groggily with his relatives, taking care to avoid his uncle Jeston, who arrived with his wife, Matilla, and their pair of red-haired goblins, Rolly and Tolly.

  After the meal, the two boys begged their cousin Arty to make some magic. Reluctantly, Artis dug up a small stone from the field and showed it to the lads. He then clasped the stone between his hands and whispered to it. When he presented the stone again, the children scratched their heads in confusion over its ordinariness.

  “See how it sparkles now?” Artis told them. “I turned some of the quartz into mica.” The boys remained unimpressed. “Actually, what I did was rearrange the overall statistical composition of the minerals. It’s just a little trick—not real magic—but neat, right?”

  Tolly hucked the stone at Rolly, hitting him in the side. The two tore off to wrestle in the field.

  Artis shook his head. Serious magic took planning. Preparations needed to be checked and double-checked. And even then, the result was often subtler than most people could appreciate. The previous year, he spent an entire afternoon explaining to his mother how, thanks to him, their rickety old plow would never hit another stone. But she just patted his hand and asked if he was hungry.

  “Wonderful boys, ain’t they?”

  Artis turned to see his uncle Jeston standing behind him, as provincial and rotund as ever. “Spitting images of their father,” he responded.

  “So how’s life, Mr. Wizard? Your ma says they’re working you hard at that guild of yours. Best in the realm, she says.”

  Artis blushed. “Only one of the best.” He dreaded whatever Jeston was buttering him up for.

  “Got a favor to ask,” said Jeston, right on cue. He then shoved a yam into Artis’s hands. “Think you can heat up my leftovers?” On the word “heat” Jeston waggled his fingers “magically.” He then threw his head back in laughter, snatched up the yam, and demolished half of it beneath his horseshoe mustache.

  “Seriously, though,” Jeston said between chews. “I been running this market in South Hamdon. Your ma mention it?”

  Artis shook his head.

  “Some of the farmers are grousing about this giant beastie that flies around burning up their fields and eating their sheep. I need to slay it, or they’re gonna move on, and I’ll be out of business. Think you can help?”

  Artis swallowed hard. “Honestly, all I remember about dragon practice is that it’s governed by the Uniform Code on Winged Wyrms and subject to oversight by the Archibald Council. They don’t test on it, since it’s so specialized.” In school, Artis had only known a few classmates who had taken extra elective courses on monster defense. Their careers were violent and short.

  Jeston grunted. “Yeah, well I already filed the stupid—what do you call it—Notice of Dastardly Encroachment with the local Council office. They’re saying it could take three months. I need this fixed now.”

  Artis ventured a guess. “You could apply for expedited procedures.”

  “Yeah, okay, expedited. Or maybe you could just take care of the damned thing.”

  The thought made Artis shudder. “I’m not licensed for battle magic,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. Nor do I know any, he could have added. He’d told his mother that repeatedly, but it was useless. Chara Tasker would probably swear that her son could vanquish a horde of ogres.

  “Maybe someone at your guild can help.”

  Artis winced as he imagined introducing Jeston to an archmage. “Hiring my guild is, um, pretty expensive. You’d be better off talking to a local wizard.”

  Jeston exhaled sharply. “Well, there was one guy in town who said he might be able to help. Seems talented. I saw him swap the brains of a chicken and a goat at a festival! Ever seen a goat cluck?”

  “Dragon slaying and party tricks? That’s quite a diverse practice.” Artis hadn’t meant to sound so condescending, but Jeston caught his tone.

  “Well, I can’t be too sure of his pedigree, but what do I know about wizards? Meet with him, would ya? To see if he’s on the up-and-up?”

  Artis struggled to suppress his annoyance. “I’m only home for a week—” Before he could finish the sentence, Artis caught his mother’s eye glaring at him while she served tea and dessert to the other guests, as if she’d had an ear on their conversation the entire time.

  “Sure. I’ll go see him after the holiday.”

  “Atta boy, Arty. Can’t tell ya how much I— Dang it, Rolly! No body slams!” Jeston ran off to join his children amidst the fireflies and clods of fragrant earth. Artis remained, tensing under the stress of a new assignment ruining another vacation.

  * * *

  A wooden sign hung creaking over the doorway of the one-story building. It read, Warlick Jompel, Magical Services, in gold lettering. Artis exhaled deeply and pushed on the door. It didn’t budge.

  “Midmorning and he’s still not in,” muttered Artis. “Must be nice.”

  “What’s nice?”

  Artis whirled around to see an older man in rumpled blue robes. The lines on his face ran deep, framing his hastily shaven jowls like trenches. Sweaty curls of hair, more gray than black, peeked out from underneath a conical hat so outdated that not even the fustiest of archmages still wore one.

  Artis stammered. “Must be nice to, uh, work on the ground floor. No stairs.”

  The old sorcerer smiled, his dishwater eyes gleaming. “Ah! So you’re Jeston’s wizard boy Arty! Which guild are you with again?”

  “It’s Artis, and nephew. I’m with GB&S.”

  “The big boys, eh? I bet you graduated top of your class.”

  Artis blushed. “I did okay.”

  “Ha! Jeston said you were modest.” The old man shook Artis’s shoulder familiarly. He then snapped his fingers and the door to his office swung open. Artis smiled thinly. Such parlor tricks might have impressed his small-town clients, but Artis was no rube. He followed Warlick inside.

  Warlick’s office looked like someone had taken the magical resource dungeon at Artis’s guild, turned it on its side, and swept the various instruments and relics into a mildewed broom closet. Stepping through the clutter, Artis took great care not to upset the various items of glass, copper, flesh, and bone littered
throughout the room. He carefully removed several orbs of starlight from a chair and sat down with a puff of dust. The idea that anyone could do any type of work in such an office filled Artis with equal parts awe and disgust.

  “Sorry about the mess,” said Warlick. “Things tend to pile up when you don’t have apprentices to keep the files in order.” There was no scorn in his voice, but Artis stiffened defensively anyway.

  “So you deal with a lot of dragon issues, do you?” Artis called over the stacks of paper on Warlick’s desk.

  Warlick seemed not to hear him. “Tea?” he offered.

  “No thank you.” Artis struggled to maintain his smile. “My uncle Jeston asked me to stop by and . . .” Artis trailed off when he noticed that a tiny brownish-green creature had hopped onto the table. It ribbitted twice and, in a succession of careful hops, made its way over to a steaming mug of water in front of Warlick. Without even a moment’s hesitation, the frog jumped in, relaxing into the liquid with a sigh that smelled of lavender.

  “Sure I can’t interest you in a tea frog?” said Warlick. “If that’s too strong, I should have a chamomeleon.”

  That was the problem with small-town wizards, thought Artis. All their magic was for show. Which was fine for kids and simpletons, but no one would pay any real coin for it. Certainly not enough for a young mage to pay off his sorcery school debt.

  Warlick, sensing Artis’s impatience, lifted a finger to the ceiling. “Dragons!” he said with a booming voice. The tea frog ribbitted nervously. “Reptilia tyranicus!”

  “Yes. My uncle needs to request expedited action for banishment or extermination in South Hamdon.”

  Warlick waved his hand dismissively. “Pah! They’ll never grant it. Best hire a knight, equip him, and deal with the creature forthwith.”

  “Won’t the quest be unsanctioned?”

  The old wizard laughed and sipped his tea. As his lips approached the rim of the mug, the frog leaped out and disappeared among the bric-a-brac. “Once the notice is filed, the Council has one moon cycle to investigate. If they don’t respond in that time”—he clapped his hands smartly—“permission is waived!”

  “But that period isn’t yet up.”

  “True, but the Council won’t respond anyway.”

  “But if they do, and the dragon’s already dealt with . . .”

  “Then we withdraw the notice. Aha! Once less thing for them to worry about.”

  Artis eyed the old wizard suspiciously as he sipped his tea. Did he expect Artis to applaud his cleverness in breaking the rules? It was dishonorable, and moreover, dangerous. Artis resolved to warn Jeston not to trust the man.

  Warlick continued musing obliviously. “We’ll have to enchant the weapon ourselves,” he said. “You can handle that, no problem, right, Arty?”

  Artis, who hadn’t enchanted anything since sorcery school, sputtered. Warlick was roping him into the venture! Enough was enough.

  “I’ll have to discuss it with my uncle,” said Artis, rising abruptly from his seat. “We’ll be in touch if we have need of your services.”

  Warlick blinked dumbly for a moment.

  “Very well,” said Warlick. He cordially showed Artis out.

  On his journey back, Artis practiced the conversation he would have with Uncle Jeston. He ticked off the reasons Warlick Jompel was the wrong wizard for this—or frankly any—magical task. Reckless. Frivolous. Disorganized. He even considered reporting him to the Keepers of Magical Integrity.

  Returning home, Artis headed straight to the pantry for a snack but was waylaid by noises coming from the other room. He poked his head around the corner and found his mother sitting with Jeston and his wife, Matilla. They were both sobbing.

  “Arty!” Jeston bellowed. “He took ’em! That winged bastard swooped in and plucked ’em up like posies!”

  “Who?” asked Artis.

  “Your cousins Rolly and Tolly,” whispered his mother as she patted Aunt Matilla’s hand. The large woman was shaking like a pinecone in a bonfire.

  “The dragon ate them?”

  Matilla exploded with grief.

  “Can’t be!” cried Jeston. “We heard ’em screaming as they flew away. They’re alive, I know it. Oh, Arty. There’s no time to lose. Get Mr. Jompel and save my boys.”

  Artis bit his lip. “Yeah. About him . . .”

  “I spoke to every wizard in South Hamdon. Only Jompel agreed to help. He’s good, right, Arty? Not a big shot like you, but he can save ’em, right?”

  Jeston’s watery red gaze fell upon Artis. Matilla added her own desperate stare. Artis looked to his mother for rescue, but was met with eyes as cold and hard as diamonds.

  “Go!” she said in a voice that could move mountains.

  * * *

  Artis waited in the meadow at the edge of the forest. Far beyond, the setting sun cast the jagged snow-capped mountains in vermilion, reminding him of bloodstained teeth. He fished the divining box out of his pocket and looked inside. There, two tiny hearts—grumblingly donated from Warlick’s tea frogs—beat on their own, letting him know that Rolly and Tolly were still alive. The frogs’ eyes, which Artis had painstakingly mounted onto Aunt Matilla’s pincushion, directed lidless gazes toward the red mountains.The boys are up there, thought Artis with a shudder, but where is Warlick? It would not have surprised Artis if the old sorcerer failed to show. A part of him would have even been relieved.

  Artis walked another lap around the enchantment circle he’d spent the afternoon preparing, taking care not to disturb the interlaced rings of barley and salt around the perimeter. Under his breath, he read off the names and positions of the elements for what seemed like the hundredth time. “Bottles of cloud vapor at twelve, four, and eight o’clock . . . stormcrow feathers at one, five, and nine . . .”

  Before long, two figures came into view against the purple sky. One was short and disheveled, unmistakably Warlick, scampering to keep up with the second, much taller figure.

  “Behold, our champion,” announced Warlick over the gnashing of metal armor. “Sir Regald Steelgarter!”

  As the towering knight approached, Artis felt a wellspring of hope bubble up in his breast. The feeling was momentary. “Pleased t’meet ya!” rasped Sir Regald, before emitting a loud belch that smelled as foul as it sounded.

  Artis yanked Warlick aside. “Egads!” he hissed. “Did you find him inside a whiskey barrel?”

  Warlick laughed wearily. “You try finding a dragon slayer on such short notice.” He clapped Artis on the shoulder. “No worries, lad. With a lightning enchantment on his blade, he’ll barely need to tickle the dragon’s hide. Speaking of which,” he glanced over the intricate ritual circle Artis had arranged. “Is all this necessary? In my day, we’d burn some sage, gut an electric eel, and that was that.”

  “This is safer,” said Artis. “At GB&S, redundancy is the enemy of uncertainty.” He looked at the circle, feeling an anxious rumble in his belly. “Do you want to check over my work?”

  Warlick laughed. “Pah! I trust you.” He turned to Sir Regald, who was swigging brown liquor from a flask. “Sir knight! Over in the center, please!”

  The knight took a moment to get his bearings, but did as commanded. In motion, he was as loud as a barrowful of pots and pans careening down a flight of stairs, and nearly as graceful. Artis snatched the flask out of his hand.

  “You can’t bring that into the circle!”

  Regald rolled his eyes and spat.

  “And watch your feet!” cried Artis as the man almost knocked over a wad of magnesium wrapped in basil.

  “Good,” said Warlick once Sir Regald lumbered into position. “Now hold your sword up high. That’s it, that’s it!”

  Artis cleared his throat. He felt like he was taking a test he hadn’t studied for, but upon which his life depended. Then he remembered that it was not his life, but Rolly’s and Tolly’s.

  “You can do this, lad,” whispered Warlick, positioning himself behind Artis.


  Slowly, his words began to flow, deep with power. “ Enos cumulos vorticulous!” As he said it, dark clouds congealed in the sky above and swirled clockwise. “Meenos electros scolios!” The clouds increased their speed and flashed with yellow light. Wind whipped Artis’s robes as he shouted above the gale: “ Minos excalibos jupitous MO!”

  On the final word, lightning shot from the sky and struck Sir Regald’s upraised sword with such ferocity that it blew Artis and Warlick onto their backsides. The knight thrilled at the power and roared like a man possessed. Artis shook with giddiness as he squinted at the brilliant spectacle. It was a delicate enchantment, but he’d nailed it perfectly. He was rehearsing recounting the story when he noticed Sir Regald’s hand snaking beneath his breastplate. Another flask appeared.

  “Don’t!” cried Artis as Regald, his sword still crackling with electric light, yanked the cork out with his teeth. He nearly had it to his lips when an arc of lightning jumped off the blade. The flask exploded, engulfing Sir Regald’s head in green fire. Artis and Warlick each let out a shout, but they were lost beneath the burning man’s shrieks, which stopped long before Artis and Warlick managed to put out the flames.

  Artis collapsed onto the charred grass beside the smoldering ruin. “I tried to tell him,” he gasped. “You saw that, right?”

  “No one’s blaming you, Arty,” said Warlick. “But if they do, you can show them the waiver of questing liability Regald signed before we left.”

  Artis shot him a furious look.

  “Just saying,” Warlick mumbled.

  Artis banged his forehead with his knuckle, trying to organize a whirlwind of thoughts. “What are we going to do about Rolly and Tolly?”

  “Well,” said Warlick, “dragons feed in the morning, so we’d better get moving.”

  “By ourselves? Without Council authorization or a unionized knight? That’s too dangerous. And against the rules.”