The Magical Book of Wands
Page 2
Rooms are quickly set up inside the castle, and the wedding goes off without a hitch. They celebrate long into the night. When it’s time to go home, Abigail’s and her sons luggage is loaded into the carriage at the bride’s insistence. There are so many bags, there’s barely room for anyone to sit inside the large compartment. While Abigail and her sons, Ferrant and Wilmont, join his father in the comfort of the carriage, Ashby is relegated to a seat by the driver, lashed by the pouring rain, as they make their way home.
Arriving, the boys run inside, followed by Abigail and Ashby’s father, leaving Ashby and the carriage driver to bring the luggage inside. Danville shows Abigail, Ferrant, and Wilmont around the house, bidding the boys to choose a room.
Wilmont, opening the door to Ashby’s room declares, “I want this one.”
“And I’ll take this one,” adds Ferrant, opening the door to the adjacent room.
Ashby, struggling to bring the large trunk up the stairs by himself, overhears the conversation.
Realizing they are talking about his room, he exclaims, “I’m sorry. That’s my room.”
Abigail, never one to deny her sons anything they want, turns to Ashby, her dark eyes filled with hate.
“These two rooms are the only ones connected by a door. Surely you can understand how important that is to these two brothers. There must be another room you wouldn’t mind moving to,” she purrs, laying her hand on Danville’s chest in a pleading manner.
Danville agrees with Abigail.
“Yes, son. You can move into another room. There are plenty in this large house. After all, we want everyone to be comfortable, don’t we?”
Leaving the trunk in the hallway, Ashby sighs, replying, “I’ll move my things.”
THE DAYS PASS, BECOMING months, then years. Abigail lavishly redecorates the manor, her tastes quite garish. Danville tries to convince her to tone things down, but she lashes out at him in anger, and he acquiesces. As time goes by and her spending increases, Danville makes plans to visit his solicitor, making arrangements for the future.
As he rides along the trail into town, his sword strapped to his side for protection, he is stopped by a strange man in unusual garb.
“I say, kind sir, can you spare a small pittance for a hungry man?”
Taking pity on the man, Danville grabs his money bag and pulls out a few copper coins. He leans down to hand them to the man. Before he can react, the man grabs his arm, while pulling a slender piece of wood from beneath his cloak.
He points his wand at the sword hanging from Danville’s waist and mutters incoherently. A strange golden glow begins emanating from inside the sheath where the sword is encased, and Danville gasps, trembling.
Then, the old man returns his wand to a pocket inside his cloak, reaches up, and lays his hand on the temple of Danville’s head.
“Today, you go to make arrangements with your solicitor. Ensure this enchanted sword is part of your son’s legacy. Now go, and forget about this encounter.”
He fades into the shadows without a trace. As Danville comes out of the trance the old wizard placed him in, he shakes his head, wondering why he stopped. Unable to recall, he shrugs and continues his journey into town.
The wizard, watching from the forest, fades away, returning to the conclave’s tower.
“Is it done?” asks the Head Wizard.
“It is,” replies Myshan.
Chapter Two
During the intervening years, Abigail slowly begins poisoning Danville. As the potion begins taking its toll on his father, Ashby notices his pallid complexion and begs him to see a doctor, but Danville won’t hear of it.
“I’m fine, son. You worry too much, just as your mother did. It’s just a bug and will pass in a few days.”
“But, Father...”
Danville raises his hand, halting any further words on Ashby’s part.
“I’ll be fine. Go, go outside and enjoy the day. Make sure things are ready for our annual hunting trip. It’s now Fall and will soon be Winter. We must ensure we have the food we’ll need during the long, cold months.”
“Yes, Father.”
Ashby leaves to do his father’s bidding, but his worry is not abated. He doesn’t know why, but suspects his new ‘stepmother’ is behind his father’s illness. There must be some way to find out.
He can’t search their bedchamber, as his father spends most of his time there now. So where, where would she hide what she’s using?
The kitchen. That’s where it must be! Although we have a cook, she always goes in there to check on each meal’s progress. That’s when she must be slipping something into Father’s food or drink. But how do I prove it?
He’s startled from his thoughts when something hits his chest with a thud. He looks down to see a rotten tomato sliding down the front of his shirt, the stench overpowering. Angered, he looks up to see which of his ‘stepbrothers’ threw it. He knows it will do no good to say anything. Even on the rare occasion his father starts to reprimand Ferrant and Wilmont, Abigail steps in and sways his mind.
As he gazes about him, he sees the two boys hightailing it away. Sighing, he walks over to the animals’ water trough and proceeds to clean the rotted tomato off his shirt and pants as best he can, then goes to the large shed to check on the hunting equipment.
He spends the morning pulling it out, ensuring it works properly, and cleaning it. When everything is gathered, he places it in a neat pile by the door for easy access when it’s time to leave. As he heads for the back door of the house, Abigail calls to him.
“While you’re out there, make yourself useful. Gather the eggs and bring them in.”
“Yes, stepmother,” he replies, turning for the chicken coop.
He enters and grabs the tightly woven wicker basket. He shoos the chickens out into the yard and gathers the eggs. Setting the basket by the door of the coop, he grabs the bucket of feed and scatters some on the ground for the chicken, then picks up the basket and takes it inside.
He hands it to the cook, then rushes to his room to change his clothes before his stepmother sees him.
A WEEK PASSES AND THE day of the hunting trip dawns. Ashby packs his rucksack with several changes of clothing. Depending on how long it takes to find sufficient game, they may be gone one day or longer. He heads downstairs and goes out to the barn to get the horses ready.
Meanwhile, Danville is also packing his rucksack. Abigail walks in. Seeing him, she demands to know what he’s doing; where he’s going.
“I told you the other day, it’s time for mine and Ashby’s annual hunting trip,” he answers calmly, annoyed at Abigail’s surliness.
Abigail knows that during his time away, the poison will leave his system. If she’s to become total heir of the estate, he must die and soon.
There must be some way to ensure he continues receiving the poison while away. I know...
Turning on the charm, she walks over to Danville and wraps her arms around him, her voice pleading.
“My sons have lacked a male figure in their lives for so long. They know nothing of hunting and fishing. If they are to provide for their future wives, they need to learn these skills. Please, take Ferrant and Wilmont with you?” she begs.
“Fine. Have them pack a rucksack with several days clothes. It must be light enough for them to carry on their own. Neither Ashby nor I will carry it for them. I’ll have Ashby prepare bows and quivers of arrows for them.”
Danville stalks out of the room, annoyed at having to take Abigail’s sons with them. He was looking forward to this trip with just his son. Still, there is merit in teaching Ferrant and Wilmont the necessary skills they’ll need as adults. He just wished she’d brought it up sooner.
He heads downstairs and outside to help Ashby gather the additional items Ferrant and Wilmont will need, while Abigail seeks out her sons. She finds them together in Ashby’s room, going through his things.
“You can snoop around the brat’s room another day. Go to your
own rooms and pack a rucksack with several days clothes. You’re going hunting with Danville and Ashby.”
“But, Mother, we don’t want to go hunting,” the boys whine.
“I don’t care what you want, you’re going,” she orders.
The boys turn to leave the room, Ferrant leading the way. Abigail reaches out and grabs Wilmont’s shoulder, stopping him.
“I have a task for you while you’re gone,” she says.
“What is it, Mother?” asks Wilmont, curious.
“I’ve been giving Danville a tonic for his health in each meal, but he doesn’t know it. He can’t miss a dose while he’s gone. I need you to ensure he gets it. Just put a few drops in his drink. And be careful, don’t let Danville, or his sniveling son, see you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother. Tonic in his drink. Big secret. Got it,” Wilmont assures her, a big grin on his face.
He knows his mother, and knows she’s up to something. If it rids him of his overbearing stepfather, and gets them this huge manor house and loads of money in the process, he’ll do whatever his mother asks and more.
He takes the bottle from his mother and slips it in his pocket. He races for his room to pack his bag, his mind racing with all the possible accidents that could occur while in the woods. He slides to a stop when his mother calls after him.
“Wait.” She walks up to him, lowering her voice. “Nothing, and I mean nothing, can happen to Ashby. I don’t know what terms Danville has in his will. We may need the brat alive in order to get what we want.”
“Fine, Mother. I won’t hurt my stepbrother.” He spits out the last word with disgust. “Anything else?”
“No. Now hurry. Danville is waiting.”
AFTER A DAY’S LONG ride, Danville and the boys arrive at the Eternal Forest. They stop on the outer edge and Danville turns to Ashby.
“We’ll head for our usual camping spot and set up. Then tomorrow, we’ll split into two groups and hunt for game. Ferrant, Wilmont, stay close. We don’t want to lose you in here.”
Ferrant nods, his face a mask of fear. He’s never been camping or hunting before, preferring to live the life of luxury, being waited on hand and foot. The sounds of the forest frighten him, and he wishes he was home in his cozy room. He nudges his horse forward, putting himself as close to Danville as he can.
Meanwhile, Wilmont scowls. He can’t trust he’ll be partnered with Danville, so he’ll have to fall back on his alternate plan; one he didn’t even tell his mother about. He nods to Danville, yet his mind is on the book in his bag. When Danville turns around and starts following the trail deep into the forest, he pats the bag tied to his saddle, an evil grin parting his lips.
They arrive at the spot, just as the Full Moon rises in the sky. They quickly gather firewood and make a fire, then spread their sleeping rolls around it. Danville pulls out cooking equipment and food, and makes a hearty stew for their dinner. Ashby retrieves water from the nearby stream for them to drink and use to wash the dishes when they finish their meal. Their bellies full and everything stowed away, they lie down to sleep.
Wilmont lies there, pretending to sleep. When the breathing of the other three are consistent with those of a sleeping person, he sits up quietly, grabs his bag, and makes for a the spot he picked out while gathering firewood. It’s the perfect place to cast his spell and ensure no one disturbs the intricate design he must draw for it to work. And, if anyone asks when he returns, he’ll say he needed to relieve himself.
Settling on the ground amid a plethora of bushes, he opens his bag and pulls out a black leather-bound book, the cover tattered and worn. On the front are arcane symbols of black magic. He runs his hands over the cover lovingly. His mother doesn’t know it, but her first husband, Wilmont’s and Ferrant’s father, was a dark sorcerer, and this was his book of spells. He knew he was dying and passed it to his eldest son. For years, Wilmont has practiced the spells inside, becoming quite adept.
He rifles through the pages, looking for the spell he needs. Finding it, he sets the book on the ground in front of him, then pulls his black elm wand from the bag, also left to him by his father.
“Time to enrage a beast,” he whispers to the night air, as he begins drawing arcane symbols in the dirt before him.
“Creatures of land, creatures of air,
Whether you be far or near,
Hear my call, heed my desire.
I send to you the power of rage and ire.
Tomorrow when the sun is high,
Destroy my foe, end his life!”
His spell chanted, he adds Danville’s name after the arcane symbols, then draws a circle around it, while his wand sparks and sputters, the black energy it emits sinking into the ground, giving life to the emblems in the dirt.
Pleased with his working, Wilmont puts the book and wand into his bag. He then pulls out a bottle, uncorks it, and pours the contents along the lines of the circle. He stoppers the vial and places it back in the bag, then returns to the fire. He lies down and falls asleep, eager for the day to come, the others none the wiser.
The next morning, they rise and make a quick breakfast. As Ashby douses the fire, Danville says, “Ashby, you and Ferrant will go East, while Wilmont and I go West. We’ll meet back here before sunset.”
“I want to go with you,” declares Ferrant, still fearful of the woods around him. “Please?”
“Fine. Wilmont, you go with Ashby.”
Wilmont is quite pleased with this turn of events. If he’s with Ashby, he won’t be suspected of anything. Not that he would be. He’s not the one who will kill Danville. He chuckles softly.
“What’s so funny?” asks Ashby, overhearing it.
“Nothing. Just in a good mood, I guess,” Wilmont replies.
“Let’s go,” says Ashby, suspicious of his stepbrother. It’s obvious to him, Wilmont is up to something, he just doesn’t know what.
They gather their weapons, each pair going in their assigned directions. Wilmont, soon growing bored, slips away to sit by the stream. There he has a good view of the area where the spell was cast. Now to wait for an animal to cross it.
He doesn’t have to wait long. In a matter of minutes a loud rustling is heard, and a huge brown bear comes into view.
“Trod across the spell. Come on, trod across it, you big beast,” Wilmont implores softly.
The bear stops, rises on his hind legs, tilts his head back, and sniffs the air. He drops to all fours and sniffs the ground. Finding what he seeks, he begins pawing at the spot where Wilmont cast the spell. Within a matter of minutes, he roars, the sound echoing through the trees.
“Now, go find the enemy,” whispers Wilmont, his voice filled with glee.
The bear turns and lumbered into the forest, as the evil stepbrother watches. When the animal is out of sight, Wilmont rises and rushes to find Ashby. He must be with his stepbrother when the beast does what he’s enspelled to do.
THE DAY PASSES AND the sun sinks ever closer to the horizon. Ashby and Wilmont return to the camp, both boys dragging large stags behind them. When they enter the encampment, they find Ferrant sitting on a log, tears streaming down his cheeks. At his feet lies Danville, his eyes open and vacant, deep gouges filled with blood, all over his body.
“Make him quite staring at me. He’s staring at me, make him stop,” wails Ferrant.
Ashby drops his stag and rushes over to his father’s body.
“What happened?” he asks, as he checks for a pulse.
Finding none, he gently closes his father’s eyes and retrieves a blanket, using it to wrap up his father’s body.
Rising, Ashby looks at Wilmont.
“Do you think you can find your way back to the main road?” he asks Wilmont.
“I can. What do you want me to do?”
“Ride into town, tell them my father is dead, attacked by some wild animal, and ask for assistance, then bring them back here,” explains Ashby, as he sits beside Ferrant, trying to comfort him.
“Maybe she’ll finally be proud of me like Father was,” he muses to himself, as he ducks to avoid a branch.
Reaching the main road, he turns, heading for the nearest village, leaving Ashby to deal with Ferrant’s whining.
Chapter Three
By the time Wilmont returns with assistance, Ashby has the camp broke down and bags packed, ready to return to the manor. One of the men brings a horse and cart. They load Danville’s body into it, the man flicks the reins, and he slowly makes his way back to the main road, Ashby following. Wilmont and Ferrant stay behind to help the men search for the bear that attacked and killed Danville.
Wilmont slips away from the hunting party, making his way to the spot where he cast the dark spell. Looking around to ensure no one sees him, he quickly wipes away the arcane symbols. It would do no good blaming the animal for the attack if anyone saw his spellwork. Finished, he quickly rejoins the others in the hunt.
Arriving at the manor house, Abigail makes a big show of hysterics to convince the men accompanying Ashby of her grief. Ashby ignores her, directing the men where to place the body for repose. When his father’s form is in place, Ashby thanks the men, then sets to work stripping the tattered clothing from his father and washing the blood away. He quickly dresses him in proper clothing and contacts the village parish to make arrangements for his father’s funeral.
A few days later, they bury his father in the local cemetery adjacent to the castle. Abigail rushes home to play the grieving widow, her sons at her side. Ashby stays behind, sitting quietly by the grave, talking to his father.
“I don’t know what happened, but I guarantee Wilmont and Ferrant were behind it. Most likely at Abigail’s urging. I promise you, they will not steal the manor house from our family. I will ensure it.”