Eye of the Wizard: A Fantasy Adventure

by Daniel Arenson

  Tears in his eyes, Scruff knelt by Father. Was he dead? Scruff leaned close, the smell of seared flesh spinning his head. Father still breathed, but his breath was shallow. His hair was burnt, and smoke rose from him.

  "You did it, Dad," Scruff said, tears falling. "You banished the warlock. I'll take you to a doctor. You'll be fine."

  Father was pale. He held Scruff's hand. "Take care of your family when I'm gone," he whispered, words so soft Scruff could barely hear. "Become a knight, Scruff. Follow in my footsteps."

  "I promise," Scruff said, then let out a sob. Father's breath died, and his hand fell from Scruff's grip.

  He was dead.

  Father, no..., Scruff thought. He lowered his head and tasted tears on his lips.

  "I promise too, Papa," Jamie sobbed, hugging Father's body. Ash rained around her, coating her hair and face. "I'll become a knight someday too."

  Tears on their cheeks, Scruff and Jamie turned their heads and looked back at Neev. Their brother stood two steps behind, cloaked in shadows, fists clenched at his sides. Fire burned behind him.

  "Aren't you going to promise too, Neev?" Jamie asked, voice trembling. "Aren't you going to be a knight?"

  Eyes aflame, face ashy, Neev shook his head. He spoke through a tightened jaw. "No. I won't become a knight." His voice was soft but full of rage and pain. "I'm going to be a warlock."

  Chapter Two

  The Giant and the Runt

  Spring had come to Burrfield, and it was a beautiful day.

  Daffodils and primroses covered gardens, windowsills, and Friar Hill, their scent wafting through the town, mixing with the morning scents of dew and baking bread. Children ran playing along cobbled streets, free from winter's confines, while starlings chirped and geese honked in clear skies. Leaves coated oak saplings, bright green and newly sprouted, like uniforms for pupils on their first school day. Ancient pines used to tower along Burrfield's streets, gnarled and wise as old kings, but most had burned in Grobbler Battle five years ago. Whenever Burrfield's new trees leafed, the town celebrated; it meant beauty and peace had returned.

  It was a perfect day—for everyone but Scruff. He was miserable.

  Standing in Fort Rosethorn's courtyard, surrounded by fellow squires in chain mail, he tried to swing his sword. He pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, and focused on the swipe, a complicated move called The Wolfbite. It was no good. His fingers trembled, dropping the wooden sword. It thumped at his feet.

  "SCRUFF!" Lord Bramblebridge bellowed from across the yard, cheeks puffed red. His bald head glinted with sweat and his orange mustache bristled; bad signs. "What in the heck is wrong with you, Butterfingers?"

  Scruff sighed, eyes stinging, staring at his fallen sword. "Sorry, my lord."

  Scruff hated sword practice. It had been five years since Burrfield burned, but the memories still haunted him. Whenever he touched a sword—even this wooden training blade—the pain returned like a punch to the belly. That day, so long ago, he had dropped Father's sword in fear, letting the grobblers kill Mother. To this day, swinging a blade made Scruff's belly hurt, his hands shake, and his eyes moisten.

  Twenty other squires stood around Scruff in the courtyard, swinging their blades, all mastering the moves with ease. Dust flew from stomping boots, covering sweaty faces. The sounds of grunts, clacking wooden blades, and chinking chain mail filled the air, echoing between the crumbling towers and barracks. Roses covered the old fort walls, their scent mingling with the tang of oiled mail, sweat, and leather armor.

  Lord Bramblebridge came marching toward Scruff, shoving squires aside, gut sucked in, barrel chest thrust out. "What in blazes is the matter, boy?" he demanded, a foot shorter than Scruff, but tough as an old bulldog. Lord of Burrfield, the stocky Bramblebridge had been Father's friend, but he treated Scruff like one might treat goo found on one's boot.

  "I'm sorry, my lord," Scruff said again, lifting his sword. "It's just... I can't do it. I'm no good at swordplay."

  "Tell me something I don't know, Professor Brainiac!" Bramblebridge was shouting so loudly, his cheeks glowed red like apples. "You are the worst excuse for a squire I've seen, and I've been training squires for thirty years."

  Scruff lowered his eyes. Five years ago, when he moved into Fort Rosethorn as a squire, he had beamed with pride. His father had trained in this fort, and joining its ranks meant the world to Scruff. Fort Rosethorn stood upon a hill in southern Burrfield, a cluster of towers and barracks, all built of crumbling bricks overrun with weeds and roses. This was home to a dozen knights, three hundred soldiers, and twenty-odd squires... Bramblebridge ruling them all with his iron fist.

  Father thought the world of Fort Rosethorn, Scruff knew, eyes stinging. But I let him down. I just can't do it.

  Blinking back tears, he glanced at his sister Jamie. She drilled beside him, swinging her sword so fast, it whistled. Ten years old when Burrfield burned, Jamie was now fifteen and deadly with the blade. She wore her black hair short like a boy's, and dressed as one too, sporting a tan jerkin and leggings. Even her face was boyish, with fiery eyes, tightened lips, and freckles sprinkled across her upturned nose. Only Scruff knew she was a girl; she had been pretending to be a boy since learning that girls couldn't be knighted.

  "Looking at Jamie, eh?" Bramblebridge said, sweat dripping down his forehead. "Well you should, lad. Jamie is the best swordsman we have. He might be five feet tall on his tiptoes, and barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, but he can beat your lumbering butt any day with a blade."

  Scruff nodded. "Yes, my lord." Secretly, he wished he were small and limber like Jamie. She had not grown much since Grobbler Battle five years ago, but he had just kept sprouting. He now stood closer to seven feet than to six, and weighed three hundred pounds. Children would taunt him, calling him an ogre, and Scruff often cried into his pillow at night, wishing he were small and speedy like his sister.

  Lips tightened, he tried to swing his sword again, emulating Jamie's flawless technique. But it was no good. Just touching the sword made his fingers tremble. He dropped the blade again, missing Bramblebridge's foot by an inch.

  Bramblebridge stared down at the wooden blade, up at Scruff, then sighed. "Just... go away, Scruff," he said. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and spat. "You're hopeless."

  Scruff stumbled off, head lowered, chain mail chinking. The sounds of clacking swords died behind him, and Scruff could feel the eyes of the other squires against his back. He could just hear their taunting, calling him a beast, a mindless golem, a creature better tied to a plow than decked in armor. Scruff felt like crying. It was embarrassing to be eighteen and still useless with the sword. The other squires had mastered these moves years ago, yet Scruff kept failing sword practice, year after year.

  Scruff sighed. When will I become the man I want to be? Even his childhood nickname stuck. His true name was Sam Thistle the Fourth, but nobody called him that. To everyone, Sam Thistle meant his deceased father, a knight of honor and distinction, a hero in this town. But I remain Scruff... or Butterfingers... or the Ogre. Scruff sniffed. As hard as he tried, he couldn't become as respected as his father. Jamie took after Dad... while I'm just a lumbering, stupid, overgrown beast.

  Wishing he could disappear into oblivion, Scruff left the dusty courtyard. He walked past the barracks and armory, crumbling buildings covered with roses, magpies nesting on their roofs. Shooing aside peacocks pecking for seeds, Scruff stepped under a portcullised gate, leaving Fort Rosethorn behind. From here, standing atop Rosethorn Hill, he could see all of Burrfield below, a sprawling town of wattle-and-daub houses, young oak trees, and a stone church with a single spire. Feet dragging, Scruff walked down the hill and along cobbled streets, heading to that church.

  He shuffled down Baker Lane, where the scents of apple muffins tickled his nostrils, and into cobbled Scribe Square. Several vendors stood hawking fruit, parsnips, fish, and sausages from carts. In one corner, a group of children were watching a Punch and Judy show. Brief
ly, Scruff considered watching the puppets too; even at his size, he loved puppets, and they could always soothe him. He headed toward the show, but the children noticed him and started whispering.

  "The ogre!" one said, covering his eyes. A little girl whimpered. Even the puppets looked at him, then covered their button eyes and cowered.

  Scruff lowered his head, spirits crashing. It felt like somebody had poured icy water down his tunic. With a sigh, he turned and walked away.

  Something hit the back of his head. A rotten egg, he realized. The children laughed behind him. For an instant rage filled Scruff, and he considered rushing toward the children, howling and waving his arms. That'll scare the daylight out of them. But he only kept walking away, sadness drowning his rage. Howling at the children would only prove they were right, that he was an ogre. Eyes moist, Scruff left Scribe Square, heading into narrow Cobbler Avenue.

  If I were a knight, he thought, picking egg shells from his hair, nobody would toss rotten eggs at me. Nobody would call me an ogre. They would call me Sir Sam Thistle, like they called my father.

  On days like today, Scruff could barely believe he was Father's son. Father had been so proud, noble, and handsome. How had he, Scruff, become this lumbering, shaggy-headed beast?

  Rubbing tears from his eyes, Scruff finally reached the church. Gargoyles stared upon him from the spire, their maws mossy and their horns chipped. The sound of chanting monks came from within the church, and Scruff could smell the incense they burned. Walking around the church, he entered its old graveyard, which lay behind a few ash trees. Roses climbed over tombstones and statues of angels, petals shivering in the breeze. Walking gingerly over fallen petals, Scruff made his way to his parents' grave. He stood before it, head lowered, so sad he couldn't stifle a tear. Ravens stood on a nearby grave, watching him curiously.

  "I'm sorry, Mom, Dad," Scruff said in a small voice. "I'm trying."

  He had promised Father he'd become a knight. You had to keep a promise you made on your father's deathbed. Everybody knew that. You had to. Jamie was well on her way to become a knight, keeping her own promise. His brother Neev was apprenticing at the Coven, a council of warlocks dug into tunnels beneath Batwog Mountain; he would soon complete his apprenticeship and fulfill his promise from five years ago. But he, Scruff, just couldn't do it.

  "I've let you down," he said to the grave, wiping tears away. "I'm trying to be a knight, but it's so hard."

  Only one thing made Scruff feel better on days like today. He left the graveyard and walked down a dirt path, heading to the southern edge of Burrfield. Past the well and silos, Scruff reached the craggy wall that encircled the town, the wall built after Grobbler Battle to keep out warlocks and their monsters.

  By the wall he found the thorny bush he sought, a venerated hedge called Old Thicket. A thousand years ago, thorns had covered Burrfield; the town founders sought security between the prickles, but suffered too many cuts and eventually uprooted the plants. They left only Old Thicket, and still it grew, a reminder of Burrfield's prickly past. Wincing, Scruff rummaged between the thorns, ignoring the pain, and finally pulled out his favorite weapon: Norman.

  My old friend, Scruff thought, lovingly hefting the spiny mace. Jamie is thin, fast, and deadly like the sword she wields, but you are like me, Norman; overgrown and brutish. Scruff had never had a dog, but he loved Norman the way people loved their pets. Maces were for guards or outlaws, not knights, but Scruff didn't care; Norman suited him more than any blade.

  The other squires could not lift Norman, and even Lord Bramblebridge would have trouble wielding it, but Scruff was stronger than an ox. Lips tightened, he carried Norman past Prickle Gate, out of town and into Teasel Forest. Mist swirled around his boots, and the birches rustled around him, their leaves dappled with sunlight. Bluebells moved in the breeze and robins fluttered among the boughs.

  Alone between the trees, Scruff swung Norman against some boulders, shattering them, scattering chips of stone. Whenever he felt bad he came here, to this secret place in the forest, where he could beat away his aggression. Stone shards covered the forest floor from previous bashing sessions. I'll never be a knight. I'll always be the brute, the simpleton, the failure. As the stone shards flew, his tears burned.

  A breeze blew, and a malodor hit Scruff's nose, severing his thoughts.

  Scruff frowned, lowering his mace, panting. It smelled like mold and rotten leaves, but ten times worse. He had never smelled anything like it. Covering his nose, Scruff stepped toward the source of the smell, wishing his chain mail didn't creak so much. Beside a fallen log, he found several clawed, smoking prints. They raised a stench of rot and wisps of black smoke.

  "What the...," Scruff muttered. What could have left such tracks? It wasn't human. It wasn't an animal. Scruff had never seen anything like it. The chill that ran through his body spoke of that night five years ago, the last time monsters had come to Burrfield.

  The breeze blew again. Though it was a warm April day, the breeze was cold as winter. Scruff shivered and clutched his mace.

  * * * * *

  Her sword moved like a viper. With a cry, a thrust, and a whoop of triumph, she landed her coup de grâce. Her wooden blade hit her opponent, a hulking squire who towered over her, twice her size and clad in chain mail.

  "That's a kill!" Lord Bramblebridge announced with a nod. His red mustache curled up, a sign of pride. "Good job, Jamie."

  Yeah! Jamie thought, panting. She sheathed her sword, spat, and outstretched her hand for her opponent to shake. Giving her a dirty look, the squire rubbed his side, where her sword had struck; Jamie's blows left bruises even past chain mail. Grumbling, he shook her hand.

  "Good fight," he muttered, staring at his boots.

  Several other squires stood around them, also muttering and rubbing bruises. Their faces were red and dusty. Jamie had beaten them too. They're upset that little me, not even five feet tall, could beat them, she thought with a smile, pushing back strands of her short, damp hair. If they knew I was a girl....

  Lord Bramblebridge slapped Jamie's back, a mighty blow that nearly knocked her down. Bramblebridge was squat and powerful as an armored bulldog, and his friendly slaps could leave bruises. Jamie was so tiny that a slap on the back, a friendly punch on the shoulder, even a hearty handshake could hurt her. But what she lacked in size, she made up for in agility. Scruff is strength; I am speed.

  "My boy, you are the best swordsman I've seen in decades," said Bramblebridge, cheeks beaming, bald head glistening. "Your brother Scruff is thrice your size, but you prove that even a baby-faced runt can be the deadliest warrior around."

  "Thanks," Jamie said, knowing Bramblebridge meant it as a compliment. She looked over the line of squires she had beaten, beefy boys now bruised and battered, and pride swelled within her. At this rate, she could be knighted within the year, becoming the youngest knight Fort Rosethorn had produced.

  I wish you were here to see this, Mom and Dad, she thought.

  Remembering her parents, cold sadness washed over her warm pride, and Jamie lowered her head. Poor Scruff; he can't let go of the memory. Jamie felt bad for him, so bad that her stomach ached. Her brother tried so hard. He excelled at all other classes—he'd memorized all the heraldic poems, was a perfect rider, an expert falconer. But give him a sword, and he dropped it like a burning coal. Oh Scruff, why can't you just let go, why can't you get over that day? Jamie knew the memories of Grobbler Battle filled him whenever he touched a sword. It tore Jamie's heart whenever Bramblebridge yelled at him, drove him from the yard in shame.

  "If I may, my lord," she said to Bramblebridge, "I'd like to go find my brother." Her heart still raced from her fights, and her clothes were sweaty.

  Bramblebridge rolled his eyes and snorted, mustache fluttering. "Go find the oaf, if you must," he said, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. "But don't encourage him. I know you want him to keep practicing swordplay, but he won't get it. God knows I've tried. He's just not knig
ht material, your brother. Scruff was born to pull a plow, not wield a sword. Instead of training for knighthood, he should seek a career as an ox. Slap a yoke onto him, he'd make an excellent draft animal."

  Jamie nodded, wanting to argue but biting her tongue. As much as she hated to admit it, Bramblebridge was probably right. Well, not about the ox part, but about Scruff not being knight material. Like it or not, knights had to use swords.

  Sighing, Jamie approached the rack of swords in the corner of the yard. She hung up her wooden training sword and retrieved her real blade, Father's blade, that same blade Scruff had dropped during Grobbler Battle. Filigreed and jeweled, the sword was called Moonclaw, and whenever Jamie bore it, she knew she was honoring Father's memory.

  Slinging Moonclaw over her back—it was almost as long as she was tall—she left the training yard, pebbles crinkling under her leather boots. As she walked away, she heard the other squires whispering behind her, probably wondering how in hell this slight, short boy with girl arms had beaten them.

  Jamie sighed again, heading around the dovecots behind the barracks. Every day, more and more squires whispered. Every day, she heard more whispers of "girly" tossed her way. That had not happened a couple years ago, but at age fifteen, faking boyhood was becoming difficult. These days, new squires usually thought she was a girl at first, until she punched their noses, bent their arms, and wouldn't let go until they took it back.

  How long can I keep up this act? Jamie wondered. A few years ago, nobody would imagine she was a girl, but every day she looked less boyish. It wasn't fair! She was a thousand times better at the sword than anyone, so why couldn't she be knighted on that merit? Why did she have to maintain this charade? Sometimes it made Jamie want to scream and smash things.

  With a sigh, Jamie remembered the tales of Lady Lenore, her heroine. Twenty years ago, the beautiful noblewoman, disguised as a boy, had become a knight and heroine, slaying trolls and dragons across the kingdom, clad in the purest white steel. As a little girl, Jamie would beg traveling bards to sing of Lenore, and they would sing of monsters slain, towns saved, and treasures found. As the years went by, fewer bards sang Lenore's poems, and these days few remembered her. Where are you, Lady Lenore? Jamie often wondered, fearing in her deepest thoughts that her heroine had died. More than anything, Jamie dreamed of becoming the next Lenore. One day the bards will sing of me, Jamie Thistle, the Lady Knight. I'll do it for you, Mom and Dad.