“You figure out how to talk to the Great Turtle yet?” she asked when their eyes met.
“Not yet,” said Murland.
“Give him some space,” said Brannon. “Magic is hard enough without someone breathing down your neck.”
“You know, you’ve been a real grump lately,” said Willow.
“Be nice,” Gibrig told them both.
“Well, it’s true,” said Willow. “If truth is rude, then I suppose you think lies are nice.”
Brannon rolled his eyes and returned to filing his nails. “I swear, if food isn’t going in your mouth, something stupid is coming out.”
“Shut up! Both of you,” said Murland, slapping the spell book down on his knees.
Everyone’s mouth clamped shut, and they regarded him with surprise.
“I’m sorry, it’s just this spell. It seems impossible.”
“I think you can do it, Murland,” said Gibrig with a kind smile.
“Thanks, Gib.” Murland sighed. “But I really can’t. I need a crystal ball, a vial of fust, and the earwax of a troll, among other things.”
“Too bad you never learned to whoosh stuff like Kazimir, the old toad turd,” said Willow.
“What about Ravenwing?” said Gibrig, and everyone lit up.
“Yes, she gave you that stone,” said Brannon.
Murland hadn’t thought of that. “You’re a genius, Gibrig,” he said, rummaging through the sack slung over his shoulder and fishing out the stone.
“Wait,” said Sir Eldrick. “Are you sure that we can trust her? She is a rogue sorceress after all.”
“Let’s not forget that you nearly drowned because of her,” Brannon added.
“That wasn’t her fault,” said Murland. “If you guys want to vote, go ahead, but we have no other way of reaching the Great Turtle.”
“We don’t even know if the old turtle knows the names of the darklings,” said Brannon.
“It’s Great Turtle to you, bud,” said Willow, waving a finger at him. “And he knows everything.”
“Look,” said Murland, addressing Sir Eldrick. “I don’t want to talk to the darklings anyway. For all we know, they’ll kill us. This was your idea.”
Sir Eldrick pondered, but he soon nodded. “Alright, but everyone be on your guard. You can never trust a rogue.”
“Are we agreed?” Murland asked the others.
The rest of them nodded their consent, and Murland held the stone out before him, remembering her instructions. “Ravenwing, Ravenwing, Ravenwing.”
Nothing happened.
Murland cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and tried again. “Ravenwing, Ravenwing, Ravenwing!”
“Maybe you should smoke some wizard leaf,” said Willow.
“I don’t need wizard leaf for this,” said Murland, growing increasingly agitated. He held out the stone, pouring his intention into it. “Ravenwing—”
“I’m on the can! Give me a minute,” came the voice of the sorceress from the stone.
“Oh! Ugh…sorry,” he said, turning his head away out of modesty and shrugging at the others.
“Bwahaha!” Gibrig laughed before swiftly clapping his hands over his mouth.
Brannon shook his head, though he was clearly amused.
Willow cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Don’t forget to wipe front to back!”
Brannon gave a disgusted scoff and looked to Willow as one might a particularly disgusting bug. “Why do you insist on being so gross?”
She laughed, shrugging. “What? It’s solid advice. Sir Eldrick, back me up here.”
“Stop fooling around,” he said, shaking his head with apparent mirth.
“Ye serious, Willow?” said Gibrig, looking concerned. “We supposed to wipe like that?”
Willow burst into laughter and slapped her knee, pointing at the dwarf. She tried to speak, but it seemed as though what he had asked kept going through her mind, for she got only a syllable out each time she tried to speak and laughed all the harder.
“I swear,” said Brannon as he tried to fight the smile replacing his indignant, flared nostrils. “You two are a bunch of fools if I ever saw.”
Gibrig looked at them all, his face the picture of innocence, which caused Sir Eldrick and Murland to burst into laughter as well.
There was a flash of light and a high-pitched WHOOSH. Murland yanked back the stone when it suddenly became hot, nearly dropping it. When the smoke cleared, Ravenwing stood before them, hands on hips. She surveyed her surroundings briefly before regarding each of the companions and settling on Murland. “Where’s your girlfriend?” she said with a hopeful look.
“Captured by Kazimir and a prisoner in Bad Mountain, like all of our friends,” said Murland. “Thanks for coming.”
“Really? I’m truly sorry to hear that. How can I help?”
Murland explained their theory about the darklings and Kazimir, and by the time he was done, Ravenwing was pacing around the fire, her black-winged cloak blowing in the breeze.
“Let me get this straight,” she said, stopping and facing them all. “You want to summon the darklings?”
“Well, first we want to speak with Great Turtle,” said Murland. “But yeah. We think the darklings might be able to tell us something about Kazimir that might help.”
Ravenwing sat down on one of the centaurs, which had turned to stone while lying down on his side. She tapped her nose as she stared into the fire thoughtfully. “You guys really think you can break the cycle, don’t you?”
“Yeah, we do,” said Sir Eldrick matter-of-factly.
Ravenwing shook her head.
“Look, can you help us contact the tur…Great Turtle, or not?” Brannon asked.
“He knows everything,” Willow added.
“I’m surprised that you were not able to do it yourself,” Ravenwing said to Murland.
“I…” He let out a long sigh. “I don’t have the ingredients for the spell I found in the spell book.”
“Ingredients,” said Ravenwing with a jeering wave. “Wizards and witches and their ingredients. It is so last century.” She blew her bangs out of her eyes the way she often did and leveled Murland with a mischievous grin, one laced with sex and power and promise. “I can show you how to do it without ingredients.”
Everyone looked to Murland, and he thought of what Headmaster Zorromon might think. At length he gave a sigh, for Zorromon wasn’t here, and besides, the old wizard had sold him down the river. “I would really appreciate any help you can give,” he told her.
She smiled at him like only Caressa—and maybe a few dippies—ever had. Reaching in her pocket, she retrieved a small sack. From it she took one small sparkling bud of wizard leaf, followed by a metallic herb grinder. Ravenwing went about her work with singular determination, looking to be fully consumed and fully enjoying the ritual. She took a small rectangle of thin paper from her sack as well, and started rolling it in between her fingers and grinning at Murland.
“Have you ever smoked the strain of wizard leaf developed by Raymond Reuel Martolkien?” she asked.
“Martolkien? But he—”
“He did many things. It is true. But a wizard like him comes around once per century, and while there are many copycats of his strain, they will never match the pure potency of his leaf.”
Ravenwing dumped a small amount of ground leaf onto a small box lid and curtailed it into a long straight line. She put one half of the herb at one end of the paper, and the other half in the other end. With practiced precision, she rolled the paper around the leaf, licked the edge, and sealed it with a loose squeeze.
“Could you pass me a burning twig?” she asked Murland after popping the rolled leaf into her mouth and letting it dangle from her dark red lips.
“Sure,” he said, hurriedly poking a small branch into the coals. A moment later, he handed her the burning twig.
She took it, careful to keep it sheltered from the mild wind blowing in from the south, and lit
the end of the rolled leaf.
“What exactly do you call that?” Murland asked. “I’ve never seen a wizard using anything but a pipe.
She sucked in a lungful of sparkling smoke and held her breath for a moment before blowing out a shimmering fog that congealed to create mystical patterns. “To be blunt,” she said with a wink, “it has many names. I prefer rollie myself.”
She passed it to him, and he could feel everyone’s eyes on his back. Accepting the “rollie,” he licked his lips and brought it to them, taking in a small amount of the sweet smoke. The cherry brightened, but Ravenwing scoffed.
“Come on now, don’t be shy.”
He took a bigger puff, watching the cherry flare at the end.
He felt his lungs instantly expand, and his mind exploded with a million thoughts at once. He passed the rollie back to Ravenwing, impressed by the smoothness of the leaf.
She offered it to Brannon, who glanced at Sir Eldrick. The knight shook his head, and Brannon regretfully did the same. Ravenwing shrugged, pinched the end off with her finger, and stowed it away before leveling her magical gaze on Murland.
“Feel anything?” she asked.
He did feel something, a relaxing of his muscles and easing of his mind, and an awareness that he had not felt since the first time he smoked. “Yeah,” he said dreamily. “This sure is some good stuff.”
“Alright, pay attention,” she said, and she began explaining to him how to cast the incantation.
A half hour later, Murland thought that he had it down, and everyone gathered around him and Ravenwing as they huddled around a bowl of water.
“Remember what I told you. You must concentrate on your subject. Think of his voice, his eyes, his energy. Once you think you have a good mental image, speak the words that I taught you.”
Murland nodded and sat up straight. He touched a scarred finger to the bowl with his right hand, and with his left, he waved the wand over the bowl. “Ayr varnuth gleamendo partho, Great Turtle,” he said with authority and tapped the wand on the bowl.
To his surprise, the water began to churn, and an image slowly appeared in the reflection. An old woman’s face suddenly appeared in the water, and she looked to be sleeping.
“Who’s that?” Ravenwing asked.
“That ain’t Great Turtle, I can tell you that,” said Willow.
“It’s…why it’s my great aunt Murtle,” said Murland, shaking his head. “I think I did something wrong.”
“You think?” said Ravenwing, cocking a brow.
“Who’s there?” said the old woman, and through the reflection in the bowl they saw her sit up straight in bed and look around wildly.
“It’s just me, Aunty Murtle,” said Murland. “Don’t be alarmed.”
“Murland?” she said, grabbing her glasses off the nightstand and glancing around. “Where are you, boy? Stop playing tricks.”
“I’m not there, Aunty. I’m using a spell to talk with you.”
“A spell you say? Well isn’t that fancy? You are alive then, that is good. Have you defeated the dragon? Your mother told me all about you being chosen.”
“Not yet. We’re on our way to Bad Mountain right now.”
Ravenwing gave a gesture that said to wrap it up.
“Listen Aunty, it’s good to talk to you, but I have to go,” said Murland.
“You kids are always in a hurry these days.”
“Sorry, Aunty.”
“Well, when you are done with the dragon, you come and see your aunty, you hear?”
“I will. I promise. Goodbye.”
He tapped the bowl again with the wand like Ravenwing had shown him, and the image disappeared.
“It wasn’t a total failure, I suppose,” said Ravenwing. “Ready to try again?”
“I sure am,” said Murland, excited that at least the spell had worked.
“You have any other acquaintances that rhyme with turtle?” Ravenwing asked playfully.
“No,” said Murland with a laugh. “Just Murtle.”
He cleared his mind, focused on Great Turtle as hard as he could, and went through the ritual once again. This time, however, when the image came together, it was that of a large turtle shell. The crown of the head was visible, tucked there at the front of the shell.
“It’s Great Turtle!” said Willow, leaning in for a closer look and nearly bumping Murland into the bowl.
“Hey, watch it,” he said, pushing back.
“Come on now, give him some space,” said Sir Eldrick, gently pulling Willow back by the shoulders.
“Great Turtle!” she yelled, and in the reflection, the large shell stirred.
“You mind?” said Murland, and he turned back to the bowl. “Great Turtle, might we speak with you?”
“I am his follower,” said Willow with a frown. “I should be the one talking to him.”
“Fine,” said Murland. “Just don’t bump the bowl.”
She nodded hastily and waved Murland away. “Great Turtle. It’s me, Willow Muckmuck,” she said pleadingly. “Please, oh, wise one, may I ask you a question?”
The turtle shell moved from side to side and began to rise slightly. The turtle’s head pushed out of its shelter, and one large eye peered at them through heavy lids. “Who is bothering my sleep?” he said groggily.
“It’s me, Great Turtle, Willow Muckmuck.”
“Willow? Ah, yes. The Champion of Fire Swamp.”
Willow beamed when he remembered her, and her eyes watered with tears of joy.
“Yes,” she said with a sniffle. “Yes, the Champion of Fire Swamp.”
He hummed low and quizzically. “And what is it that you want?”
“It is a dark affair, I am afraid, but long story short, we think that perhaps the darklings can help us to defeat Kazimir and Drak’Noir. And we were wondering…do you know their names?”
“Hmm, that is a dark affair indeed. But, my child, you do not want to summon souls such as theirs.”
“It is the only way, unless…Great Turtle, it is said that you know everything. Then perhaps you can tell us what happened when the original Champions of the Dragon faced Drak’Noir.”
Everyone looked on hopefully, holding their breath to hear what he might say.
“I am afraid I cannot tell you that which you wish to know,” he said at length. The group gave a collective sigh, deflated.
“But, I thought that you knew everything,” said Willow, crestfallen.
His eyes widened with a hint of anger. “I did not say that I do not know the answer, I said that I cannot tell you.”
“But why not?” said Gibrig. Willow shot him an angry look and he cowered.
“You are mortals, and so of course you do not understand the ways of gods. We do not intervene in the lives of the creatures we have created, for if we did, what would be the point of free will? No, I am only an observer, you understand?”
“But if we cannot learn Kazimir’s secret, we will surely die,” said Willow.
“Death is an end, but it is a beginning as well. Do not fear death.”
“Are you out of your shell?” said Brannon, folding his arms and glancing around at the others indignantly.
“You watch your mouth!” said Willow.
“That’s his advice? We should just shut up and go die? Oh, but let’s not be afraid.”
“I said shut it,” Willow warned.
“Whatever,” said Brannon, throwing up his hands and stomping off.
“Great Turtle,” said Sir Eldrick. “If I may…”
Great Turtle nodded, blinking sleepily.
“Can you at least give us the names of the original champions? For surely that is not really influencing us, merely helping us to learn that which we might learn elsewhere, but at greater pains. Please, we ask only for their names.”
“Please, Great Turtle,” said Willow, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“Well,” said the ancient turtle. “I suppose that it can’t hurt to tell you at
least that much. Now listen closely, for I will utter their names only once. The first was a knight by the name of Sir Kraven Kingshield. The second, an elf warrior, was called Floren Lightfoot. The wife of a dwarven miner, Ruby Rockwar, was the third. And the fourth was an ogre named Vigor Tusk’Gnasher. And of course, you know the name of the fifth.”
“Kazimir,” Murland murmured.
Great Turtle nodded. “You have what you wanted, now leave me to sleep.”
“Thank you, oh Great Turtle!” said Willow, reaching a hand to the water bowl as his head receded back under the shell.
Murland tapped the bowl of water, and the image disappeared. He looked to Ravenwing, who hadn’t spoken a word. She looked skeptical.
“So, that was a god?” she said with mild condescension.
“Yup, he’s on the walk of the world that began a thousand years ago,” said Willow proudly. “And when he gets to the end and falls off, we will all be judged.”
“A thousand years?” said Ravenwing. “Is that how old your people think the world is?”
Willow nodded, looking quite convinced.
“We met the turtle—” Murland began, but was quickly corrected by Willow.
“Great Turtle to you, bud.”
“Right, we met Great Turtle in the Swamp of Doom. He…knows things.”
Ravenwing shrugged. “I’ve seen stranger things. So, assuming that the names that he gave you were correct, what now? Do you really intend on summoning the darklings?”
“I do,” said Murland. “Can I use the same spell that I used to speak with Great Turtle?”
“Heavens no. Are you mad? That would be a very bad idea.” She began pacing around the fire, and seeing that she was formulating a plan, the companions all sat and waited for her to continue. “With creatures like the darklings, we would have to set a trap,” she said at length.
“A trap?” said Willow. “You mean like with food?”
“No. I mean one with blood.”
The Legend of Drak'Noir: Humorous Fantasy (Epic Fallacy Book 3) Page 23