by C. M. Lance
Sig got back into the truck to find Grampa snoring. He looked grayer and slept all the way home. At least he was breathing.
When they got back to the farm, Grampa yawned and stretched before getting out. He looked around the yard. “That’s the good thing about zombies; no blood to clean up.”
Sig grimaced. “I need a shower.”
“Good idea. Go up and shower and I’ll talk to Meredith. I’m sure she has many questions, probably more than I can answer. I’ll join you upstairs when you’re done.”
†††
Sig finished dressing when Grampa knocked on his door. “Can I come in?”
“Sure, come on.”
Grampa scanned the room. Sig’s latest karate gi hung from a hook in the closet door; a black belt draped over the hanger. Grampa started Sig on martial arts at five years old. He first took Sig to karate, paying in advance for multiple years of lessons. Sig outgrew quite a few gi in twelve years since he started. He excelled and was the youngest to attain each belt rank.
On a later visit, he started Sig on kendo classes. His kendo practice shinai swords rested in a rack above his dresser along with his fencing swords.
Inside his bedroom door hung a poster with the top fifty Chuck Norris facts (such as “Chuck Norris counted to infinity – twice” and “Chuck Norris likes his ice like he likes his skulls… crushed.”) An Einstein poster, the one with his tongue out, hung on the wall.
Sig started to take the chair at the desk so Grampa could have the bed, but Grampa shooed him out of it and sat down. “I've been driving all night. If I lay down, I'll fall asleep.”
Sig sat on the bed, elbows on his knees, his forehead in his hands, dark brown hair hanging forward over his face. He massaged his temples then looked up. “Wow, I don’t know where to start. Zombies attacking… your magic… you say I have magic.”
“I’m not surprised you’re feeling overwhelmed. I talked to your Mom about the zombies. She said they’ve been around since the farm across the road sold. She dreamed about them before your father died and more recently about them falling apart on your farm.”
“Today is the first time she ever said anything about the dreams before Dad died. She dreamed about them falling apart too? Wow.”
“She didn’t want you to worry and didn’t know you felt their presence. You never said anything to her either”, he said drily. “It’s very rare in our family for women to have magic, but I think your mother might. It’s good you both have sensitivities for the zombies. That’s my biggest concern now.”
“Do you think they attacked today because you arrived?”
“I’ve thought of that. I could leave, but if I’m not the reason, I’d leave you two unprotected.”
“I’m glad you were here. You knew what to do. Do you think they’ll attack again?”
“Not soon, at least not zombies. From what I know about black magic, it takes a long time to raise that many, particularly zombies that operate somewhat independently like these did. We’ll have to watch for other kinds of attacks.”
“Should we leave?”
“It’s not in my nature to run from trouble. I'm a Battle Wizard. As you saw, I wield magic. That's why I could let Bjørn speak to you.”
Sig's eyes grew wider as his great-grandfather talked.
Grampa waved his hand dismissively “Don't worry, Bjørn won't keep on speaking. He wouldn't be much of a conversationalist if he did.” He chuckled.
Sig’s mind felt numb. “What’s a Battle Wizard?” He finally asked.
“We fight on the front lines in the war against black magic.’
“I’ve never heard of a Battle Wizard. Are there more of them?”
Grampa smiled wryly. “A few more, but not enough.
“I have greater magic in my battle form, in addition to being impervious to most magic — or so I thought.” Grampa’s face took on a sad expression. “I got careless. I knew magic had grown more powerful, after the world changed, but I was arrogant. Magic couldn't hurt me…
“Never believe your own press clippings. There's always someone out there more powerful. Do I look old to you?”
“You look older than you used to. You look like Grandfather Edward now.”
“I've been old for a long time, Sigurd. I turned 94 before Edward was born. However, that's not much; my great-grandfather lived to be 340.”
Sig did the math. “When you said 193 years old this morning, you weren't kidding; or are you kidding now?”
“I'm deadly serious. The time for kidding is over. I ran across someone with tricks I never encountered before. Changes have made access to dark magic easier; portals between dimensions are more open.”
“Grampa, that sounds scary.” Sig looked around.
“Good. Fear of black magic is healthy. Dark Mages face a terrible ending if they draw on it; but, the dark is addictive, and of course they think they’ll live forever.”
Grampa Thor shook his head. “I didn’t have enough fear. That's why I don’t have much time left. I went up against a Dark Sorcerer who invoked a demon. I should have shielded against it and didn’t. Now the demon feeds off my magic. Every time I invoke magic, he sucks more out of me, even the normally insignificant part I use to stay young. My reservoir empties faster than I can replenish it. You’re looking at the result.”
The thought of losing Grampa so soon after Dad and Grandfather Edward, rocked Sig to his core. “There must be something that can be done!”
“I've found nothing that isn’t worse than the disease. Google doesn't have much on magic yet; maybe I’ll find something before I die of early old age.” His face twisted into a smile.
“My biggest concern now is for you, Sigurd. I must pass the sword to you as my grandfather did to me. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to train you as he did me, before passing it along. After he trained me, he lived for another one hundred years and managed his investments. It's the Battle Wizard retirement plan.”
“Grampa isn't there something I can do?”
Grampa impatiently shook his head. “Pay attention. Do everything I tell you. Make the transition as easy as possible.”
“But… I don’t have any magic.”
“I've always sensed magic in you; deep and powerful. Edward didn’t have it, but you do.”
“You can sense magic? If it's in me, it has to be very deep. You're kidding aren't you?”
“In some it takes longer to mature. I keep expecting yours to blossom, but I can’t wait any longer. There are things I must show you.”
“Maybe if you don't show me, you can last longer.”
“Not enough to make a difference. I wanted the privacy of your room, so I can show you. I didn’t want to do it in the barn. It might scare the horses.”
Sig frowned. “What makes you think that I'll be any less scared than the horses?”
“You may be scared, but you won't cause as much trouble because you don't weigh over 500 pounds like they do, yet.”
Sig’s forehead creased. Yet?
Chapter 7
“You asked what a Battle Wizard is. I’ll show you first, and then I’ll explain.”
Grampa Thor reached into his shirt collar, took a gold chain from around his neck, and handed it to Sig. “Have you seen the medallion I wear? It is Aðalbrandr.” It sounded like he said A-dul-bronder. “It focuses my magic. Aðalbrandr means noble sword or first sword. Family legend says it’s the very first battle talisman. It makes me a Battle Wizard.”
Sig held it up by the chain and peered closely at a perfectly formed miniature long sword. The hilt, pommel, and curved cross-guard were golden. The silver double-edged blade with a single groove down the center sparkled in the light. At the cross guard, a blue stone gleamed. A link attached the pommel to the gold chain.
Grampa took it back, gripped the miniature sword in his fist, the chain trailing down his forearm, and looked at Sig. “I can't do many more of these, so watch and listen.”
Sig watched him close
his eyes and say “Aðalbrandr.” The air around Grampa Thor coruscated and he blurred. The blur expanded. Quickly it cleared and a huge Viking warrior stood in place of Grampa. The tips of the horns on his battle helm almost touched the ceiling. Brown hair salted with gray, the same color as Grampa‘s, flowed thickly to his shoulders. Wolf pelts draped his muscular torso, and he held an immense double-edged two-handed sword that looked just like the one on Grampa’s necklace - but this sword was four feet long. The warrior carried it easily in one hand. Much broader than a regular human, his arms were sheathed in muscle.
The sword extended almost to the wall when he spread his arms. “This is what a Battle Wizard looks like”, he growled. Lowering the sword, he turned around. “How tall do I appear?” The floor creaked as he pivoted.
Sig realized his mouth hung open and snapped it shut. He stood and said, “A little over seven feet, not counting the horns. They almost touch the roof.”
The warrior frowned. “I was afraid of that. I used to be almost eight feet tall. I’ll change back. You get the idea.” He held the sword in front of him with two hands, tip on the ground and said “Koma aftur.”
The air shimmered; the warrior blurred and shrank until Grampa Thor stood in front of Sig, holding the talisman in his hand. Grampa slumped back into the chair.
He lifted the chain. “Here this is yours.” He sounded tired.
Sig stared numbly at it. Grampa shook the chain at him “Take it. It won't bite.”
Sig eased forward, but stopped. Grampa leaned forward and draped it across Sig's left hand. “Take it!”
Sig clenched the chain and raised the dangling medallion to a level with his eyes, looking for secrets, fearing that there wouldn’t be any for him.
“Go ahead, hold the medallion.” Thor said.
Sig reached up with his right hand, grasped the amulet, and jerked his hand back.
Thor peered at the hand with the amulet. “What happened?”
“It felt warm, and tingly; like it's humming.”
“Warm and tingly? Interesting. Other than sensing the zombies, you show no signs of magic. Grasp the amulet and say Aðalbrandr. See if the feeling in your hand changes at all.”
“Are you sure?”
“What's the worst that could happen — you turn into a midget warrior? With no magic, I don't expect anything to happen. Go ahead.”
Skeptical, Sig shrugged, stood up, and muttered, “Aðalbrandr.”
The room blurred and receded. He started to drop the amulet when something slammed into his head and knocked him to his knees. A thunderous boom followed the sound of wood breaking. He threw his hands up and the sword in his right hand, stabbed into the ceiling.
Grampa hollered, “Holy Crap!” and stepped away from Sig. Feet pounded up the stairs and his door swung open.
“What in the world is going…?” Mom said. She looked Sig in the eye then backed out of the room. How can she look me in the eye? I'm on my knees.
Grampa stepped in front of him, hands up, also looking him in the eyes. “Don't move. Don't get up. Lower the sword slowly.”
Sig looked up to where it pierced the ceiling, tugged it out, and set it on the bed. It stretched almost as long as his bed — longer than when Grampa held it. Plaster dust drifted downward from another hole in the ceiling. An exposed, fractured ceiling beam had a bowl shaped dent in it.
“What happened? Who hit me?” His voice sounded funny. It rumbled.
Mom peered around the room. She looked at his closed closet door and said “Sigurd?”
“Yes Mom?”
She looked back at him and said “Oh, my god!” She stepped back and sagged against the hallway wall. “Did he say someone hit him?”
Grampa Thor walked over, put a hand on her arm, and looked back at Sig. “He's OK. Hit himself on the ceiling. It didn’t hurt; it just surprised him. I'm sorry.” Mom looked at the hole in the ceiling and her eyes widened.
Grampa patted her arm. “I had no idea this would happen. Why don't you go downstairs? I'll get this cleaned up, then Sig and I will come down, and we can talk. You'll probably need a drink. While you're doing that, I'll take a Stoli on the rocks with a lemon twist.” Taking her arm, he led her to the stairway and then closed the bedroom door.
He leaned against the door, looked at Sig, and shook his head. “You're going to need a bigger horse.”
Chapter 8
Grampa Thor pushed off from the door and spread his arms wide as he stepped over to put his hands on Sig's shoulders.
“OK, grab the sword. Leave it on the bed. Don’t wipe out the room with it. Hold the grip and repeat after me. Koma aftur. It means return.”
Sig repeated it. The room blurred and grew around him. Grampa Thor grew; arms still extended but his hands no longer touched Sig's shoulders.
Grampa stepped back and dropped into the chair; leaving Sig kneeling in the middle of the room, holding the sword shaped amulet in his right hand.
Sig got up from his knees. “What happened?”
Grampa looked at Sig, as if staring through him. Sig sat on the bed and asked the question again.
Grampa jerked, and his eyes focused. He looked at Sig, really looked at him. Sig felt uncomfortable under the penetrating stare.
Grampa sighed. “Well, those tests they gave you for magic are a crock. You have magic, powerful magic.” He looked up at the fractured beam showing through the hole smashed in the ceiling plaster.
“At my most powerful, my battle helm would have brushed an eight-foot ceiling like this, or maybe the horns would have dented it a little. You, young man, were going right through the ceiling — if you hadn't run into that beam.”
He raised his eyebrows and said. “I would guess you are nine feet tall. There's never been a nine-foot Battle Wizard. I was the tallest and the biggest.”
Grampa patted his chest and grimaced, “Until my recent problem. It’s true what they say, size matters. For Battle Wizards size is proportional to magical strength.”
Grampa Thor's words echoed in his head. He heard them but they didn't make sense. Finally, he said. “I have magic? How could that be? I've never felt magic; never done anything magical.”
Grampa barked out a laugh. “What do you call what just happened?”
Taken aback, Sig felt his face redden. “I didn't do that; this did.” He held up the amulet.
Grampa shook his head. “Remember, I said Aðalbrandr focuses your magic.”
At the sword’s name, Sig’s eyes widened in apprehension, and he looked between Grampa and the amulet.
Thor waved a hand. “Don't worry, it won't happen unless you say his name while you're holding him, so everything is cool. That’s lesson number two — don't say his name if you don't want to change. As you saw, it happens quickly and impressively; if I do say so myself.” A smile quirked his lips.
“You keep referring to it as 'him'. Why is that?”
“Hmmm. Never thought about it. It’s always been a him, long before my time. Maybe because it focuses our magic and Battle Wizards are always men. Or maybe because it’s a sword.”
Sig held out the amulet. “Why don’t you keep this and give me another one? Don’t you need this?”
“There isn’t another to give you. The mountain dwarf who made them, over a thousand years ago, took the secret of the sword to his grave. Each family that has one guards it jealously. Only one family gave theirs away after no child born to their line had magic to take the sword up. I thought that would happen to our family. Edward had no magic and Meredith was his only child.”
“But you said she had magic.”
“She doesn’t have magic to control Aðalbrandr. I feared I would be the last in my line with magic. But the first time I held you, I knew you had it.”
“Where is it?”
“In some it takes longer to develop, but I don’t have longer. Your training starts now. Third lesson - if you remain a Battle Wizard for an extended period, the more likely you are to develop a ba
ttle rage.”
“A rage?”
“Have you ever heard of Viking berserkers?”
Sig nodded. “Living in Minnesota? You'd have to live under a rock not to have heard of berserkers.”
“Berserkers were often Battle Wizards too long in battle shape, or Vikings following them into battle. Some of those early Vikings were nuts.” He chuckled. “Hell, some of the current Vikings are nuts from what I see at football games.”
His face grew serious. “How are you feeling now? The first change can be a shock, especially if you aren't adequately prepared for it by someone knowledgeable.” He looked remorseful.
“We've kept your mother in suspense long enough. If you're up to it, we should join her downstairs.”
Sig took a deep breath then exhaled forcefully. He nodded and got up from the bed. “Let's do it before I lose my courage.”
Grampa clapped him on the shoulder. “That's the spirit. Forward, into the valley of death.”
Sig didn’t like the sound of that.
Chapter 9
Sig and Thor walked into the great room where Mom waited.
A modern addition to the old farmhouse, the great room had expansive windows and a lofty ceiling. Meredith sat in a chair next to a cozy fire in the large stone fireplace. She had a slender glass of chilled white wine and a worried expression. She gestured to the large recliner that had been Dad’s and then Grandfather Edward’s. “Have a seat there Grampa. Your Stoli with a lemon twist is on the table beside it.”
She looked at Sig for a moment then said, “You can have a beer if you'd like one.”
Sig hesitated then nodded and headed to the kitchen. He returned quickly and sat on the raised stone hearth, elbows on his knees, hands cradling the bottle of beer.
Mom frowned as she studied Sig's face. Grampa Thor cleared his throat. “Meredith, as much as I'd like to pretend what happened to your son upstairs didn't; I guess I have some ‘splainin’ to do.”