by Ted Blasche
Wart watched as Zalton approached these otherworldly creatures, trying to communicate but to no apparent avail. He gestured in contempt, a signal Wart knew all too well, before turning to walk away. After but a few short steps, one of the silver-suits pulled a bizarre device from a holder on his side and pointed it at Wart's master.
A beam of light struck Zalton in the back, causing a hole to appear in his chest. Seeing this, Wart pounded on the magical barrier that kept him from rushing to his father. He cried out his anguish, sinking to his knees, tears running down his cheeks. To his way of thinking, Zalton had treated him cruelly on occasion, but the old wizard also provided food on the table, a warm place to sleep, and, of late, a profession.
His mind a jumble of conflicting emotions, the newly orphaned apprentice remained on the floor, leaning against the window until night shadows claimed his view. Then rising, he stumbled down to his bed, mind numbed by shock and grief. What shall I do? Will I ever escape this prison? Where can I go if I do?
This was a fitful night's sleep, with Wart tossing and turning until sometime after midnight. It was then that Wart heard a sound, a moan, really, more whispered than spoken, its familiarity causing him to leap nearly out of his skin. Sliding out of his bed, he crept toward the sound, a shoe clutched tightly in his hand. "Who's there?"
Near Zalton's desk, something shimmered in the moonlight. Edging closer, Wart opened his eyes wider to gather the few rays filtering into the room. At the near corner, he traded his shoe for the master's old staff. Emboldened, he challenged, "Show yourself!"
A translucent shadow coalesced into a shape, not solid to the touch, but visible to the eye. Wart dropped to his knees. "Master...I thought you dead!"
"Indeed, your thought is correct, my son. I am no longer corporeal in any sense of the word. My fellow spirits have granted permission for me to warn you of the coming danger. Those cruel demons on yonder field have set upon a course of conquest, and only you have the power to block their path.
"Me? I can't even escape this building. What good am I against the power of light they used to strike you down?"
"I was fool enough to approach without my strongest magic. I could have shielded against their weapon, turned it against them, and prevailed, but alas, I had left it here for you to discover."
"Then your death is on my hands."
"No, my son, it is on theirs, and you must cleanse them from our world."
Wart jumped to his feet. "Tell me where your magic is and how to use it. Then I will smite these intruders from our land."
A look of intense sadness painted the apparition's countenance. "Alas, I am bound, even in death, by the rules of your apprenticeship. Without your master's assistance, you must find my magic, divine its true nature, and take it as your own."
"At least answer me this, what is the nature of your power?"
"That power springs from the mind of the wizard. My wand will provide anything your imagination can divine, but there are many such sources of power available to you."
"Eyes darting about the room in desperation, Wart begged, "Isn't there something you can tell me to assist in my search?"
After a weighty pause, Zalton whispered, "My son, you must learn to tend your own fire. Only then will you become a true wizard. The dawn rapidly approaches, so my time here is at an end. Blessings be upon you, my son, in your quest." With those last words, the apparition faded into shadows once more, leaving Wart to ponder his future in silence.
The next day, Wart watched the aliens setting up a camp of sorts near the base of their flying silo. Gone were the silver suits revealing the invader's true forms. As he expected, they were covered in pinkish skin and the removed pots revealed something even more disgusting. They wantonly exposed their ears; such a blatant lack of morals struck Wart dumb.
That night Wart worked into the wee hours, examining and reexamining everything in the house. His search uncovered many magical devices which would assist him in his coming battle but the wand eluded him. Finally, in a state of near exhaustion, he collapsed in front of the hearth. Looking into its everlasting flames, he tried to fathom his father's last words.
Tend my own fire? That's so silly, this fire burns by magic; it never needs tending. He mulled his own words. Never needs tending...Never needs..."Tending!" he shouted to the ceiling. "What if I had to tend it?"
"Light!" Candles in a copper candelabra he'd polished ‘til it sparkled, suddenly sprang to life, illuminating the hearth. His eyes explored every nook and cranny of the room, and nothing seemed usable…until he finally spied a rusted piece of metal leaning against the back of the firebox. Using a mitten, he reached behind the flames to retrieve the object, which he immediately doused in his water pot.
A fireplace poker? With a magic flame, why would Zalton ever need one of these? Unless..."Ha!" Hoping Zalton might still hear, he addressed the air, "One useless implement intended for one equally useless apprentice to find."
Throughout the night, he rubbed frantically until the soot gave way to the shine of gold and precious gems. At first light, he tried his newfound gift. "I need to leave this place."
Taking a deep breath, Wart tentatively approached the door. With one last push, he leaned forward and virtually fell through the portal, landing on the cobblestone path that led to his gate. "Free, you cagey old fart! I'm free!" Then his thoughts turned to more pressing concerns.
Not willing to suffer the same fate as his mentor, Wart used his father's favorite comforter, to weave a spell of invisibility. When the enchantment took hold, he crawled close to the alien encampment. Unnoticed, he watched for weaknesses and soon realized that, for all their strange new tools, they weren't superior beings. They lacked magic, needing to do everything by hand or with their clever devices.
Overconfident, they did not even post guards, relying instead on their machines to protect them. This in mind, he planted a few magical spells to confound these strangers. Nothing significant, he placed tripping and pollen sensitivity spells near their campfires. Stifling his laughter, he watched clumsy men sneezing and snorting as a myriad of little things suddenly went wrong.
Emboldened, Wart returned home to carefully gather an arsenal. From his kitchen, he pulled the largest pot off its shelf, adding both spatula, ladle, and basting brush to complete the set. From its place of honor in Zalton's giant wardrobe, Wart added his master's prize umbrella and looking glass to the collection. The shed produced a shovel, pitchfork, and wheelbarrow, the latter necessary to carry his hardware to the battlefield.
Once preparations were complete, Wart tucked Zalton's fireplace poker into his belt and set out across the open field toward the enemy camp. He drove the shovel into the ground. "I need that silo to fall onto its side."
The shovel twisted and burrowed, causing the earth to swell under the silo. It rocked, slowly at first, growing in swells and undulating until that massive structure tottered on the brink of collapse. Roused from sleep, the pink-skins dashed about until one of them spotted Wart. From the silo, a large light-cannon rotated to point in his direction.
As the giant weapon fired a ray of death, Wart flipped open his umbrella. "I need to be shielded from the light." A shimmer appeared around his sunshade as the beam of light struck in full force. Sparks flew and rivulets of energy ran down the umbrella's handle, arcing to the poker in Wart's belt.
Smaller beams struck all about him, until Wart raised the looking glass. "I need complete reflection." Now each beam rebounded to its source, striking full force on the alien's implements of death. Their bodies ran red with their blood. Red! Who ever heard of red blood? Small wonder their skin was pink. The vile fluid was enough to turn Wart's insides upside down, but his lust for revenge overrode every other sentiment.
Amid howls of pain and explosions, Wart set his pot on the ground. "I need thunderclouds to bring the rain for my pot." The firmament turned black as rumbling thunder erupted. Dark shadows roiled in the sky, accentuated by angry bolts of lightning.
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"I need energy for my poker." When nothing happened, it occurred to Wart that calling his power wand a poker might well have offended it. He tried again. "Power my wand!" Immediately the lightning intensified.
Flash after flash, the energy flowed from the clouds overhead to the rod in his hand, filling both it and Wart with more power than this world had ever witnessed. Glowing with its charge, Wart aimed his implement at the silo. The concentrated heat of a thousand kilns slashed at an angle across the silo, cutting it in half.
Dissected parts separated from each other, tumbling into the ravine created by Wart's shovel. There those pieces exploded in a fireworks display that lit up the sky, reflecting off the dissipating thunderclouds. Once more, Wart called upon his umbrella to shield against the heat and flames his weapons had wrought.
With the arrival of morning's sun, Wart took inventory. The aliens no longer breathed the air of Noll, their weapons reduced to rubble. Using his shovel, he requested a grave for Zalton, and labored in silence until his master lay safely entombed in the soil of their native land. That sad task complete, he conjured sufficient metal to form a crypt over Zalton's final resting place, replete with a life-sized likeness of his father and master.
"Old man, you taught me well and deserve more than this." He studied the crypt until a brilliant smile poured out of his face.
Pulling the ladle from his wheelbarrow, Wart announced, "I need precious metals from our enemies." At first, he heard nothing, but then slowly, drops of gold, silver, platinum, and copper flowed like sweat from the metal carcass of his defeated foe. When the ladle filled to overflowing, he used his spatula and basting brush to coat the statue, thus preventing future corrosion. Finally, he set protection wards, runes, and pentacles to protect against thievery.
Stepping back, he realized something was yet amiss. This trampled ground seemed much too dull for his mentor, so he plunged his pitchfork into the ground. "I need flowers, everlasting blooms to give this place beauty and life." The field erupted in reds, purples, blues, and oranges. Flowers of varying shades and sizes now crept up the sides of the crypt to form a blanket of hues at the foot of Zalton's likeness.
Satisfied with his work, Wart returned to the cottage to prepare for his future. He basked in the power he could feel in his bones, learned magic to safely guide his steps. Using that newfound strength, he conjured an ox, imbuing the animal with four-fold strength, and hitched it to the shepherd's wagon Zalton kept for wandering. After loading all of his implements of magic onboard, Wart sealed the cottage, along with its many lessons, to await his return.
Walking beside the ox, Wart set out, pots and pans making merry music as they dangled from the sides of his cart. What will I do? Where will I go...perhaps the ocean, or a warmer clime or the mountains? It matters not what direction the road might take me, for I am Wart, son of Zalton, now a wizard full-blown, and this world awaits my pleasure.
Wand in hand and humming a tune to the rhythm of his kitchenware, Wart turned his cart toward the sea.
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About the Author of Learned Magic
Ted Blasche holds a BS in Psychology, MS in Communication Arts, and MS in Human Relations. He is a retired army officer who has contributed several articles and chapters to military publications. Since retiring, Ted has concentrated on Sci-Fi, including, To Dance With the Girls of Ios 5, Frog went a Courtin', and The Last Admiral." The latter is currently available in the Martinus Press Anthology, Veterans of Future Wars. Several of his stories are available without charge on his Facebook page. (Ted's Stories -Ted Blasche). Look for his Sci-Fi novel, The Rust Bucket Chronicles to be released by Kellan Publishing later this year.