The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  At first, the six people ate in silence, shoveling food into aching stomachs that had gone too long without a true meal. As their bellies filled, Mitrian set aside her third ear of corn to ask, “Is it common for farmers to burn holes in their fields?”

  Accustomed to his role as teacher, Colbey answered the question before asking one of his own. “In the civilized Westlands, people have ritual field burnings after the harvest as a sacrifice to the gods for the next year’s crops. But that’s not until after harvest.” Now, he delved for the source of Mitrian’s query. “Did you see a burned patch?”

  Mitrian pointed deeper into the field.

  Garn spoke with his mouth full. “Lightning,” he suggested.

  The explanation sounded reasonable to Colbey.

  Mitrian seemed more skeptical. “The rain would have quenched a fire before it spread, or the entire field would have burned. Maybe it was a carelessly placed campfire.”

  Colbey rose, yawning. Mitrian’s suggestion seemed less likely. “What fool would set a camp in the middle of a field with a forest so close on the one side and, almost certainly, a town on the other?” He pawed through the packs for his own and drew out a blanket. “I’m sure the farmer will give us an answer, if we dare admit we stole his corn.” He spread his blanket just close enough to the fire so the smoke would discourage bugs. “Let’s get some sleep.”

  Garn eyed the last ear of corn, obviously still more interested in food than sleep. “I’ll take the first watch. . . .”

  Colbey drifted off before Garn finished speaking.

  * * *

  “Modi.” The cry sounded scarcely louder than a whisper, but it awakened Colbey to full awareness in a way no other could.

  The old Renshai leapt to his feet, ready to fight, battle wrath like a fever within him. The camp felt equally hot. He spun into a crouch.

  Episte stood, frozen, his eyes fixed on the heavens. Behind him, flames devoured the pile of packs and saddles, and crawled along the underbrush.

  “Fire!” Grabbing up his blanket, Colbey sprang for the blaze, slapping the fabric over it. The flames sputtered, shattering to sparks that seared Colbey’s bare arms. The horses skittered, rearing, then bolted into the forest. Awakened by Colbey’s shout, the others joined him, pounding blankets on the flames. Shadimar disappeared into the woodlands, presumably to find the horses. Mitrian’s blanket burst into flames. She dropped it, recoiling with a gasp of pain. Garn and Rache hammered at the fire, stomping smaller grass fires. Episte dumped the remains of the previous night’s water onto the worst of the blaze. Water struck with a long hiss that muted the fire. Colbey doused the remaining flames with the charred remnants of his bedding.

  “Who was on watch?” Colbey glanced from face to face. Sweat cleared a crooked line through the ash on his arms.

  No one replied, though Garn did glance at Rache, who naturally turned his gaze to Episte.

  Colbey followed the sequence of the sentries by the nonverbal exchange. Smoke curled from the dying fire, and it faded before the heat of Colbey’s anger. That Episte had shirked his duty bothered him, but the teen’s silence enraged him. “Episte!”

  The boy lowered his head.

  “If you couldn’t stay awake for your watch, you should have asked someone else to finish it.”

  “I . . .” Episte started, as if searching for a defense. “I didn’t fall asleep. I . . . It . . .”

  Colbey threw down what remained of his blanket. “You also didn’t tend the fire.”

  Episte shrank back, his face as pale as a torch in the darkness. “A winged monster attacked me. It spit fire at me. I tried to fight it, but it flew away and—”

  The childish ludicrousness of Episte’s excuse snapped Colbey’s control. For the first time in his life, he struck a student with his hand, a resounding slap across the face that stunned the youngster into silence. “You’re a man, Episte, not an infant! Renshai don’t fear night or the bugbears that babies imagine in it. I can and will forgive your mistakes, but not your lies.” Anger sank into disappointment, and Colbey stared into the dimming glow that remained of the campfire, until his vision hazed to a vast, red darkness. “Go to sleep. I’ll finish this watch.”

  Episte turned his back, wandering away from the camp and curling up some distance away. The others returned to their places.

  Colbey winced, knowing his blow had stung Episte’s pride as well as his flesh and that tears fell from the youngster’s eyes. Yet he dared not offer comfort. The boy had grown too old for the wild excuses that the gods forgave from children with active imaginations.

  Although Shadimar had not yet returned from his hunt for the horses, Secodon padded softly through the camp. Colbey watched as the old gray wolf chose to lie beside Episte and to lick soothingly at the youth’s tear-streaked face.

  * * *

  Colbey and his companions awakened with the sun. Shadimar had rejoined them, along with all of the horses. Through the still grayness of dawn, they led the animals between rows of corn, single file so as not to trample the crop. The horses kept their heads low, too weary even to go after the ready food, or perhaps their tractability was attributable to Shadimar’s magic. Colbey neither knew nor cared.

  They arrived at the edge of the town at midday. Colbey counted thirty dwellings, arranged in a haphazard ring. A larger building stood in the center. Beside it, a mixed herd of cows and goats crowded around a water trough or fountain. Fields like the one they had traveled through surrounded the town, puddles of green and yellow that seemed endless. Distant forest serrated the horizon and, to the east, Colbey could see the towering peaks of the Great Mountains.

  More cows, gaunt as shadows, ambled in the streets, not bothering to look up or shuffle away as the strangers approached. Nearby, a stout, middle-aged man in grimy homespun dragged boulders toward a low stone fence that seemed inadequate to keep cows from the crops. Yet not a single cow had crossed it. As Colbey and the others approached, the farmer turned. Brown eyes riveted on them, soft in a haggard visage. His gaze rolled from faces to weapons. He dropped the stone, twisting toward the town, as if to measure the distance. Then, apparently realizing the strangers would come upon him before he could alert the town, he knelt and picked up a rusty sickle from the grass. He thrust out his chest, stood tall, and waited.

  Colbey hailed the farmer, beginning at shouting distance. “Hello.” He stopped, trying to place the villager at ease with a slow, obvious approach that bordered on ponderous.

  The farmer eyed the tattered party suspiciously. “Hallo.” He returned the greeting with wooden formality. Finally, his gaze found Secodon. “Wolf!” He brandished the sickle. “Wolf! Ye’ll not maul me cows!” He stalked the wolf, who disappeared behind his master’s horse.

  Mitrian and Garn came up beside Colbey, and the two younger Renshai moved up to stand at Mitrian’s side.

  Obviously intimidated, the farmer backed away, ducking behind his sickle, his weathered face pale.

  “Secodon won’t hurt your animals,” Mitrian said. “I promise.”

  The farmer’s gaze jerked to Mitrian.

  “And neither will we,” Colbey added, suspecting that the farmer had chosen Secodon as the least dangerous target. “We’ve traveled a long way. We’re in need of food and supplies, maybe a few days of rest. Do you have an inn?”

  The farmer lowered his makeshift weapon. Dark hair mixed with gray fell in a fringe around his head. “Nawt an inn per say. I’ll take ye to the gathrin’ house.” Apparently, the party’s calmness lent him courage. “Yere nawt plannin’ any trooble in Greentree?”

  “Certainly not.” Colbey reassured the villager. “We just came for food and a place to rest.”

  “Tha toon donna see many strangers.” The farmer escorted Colbey and his companions along an unpaved dirt path toward the center of town. He still clutched the sickle, but he seemed to have forgotten he held it. The blade dragged through dirt and grass, leaving a snaking trail behind him. “I hight Angus. Those be
me fields ye traipsed.”

  “Colbey,” the elder Renshai said, uncertain of the proper amenities for farmers. “Uh . . . the crops seem healthy.”

  Angus smiled with pride. “Aye, they do me well.” He stopped before the door to the central building. Now, Colbey could see that the cows and goats surrounded a basin with a hand pump.

  “Let the horses free.” Shadimar remained at the back of the group. “I don’t think they’ll stray far from water.”

  Angus frowned. He leaned the sickle against the wall. “Ye can keep yere animals with our’n, but ye mayna want to. Tha blicht be upon them all.”

  Colbey let Shadimar answer the farmer’s concerns. As much as the old Renshai knew of cures and wound care, he knew little about cows and goats.

  “They’ll be all right for now.” Shadimar loosed his mount from its lead rope. The fire had damaged several of the saddles as well as most of their rations, so it only took seconds for Rache, Episte, and Garn to strip off the remaining tack.

  When they had finished, Angus turned the knob and pushed open the gathering house door. The aromas of fresh bread and mead welcomed them. At the far end of the tavern, a heavyset man and a long-legged, teenaged barmaid stacked wooden bowls on the bar. A ladder connected the barroom to a straw-filled loft that clearly served as alternate sleeping quarters for the villagers as well as for storage. A random cluster of rickety chairs and tables stood scattered around the room. Eight men sat around the largest table, the only patrons. Everyone turned to stare at the strangers in the doorway.

  Angus grinned, apparently enjoying the attention of his neighbors. He motioned Colbey and his companions to a table. Secodon squeezed beneath it as the others took seats around him.

  Mitrian nudged Colbey with her elbow. “What do we have for money?”

  Colbey searched his pockets, finding only two silver coins. He dropped them on the table, looking expectantly at the others.

  Garn shrugged without bothering to check, while the others, at least, went through the ritual. Mitrian added two more silvers and Episte one. Colbey looked at Angus. “Will that cover a meal for us all?”

  “Aye. And a nicht’s lodging, if ye donna eat too much.” He signaled the barmaid.

  The eight other patrons continued to stare, whispering among themselves. Cautiously, the barmaid sidled to the newcomers’ table. She looked about Episte’s age, with straight, sable hair that draped her breasts and shoulder blades. She studied the Renshai’s group through dark eyes that were huge and framed by long lashes. “We got bread and cheese. Wi’ that do ye?”

  Episte gawked at the barmaid, his scrutiny as intense as the villagers’.

  “Perfect.” Colbey smiled to put the woman at ease. “And ale for all of us.”

  The barmaid glanced at Episte and Rache. “The bairns, too?”

  Episte’s face turned red, and his expression dropped from interest to humiliation. Younger, Rache took the insult in stride.

  Colbey scowled. “Both Rache and Episte have proven themselves men.” He finished with only a nod, believing silence would cause the least embarrassment for all concerned.

  The barmaid headed for the kitchen. Colbey turned to the patrons at the other table, who still stared in unabashed wonder. The Renshai addressed Angus. “Do you know those men?”

  “Aye. Ye wish ta meet them?”

  Colbey rose. “I’d like to talk with them.”

  Angus stood, wearing the grin of a child displaying new toys to jealous friends. He guided Colbey to the other table, the villagers’ gazes following him every step of the way. Angus introduced each one quickly. “These be Blacki, Carrol, Schaf, Cammie, Loo, Sham, Jackie, and Sturge.”

  Colbey acknowledged each introduction with a nod. To a man, they were brown haired and eyed, wearing work clothes that varied little in color or style. Colbey guessed that, if they shifted position, he would never remember any of their names. Taking a chair from a neighboring table, he sat between Jackie and Sturge. “I’m Colbey.”

  The farmers closed around him eagerly. “Yere North ’uns, are na ye?”

  Before Colbey could answer, another asked. “How far ye come?”

  A third chimed in. “Kin ye use both swords, or be one for spare?”

  Another started. “Do. . . ?”

  Colbey interrupted with a wave. “One question at a time.” He winked at Angus, who still stood. “Since I made the rule, I get to go first.”

  The farmers fell silent.

  “Have others like me passed through recently?” Colbey resisted the urge to imitate the townsmen’s dialect. “Northmen, I mean.”

  Loo fairly crowed. “Tol’ ye they were North ’uns. Ye owe me a bowl, Cam.”

  Scattered laughter followed his pronouncement.

  Carrol chose to address the query. “Nay, sirra. We donna see strangers but oncet ev’ry sev’ral years.”

  “Saw Westerkind las’ winter,” Blacki said. “But they dinna enter tha toon.”

  Another hush draped the table, and Colbey seized upon it, breaking his own rule about each man asking only one question. “Angus tells me your animals have been sick.”

  Jackie fondled his bowl of mead. “Aye. Me cows be thin as tha mead.”

  Cammie laughed, and no one joined him.

  “I have some knowledge of healing. And Shadimar’s good with animals.” He indicated the Wizard still at the other table. “If we can help your herds, would you send us off with a pack of rations?”

  “Sirrah,” Jackie drawled. “If ye bring health t’ me heifers, I’ll gi’ ye me whole harvest.”

  Colbey hoped cows responded to the same treatments as people. He relied heavily on Shadimar’s knowledge and judgment, and the laws constraining the Cardinal Wizards confused him. Still, as far as he could tell, the Wizards’ vows did not extend to animals. Most of the barriers seemed to apply to violence, humans, and the wanton or blatant use of magic. “I can’t promise we’ll heal all your animals, but we can try. We’ll start this evening.”

  The men exchanged glances that alternated between nervous and hopeful. Angus explained. “Nay, sirrah. Begin tomorrow. Tonicht be Midsummer’s Eve.”

  Schaf took a huge gulp of ale. “While we’uns be here, the rest o’ tha toon be preparin’ fo’ tha festival. Tonicht, there be dancin’ and feastin’. E’ery’un o’ tha toon’ll be there. Ye should be there, too.”

  Colbey smiled. “That’s all very well. My younger companions may want to join you, but Shadimar and I have had our fill of dancing.” Colbey tried to picture the reserved Eastern Wizard twirling farm girls and guzzling mead, and the image turned his grin into a laugh.

  “Ye donna understand.” Cammie glanced about the table, as if afraid he was giving away a secret. “Flanner’s bane come curse tha toon. No man gaes safe alone, and noo ’t be best if all people stay toge’er.”

  “Flanner’s bane?” Colbey encouraged.

  “Flanner be an evil ’un,” Angus pulled up a chair among his fellows. “Forced hisself upon a girl richt near Yvesen’s temple. Brocht the curse upon us.”

  “The blight?” Colbey guessed.

  “Noo!” Cammie broke in, shaking his head with a vigor that sent his hair flying. “Tha bane be a thing, a creature.” He pointed from one side of the common room to the other to indicate size. “’Ts haid be tha o’ a wolf, but ’ts eyes be fire red. ’ts body be tha o’ a man with a tail o’ a sarpent.”

  Colbey willed his expression serious only with effort. He had heard the stories that mothers told their errant children, grim tales of bugbears spiriting away little boys and girls who did not go to bed on time. Colbey had always thought it ludicrous to send toddlers off to bed afraid to sleep.

  Blacki finished the description. “. . . ’t has wings of leather, talons sharp o’ a eagles, and sets homes afire.”

  The final piece struck home, and Colbey’s forced somberness became reality. He pictured the wreckage of their camp in the cornfield, and Episte’s words returned to haunt him:
“A winged monster attacked me. It spit fire at me.” For a moment, Colbey considered the possibility that Episte had spoken the truth, then immediately discarded the possibility. I’ve traveled throughout the world for seventy-six years and never seen any real animal more frightening than a jaguar. Surely, if such a thing as this bane existed, I would have heard stories. Colbey thought of the strangest circumstances in which he’d ever found himself. In all his time with the Wizards, first Tokar, then Shadimar, he had experienced nothing worse than the illusions that came with Tokar’s ceremony of passage.

  The turn of his mind brought the early stirrings of pain memory, and Colbey recalled the fiery, manlike creatures that had claimed the Western Wizard, and nearly himself. Yet the pain seemed so much more real than the visual remembrance that Colbey felt certain those creatures had been illusion, that the pain came from another source, perhaps from the dying Wizard himself. When Shadimar had questioned Colbey about the ceremony, he had said that different people see different images, which only confirmed the falseness of the beings Colbey had seen that day and never before or since.

  Colbey had seen other grand phenomena, but none without explanation. When Rache died in the Great War, Colbey had seen a Valkyrie come to claim the soul for Valhalla. His sword practice with Sif on the route home from that battle still held a warm corner of his memory. Both of those came from his own mind, nurtured, he hoped, by the gods. But an abomination like the peasants had described made no sense, except to haunt children. Even accounting for exaggeration, physical laws could not allow a creature of its size to fly, nor any creature to spit fire. “Has this bane hurt you?”

  “Noo.” Loo shivered. “But we found tha burnt patches in tha fields.”

  Now the tale had returned to a more classical peasants’ horror story, and Colbey dismissed his doubts good-naturedly. “I’ve yet to meet a creature nastier than me. Shadimar and I will tend the cows.” He rose, excused himself with a wave, and returned to his companions who were gleefully devouring homemade bread topped with cheese.