The Young Sorceress

by Wesley Allison

  “Yeah, all right. I see than now. Let’s just keep moving.”

  “So have you got a girlfriend yet, Shemar?” asked Senta.

  “I’m keeping my options open.”

  “He’s too afraid to ask a girl out,” said Benny, still watching the dinosaurs.

  “I have my eye on a few.”

  “Like who?” asked Senta.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “I don’t want it getting around that I might be interested in one. Then what if I wanted to ask a different one out?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Senta. “I don’t talk to any of those other girls anyway.”

  “Well, I kind of like Gabby Bassett. She has nice eyes.”

  Just as he spoke, Shemar kicked a loose rock, which went rolling downhill. A two-foot long rodent, heretofore unnoticed, jumped startled from its hiding place, and scurried across Benny’s boots, and then out of sight. Benny jumped completely off the ground, landed off balance, and dropped his rifle.

  “Kafira damn it!” he shouted. “Can we pay attention to what we’re doing?”

  “Uuthanum beithbechnoth!” shouted Senta, aiming her hand in the boy’s direction.

  A bolt of bright orange energy shot from her hand and just past his head, quickly followed by a second and a third. Benny stood shaking where he was for a moment and then turned around. Lying dead ten paces behind him was the body of a beautiful red-feathered creature. It was an achillobator, twenty feet long and weighing over a thousand pounds. It was every inch as large and ferocious as the utahraptors they were all familiar with.

  “Kafira Kristos,” Benny muttered, crossing himself.

  “Dutty Speel is nice,” continued Shemar. “But did you ever notice that her eyes are kind of spaced too far apart?”

  Chapter Four: Birthday

  15 Months Earlier:

  Isaak Wissinger bent down and picked up a paper from the street. At least he was still able to do that. Many of the people he saw passing him on the street seemed barely able to lift their own feet. He was still in the ghetto of Zurelendsviertel. He had been unable to get out. During the past eleven months, Wissinger had been forced to use the money that his guardian angel had given him to buy scraps of food. She had been right. When push had come to shove, the other Zaeri had helped themselves and their families, and not the famous writer they knew of, but didn’t really know.

  The angel had not come back since that night. If Wissinger had not had the money to spend on moldy bread and mysterious meat, he would have thought that he had dreamed the whole thing. Of course there were also the stories. Stories had come into the ghetto from the outside world—stories about a mysterious woman. A blond woman had attacked Neuschlindenmacht Castle, burning it to the ground, though nobody knew exactly how. A powerful witch had fought and killed a dozen wizards of the Reine Zauberei on the streets of Kasselburg. A blond sorceress had freed hundreds of Zaeri prisoners held in a work camp and had killed or frightened off a company of soldiers guarding them. Wissinger carefully listened to the stories without adding his own experiences. There was nothing to indicate that these stories were about the same woman, or that they were even true. But Wissinger believed them.

  “You’re thinking about me right now, aren’t you?” asked a sultry voice right by his ear.

  Wissinger jumped. The woman was back. He looked up and down the street and realized that there was no one else to be seen. This was unusual. It was almost mid-day. He looked back at her. Yes, it was the same woman. She was dressed at least this time. Sort of. He tried to think where her black corset and leather pants would be everyday dress, but could imagine no such place in the world. She tossed her hair back and then took a pose with her chin held high, like a statue.

  “Um, you’re back,” he said.

  “Oh my. Here I was told that you were the greatest writer in Freedonia, and this is your introductory line?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well now you’re just being thick,” she said. “I came back for you. You were supposed to be gone, out of the ghetto and to the coast at least.”

  “I couldn’t get out. The Kafirite, Kiesinger, the one who smuggled some Zaeri out for money. The day after you were here, I mean in my room, he was arrested. He wasn’t arrested in my room, he was arrested… wherever they arrested him, but no one else took his place. There was no one else who would help, to smuggle me out.” Wissinger stopped speaking and realized he was out of breath.

  “Relax lover. We’re leaving now.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait. We have to go back to my room.”

  She smiled seductively. “What a wonderful idea. I thought you might be more welcoming this time.”

  “No, it’s just… it’s the middle of the day.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, um… I… Aren’t we in a hurry?”

  “You’re the one who wants to go back to your room.”

  “I have to get my book.”

  “What book is that?”

  “My book. It doesn’t have a title yet. It’s about life here. It’s hidden in the wall.”

  “Then let’s go get it.”

  Wissinger led the woman down the cobblestone street to his apartment building and upstairs to his room. His building had been a fine middle class apartment twenty years earlier. Now it was rapidly falling apart from neglect. Holes had appeared in the walls and the floor. In one spot just outside his apartment door, he could see completely through to the floor below. In a way this was all fortunate. The crack in the wall next to the loose board, behind which he hid the tools of his trade, didn’t look out of place. Removing the board, he pulled out the tablet and pencil.

  The tablet was the type children used in school. He had started at the beginning and had used every page. Then he had turned it over and had written on the backs of each sheet, in ever smaller script as the pages had become scarce. The pencil was the last of a package of twelve. Oh, how he had wasted his pencils at first, insisting on a sharp point, whittling each one back with his knife. When he had gotten to the sixth one, he had stopped such foolishness. He let the lead become as dull and round as a turtle’s head and had only cut back the wood around it, when it, like the turtle’s head, had become hidden inside. That was all over now.

  He felt the woman press against his back. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and licked the back of his neck. He turned around and kissed her deeply. She pulled him toward the cot, and he let her. He spent the last hour that he would ever spend on that horrible, worn, bug-ridden mattress making love to a beautiful woman.

  “I don’t even know your name,” he said, as they dressed.

  “It’s Zurfina.”

  “Like the daughter of Magnus the Great?”

  “Yes, exactly like that.”

  “You’re not her, are you?”

  “Yes. Yes I am.”

  She slipped back into her boots and headed out the door. Wissinger stuffed his pencil in the pocket where he kept his penknife and tucked his tablet under his arm. A quick look around reminded him that he had nothing else of value. Quickly catching up with Zurfina, he followed her downstairs and out into the street. Even though the sun was still high, there was nobody to be seen. It was as if they were the only two people in the world. Down the street and around the corner, then down the main thoroughfare, they finally reached the twenty-foot tall wooden gate to the outside world. It was standing open and the guards who had always been there were gone.

  “What’s going on?” Wissinger asked.

  “It’s just magic.”

  Once outside the gate, they wound their way through the city streets of Gartow. It was much nicer here. The buildings were in repair. The shops were open. But here the world was just as devoid of life and humanity as it had been inside the ghetto. In no time at all they were past the edge of town. They stepped off the road and crossed the first field of many that
filled the space between the city and the distant edge of the forest.

  “Zurfina, how is it… oh… um.”

  “What is it?”

  “I just remembered that according the Holy Scriptures, Zurfina… that is the daughter of King Magnus, was burned at the stake.”

  “Fine, I’m not her then.”

  “But your name is Zurfina, isn’t it?”

  “I’m tired of all your questions,” she said, stopping and glaring at him. “It’s been nothing but questions with you since I got here. What’s going on? Who are you? Can I be on top?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “One more question and I’m leaving.”

  “No. I’m sorry. No more questions, I promise,” said Wissinger. “Just tell me which way I am supposed to go.”

  “That’s it!” she snapped, and with a flourish of her hands, she disappeared with a pop.

  “I didn’t… that wasn’t a question… I phrased it…”

  A sound drew Wissinger’s gaze to the sky. A flock of small birds flew overhead, twittering as they went. Then he heard the sounds of voices, and looking toward town, he could see people. A steam carriage chugged down the now distant road. It was as if the world had suddenly come alive. Dropping to a crouch, he looked around to see if there was anyone close. He could detect no one. Staying hunched over, he made for the forest as fast as he could.

  * * * * *

  The Present

  Senta walked downstairs from Zurfina’s study. After her bath and a spot of breakfast she had spent an hour attempting to scry for any Freedonian agents. Scrying, or magical searching, was not really her strong suit, but since she was filling in for Zurfina, she felt she had to do her best. She certainly wasn’t going to spend the entire day on it though. It was her fifteenth birthday and she intended to make the most of it. Dressed in a relatively prim brown skirt and a white blouse, she picked up her purse and her parasol and headed out the door. She paid no attention at all to the other blond girl, who stood near the froredor making a sandwich.

  The bell above the pfennig store rang as Senta entered, and then it rang several times more in quick succession as most of the patrons who had been inside hurried out.

  “What’s going on?” the young sorceress asked Mr. Parnorsham.

  “People are trying to stay out of your way, I suspect.”

  “Really? Well, that’s fine with me. I’ll have a Billingbow’s and two pieces of licorice.”

  Mr. Parnorsham sat the requested items on the counter.

  “Twenty-four P, isn’t it?”

  “Normally it would be, but isn’t today a special day?”

  “How did you know, Mr. P?”

  “Oh, I like to keep abreast of things.”

  “Thank you. That’s very nice.”

  “Um, Senta, notwithstanding that this is a gift, I do feel I need to point out that Zurfina’s account, and by extension yours, wasn’t paid last month.”

  “Oh. How much do we owe?”

  Mr. Parnorsham pulled a small file box from below the counter and from it removed an index card with a hand written balance sheet.

  “Sixty-two marks 4 P.”

  Opening her purse, Senta pulled out a small coin pouch and peered into it, pulling out a few wadded up banknotes.

  “I’ll pay you ten marks today, if you don’t mind, and I’ll bring the rest around sometime this week.”

  “That will be fine.”

  Senta stepped out of the store with the candy in one hand and the soda water in the other. Turning to the right, she passed the dress shop, heading for the opening in the Emergency Wall. She hadn’t gone too far when she practically walked into two young men. They were both at least six feet tall and broad shouldered, and when they stood next to each other they completely blocked the entire walkway. The young sorceress was momentarily startled. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had blocked her path.

  “What have we here,” said one of the young men to the other.

  He looked to be nearly twenty. His hair was long and messy, but he was not bad looking otherwise. His friend though had a nasty leer on his face that looked like it never went away—that and a red scar across his chin. They were both well muscled and wore the clothing of merchant seamen. That explained a lot.

  “Looks like a little bird got out of her nest.”

  Senta stuck the end of the licorice into her mouth and yanked on it till a piece broke off. The men didn’t seem to notice her nonchalance.

  “Maybe she could show us what they do for fun in this God forsaken country,” continued the second man. “Could you do that, Honey? Could you show us some fun?”

  Senta took another bite of licorice.

  “You know it’s not even tea time, right?” she asked. “Don’t hoodlums usually wait until nightfall before assaulting young women? Aren’t you worried about the coppers getting after you?”

  “I don’t see any coppers, do you?” asked the man.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. He’s right over there.”

  The two men looked across the square and indeed a uniformed police constable was striding swiftly toward them. He was much larger than even the sailors and he carried a heavy wooden truncheon in one hand. The two men quickly stepped around Senta and disappeared down the alley between shops.

  “Hello Eamon,” said Senta when Police Constable Shrubb stopped on the spot so recently vacated by the two hoodlums.

  “Violators call me PC Shrubb.”

  “What?”

  “Miss Senta Bly, I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “You have a what now?”

  “A warrant. Mr. Eden Buttermore has sworn out a complaint against you for attacking him at the bakery café.”

  “I didn’t do any such thing.”

  “There are sworn statements from six witnesses.”

  “Six, huh?”

  “That’s right. Now come along quietly lass, and I won’t have to put you in the cuffs.”

  “Now Eamon, you know that if I wanted to attack someone, he’d be in no condition to swear out a complaint.”

  She raised her hand and the constable stepped back, but the sorceress just took another bite of licorice.

  “Well, let’s get going,” she said. “I don’t want to spend all day at the police station.”

  It was a twenty-minute walk to the new police station and courthouse, which sat alone, in a forested lot just east of the train depot. It had been built of sharp red brick almost two years before, with white stonework at the corners and above the windows and doors. It was a square five-story building. On the arch above the door was carved in large letters “POLICE” and just below it, the police motto “punishment follows swift on guilt.” The colony now boasted half a dozen police constables, but only one was present in the main office. When Senta entered the front door just ahead of Eamon, the young PC jumped up, knocking his chair over. The girl sat her empty soda bottle on the counter and smiled at him.

  “Take it easy lad,” said Eamon. “Just toss me the key.”

  “Oh hey! You’re not tossing me in the clinker!”

  “Only until the Justice of the Peace can get here.”

  “Um,” said the young constable. “He’s already here. He’s upstairs in his office.”

  “Fine then.” Eamon led the way to the elevator.

  It was a tight squeeze for the two of them in the metal cage, but once they were inside the PC turned the lever, sending the elevator car upward to the fourth floor. This was Senta’s first time in the building and even now she appreciated the rich woodwork and luxurious carpeting. Down the long hallway, they stopped outside a thick maple door and knocked.

  “Come in,” said the Justice of the Peace from behind his oak desk. “I’m glad you got here before tea time. I’m supposed to meet the mayor and I wouldn’t want to leave you or him waiting.”

  “Hey Mr. Fonstan,” said Senta. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing very well. How are you on this spe
cial day?”

  “Well, I’ve gotten arrested.”

  “Ah, that is unsettling, especially on one’s birthday. Believe me I know. It’s happened to me more than once.”

  “That’s sweet that you remember my birthday,” said Senta.

  “Well, of course I remember. I consider us friends.”

  “Me too.”

  “In any case…” interrupted Eamon.

  “Yes, yes. You’re charged with…” The JP looked at a pair of papers on his desk. “Assault? Who’s dead?”

  “Nobody is dead,” said Eamon. “The victim was not killed, only slightly injured.”

  “Well that doesn’t sound right,” mused Fonstan. “If the Drache Girl had attacked someone, I would expect him in hospital at least.”

  He looked at Senta. “Did you do it?”

  “No.”

  “Not guilty then.” He picked up a gavel from the desk and tapped it once. “Constable, discharge the young lady.”

  * * * * *

  Lieutenant Commander Kieran Baxter looked out from between the palm trees at the crate that had washed up onto the beach. He’d been on the island for two days and thanks to his training in the Royal Navy, he was surviving if not thriving. As soon as he had come ashore, he moved off the beach and into the trees, lest he should be spotted by the crew of the Freedonian submarine that had sunk his command. He hadn’t gone far into the jungle, which grew denser with every step he took away from the sandy shore, but he had located a tiny stream flowing out of the forest, cutting through the sand, and trickling into the ocean. There was an abundance of food, if one didn’t mind eating uncooked crabs and shellfish.

  Each day he had watched the shore for wreckage from his ship and whenever he found it, he rushed out and pulled it back into the trees. Twice he had found the bodies of sailors, which he buried. One was a veteran seaman named Owens, who he had spoken to on many occasions. The other was a young man named Tyler, only recently added to the crew. Baxter had seen him, but never spoken to him. Even in his current state, he looked too young to be a sailor. He was too young to have lost his life. Several times Baxter had found simple pieces of wood from cargo or from the ship itself. Once he had found a crate, filled with blankets. Now another crate waited on the sand.