The Merchant Adventurer

by Patrick E. McLean

  “Eh, hang on,” Boltac put the whistle to his lips again and blew as hard as he could. Blew until he was red in the face. Blew until he was sputtering and out of air. He finished with a defeated “huuuuuuuuh” as and then he gasped for air.

  The Orcs looked at Boltac. Samga looked at Boltac. Hanging upside down, Asarah closed her eyes.

  “Yes,” said Dimsbury, “if you are quite through?” Boltac looked down and away. “TEAR HIM LIMB FROM LIMB!”

  There was nowhere to run. There was nothing to do. As the first Orc advanced, Boltac turned to Samga, “Sorry. I thought that would work.”

  Snarling, the front line of Orcs reached for Boltac. Their claws and tusks searched in savage arcs for the soft, fat flesh of the Merchant. But before Boltac was torn open, the biggest Orc of all let out a long howl of pain. The other Orcs stopped to watch as it grasped its stomach and collapsed to the floor. Then another fell, and then another, until all of them were lying on the floor, writhing in pain.

  “What is this foolishness?” demanded Dimsbury.

  Boltac resumed blowing his whistle for all he was worth. As the Orcs writhed in agony on the floor, the largest of them made the connection. He lifted his taloned hand off the ground then plunged it deeply into his own stomach. The whistle dropped from Boltac’s lips has his face contorted in disgust. Coins exploded outward from the unfortunate creature’s stomach. Some spewed to the ground with gouts of blood and intestine. Others clicked and clinked as they ripped tiny slices of flesh from the now dying creature.

  Boltac pumped one fist in victory. “NO SUCH THING AS A FREE LUNCH!” he shouted. The Creeping Coins crawled and swarmed over the Orcs, tearing them apart with the gnashing of thousands of tiny teeth.

  A bolt of lightning exploded across the room.

  Boltac held up his hand with the one Gauntlet of Magic Negation. It absorbed Dimsbury’s lightning bolt. “Hey! That worked!” Boltac said, laughing giddily.

  Dimsbury furrowed his brow and said, “Very well. The fat man wants to play.”

  The next bolt of lightning was so powerful Boltac thought his eyeballs had been seared from his head. When his sight returned from momentary blindness, he saw that the mitten on his left hand remained intact. As Dimsbury extended his arm again, Boltac closed his eyes. He felt an impact, and another, and another. The palm of the mitten grew hot and he fought off the urge to shake his hand. On his belt, the Magic-detecting wand vibrated wildly. “Okay,” said Boltac, “this isn’t funny anymore.”

  “Do something!” Samga cried over the crackle of the lightning and the rush of superheated air.

  “I can’t see!” protested Boltac. And the bolts kept coming and coming, pounding into his left arm. He could feel the mitten burning his flesh. And now tiny shocks, the leftover current that the Gauntlet could not absorb, forced the muscles of his arm to contract and twitch violently. He turned his face away from the Wizard, still holding his hand up. Eyes closed in a painful wince, he felt around for something, anything…

  Samga pushed the heavy shelves over. They toppled into Dimsbury and knocked him back a step. The Wizard lashed out blindly, and a bolt of electricity caught Samga in the chest. Samga staggered backward, then collapsed. As Dimsbury turned back, he saw Boltac throw his wand across the room.

  “Ha!” cried Boltac as the wand spun through the air. Dimsbury sneered and raised his hand to launch another blast at the now-distracted Merchant. But as the wand flew toward Dimsbury, it suddenly veered off toward the jar on the dais, drawn inexorably to the Flame.

  Boltac gaped. He’d seen the wand react in any number of disturbing ways to potent Magic. What it would do in the presence of its very source, he had no idea.

  The wand dived into the jar, there was a wuffing sound, and the Flame snapped into sharp focus. The wand reached the heart of the Flame and stopped moving. Everything stopped moving.

  Boltac ran to the dais, swung Asarah off to the side and her to the ground. As he knelt to untie her, he felt rather than heard the high-pitched whine growing louder and louder, and a buzzing and clacking that raised the hair on the back of his neck. Looking up at the dais, he saw the Magic-detecting wand flying and whirling in the Flame, its brass tip chipping away at the inside of the jar.

  “What have you done?” Dimsbury screamed. Then he realized he didn’t care. He threw his hands forward in a gesture of power that was certain to obliterate Boltac. But nothing happened.

  Dimsbury looked at his hands, confused, and tried again. “STOP!” he commanded. Still, nothing happened. “What have you done?” he asked weakly.

  Dimsbury turned toward the dais and the brilliant Flame trapped by the frenzied wand. The flow of Magic, yes, he thought, that’s what it had to be. The flow of Magic had been blocked. The pressure was building up behind it. Inside the illuminated jar the wand spun furiously, emitting the high-pitched, rising whine that dominated the room. If Dimsbury could stop the wand, unblock the flow. He reached out, trembling, and touched one fingertip to the protective jar.

  Boltac threw himself over Asarah. “Stay down,” he shouted in her ear.

  As Dimsbury’s finger brushed the surface of the jar, the glass shattered into a million fragments, each of those fragments shattering again with the force of the exploding Flame.

  The explosion knocked everyone flat. So close to the dais, Boltac was spared the worst of the blast, Asarah safe beneath him. Samga, still surprised to have survived a bolt of lightning to his chest, had just risen to his hands and knees. He saw Dimsbury fly over his head, then the blast threw him across the room. He landed next to what was left of Relan. Even the Creeping Coins were flung about so violently they retracted into their glittering carapaces and pretended to be currency.

  As Boltac raised his head, he heard a moan coming from Relan’s corpse. Wait! Moan? Not a corpse! Somehow Relan was still alive!?! “Too stupid to die?” Boltac asked. Then he searched in his tunic for the small lacquered box. His hands shook as he opened it. Within lay a tiny flask covered in ornately wrapped gold wire. No bigger than Boltac’s thumb, this vial looked as if it could contain no more than the amount of liquid found in a few tears.

  Boltac looked at the heap of Relan. The blood soaked into his tunic was already turning brown. There was no color left in his face. The boy’s lips were blue, but still his chest rose and fell. How was it that he lived? Was this not another kind of Magic? The Magic of will alone?

  “Kid,” Boltac said softly. “C’mon, kid.” He carefully removed the tiny top from the flask. With even more care, he lifted the tiny bottle to Relan’s blue and lifeless lips. Only the slightest flutter of air against Boltac’s fingers gave him any hope that the lad was still alive. Boltac doubted that there was enough liquid to do more than wet Relan’s tongue. There was scarcely a chance that this would work at all. But there was so little chance that any of this should work, so why not? Why not?

  He tipped the bottle up and the few drops it contained disappeared into the cave of Relan’s mouth. Boltac reached up and grasped his charm necklace. He squeezed all of the many charms so hard they cut into the palm of his hand. Boltac prayed. As the charms cut into his palm and the facets and limbs of the main strange charms filled with his blood, Boltac prayed to everybody.

  On the other side of the room, Dimsbury felt the tingle of power dance along his limbs again. The Magic was back! He sat up and exclaimed, “I will have power again.” Then he sneezed twice, not understanding the sharp pain that was shooting through his skull. And why did the room look different? Flatter? What was in front of his face? He brought his hand up and bumped something. The pain became excruciating. Dimsbury realized that the Merchant’s wand was lodged in his left eye. He collapsed back to the floor with the shock of it and lay there, hyperventilating. He tried to calm himself and think.

  With his one good eye he could see what was left of the Flame, the Font of all Magic, guttering and flickering in the circle of jagged spikes that were all that remained of the massive glass jar. The Fl
ame was about to go out. No, thought Dimsbury, this could not be! How could this Merchant–how could this fat, ignorant, money-grubbing aberration–stop a mighty Wizard like Alston Dimsbury? Did he know what a world without Magic would be like? Could such a thing even exist? For himself, and for the greater good, Dimsbury realized he must touch the Flame to restore his power, then somehow coax it back to a fuller life.

  As he struggled to regain his feet, a shape appeared before him. Dimsbury looked up and saw Samga. The Orc held his chest with one hand and sagged in pain. Samga said, “Master,” because he didn’t have another name for the man who lay before him.

  “Yes, Samga, my faithful servant after all. Thank goodness I did not strike you down. Please, help me,” said the Wizard, not entirely aware that he was begging.

  “You made me strong,” said Samga.

  “Samga, Samga. You are my finest work. All is forgiven, my creation. Bring your father closer to the Flame so that I may regain my power.”

  Samga bent and picked up Dimsbury.

  “Yes, good Samga. Brave Samga,” whispered Dimsbury, touching the wand in his eye gingerly.

  Samga looked up at the circle of heads mounted on the wall. The broken and aborted things that had led to him. The trial and the error, the arrogant misuse of power in an attempt to craft life itself. Not for the first time, Samga wished that he had never been made.

  “Yessss,” said Dimsbury. “Just a little closer. Let me dip my fingers in the torrent of Magic and then, and THEN!” Dimsbury was interrupted by a fit of coughing.

  As his clacking steps took Samga closer to the flame, he lifted the Wizard high above his head.

  “What? What are you doing Samga? Lower me! The Master commands!”

  “The Servant does not obey!”

  Samga threw the Wizard onto the sharpened teeth of the shattered jar. Dimsbury felt the teeth of glass bite deep into his stomach. Then there was a terrible, tearing noise. The Flame leapt up, again in perfect focus. With perfect hunger, it sucked greedily of Dimsbury’s blood. As Dimsbury screamed the flames turned white and leapt up as hungry as any non magical fire had ever been. Dimsbury continued to scream as power shot through him and raked the top of the chamber. The very earth around them shook and still the Wizard screamed.

  The Flame folded in on itself. With a crunching of bones and a whimpering, the Wizard was folded up with it. His form flickered in the Magic light, tinier and tinier and tinier, until the Flame shrank to the flicker of a mere candle, and nothing remained of the Wizard.

  41

  Boltac emerged from the darkness and stood over the tiny Flame. He removed the tattered, burned wool mitten from his hand. For a moment, he considered the struggling Flame. Then he beat it out with three swats.

  “mmmmmMMMMMMMM!” protested Asarah. He rushed to her aid and loosened her gag.

  “Are you all right?” asked Boltac

  “Untie me!”

  “En-henh, you’re all right. Thank the Gods you’re all right. You know, this is a good look for you. Tied up on the ground.”

  “Boltac, don’t ruin this by being cute. Untie me.”

  “Ruin what?” asked Boltac as he loosened her bonds. “It’s already wrecked. I mean seriously, have you looked around you?”

  Boltac helped Asarah to her feet, and she threw her arms around him and kissed him. It was a kiss no money could buy, and a kiss that Boltac wouldn’t have traded for anything in the world.

  “You can say whatever you want, Mr. Boltac, but you came back,” she said, kissing him on the nose, “You gave up everything you had to save me. That’s how I know. And that’s what makes you a Hero.”

  “A what? Hero? Don’t be silly. I’m not a Hero. I’m just a guy trying to… to…” Boltac realized that he wasn’t quite sure who he was anymore, and he liked it that way. “Anyway, if you want a Hero, you should talk to the kid. That’s his department, after all. Oh, my Gods, the kid!”

  Boltac tore himself from Asarah’s arms and rushed to where Relan was slumped against the wall. The Farm Boy still looked like hell, but now his eyes were open. “Did we win?” asked Relan.

  “Whattaya mean, did we win?” said Boltac, confused by the question. Then he stood up and looked around. The Wizard was gone. All that remained of the Orcs were now greasy splotches, each with a pile of gold coins in the center. About a stomachful, Boltac thought, before he could banish the terrible thought from his mind. “Henh,” said Boltac, letting it really sink in. He walked to the place where Dimsbury had conjured a Magic door to a room full of Treasure. There, in the darkness, stood a perfectly ordinary and unremarkable wooden door.

  Boltac pulled the door open. On the other side, Dimsbury’s hoard gleamed like a dream of avarice at the end of a cold, dark night.

  “We won! We WON!” said Boltac.

  “We won,” said Relan, as if he didn’t believe it. He struggled to get up, and then fell back on the floor with a gasp of pain.

  Boltac rushed back to his side. “Easy, kid,” said Boltac, “Nobody is more surprised about this than me, but contain your enthusiasm. You’re pretty banged up.”

  “I thought I was dead. I was dead. Wasn’t I dead? And you said you didn’t have any more Magic potions.”

  “Dead? Kid, there’s dead and there’s dead. Besides, no matter what they tell you, there’s always room for negotiation. Even with death.”

  “Can you stand?” asked Asarah.

  “Maybe with some help.”

  “Then let’s get the hell out of here,” said Asarah.

  Relan grunted and cried out in pain, but eventually he made it to his feet.

  “Gah, you’re a lug,” said Boltac as Relan settled his weight onto their shoulders. The three of them wheeled for the door. But before they could exit the room a dark shape blocked their way. Backlit by the last torch, the terrible form seemed to reach for them. Asarah shrieked. All three of them flinched. But when a second torch blazed to life they could see that it was a trick of the shadows. Samga stood before them, offering them the light.

  “You will need it for your journey.”

  Boltac looked at greasy remains of the other Orcs on the floor and then back to the Orc that stood before him. “Samga, how did you survive?”

  “I do not know; I must go to ask the UnderKing.”

  “Ah, that guy. He’ll have an answer, but it won’t help you.”

  “He knows the hidden ways of things,” said Samga with a shrug. “He is the only one of my kind that I can speak to.”

  Boltac took the fabled lamp of Lamptopolis from his belt. It did not light. “Hunh,” said Boltac. “Samga, I’m pretty sure this is just a lamp now, but I want you to have it. It’s a nice lamp, a quality article. Let it remind you, if you ever need my help, you come. You, I owe.”

  “But I am a monster. A thing made, not born.”

  “Ennh, there are monsters and then there are monsters,” Boltac said with a shrug. “No matter what life hands you, there’s always room to negotiate, is what I’m saying.”

  Boltac took the torch from Samga and they watched as he climbed down into the pit.

  They found the main passage and ascended. They stopped to rest several times, but saw and heard nothing in the great expanse of the Wizard’s lair. A great underground emptiness surrounded them. The Wizard and his creations were gone.

  • • •

  Near the exit, they came to a room that was at once familiar and strange. The ceiling had cracked open and now sunlight filled the once-dark room. Here and there around the edge of the room were bones. But the sunlight, the sight of leaves and sky through the ceiling and distant birdsong gave the place a feeling more peaceful than terrible.

  In the center of the room there was a dark spot, more dust than anything; in it lay the ornate, jeweled, and cursed mace Boltac had used to trick the Troll what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  As Relan and Asarah both gazed at the sunlight and fresh air, Boltac slipped out from underneath Relan’s arm and walke
d to the mace. “Henh,” he said. Then he bent down to pick up the cursed mace.

  “Don’t!” cried Relan weakly, “It’s…”

  Boltac hefted the mace and turned to Relan. No sinister forces crushed him to the earth. If anything, the mace felt somewhat lighter than before. Boltac said, “Now it’s just a blunt instrument.” He considered the jewels and ornate carvings that decorated the weapon in his hand. “A faaaancy blunt instrument, but still.”

  “It’s not Magic anymore?” asked Relan.

  “Nope. I’m pretty sure not even Magic is Magic anymore,” answered Boltac.

  “What does that mean?” asked Asarah.

  “I dunno,” said Boltac, “but I like it.”

  Boltac lifted Relan, and the three made their awkward way from the dungeon. As they walked into the sunlight of a new day, Boltac thought about all that gold, buried far, far beneath them. “So, uh, kid, you’re from a village not far from here, right?”

  Relan pointed west with a dejected air, “That way, half a day’s walk. Do you know how hard it was for me to get away from there? You’re not going to leave me there, are you?”

  “No. No?” said Boltac. He looked to Asarah, and she shook her head no. “No. You’re with us now. But these villagers, are they uh, big and strong and stupid–I’m sorry, I mean honest–like you?”

  “Everyone there is the same,” Relan sighed, “It is very dull. Why do you want to know?”

  “I think I know how to liven it up a bit.”

  “They don’t like outsiders very much.”

  “Do they like gold? ‘Cause if they do, I’ve got some mining work for them.”

  “I really don’t want to go back there.”

  “Cheer up, it’s about to be a very rich village. And you are about to become the Hero you’ve always wanted to be.”

  They loaded Relan in the back of the Ducal Coach. Boltac closed the door and stared at the seal of Weeveston Prestidigitous RampartLion Toroble the 15th. “Henh…” he said.

  “What?” asked Asarah.