by S. G. Rogers
The loading dock jutted out from an alcove cut into the side of the structure. Several ragged children with bare heads and dirty feet were working frantically to unload a delivery cart parked nearby, filled with fresh produce and bushels of grain. The overseeing cygard made a sport of cracking his whip at their backsides, chuckling every time a kid cowered. None of the children would meet Jon’s gaze. They were around his sister’s age or younger, and it curdled his blood to see them being abused.
“Stop it,” Jon yelled at the whip-wielding cygard. “Can’t you see they’re moving as fast as they can?”
Although the kids didn’t stop working, they flicked Jon a terrified glance. The overseer brandished his whip at Jon.
“If ye can’t hold yer tongue, you’ll get a taste of leather,” he threatened. “Get the lad out of here, Stig, before I flay him to ribbons.”
The cygard named Stig looped a rope around Jon’s neck and led him up some stairs and into the castle. Jon tried to tell himself his situation was less dire than it appeared. On the plus side, his knapsack was still safely slung on his back and he had the use of his limbs. On the downside, he'd been captured by bad guys and for some reason he couldn't transport to safety. In addition, if he didn’t manage to escape, he might shortly be separated from one or more of his appendages. He was forced to conclude his predicament was probably just as bad as it seemed, if not more so.
As he was yanked down a large passageway, Jon stumbled past cygards and other castle workers. An uncomfortably familiar cygard suddenly veered in his direction. Jon recognized him right off by his towering height—not to mention the size of the ax hanging from his belt. The supersized cygard blocked Jon’s path, and Stig sighed.
“C’mon, Lyesh,” he said. “I gotta get ’im up to the hearing.”
But Lyesh didn’t move.
“You're the whelp who gave me a hard time the other day,” he said, jamming a hostile finger into Jon’s chest for emphasis. “I dunno how you gave me the slip, but your luck finally ran out, didn't it?”
Jon knew a bully when he saw one, and he kept his mouth shut. Unfortunately, his silence seemed to antagonize the cygard even more. When Lyesh snatched his helmet off, Jon discovered why cygards always kept their faces covered. The giant had only one eye set in the middle of his forehead, and his hideous features were covered with lumpy knots of oozing flesh.
Lyesh sneered at Jon’s expression. “What's the matter, you got a problem with cygards?”
“No, I got a problem with ugly,” Jon retorted before he could stop himself.
All the cygards within earshot howled with laughter.
“Mouthy little brat,” Lyesh said.
“Don't worry,” Stig said. “He'll be screaming a different tune after the warlord gets through with him.”
Stig’s sudden jerk of Jon’s rope nearly took him off his feet. With the noose burning his skin, he wasn’t enjoying the tour so far. A few more passageways and a couple of staircases later, he was dragged into a large, open chamber the size and shape of a small church. A floating ball of light at the top of the cathedral ceiling provided steady illumination. Medieval-style weapons, artfully woven tapestries, and large oil paintings covered the walls. Jon couldn’t help but notice several of the paintings were actually quite masterful. Under different circumstances he would have liked to have a closer look.
Various men and women congregated around the chamber in groups, mingling with one another. By their fancy clothes and head coverings, Jon guessed they had plenty of tile. Their conversations, already respectfully low, ceased altogether when he appeared. Several of them swished their robes aside as if he'd soiled them by his presence. Admittedly, he wasn't at his best.
The focal point of the chamber was an oversized wooden chair, set on a raised platform. Centered in front of a curtained backdrop, the chair was draped in silken fabrics and soft cushions as would suit a throne. The occupant of the chair, however, was an austere and cruelly handsome man. His powerful build and piercing obsidian eyes heightened the aura of danger surrounding him. The simple metal circlet resting on his head designated the man as Warlord Mandral. Jon blanched at the sight of him.
A thin, oily fellow undulated at the warlord's elbow, eager to be of service. He carried a scroll of parchment and a quill. A skullcap completely covered his hair, if indeed he had any. Jon wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the cap was made from snakeskin.
The crowd parted as Jon was brought forward and lashed to a metal ring permanently set in the stone floor in front of the throne. The ring was one of many, although Jon was the only occupant. Must be a slow day for hearings, he thought.
Mandral rose from his chair and descended the steps. His observant eyes focused on Ophelia right away. “Where did you get that Dragon Clan ring, boy?” he demanded.
“None of your business.”
The congregants gasped, and Jon’s reply earned him a smack on the head from the nearest cygard. Mandral, however, acted as if he hadn’t heard him. He beckoned to the man with the scroll. “Minister Tyrg, what is the charge against this prisoner?”
“Theft,” Tyrg said. His voice sounded almost like the hiss of a snake. “Merchant Moala has filed a claim for the cuff.”
Stig pulled up Jon’s sleeve to reveal the transporter cuff.
“Moala is an accomplished liar. His claim is denied,” Mandral said.
Jon sighed with relief, but his deliverance was short-lived.
“Take the ring and the cuff,” the warlord said. “Then whip the boy for his insolence.”
Ophelia’s eyes remained dull, and Jon was beginning to panic.
Stig caressed his ax. “The ring and cuff cannot be removed.”
Mandral exchanged a sharp glance with Tyrg. “Is this the ancient magic of inseparability?”
Tyrg shook his head in confusion. “A wizard becomes one with his clan ring and transporter cuff, yes. But there are few wizards left, and none of them have apprentices.”
The warlord studied Jon’s features. He tugged Ophelia to confirm the ring would not leave Jon’s finger. “Who are you?”
“No one in particular. I'm not from around here,” Jon replied.
With practiced speed and agility, Mandral unsheathed a thin dagger strapped to his thigh and pointed it at the hollow of Jon’s throat. “That's not what I asked.”
Jon felt the razor-sharp tip pierce his skin. He had no doubt the blade had meted out its share of death. He gulped. “Jon. Jon Hansen.”
A sudden commotion distracted Mandral from slitting Jon’s throat. A struggle had erupted between a newly arrived prisoner and the cygard holding him captive. Half a dozen cygards descended, but Mandral forbade them from intervention. The prisoner, covered from head to toe in a green hooded cape, was besting his captor. The cygard staggered up the chamber from a well-placed sidekick to his ribs. The prisoner then twisted in the air to slam a nimble hook kick to the cygard's head. The cygard’s helmet flew off, revealing his ugly face. Audibly disgusted, the onlookers averted their eyes until the fallen cygard managed to get his now-dented helmet back on.
Mandral laughed in delight. He directed the hovering cygards to subdue the prisoner and tie his tether on the ring next to Jon’s. The dented cygard yanked off the prisoner's cape and stepped back. The crowd murmured.
The newcomer was female, and a stunning one at that. Her full, waist-length hair was a wavy chestnut with red highlights. Her eyes were a violet color, and her skin was a golden tan. Despite his own predicament, Jon flushed. He couldn’t help but stare. From the expressions of the other men in the room, he knew he wasn't the only one.
Mandral clapped his hands in a deliberate, slow, and obviously sarcastic manner. “What an entrance, Kira Szul. You're looking savage, as usual,” he drawled.
Kira said nothing.
“Don't be offended,” Mandral continued. “I like savagery in a woman.”
As the warlord seated himself, he nodded to Tyrg.
“Clear the h
all,” Tyrg called out.
The ladies and gentlemen around the chamber shifted their weight, reluctant to leave when the entertainment had become lively.
“Immediately,” Tyrg barked. “Wait outside.”
The cygards made sure the chamber was emptied in short order. Meanwhile Mandral's attention was riveted onto Kira. “As soon as you've changed into something more, well, matrimonial, the wedding ceremony can begin.”
“As soon as you change into someone, well, else, I'll consider it,” Kira spat.
Mandral began to clean his nails with his dagger. “This is so tiresome,” he pouted. “Rampen Szul has agreed to the marriage. Tile has changed hands.”
“My father only agreed so you'd stop slaughtering the Nomads!”
“Slaughter can be so persuasive.”
“Give me that knife and I'll persuade you to let me go,” Kira said.
Jon didn’t realize the throne room had such good acoustics. His snicker echoed throughout the chamber and attracted the warlord’s ire. The coldness of Mandral's glare stood out in stark contrast to the color staining his cheeks. Unable to transport and tethered like a puleden, Jon braced himself for the sting of the warlord’s dagger. Instead, the back of Mandral's hand whipped him full across the face. The impact drove him down to one knee.
“That'll leave a mark,” Jon managed.
“Dungeon,” Mandral snapped. “Both of them.”
Stig used his ax to chop Kira and Jon free of their tethers. More cygards dragged them from the chamber, but not before Jon heard Mandral's command to Tyrg.
“Summon Efysian.”
****
Cygards tossed Jon into the dungeon with uncontrolled enthusiasm. Fortunately, a layer of straw broke his fall. Before he could stand, however, Kira was thrown on top of him.
“Ow,” he moaned.
As the door clanged shut, cygard laughter reverberated throughout the dungeon passageways. Kira launched herself at the door, but a bar had slid into place on the other side. She stomped the door a few times with her leather boot, but her efforts were useless. The door was made of thick wooden planks bound together with iron bands.
“Don’t bother. You’ll only hurt yourself. Not even an angry cygard could get through there,” Jon said.
“Even so, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.”
“Good point,” he admitted.
Jon scanned the cell for any possible means of escape. The walls, floor, and ceiling were cold slabs of stone. Little light came in from the long, narrow window at the top of the far wall. Although the window was open to the outside, iron bars every ten inches prohibited an easy exit.
“This is one classic dungeon,” he muttered. “Cold, dank, and impenetrable.”
When he glanced down, Jon was dismayed to see the straw appeared to be moving. Upon closer examination, he realized the straw was actually full of small, fluffy white creatures similar to mice. The rodents made loud, popping noises whenever they brushed up against his foot. Jon found the sensation disconcerting, almost as if he were standing in the middle of a bag of microwave popcorn. Jon shuddered and tried to remain calm. It wouldn't be cool to freak out in front of Kira.
Jon tried to make conversation. “This stinks, huh?”
“Do not speak to me, stupid boy.”
Jon gaped at her rudeness. He should have shrugged it off, but for some reason her response bothered him. “Wow. It usually takes girls more than a few minutes to be that hostile to me.”
Kira’s cloak lay in a heap next to the door. She snatched it up and wrapped it around her shoulders. Without acknowledging Jon’s presence whatsoever, she went to a dank corner and curled into a ball. Her posture tugged at his heartstrings and his annoyance evaporated.
“You’re probably having a bad day. I get that,” he said.
His remark was greeted with silence.
“I suppose being sold into marriage to an evil warlord would harsh anyone's mellow,” he said.
“I wasn’t sold into marriage. You couldn’t possibly understand my father’s motivations.”
“You’re right, I don’t.”
“I convinced my father to allow the marriage. I wanted to get close enough to Mandral to give him a wedding present before the ceremony.” She pointed to the empty sheath strapped under her arm. “But the cygards confiscated my blade outside the castle.”
“Did your father know what you had planned?”
Kira shook her head. “No. I sought to liberate the territory from the warlord and return to the Nomads a hero. I’ve failed.”
Her head bent low and her shoulders shook from the chill…or perhaps from sorrow. After a few moments, Jon swung his knapsack off his back and searched inside until he found his sketchbook. “How about I draw you something, okay?”
He stood in the shaft of light from the window as he sketched. When he was done, he knelt in the straw next to Kira.
“Look. It's a butterfly.”
Kira raised her head as she pretended polite interest.
“My sister likes my drawings,” he said, thrusting the sketchbook into her hands. “I thought it might take your mind off your trouble.”
Suddenly embarrassed, he began to flip the popping fluff balls with the toe of his boot. It was kind of like Hacky Sack with a twist, and he'd always been pretty good with a Hacky Sack.
“You're a wizard,” Kira said in a hushed tone.
Jon bounced a rodent from one foot to the other. “Nah, it's not so hard once you've got the hang of it—”
The rodent hit the ground as a butterfly floated past Jon’s face, circled the dungeon cell, and landed on Kira's outstretched hand.
“Beautiful,” she said.
The delicate creature was gorgeous with its neon electric blue-and-yellow coloring lighting the darkness exactly the way Jon had imagined.
“Did I do that?” he wondered out loud.
Perplexed, he watched the butterfly take off toward the window grate in a bid for freedom. He glanced down at his sketchbook. It lay open on the dungeon floor, blank. “That’s the second time something I've drawn has come to life.”
Kira cleared straw from a section of dungeon floor, exciting a small series of explosions among the rodents. She pointed to the stone slab. “Do it again!”
He dropped to his knees. “Okay, but don't get your hopes up. I don't know how this works.” One of the rodents crawled on his hand, and he hurled it off in disgust. “Yuck.”
A giggle escaped Kira’s lips. “Newtics. They’re harmless. Have you never seen one before?”
“We've got something like them where I come from, called mice,” he replied. “A cat would come in handy about now.”
With Kira watching, he began to draw.
“Newtics don't bite, but they make so much noise prisoners cannot sleep,” she said. “After a while, a person goes mad. The warlord thinks it’s amusing.”
“Yeah, I noticed Mandral's got a fantastic sense of humor, especially when it comes to himself.”
As Jon worked, Ophelia’s eyes finally began to glow with luminescence. He was relieved to see it; maybe he could finally transport home. Kira bent forward to examine his ring.
“This is Ophelia. I got her from my dad,” Jon said.
“You’re a Dragon Clan wizard!” she said with a gasp. “How is that possible? The Dragon Clan died out long ago.”
“Not dead, just resting,” Jon quipped. “But my dad's the wizard, not me.”
“You are mistaken. You’re a wizard, too.”
Jon finished off his cat drawing with a saucy set of whiskers. “Here kitty, kitty.”
Several newtics scurried across the drawing, unconcerned. Kira laughed.
“Sorry,” he shrugged. “I think maybe it's a magical sketchbook. It happened once before with a—”
The drawing began to shimmer. Jon’s jaw dropped as the markings floated upward and materialized into an enormous ginger-colored mouser.
“Now that's not something yo
u see every day,” he murmured.
Maybe I've inherited some magic from Dad's side of the family, he thought. But how can I do magic without knowing it?
The cat rubbed up against him and then pounced on the nearest newtic. His tail waved in the air as he laid the dead rodent at Jon’s feet. The cat wriggled its behind and pounced again.
“Oh, man, that's gross,” Jon said. “One newtic down, seven hundred to go.”
When he bent to retrieve his sketchbook, Kira spied his transporter cuff. She seized his arm, desperation written on her beautiful features. “You’re a Dragon Clan wizard and you have the means to transport. If you help me leave this place, I’ll see you have all the tile you can carry.”
“My name is Jon Hansen and I'd love to help, tile or no tile. But I'm honestly not a wizard. I'm only a kid looking for his dad. This is his ring and I found his cuff, and it's kind of an accident I'm here at all.”