Isle of Wysteria: Make Like a Tree and Leaf

by Aaron Yeager

  Just as they were about to open nominations for a new leader, Duke Leitai burst out of the top of the pile of squirming bodies, gasping for air, one hand wrapped firmly around his rope, the other arm extended down into the mass, gripping something tightly.

  The men from his impromptu rescue team pulled on the rope, and slowly he used the added force to pull himself closer and closer to the edge of the fighting. As he did so, the center of the fighting seemed to follow after him as well. As he pulled outward, he dragged not only his quarry but several dozen occupants who had their hands on it as well.

  The anchor team began to tire, and the Duke was pulled backward, deeper into the scrum. For a terrifying moment it seemed that he might be lost forever, when suddenly more men joined the rescue effort. With one mighty tug, Duke Leitai burst free, carrying Alder under his arm like a melon.

  Alder’s clothes were tattered and torn. Smudges of lipstick and eye makeup stained his skin and hair, and small paper-thin cuts from manicured fingernails crisscrossed over his skin where it was exposed.

  Duke Leitai’s attire had suffered similar wear, his long black cape reduced to a tattered rag hanging limply on his broad back, and his finely waxed and balanced goatee tugged into coarse strands that hung off his strong, angular jaw.

  Hurriedly, he held Alder before him, his strong hands nearly wrapping around Alder’s waist as he lifted him like a small child so that they could be face to face.

  “Just what did you do, foreigner?” the Duke asked in the common tongue, his accent making it difficult for Alder to understand through the haze. He felt like he had just been yanked from the jaws of hell and was having difficulty remembering where he was or what he was doing.

  “They asked me to dance,” Alder responded weakly, searching around with his eyes for any members of his crew.

  All throughout the banquet hall, the women stopped fighting once they realized that the object of their struggles was no longer among them. As one, they turned toward the Duke, approaching him in a manner similar to wild wolves stalking their prey. The Duke called out in a commanding tone, ordering them to cease their hostilities and pleading with their sense of decency, but his words fell on deaf ears as the women slowly encircled him. It was then that Alder realized that something must have gone terribly wrong with the potion he had drunk, and his mind searched for a way out of the situation. The magic spell seemed to have created a desire in the women that completely overcame their sense of modesty, decorum, and quite nearly their sanity itself. If the desire of the women was that strong then what could possibly overcome it? Alder reached down and pulled the Duke’s sword out of its scabbard and held it up to his own throat.

  “May I please ask you ladies to stand back,” Alder yelled out hoarsely. “Stand back or this young man will die before you reach him.”

  The threat of sudden violence made the women pause, strands of disheveled hair and torn clothing hanging down in a way that suddenly reminded Alder of Margaret’s description of zombies.

  “What are you doing, whelp?” Duke Leitai asked venomously under his breath.

  “I’m trying to stand them off,” Alder whispered back. “The only thing that will stop them coming after me is the thought of losing me.”

  “Then I shall be happy to oblige them,” the Duke said as he spun Alder around. It only took a moment, but when it was over Alder was forced over in an arm lock before the muscular Leitai, who stood behind him with his sword poised threateningly before Alder’s throat.

  “Yes, that ought to do it. Well done, good sir,” Alder groaned as his arm was twisted.

  “Now, will you ladies please stand fast,” Leitai called out. “The ladies of Stretis I know would never debase themselves with this kind of behavior. I can only assume that this weak little man has put some kind of spell on all of you, so I ask you to allow me to escort this warlock to the palace cells.”

  “You will do no such thing,” a young, hoarse voice called out. Duchess Erin stepped forward, her hair and dress a sad parody of their earlier radiance. “You are so transparent. Just because I turned down your marriage proposal does not give you privilege to intimidate and attack any other man that catches my fancy.”

  “I am only trying to protect your honor, my lady,” he insisted.

  Lady Erin laughed cruelly, picking a piece of cloth from her hair. “I am heir actual to the throne of our kingdom, and I neither ask nor require you to defend my honor. It won’t save your family from bankruptcy, anyway, so I don’t see why you’d even care.”

  “You promised not to talk about that,” Duke Leitai complained feebly, twisting Alder’s arm further.

  “Not so hard, please,” Alder whispered painfully, “remember this is only an act.”

  “Oh, this is no act, whelp,” Leitai whispered in return. “I very much intend to see you dead this night.”

  “I see,” Alder whispered, feeling a bit surreal.

  It was at that point that Margaret freed herself from underneath a particularly portly and furry Isolite delegate and asserted her presence once more.

  “Stop calling him a whelp. He’s kind and thoughtful and talented and works really hard even though no one ever thanks him for what he does!”

  “What a silly little girl you are,” Erin laughed. “Earlier you were ashamed to be with him, and now you fight over him like he’s your one truly beloved.” The Duchess unclenched her fist, revealing a torn lock of Margaret’s hair that she had been holding on to and threw it down at Margaret’s feet. “You don’t deserve someone like him.”

  “Then it seems like we are already decided,” Duke Leitai interjected, a wry grin on his chiseled and bruised face.

  Erin stood up straight and put her hands on her hips. “What do you mean?” she asked, picking a piece of torn lace out of her mouth.

  “We each have something the other desires,” he said, motioning to her necklace, “so the simplest solution is a trade.”

  “You want this?” the Duchess asked, fingering the shiny necklace around her neck. “Why ever would you want a trinket like this?”

  “Don’t try to be coy. When you lid your eyes like that it makes you look dimwitted,” the Duke responded. “We all know that it is only yours by the dumbest of luck.”

  The gathered audience to this exchange was aghast, and tried to display their disapproval as best they could despite their tattered and dirty clothes.

  “Excuse me, Duke Leitai,” Alder grunted out through the pain, “but I do not think your words are appropriate for a business transaction with an Heir Actual.”

  “Oh, that is so sweet,” Erin cried out dramatically, clasping her hands together on her cheeks. “Here we have a room full of gentlemen, and no one but the foreigner steps up to defend my honor when it is besmirched.”

  “I thought you said your honor didn’t need defending,” Leitai corrected.

  “Quiet, you,” she snapped. “Don’t spoil the moment. If he wishes to defend me, then let him.”

  Reluctantly, the Duke released Alder and sheathed his sword. Spinning the frail young man around, he extended his right hand and smiled warmly. It took Alder a moment to realize what was happening, but then he snapped to and reached out to shake the man’s large hand.

  “No, don’t do it Alder!” Margaret called out.

  “Nonsense,” Alder replied as he shook the Duke’s hand warmly. “It was a simple misunderstanding and now all is rectified.”

  “No it’s not,” Margaret corrected. “You just accepted a duel to the death.”

  “W-what?”

  Chapter Thirty Three

  The Duel

  The servant’s entrance to the Cultural Center at Celecard was not the dingy back alley that Athel had expected, which made her pause. As she watched the pair of enormous guards in sharp uniforms carrying detailed lists of authorized entrants and asking for identification, all she could think about was Alder, standing there with that big stupid grin on his face, surrounded by all those dumb women faw
ning over him.

  “The others are on their way,” Ryin whispered as best he could between gasps of breath as he rounded the corner and joined her beneath a tall oak tree. “So, how are we going to get in there?”

  “I...uh...I’m not sure,” Athel admitted, cursing herself for wasting time instead of making plans.

  “What do you mean you’re not sure?” Ryin asked, well above a whisper. “You said you had it all taken care of.”

  “I did,” she defended. “In my novels, the servants’ entrances are always in dingy backstreet alleys. They’re never locked and they’re certainly never guarded by a pair of gorillas.”

  “Well, it’s too bad no one told that to these guys,” Ryin criticized. “Maybe if you walk up there and tell the guards, they’ll apologize for breaking protocol and walk away.”

  “Close your trap,” Athel ordered. “We need to get in there and get Alder away from all those girls.”

  “I still say we leave him,” Ryin chirped. “Death by foppish mob will make a great story in the afterlife.”

  Ryin paused for a moment and sniffed the air suspiciously. He then leaned in close to Athel and smelled again.

  “You better not be sniffing me,” Athel warned, putting her hand on the grip of her saber.

  “You’re jealous,” Ryin accused with a smile.

  “I am not jealous of that dumb little twig,” Athel scowled.

  “Yes you are,” Ryin insisted, sniffing again. “You’re surrounded by the smell of it. You hate that Alder is surrounded by all those girls right now.”

  “I hate it because he’s jeopardizing the whole mission. That’s it. There’s obviously something wrong with his spell. I mean, did you see the way they fawned over him, as if there’s anything about him worth fawning over? Royalty are taught to be discreet. They were practically drooling on him. He’s probably been dancing with them this whole time instead of doing what he’s supposed to,” she defended.

  Ryin bubbled with elation, like a kid finding his presents a week before his birthday.

  “I can’t really blame you,” he teased. “I mean, he is quite a catch, what with those bony shoulders and pale skin and everything.”

  “I already told you,” she insisted, grinding her teeth. “I’m only worried about completing our mission.”

  “You know,” he said wickedly, “it’s been a while since we saw what’s going on in there. Who knows what those girls have been doing to him.” Ryin sighed wistfully. “In fact, I think that’s how I’d like to go.”

  The oak tree swung a branch down and smacked Ryin on the back of the head.

  “That’s just because you’re a man,” Athel barked. “Your primitive cerebrum can’t handle anything above simple addition. If one girl is good then you assume ten girls must be ten times as good.”

  “That’s awfully high and mighty for someone whose mom has five husbands,” Ryin critiqued, rubbing his injured head.

  “Besides,” Dr. Griffin said as he joined the pair, “that was multiplication you just used, not addition.”

  “Shut up,” Athel complained, slugging Dr. Griffin on the arm. “This is all your fault anyway.”

  “What did I do?” Dr. Griffin asked, rubbing his arm.

  “Your stupid potion went all wild and now it’s affecting every woman in the cultural hall.”

  “Hmmm,” he grunted, scratching behind his hairy ear. “I knew I shouldn’t have used black tea instead of water.”

  * * *

  Alder jiggled the engaging handle a few more times then smacked the side of the podium. The large green crystal in the center wobbled a little, then hummed to life and several friendly symbols appeared in the air above it. Breathing a sigh of relief, he pulled out a scrap of paper from his back pocket and began dialing in the appropriate numbers into the control levers. The crystal chirped happily, and after a few rings the symbols rearranged themselves into a mist, with the image of the large chiseled face of Hanner looking back out.

  “Hey, little Alder boy,” Hanner greeted, taking a bite of banana. “It’s been a while. How are things?”

  “Bad,” Alder exclaimed. “I’ve been challenged to a duel to the death and they only gave me ten minutes to prepare myself.”

  Hanner crouched and spit out part of the banana he was chewing on.

  “The windows are barred and there is no other way out. You’re an Iberian, I need your help.”

  “So, what, you called me to help you fight just because I’m Iberian?” Hanner asked, irritated.

  “Well, yes,” Alder admitted.

  “And you don’t think that’s just a little bit racist?”

  “Maybe it is, but you’re the only one I could contact.”

  “Okay, okay,” Hanner calmed, taking another bite. “Here’s my advice. Pay attention to his shirt.”

  “His shirt?”

  “Yeah. If he takes his shirt off right before it’s time to fight, then that means he’s ruined enough shirts fighting that he doesn’t want to ruin any more. You don’t want to fight a guy like that. If he takes the shirt off, call off the fight.”

  Alder could only stand and look at Hanner as he chewed.

  “What? You don’t get it?” Hanner asked.

  “No, it’s just that I expected you to say something like, ‘Watch the wrinkles in the shirt for signs of concealed weapons.’”

  “You can do that too, if you like.”

  “Will it help?”

  “No.”

  Alder hung his head in defeat. “I don’t think they’ll let me call off a fight like this anyway.”

  “You know, I can come over there if you want. I bet I can find a baby sitter for Strenner.”

  “No thanks,” Alder sighed, “there will be enough people watching me lose as it is.”

  “No, that’s not what I...”

  The mist dissipated and the crystal ceased to hum as a guard pulled the lever down. “It is time,” he said gravely. Alder's mind raced through hundreds of scenarios, but he could not see a way out of this situation. In desperation he looked up at the guard and asked him, “What should I do out there?”

  “You cannot use what you do not have,” the guard said. “If you are quick, be quick, if you are strong, be strong.”

  “But what do I have?” Alder questioned.

  “You have...about five minutes to live,” the guard said, leading Alder out of the room.

  Alder felt time slow down as he was led back into the main hall. Chairs and tables had been moved to make an impromptu circle in the center of the room, with rows of candles placed around the edge to tell the throngs of spectators how far away to remain.

  What do I have? Alder asked himself.

  The women cheered encouragement and shouted out confessions of love and passion as Alder was tossed like a discus over the ring of candles, thumping to the ground awkwardly before rising defeated to his feet. He walked to the center of the ring where the tall and handsome Duke Leitai waited impatiently.

  What do I have?

  Beside the Duke stood Margaret, who was officiating. She blushed heavily as he approached, quickly becoming so overwhelmed that she had to avert her gaze to concentrate enough to speak.

  “The challenge has been given and accepted,” Margaret said, flustered, “and all will abide by the outcome.”

  “THUS SAY WE ALL,” the crowd repeated solemnly.

  “As challenger, the choice of weapons is yours,” Margaret said, turning to the Duke.

  What do I have? In his mind, he could hear Athel's voice yelling at him, “You are so infuriating! You misinterpret everything I say on purpose!”

  Alder's eyes widened in realization. “Wait!” he yelled out in protest. Margaret and the Duke turned to him, bemused.

  “Why...um...why does he get to choose weapons?” Alder stammered. “He will choose swords or pistols. Something that gives him a distinct advantage. Can I not choose the weapons used?”

  The Duke huffed and crossed his muscular arms in
front of him. “As the challenged, yours was the choice of venue.”

  “Venue?” Alder asked, perking up. “You mean I get to choose where we fight?”

  “Yes,” Margaret affirmed, “but naturally we assumed that you’d want to do it here.”

  “You assumed wrong, I'm afraid.” Alder corrected, brightly. “I am perfectly prepared to exercise my rights in that regard.”

  “Then what is your choice?” the Duke asked.

  “I choose the lost city of Arianis as the venue.”

  A wave of confusion rippled through the crowd, and one woman threw her traveling shoes into the ring in the hopes that it would help.

  “Arianis isn’t a real place,” Leitai protested. “It's just a myth.”

  “That’s not my problem,” Alder affirmed. “I’ll meet you there when it is discovered.”

  “You have to choose a real place,” Margaret explained, her face red with passion from being so close to him.

  “Very well, then I choose the afterlife,” Alder stated firmly. “We can duel once we get there.”

  “I must protest,” Duke Leitai called out to Duchess Erin, whose throne had been placed at the edge of the ring with the other members of the royal family. “He is mocking our traditions.”

  “I mean no disrespect, your majesty,” Alder countered, “I just don’t want to die.”

  Erin laughed heartily and clapped her hands together as she spoke. “Marvelous, you are just the cutest thing. Surely a smart thief like you can choose a normal place.”

  Picking up on her cue, Alder spoke again. “Very well, then, the venue shall be the southern tip of Iso island.”

  Waves of disappointment roared through the crowd, and one woman fainted at the thought of it.

  “Iso is weeks away from here,” Leitai said furiously. “I refuse to travel that far.”

  “Well, then, if you’re so attached to this place, why not let Alder choose the weapons?” the Duchess recommended.

  “Fine,” the Duke conceded. “I choose here and now as the venue. In return he may chose the weapons used.”