The Hidden Illusionist

by Deck Davis

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because magic healing takes away the danger, sonny. Violence doesn’t have a meaning if you can fix your mistakes with a spell. You don’t fear the blade, because you know there’s no danger.”

  “In the field, yeah. But surely you need to heal me for training?”

  “We’ve had recruits get addicted to it,” said Yuren.

  “To magical healing?”

  “To pain. Pain can become attractive to some men when they know it can be healed with a spray of mana. We’ve had recruits hurt themselves on purpose, because they enjoy how it feels.”

  Ethan understood the logic, but it didn’t help him now. Facing Tuskan, he wanted to beat the smug grin off his face. The problem was it sent tremors of agony through him to hold his sword in his preferred hand.

  Lucky I started practicing with my left. He switched the blade to his weaker hand. It felt heavy, and the drop in agility worried him, but there was one thing he was sure of; Tuskan, despite his rich family, despite the swordsman his father had no doubt paid to train him in his youth, hadn’t put a drop of the effort into his swordplay Ethan had.

  They squared up to one another, criminal versus rich boy, cloth shirt against leather armor. Ethan’s wrist scar throbbed, nut he sensed that the hostility didn’t just come from his opponent. He felt it waft from almost every other recruit.

  “Two easy wins in one morning? Must be my day,” said Tuskan.

  Without waiting for Reck to signal the start of the fight, Ethan darted forward and smashed Tuskan’s chin with the handle of his sword. Tuskan grunted and stumbled back, spitting blood.

  He lifted his sword into fighting stance, but too late. Ethan was already at what he had observed to be his weaker side, pressing the tip of his sword against his ribs.

  “One easy loss, already?” Ethan said. “I don’t think it’s your day, Tuskan.”

  “No fair!” said the rich boy.

  “Is that what happens in life, lad?” said Ethan, mimicking Reck. “Your enemies stand still and play fair?”

  Reck laughed and clapped his hand. “Oh, you little bastard. You’re after my own heart.”

  The rich recruits grumbled. One of them approached Tuskan, who shoved him away. He faced Reck.

  “I want to change weapons. Let’s see how good street rat is with a spear.”

  Uh oh. Ethan had never picked up a spear, let alone practiced with one. He’d scored some respect with the normal and criminal recruits by embarrassing Tuskan, but to lose a duel so shortly afterwards would erase that.

  He looked to Reck. “Maybe we should let someone else practice. After all, Tuskan looks like he could use a break.”

  Reck shook his head. “A man deserves a chance to right a wrong. Get the spears.”

  Ethan tested the weight of the spear Reck gave him. He couldn’t get used to it; the weight distribution was wrong. How should he move with it? What was the best fighting strategy? Go for the kill, or test the boundaries and wait for a chance?

  “Have at it, lads,” said Reck, stroking his blue gem as though it were a pet.

  No time for strategy now. He’d have to wing it.

  As Tuskan approached him, shoulders high and gripping his spear with confidence, Ethan edged backward. Straight away, he stumbled. It was no good; the weight of the weapon was alien to him.

  He tried gripping it with both hands to get better control, but his damaged fingers ached. No god damned good. I can’t do this with one hand.

  “Pound him into the mud,” said a voice.

  Ethan turned to the side of the yard, where Lillian and Yart were standing. The mage rested his hand his hand on the scribe’s shoulder. Hate wafted from over from the boy Ethan had injured.

  When did they get here? No way in hell I’m letting him see me fail.

  As Tuskan strode over and jabbed forward with his spear, Ethan went to side step.

  He froze.

  My legs aren’t moving! Why can’t I move? Something was holding him in place. Panic seeped through him. He tried to move his legs. Sweat dripped from him, coating his forehead and his armpits.

  On the sidelines, Lillian and Yart seemed to be speaking; their lips moved, but no sound came out.

  No use. He was stuck in place. What the hell was happening?

  Tuskan’s spear flashed at him. Unable to move, Ethan could do nothing as the tip slashed across his face. Fire spread over his cheeks, and blood welted from his skin and dripped to his chest.

  The grip on his legs released. He stumbled onto one knee. Tuskan’s spear hit him in an arc, cracking against his knee, making it buckle. He fell onto his back. When he looked up, Tuskan loomed above him.

  Ethan put his hand to his cheek. When he brought his hand away, blood coated his fingers. “I thought you said the weapons wouldn’t cut us,” he said.

  Reck scratched his chin. “There must have been a mistake.”

  Ethan glanced to the side of the yard. Lillian and Yart smiled back at him.

  Was it magic? Had they frozen him in place? Had they switched their novkill-stained weapons for ones that would actually do harm?

  Whatever the answer, a truth stood out to him; this might have been a heroes’ guild, but not all heroes were heroic.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder. It was Dullzewn. “On your feet,” he said, helping him up.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dantis

  The voice belonged to a tree. Not a puny sapling nor a tree you’d find in a forest, but a hulking mass of thick trunk and twisted branches, with cracks running along its bark like wrinkles on a mage’s face.

  It had a human-like face engrained into its trunk, with a cavity in the middle. It was through this that it spoke, wafting rotten breath with every word. Above its mouth were two smaller holes, serving as its eyes. The roots around its base glowed green, casting a mystical aura around it.

  A throng-bird flapped overhead. Spying the tree, it fluttered down, landing on the uppermost branch.

  “Ah, it’s my little friend,” said the tree. It wrapped a branch around the bird and squeezed. The creature squawked, but its cries were snuffed out when the tree tossed it into its mouth cavity.

  Dantis felt tense as he listened to the crunch of bones. The tree coughed, and a plume of feathers drifted out.

  “Bloody thing has been taunting me for weeks. Always chirping in my ear, using me as a perch. Pah.” Its trunk face twisted into a scowl. “Never seen a tree before? Zaemira’s picked a dud this time, hasn’t she?” Its voice was such a low timbre that it vibrated across the ground.

  Dantis’s sense of reality cracked beneath him, like river ice splitting under a great weight. “You can talk?”

  “She’s picked a real genius this time, hasn’t she?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Didn’t Zaemira tell you? I’m Wisetree. Surely she mentioned that?”

  “She doesn’t like to explain much.”

  “So, she leaves it all to me,” said the tree. “She’s too busy kidnapping and body switching to deal with the other stuff. Well, I don’t want to. If you need answers, trying speaking to your own arse and see what it whispers back.”

  “Are you supposed to help me, or something?”

  “I’m not supposed to do anything. I used to take the time to help, once. But after the tenth grub was killed…”

  “There were more?”

  “Forget it. I’m not some wisdom-dispensing oak, even if my name’s Wisetree. You can learn for yourself.”

  Great. He was stuck in a plant body in the Barrens and Zaemira had gone, leaving him with a tree who seemed to hate him. What chance did he have of escape? He didn’t know what he was supposed to do out here, and even if he did – how would he do it?

  The sound of horse hooves came from the east. In the distance, a dozen armored ogres were sitting atop half-stallions. Warrior ogres formed the point of an arrowhead formation, while flagbearers formed ranks on the sides. The flags showed a simplisti
c black drawing of an ogre’s head, with two arm bones at either side of it.

  This was no random patrol - it was a frigging army. Or it may as well have been, anyway. How was Dantis supposed to deal with a dozen armed…anything? Not just ogres, who were famed for their love of war, but a dozen anything? Twelve bunnies would have given him a tough fight in his current state.

  “They aren’t here to welcome me to the neighborhood, I take it?”

  “They patrol the Barrens, young one. Always making a racket. You act like a plant, I’ll act like a tree, and they’ll leave. Or better still…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I need food to grow my roots…and you need me to help you…”

  “I can’t take on a dozen ogres.”

  “You won’t have to, my dear boy. Bring them to me, and I will do the rest. Just wait; you’ll love the show.”

  He had an idea of how to draw the ogres toward Wisetree, but what did the tree have planned? Getting the ogres over there without alerting them to the fact he was a sentient plant would be the problem. They mustn’t know what he was – one cleave of an axe would cut his delicate plant frame in half. So, what could he do?

  Got it.

  As he went to start on his plan, he stopped himself. He had been arrogant with his plans before, never letting Ethan help, never asking for advice, and it hadn’t ended well.

  “What do you think we should do?” he asked Wisetree.

  “Bring them over to me, that’s all I need. Or can’t you do that?”

  Letting his mana bubble inside him, he imagined a shape taking form in front of Wisetree. He pictured a large, wooden chest. It was so full of gold and treasure that the lid was half-open, and gold and silver trophies caught the glint of the sun. Emeralds and rubies shone bright. No ogre would be able to resist it.

  As proud as he was of it, there were too many colors and individual shapes to concentrate on. Each one tugged at his mana, like dozens of needles poking holes in a waterskin.

  “Get their attention,” Dantis said. “They need to see the illusion.”

  “How do you suppose I should do that? Nice chest, by the way.”

  “I don’t know. You’re louder than me. Make a noise.”

  Wisetree gave an exaggerated cough.

  “Really? That’s all you’ve got?” said Dantis.

  One of the warrior ogres tugged the reins of his horse. The group stopped, and the warrior put his hand to his forehead to block the sun and peered at Wisetree.

  Wisetree trembled so much his branches shook. At first Dantis thought he was scared, but then he realized the tree was choking back a laugh. He glared at him, without moving.

  “I can’t help it,” whispered Wisetree, sending plumes of rotten breath directly in Dantis’s face. “Pretending to be a normal tree always makes me laugh.”

  The ogre caught sight of the chest of treasure waiting in front of the tree. He leaned to a nearby warrior, a woman with a long braid that reached her feet, and they whispered. With a raised fist, he spurred his formation on, and they galloped to the tree.

  The mana drained from Dantis. It was like holding a breath; it grew more uncomfortable with every passing minute. If it were a simple illusion he could trap mana in it and tie it off, but he’d been too lavish with this. He’d wanted to impress Wisetree. Every individual coin in the chest represented a separate mana drain, and he was running low.

  The ogres gathered around the chest. Their miniature stallions snorted and scratched their hooves in the dirt. The lead warrior dismounted. His arms and legs swelled with muscle, but his slightly-greying beard marked his age.

  Whatever you’re doing, Wisetree, do it now. He’s gonna rumble the chest as soon as he tries to touch it.

  [I know. Enjoy the show.]

  Dantis had no time to be surprised about hearing Wisetree’s voice in his head. As the warrior ogre touched the chest and swiped thin air, two long branches curled behind the dozen of them, so long that they surrounded them all completely, horses and all.

  “Tricked! Not gold!” the ogre shouted.

  “Not gold!” his cohorts parroted.

  One ogre whipped his reins. His horse stepped back, only to touch Wisetree’s branch.

  “Trick?” said the ogre.

  Wisetree wrapped more branches in place behind the ogres, until he formed a barrier around them. The ogres chattered excitedly as they looked around, realizing there was nowhere to go.

  [Now for my favorite part] said Wisetree, his voice resounding in Dantis’s mind.

  Wisetree wrapped a free branch around an ogre’s leg. With one yank, he tugged the ogre off his horse and straight into his mouth cavity. He snapped his cavity shut.

  The ogre screamed in terror. It was the most agonizing, despair-filled cry Dantis had ever heard. He felt himself get woozy listening to it. This was mirrored in the ogres’ faces, who turned pale, and backed away from Wisetree until they hit the branch trap. One stared at the cavity in disbelief as Wisetree snapped it opened and shut, each time letting out the gut-wrenching cries of the ogre he was eating.

  Wisetree plucked another ogre from his horse. With a snap of his cavity, blood spurted out, spattering on the ground, drenching the faces of the ogres too close.

  The warrior ogre roared. He brandished a hatchet and ran at Wisetree, then hacked at his trunk. Two more joined him, but the rest were too scared to move.

  Dantis watched the ones who didn’t help. Something drew his attention; the way they gripped the reins of their horses so tight the bones in their knuckles stood out, the way they mumbled to themselves, the way their eyes widened.

  They were scared - terrified, even – and something about it drew him in. His head began to throb. In the corner of his eye, near the stone city, one rock loomed above the rest; it was his spirit forge, and energy buzzed and snapped around it.

  An invisible link seemed to form between the forge and the terrified ogres, and it tugged on Dantis. He knew what he had to do.

  As Wisetree chewed on another ogre, and blood gushed and wails of horror resounded in the barrens, Dantis drained spirit from the ogres. He breathed, taking in not air, but ethereal spirit. It boiled in him, filling his body until his head swam with it.

  God, it was intoxicating. Where the spirit from the weeds had been bland, this spirit, laced with the ogre’s fear, was an elixir. It hit him in the belly, glowing inside him like a shot of whiskey. The rush was so strong he swayed forward, almost hitting the ground.

  This feels good. Too good.

  A scream broke him from the moment, and Dantis turned his head in time to get splattered by blood. Wisetree’s mouth chomped up and down, each time grinding on ogre flesh, his gnashing teeth competing with the ogres’ cries of terror.

  Dantis couldn’t watch anymore. Memories stirred in his brain, conjured from the blood and the screams. He saw a dark cellar. His parents backing away from a shadowy figure.

  Don’t kill them.

  And then the memory snapped shut.

  Wisetree pinched the leg of an ogre with his branch. He lifted it in the air by its leg and tossed it into his mouth, chomping down on its belly. When he was done he let out a long, blood-smelling burp.

  A buzz-byrd landed on one of Wisetree’s branches. It fluttered away before he could eat it. “Maybe there’s more to you than I thought,” Wisetree said.

  “Does that mean you’ll stop being an ass and help me?”

  “There are things you need to know, things you should know, and things I have to tell you, but you really don’t want to know. Where should we start?”

  Dantis was a believer in the adage in taking bad news before good. Suffer the pain to reap the rewards. “Start with the stuff I don’t want to know.”

  Wisetree pointed a crooked branch in the direction of the maze of stone ruins east of him. Some stones were upright, arranged into the shaped of dwellings, while other, more jagged rocks were alone. The place emanated a feeling of age itself; as though the darkness of
the ancient stones sucked in time and then left it drift out bit by bit.

  Some stones lay on their sides. Hunched, black figures scampered over them. They were too far away and too black for him to make out details, but they were the size of children, and they crawled on all fours. They didn’t seem to see him.

  “Don’t worry; they are in the time void.”

  “What is this place? What happened to it?”

  “Yutula-na has been like for centuries. I’m old, grubseed, and Zaemira is even older, but we weren’t even twinkles in our father’s eye when Yutula-na lived in all its glory.”