by Daniel Heck
“Fedwick!” you chime, closing the distance.
He rises, takes your hands in his and kisses the back of one.
“My dear Titania.”
Celestine asks, “Is this…?”
“Indeed. Bartleby’s godfather, and now mine, albeit somewhat vicariously.”
Fedwick bows toward your friend, who replies, “A joy to finally meet you. Many good things have been said about you.”
The dwarf chuckles. “After all,” he jests, “would it have been worth so much trouble for them to save me so many years ago, otherwise?”
You and Fedwick laugh, then sit. Celestine barely titters.
“What’s on your mind?” the dwarf asks, apparently noticing her apprehension. “What brings you to this part of town?”
“Forgive me,” Celestine asks, “I am just a little preoccupied, because I’ve learned firsthand that the dragon homeland has been desecrated.”
Fedwick’s mouth hangs agape. “Yer jokin’ wit’ me!”
You shake your head. Celestine quietly shares what she saw, including the imagery related to Thomerion.
The dwarf nods in calm acknowledgement. “I’m glad you found me. Bein’ familiar as I couldn’t help but be with how that god works, I was getting a peculiar feeling that maybe he’d crossed into this world somehow. Twice before, you see, that bastard had basically knocked me outta commission, but there’s a bright side. I can sense when he’s up to sumpin. I don’t know, it’s kinda like…”
“A magical connection?” you say.
Celestine glances back and forth between the two of you, trying to process information as quickly as she can.
“Indeed,” Fedwick continues. “Once, a portal would have allowed him to come to Ambrosinia in his demon form, untethered. But this time, oh ho, this time I’m pretty sure he’s actually here, and performing whatever destruction he can, via a host body.”
Celestine gasps. “Like… a possession?”
The dwarf nods.
You and Celestine exchange wary glances.
“What we need to do…” Fedwick continues, “is find the host body, or have it find us, and perform an exorcism.”
A tense pause ensues. You think for a moment, then ask, “But why us? Isn’t there someone more qualified or experienced? It just seems like a lot of responsibility.”
Fedwick chuckles. “For one, I know you can handle it. Two, there must have been some reason your friend here got to view the destruction. And lastly…”
You lean forward, hanging on his every word.
The dwarf whispers with a playful, sing-song lilt, “I can perform exorcisms.”
You and Celestine gasp together. Josephine looks up briefly from cleaning the bar, evidently curious.
“You can?” you ask in shock.
Fedwick winks. “The church of the mountains taught me a whole lot more than I often let on.”
Celestine says, “Well… where do we start?”
To that, the dwarf coughs uncomfortably. “That’s the part I hoped you’d have some patience for… for you see, I used to perform exorcisms. It’s an ancient art that nobody ‘round here does anymore. I would need to practice for a while. And I ain’t so young as I used to be and well, don’t move around or get places much anymore. So…”
Pity rises in your heart. You smile and hold his hand, prompting a pause. Celestine, however, looks excited, even happy.
“I know what we should do first,” she chimes. “I’ve heard of a plant that some call the ‘youth herb.’ Its properties have been known to reinvigorate people and animals alike, even ones on their death beds. It’s almost as if it makes time go in reverse!”
You arch an eyebrow as her enthusiasm starts to rub off on you. “That sounds like a good idea. Where would we find this ‘youth herb’? We can worry about the rest of this situation farther down the road.”
“I’d think there’d be two options. The herb always grows around or in water, so we look in freshwater, which would save time but maybe be less likely to have what we need, or ocean water, probably around the beaches of Sungaze. What are your thoughts?”
Where do you search for youth herb?
We cull the Litherion River near the capital.
We take the extra time to search near Sungaze.
Your neck hairs stand on end and your nerves fray a little more with each minute that the quartermaster dallies in retrieving King Wyver. He will not like what you must tell him, you admit to yourself, but lying to a king would feel somewhat like deceiving a priest: the sheer authority involved makes the very prospect a matter of personal shame.
Time to grit one’s teeth and plow through the problem…no matter how intimidating…
Finally, Kalroy returns, and with a clearing of his throat declares, “The King shall see you now.”
You nod in a wordless goodbye-for-now. Finding yourself pulling at the neckline of your blouse as you go, the journey to the throne room seems to stretch for an eternity, and at one point, you nearly take a wrong turn toward the mess hall, such is your level of discombobulation.
“Titania, my loyal subject,” you hear.
You whirl about to find His Highness standing behind you.
“Goodness! I beg your pardon, sire, but…”
“I did not intend to startle you,” the kind young king cites, “for I can understand why you would not expect to find me out here in the hall.”
You ask, “Has royal business kept you that busy?”
Wyver shakes his head. “Precisely the opposite. Nothing interesting has needed my attention for eons. Kalroy’s page was a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”
You gulp and wring your hands slightly. “Sire, the dragon homelands have been desecrated.”
Wyver locks his jaw, acknowledging you with a subtle nod. A pause ensues.
“And, our business with them is?”
“Someone from the mainland is responsible. I’ve taken it upon myself to find out who and to prevent further destruction, given what I’m learned from the dragon sage…”
Wyver interrupts, “Do you realize that the people’s association with them is one of pure folly? That my predecessor Patrick and even the kings before him have paid dragons unconscionable prices in both financial terms and those of human life?”
You nod. “Yes, your Highness. I realize all of this. But…you should know… Thomerion is directly involved, as I also suspect is the church of the sun.”
Wyver’s countenance softens.
“Your good friend, the priest, wasn’t he? I heard he was lost in the name of fighting Thomerion’s evil.”
You glance downward briefly as a lump rises in your throat, then force yourself to reestablish eye contact. “Indeed.”
A tense moment passes. Wyver straightens, turns away from you and steps down the hallway. “Walk with me,” he commands over a shoulder. You comply, passing dozens of royal banners as well as the occasional suit of armor or stone column.
You reach the throne room, where a servant boy awaits. The king sends him to fetch waybread and water. “Describe your need, if you will,” he requests as he sits upon the throne.
“Sire, I seek to reforge the Sword of Dragon Might, so that my friends and I may defeat Thomerion.”
“Defeat? But, Thomerion is immortal.”
You explain Omnara’s suspicions and that if the possessed body can be subdued, perhaps the possessor’s goals will be stalled for the time being. Wyver listens carefully, responding to each statement with an arch of an eyebrow here or a ponderant ‘hrmm.’
This is getting more theatrical as time goes on, you think. Is he just playing along, biding his time?
“Well,” he finally states, “if we don’t do something, disaster could strike, now couldn’t it? I grant your request, upon one condition. You must provide some aspect of collateral, something to replace the sword within its case at the armory.”
What do you offer?
I trade in Bartleby’s talisman.
I contribute my elven dagger.
You repress a lump in your throat, such is your trepidation at speaking directly to the king, and planning to lie in the process, to boot.
What’s the worst he can do? Order my execution? you ask yourself while concocting and rehearsing as plausible a tale as you can muster. Highly doubtful. Yet, this knowledge fails to reassure you.
Soon, Kalroy returns and grunts, “King Wyver shall see you now.” The dwarf then returns to his post within the museum.
You take a deep breath, then proceed to just before the throne room.
An ornate golden door stands before you. You knock.
“Enter,” rings a kind voice.
You do so. The king, unmistakeable as he is with the royal birthmark stretching from the right side of his face to halfway down his neck, oversees the area from the throne while fiddling with a silver scepter in his left hand. Queen Roghet, curiously, is nowhere in sight.
You approach to a yard in front of the throne platform and immediately drop to one knee. You tip your head forward in reverence.
“You may relax,” Wyver instructs. “Titania. Before we get to your question, do you mind if I ask one of you?”
This takes you aback, even as you stand. “Certainly, your Highness.”
“In your opinion, what is the role or purpose of this confounded thing?” After a moment, you realize he means the scepter. “We knight people with swords, we clean with brooms and farm with scythes. Even if I had to fight on the front lines someday, this hunk of metal couldn’t even knock a cardinal off its tree.”
You giggle, and start to open your mouth, but don’t know what to say. The king smiles, knowing his humor helped to soothe your nerves.
“You don’t have to answer,” he continues, now projecting a sincerely welcoming tone. “What can I do to help you?”
“I am, your Highness,” you start, “in need of the Sword of Dragon Lore.”
Wyver arches an eyebrow. A pause ensues. “You have spoken with Kalroy, then? And he is all right with it?”
You nod, slowly.
Another pause. The King shoots glances at the footmen that flank him, but they keep watching you for any sudden moves.
“May I ask why? Why this artifact? Why now?”
You gulp and look aside. Forcing your eyes to keep in contact with Wyver’s, you answer, “A general from the Sungaze militia has requested that I bring it to him.”
He answers immediately, “Protocol would dictate that this general, whatever he may be named, visit me directly. Furthermore, to use such a relic for those purposes would require quite a bit of effort, compared to the hundreds of normal swords we have here. Did he say why he needed this particular sword?”
A bead of sweat collects above your brow.
I’m getting too deep into this…
Try as you may, you delay an answer until Wyver’s suspicion becomes thick enough to breathe from the air.
“A dragon…” you sputter, “Is harassing the fishermen. And needs to be slain.” You end with a perfunctory nod.
Wyver leans forward until he looks nearly about to fall from the throne. “Come closer, Titania.” You obey.
“Lastly,” he says, “do you realize that you would have carried with you a lot more clout, and thus this would be halfway believable, had you not left your post as Sungaze’s mayoress?”
“All right,” you blurt, “I’ll tell you the truth.”
“You are dismissed.” Wyver waves you off with a gloved hand. “Wait!” you protest, “Please…” The guards approach and, despite your mild struggles, drag you clear out of the castle, banning you from the grounds, and leaving you to rue this day, forevermore wondering whether anyone is able to restore the dragon homeland.
Your travels end here! But don’t give up. Return to the previous choice, or start again from the beginning.
You watch at rapt attention as the wheel slows. You tense up as an empty section on which something once sat (you’ve long since lost track of which is which) stops in front of you once more. The entire wheel glows red briefly.
Hrm…. Did it deactivate?
You grip the wheel by the edge one more time to test the theory. Indeed, when you try to move it, the wheel won’t budge.
Certainly can’t complain with two out of the three…
You watch at rapt attention as the wheel slows. You tense up as an empty section on which something once sat (you’ve long since lost track of which is which) stops in front of you once more. The entire wheel glows red briefly.
Hrm…. Did it deactivate?
You grip the wheel by the edge one more time to test the theory. Indeed, when you try to move it, the wheel won’t budge.
Certainly can’t complain with two out of the three…
It seems I must put my fate in the hands of the gods, or at least, in the power of my own bare hands.
After a moment, you reluctantly reach around your waist, unclasp your scabbard and drop to one knee.
“I offer thee as collateral, your Highness, an elven dagger of high and unique craftsmanship, emblazoned with the seal of Sungaze—a swordfish impaled by a spear—handed down to me by generations of the Vermouth family and meticulously sharpened to effect a flawless cut every time.”
You extend the dagger, still sheathed, in both palms. A pair of hallway guards exchange wary glances.
Looking to them and then back at you, Wyver chuckles. “An impressive pitch,” he admits kindly, “if I’ve ever heard one. I accept. You have yourself a deal.”
“Thank you, sire.”
“You may stand.” You do so. “I shall tell Kalroy to open the display case immediately. Do take care of the pieces, not to mention yourself.”
You nod and smile. “I shall.”
In addition to the sword, the quartermaster lends you a toughened, multi-layer burlap sack in which to haul the shards. Remembering what he said about reforging, you are soon on your way to the local blacksmith’s.
Maybe this won’t be so hard after all.
When you arrive at the shop, however, you start to wish you hadn’t thought such things too soon. In place of the normal gentleman you expected are two nearly identical goblins who, rather than working, smelting or shaping metal, stand about bickering with each other and hardly have a spare moment in which to notice you. As a result, everything in this area feels stale. None of the usual sparks fly, and charcoal dust covers everything irrelevant while the anvils, horseshoes and pokers sparkle so much that you can see your reflection in them.
“Pardon me, if you could!” you shout.
The goblins calm, then turn toward you.
“I need a sword reforged,” you continue. “Who are you two, and what are you doing here?”
They both smile, which shows you the only way you can tell them apart: one is clearly missing an upper tooth. That one bows toward you and chimes, “I go by the name of Nickers,” to which the other immediately adds, “And I am Tickers.”
You arch an eyebrow.
“And we,” they continue together, “are filling in for the blacksmith.”
You pause, incredulous. “I can… see that. Where did he go?” you ask.
The goblins look at each other, then back at you, and shrug.
“Does that mean you don’t know? He didn’t tell you?”
“What can we do for you, miss?” they say together.
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it all.
“I said… I need a sword reforged.”
You approach, open the sack and show them the pieces of the Sword of Dragon Lore. Nickers emits a low ‘oooooh,’ and both nod with enthusiasm.
“Furthermore,” you continue, “once the pieces are reunited, I need to somehow imbue the sword with the power of lightning. Do you know anyone that can do this?”
Tickers raises his hand.
“Yes?”
“No, I don’t have a question, miss. I mean, I can do what you need.”
&nb
sp; To this, Nickers groans. “Why do you keep this up all the time?” he implores. “You’re far from a master magician. The last time you tried that spell, I had ‘bad hair days’ for weeks on end.”
You glance at their heads. Both are completely bald.
“And you’re far from a master blacksmith, if I do say so,” counters Tickers, “more likely to hit your thumb with a hammer than anything else.”
You roll your eyes. Maybe I should find help in another town…
The two start shoving and punching at each other.
You pinch your nose to release tension, then shout, “Enough!”
The goblins freeze in place, then look at you.
“Let’s… just take this one step at a time.”
They nod in acknowledgement.
To Nickers, you ask, “What would you charge to put the pieces back together?”
“That’s the easy part. Just fifteen silver.”
You breathe a sigh of relief. “I can afford that. Why don’t you get started, while I talk to Tickers here about the rest of it?”
Nickers agrees, and helps you unload the pieces upon his workbench. He stokes a nearby forge, then climbs up onto a tall stool, grabs some tools and starts arranging the sword for his own visual understanding.
Meanwhile, the other goblin waits patiently. You stoop down to talk to him, “So, you think you know lightning magic?”
Tickers nods.
“What would it take to get that done?”
The goblin thinks for a moment, then replies, “What fee do you think is reasonable, considering that I would have to work with that clod just to vise such a large weapon in place?”
This complication hadn’t occurred to you. The pieces had started weighing you down even on the short journey to the blacksmith’s, so it’s possible that even if all three of you work together, it would still be unwieldy.
Furthermore, it’s not like you can trust these monsters, domesticated though they may be, as much as the smith you knew.