“Drop your protective force fields. This is a game. A game, which, if you lose, you’re out of my class.”
Sarco “The Insane” Sunwalker chuckled, “I like to call this little competition Dodge Fireball. The point being, I’ll cast and throw fireballs as fast as I can, and if I get a direct hit, don’t waste my time by showing up tomorrow. I’ll cast twenty of them, so keep count if you can.”
Sarco stopped talking for a moment and held up a hand. “Don’t fret. They’ll be low-level fireballs, and although you might sustain a minor burn or two, they will not kill. If you are hit, please move out of the field of play. May the fastest, smartest, most competent of you succeed.”
Lark shuddered at the memory and even that small movement sent spasms of pain shooting down her arms and legs. What proceeded after Sarco “The Mad Wizard” Sunwalker’s instructions had been complete pandemonium. She couldn’t stop her mind from recalling—almost moment by moment—the dreadful test.
Fire had flown through the air, and white-robed novices scattered. The first fireball missed Lark’s head by mere inches and hit the dwarf standing several yards behind her as it arced toward the ground. Lark didn’t even have time to see which dwarf had been hit before she was jumping sideways to avoid the next ball of fire.
Burning cinders rained upon them, and Lark winced at the painful stings. Dodging yet again, she slipped, and her hip met the dirt of the arena floor with a thud. She scrambled to regain her feet as another blue-flamed orb exploded against the chest of the poor barbarian unlucky enough to have run in front of her. He landed squarely across her chest, momentarily knocking the air from her lungs.
Lark glared at Sarco. The man was purposely trying to hit her. She caught his eye, and he smiled and winked. Lark seethed with anger. How dare he cheat by singling her out.
She not-so-gently probed his mind and screamed into it, “Why?”
He surprised her by answering, “You are a distraction I can ill afford, Lark. There can be no repeat of this morning. Give my regards to your sister.”
Another fireball missed Lark’s head by no more than a breath and her rage grew. “I see you, too, can delve into the minds of others. I wouldn’t have believed before today, however, you’d be capable of stooping so low as to use your powers against a student. And here I thought you were a man of honor, Professor Sunwalker.”
Sarco grinned at her, but there was no humor in his smile. “Telepathy is a new talent it seems I’ve acquired since I met you. There is much you don’t know about me, Wonderful. And it’s not only my honor, but also yours, I’m trying to protect. Now be a good girl and stand still. I can’t promise you it won’t sting a bit, but I can promise it’ll be over in just a few moments.”
The heat of the flame Lark hadn’t even seen leave Sarco’s fingers singed her hair and stung her skin but missed a direct hit by no more than a heartbeat. It pissed her off.
“Well, turnabout is fair play then, Professor Sunwalker. You won’t get rid of me that easily.”
Lark concentrated on her fellow students, and the arena became like a pinball machine as Sarco threw fireballs and Lark used mind-control on her classmates to dodge them. One after another, the other students took turns receiving the hits Sarco had intended for her. Though she still had to duck and weave, and fall and get up, she avoided a direct hit. More than once she landed so hard Lark was sure she heard things that shouldn’t crunch do precisely that.
Then, suddenly, it was over and only six students were left standing—one dwarf, one troll, one high-elf, one dark-elf, one gnome, and herself.
Sarco”The Arrogant” Sunwalker smiled at the students remaining in the middle of the arena. “I’ll see those of you who passed my test in the morning. Class dismissed.”
To Lark, he sent a message. “I must admit, first victory has gone to you, Wonderful. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.”
Without another word or a backwards glance, the man had turned and whistled a tune as he walked away.
The whole ordeal had occurred six short turns of the hourglass ago, but to Lark, the suffering would never end. She sat in Channeling, her last class of the day, and tried her best to concentrate.
Lady Dragonheart, or Briar as she had instructed the students to call her, was lecturing. Though Lark valiantly tried, she found it hard to pay attention. All she wanted in the whole of Albrath was to go to her room, soak in a hot tub for a couple of hours, and sleep for a week.
How was she ever going to keep up this pace? If every day of Elemental Wizard class was destined to be like this one, she wouldn’t last another day, let alone a full semester.
After the two-hour wizard class had come Mysteries of the Mind, with a dark-elf instructor whose name she couldn’t even remember or pronounce. Then there had been History of Magic, with Mrs. Wanglehopper, a dwarf female with a gray beard long enough to rival most men’s. She was so old and boring, Lark had twice drifted off to sleep during her lecture.
Then had come lunch.
Lark winced. Lunch had been another nightmare all in itself. There was no doubt about it, this was going to be a very long semester.
Lark had hoped lunch would be uneventful. She’d needed a few minutes’ peace.
No such luck. Because lunch was when she’d officially met Sherman Bobert Limburger the Ninth.
She sighed. What was she going to do about Sherman? A bone-weary tiredness she rarely felt seeped deep into her soul.
Again, Lark’s thoughts drifted from Briar’s lesson. The images from the lunchroom were vivid and still painfully embarrassing. She covered her eyes with her palms.
When the short, pudgy man had walked over to her table with a tray of food balanced in his beefy hands and asked if he could sit with her, Lark’s first response had been to tell him she wanted to be alone. After the morning she’d had, she wasn’t in the mood for company.
Then she noticed his appearance and realized who he was. His thick, mud-brown stubs of hair stood in spikes, and the ends of them were so singed that when he walked, gray ash sprinkled like dirty snowflakes onto the shoulders of his tunic that was now anything but white. She wanted to crawl under the table so she wouldn’t have to face him, but she couldn’t. Horrified, Lark stared at the poor creature standing before her.
He was the same halfling she’d used mind control on earlier in the day to avoid Sarco’s final fireball.
He was pathetic looking. One bushy eyebrow was, for the most part, intact, but the other had been entirely burned away. His thick, oval glasses were bent almost in half and melted in places. They were taped together in the middle and barely covered his tear-reddened brown eyes.
Soot smudged his cheeks and tiny blisters made his already pouffy lips appear even bigger. Not tall to begin with, he stood slightly bent over, as if straightening would cause too much pain.
“Umm…did you hear me, Miss? Do you mind if I sit here? You’re the only person in the room that looks remotely familiar.”
Then he shook his head. “Ah, never mind, I just realized you weren’t one of the losers from this morning’s class so you probably wouldn’t want to share a table with the likes of me anyway. I don’t blame ya. I wouldn’t sit with me either if I didn’t have to.”
The halfling turned to leave, and even though sharing her table, let alone her lunchtime, with him was the last thing Lark wanted to do, she couldn’t let him just walk away.
The smell of singed flesh, burnt hair, and smoked cheese was so thick, Lark gave it her best effort to speak without breathing any more than absolutely necessary. “No, please, I’d be honored, really.”
The halfling quickly sat down, extended a hand, introduced himself, and then broke into tears. Not gentle, sliding-silently-down-tender-little-cheeks tears, but loud, sobbing, soul-racking, nose-leaking, streaking-lines-down-the-soot-on-his-face, drawing-attention-from-every-corner-of-the-room tears.
His head dropped to the tabletop where his forehead hit with a loud smack. A cloud of soot, singed hair, a
nd particles with origins of which Lark didn’t want to speculate, drifted over everything, including her food. She pushed her tray away, her appetite gone.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Limburger? Umm, Sherman, wasn’t it? Please, stop crying. Nothing can be as bad as all that, can it?”
The halfling looked at Lark from the puddle he’d made on the table. “As bad as all that? My life is over. Is that bad enough for you? I’m a failure. I can never go home again. I was to be the first halfling from my kingdom to go to the Academy and make something of himself. And what do I do on the first day? I flunk out of Elemental Wizard class, that’s what I do.
“Oh, the shame. I can never face my folks or the townspeople again. My parents took out a mortgage on their castle, more than half the town’s residents donated every spare platt they had for my tuition, the church had a fundraiser, and my girl back home even offered to pawn the little engagement ring I gave her last year. All with one single, shining hope, that I, Sherman Bobert Limburger the Ninth, would come back and save us all.”
Lark groaned, but Sherman didn’t notice.
“You see, my father’s kingdom survives by selling the cheese we make. To craft excellent cheese you must feed the cows and goats superb grain. In order to grow such magnificent grain you must have outstanding weather. An elemental wizard can ensure a plethora of sunny days and still plenty of rain to water the crops. I’ve been taking classes and preparing for this all my life, and now I’ve failed, and on the very first day to boot.”
Sherman stopped, wrenched a large handkerchief from somewhere deep in his pocket, blew his nose with the force of a small gale, then proceeded with his tale. All Lark could manage to do was stare and listen.
“I still don’t understand how it happened. Even being a portly type of guy, I’m normally fast and steady on my feet.” He lifted one big, bare, hairy foot, plopped it right in the middle of the table, and shook his head. “With feet as impressive as these, I just don’t get it. I could have sworn I was out of the way of that final fireball. Then, from out of nowhere, I tripped over something—must have been a rock—and, bam! I was on the ground and a ball of fire hit me right in the kisser.”
Lark grimaced as guilt once more filled her.
“I went back after class and searched the arena floor for more than the turn of an hourglass and couldn’t find one single stone big enough to trip over. God Draka must be punishing me and my kingdom. I know there’s no way to make you understand because you’re barbarian. I took a class on barbarian culture once. I know your kind are never clumsy. It isn’t your way. Go ahead, ask me anything about barbarian. I’ll tell you. Not that it matters now.”
Sherman sobbed once more, and all Lark could do was silently cry along with him. Even though she had given up eating when the ash and singed hair had settled over her food, a large lump remained stuck in her throat. She remembered the last fireball very well, and here sat the poor, unsuspecting halfling on whom she had so thoughtlessly used her power. What was she going to do? She couldn’t allow what she’d done to ruin Sherman’s life.
Grandmother Ava’s voice came back to her clearly, as if Lark were still a small child sitting on her lap during lessons. “With the privilege of magic comes much responsibility, Lark. Abuse the powers you’ve been given and innocent people will be hurt. If you make a mistake, child, fix it.”
She stood, swiped at her eyes, and faced Sherman.
“I know Professor Sunwalker told everyone who was hit not to come to class tomorrow, but please come anyway. I’ll talk to him for you, I promise. I don’t know yet what I’ll say, but I’ll do my best to make it better. Trust me.”
Lark hadn’t waited for his reply but turned and fled before she gave into her urge to cry again.
After lunch, she had had to endure Spell Casting 101 and History and Theory of Magic before coming to Channeling class.
Lark uncovered her eyes and looked up at Briar. Oh, would this day never end? Almost as quickly as that thought formed, the last grains of sand in the hourglass trickled down and a bell tolled.
Slowly, Lark stood, mindful of aching joints and sore muscles. She picked up her stack of books and headed for the royal suite, grateful the trauma of her first day was finally over.
A dense fog settled over the Academy.
Chapter Seven
If ever a man was more confused by the difference between his duty and his heart’s desire than Sarco was, he’d hate to see that man.
Not knowing what else to do, he picked up the small leather volume Lark had given him earlier and flipped it open once again.
A sound distracted him, and he looked from the yellowed pages to his brother. Tossing the book toward him, he asked, “Any idea what this is? I can’t seem to make heads or tails out of it.”
Cyrrick flipped through it for a few moments then smiled. “Why, I do believe this may be the answer to all of your problems. If I’m not mistaken, and I’m pretty sure I’m not, it’s an extremely rare volume of Barbarian Protocols and Etiquette. I remember hearing somewhere there are only two left in existence.”
Sarco shook his head. “So why would the princess give me something so valuable? And this is going to help me how?”
Cyrrick drew up a chair and straddled it. “It can teach you the proper way to ask for the hand in marriage of a barbarian princess, for one thing. How’s that going, by the way? Courting Princess Aryanna, that is?”
Sarco closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, hoping the heat and pressure of his fingertips might actually alleviate the dull throbbing pain that had been persisting and growing since class this morning. It didn’t help, so he opened them once more and faced his brother.
“There hasn’t been any courting. I’ve only met the woman once and that was when she first arrived. She was supposed to be in my class, but the chit sent her sister instead. I don’t see why I need to bother with courting her anyway. It’s an arranged marriage, remember? It’s not like either of us has any say-so in the matter.”
Cyrrick rocked forward on the legs of his chair. “Protocol, my dear brother. Everything has to do with protocol and diplomacy. Barbarians are a proud people. Remember, the war that was responsible for this mess was because the elfin lord was insulted. That can’t happen this time, brother.”
Sarco glared at him.
“Great-Uncle Arizon and the entire Council of the Elders will be counting on you. At the Yulemass Ball, you must officially ask King Alfred for the hand of his daughter in marriage, and you must do it with pomp and circumstance.”
Cyrrick playfully leaned across the desk and punched Sarco’s arm. “Anyway, courting could be fun. Princess Aryanna might be a little snooty, but you have to admit she’s not bad on the eyes.”
Sarco chuckled but the sound held no humor. “Yes, the princess is beautiful. I’ll give her that. Kind of spoiled for my taste, but then again, what does it matter? It’s not as if I have much of a choice.”
“If you could choose, brother, who would it be?” Cyrrick leaned in close and his voice became almost a whisper.
Sarco smiled at Cyrrick. “I think I’d choose not to marry at all, as it stands right this moment. But I have to admit, Princess Aryanna’s sister, Lark, does intrigue me.”
“Well, I think it best we keep that little tidbit between the two of us,” Cyrrick grinned. He suddenly reached across the distance and tapped Sarco lightly on the hand. “Do you remember when I told you I wanted to become a diplomat instead of a wizard? You were the only person in the entire family to encourage me and to accept my decision. You told me then to follow my heart, and I did.”
Sarco nodded, but he didn’t understand what the change of topic had to do with this conversation. Cyrrick, though, just kept talking.
“The family is happy I made that choice now, but for a while things weren’t pleasant, especially with father. I’m asking you to put your trust in me again. No matter how bad things may or may not seem, I’ll stand by you and any decisions you make. Give me
a chance to show you your faith wasn’t misplaced.”
Sarco stared at his brother as Cyrrick grabbed the book and opened it. He pointed to an underlined passage.
“Practice these words over and over until you can say them without thinking, even in your sleep.” He handed the worn book back to Sarco, stood, nodded once, and strode from the room.
Sarco stared at the frayed, old parchment pages for a long time. He had the strangest feeling something important had just been conveyed and somehow he’d missed it.
****
Leeky Shortz knocked once more, louder than the time before. Impatience caused him to shift his Miss Bunny 2000 from one arm to the other in order to use his ungloved hand to pound harder.
Don’t people realize a gnome has better things to do than stand outside a door half the day?
From somewhere deep within the royal suite, Leeky heard a high-pitched, nasal twang. “Come in.”
He did, then stood in shock at what he saw.
A saucy female gnome moved back and forth across the room. What she was doing to the poor blow-up doll in her hands was a more traumatic sight than any eyes should ever have to behold.
“What the fungus-infested toe jam of a green-eyed cave-troll are ya doing ta that poor thing, lass?”
The female gnome wore a poor-fitting blonde wig, he noticed, when she turned toward him and glared. “Who are ya and what are ya doing here?”
Puffing out his chest, Leeky smirked. “Ya mean ya don’t know? Everyone who’s anyone knows who I am. I’m Leeky Shortz, rogue gnome, friend and confidant ta rulers and princes, oh, and I’m the Academy handyman. I was told there’s a job ta be done. Now what are ya doing ta that…that…thing, lass?”
“The name’s Miss Laycee Titwilder ta ya, Handyman. Not ‘lass.’ I’m governess ta Princess Aryanna, and what does it look like I’m doing, ya daft gnome? I’m vacuuming, of course.”
A long hose extended from where the blow-up doll’s cock would have normally been. Laycee had a firm grip on it as she pushed it along the floor. The poor doll’s balls were two long, green plastic bags, so bloated with air they looked painful and near to popping.
The Academy Volume One Page 37