The Sword and the Sorcerer

by John Phythyon

  “As you wish, Devon,” he said. “A man’s lord should only make so many demands of him.”

  “You are both wise and fair,” Devon replied with another smile.

  Calibot’s heart fluttered again.

  Two hours later, Calibot was back in his suite and wrapped in Devon’s arms. They lay naked in the fluffy, feather-stuffed bed they shared.

  “You did well today, Calibot,” Devon purred.

  Calibot snuggled into his chest and sighed. The duke’s favor was important, but Calibot was more interested in Devon’s approval.

  “Did you really like it,” he asked.

  “You know I did.”

  Devon tousled Calibot’s curly, brown hair and then stroked the side of his head. Calibot melted into his chest.

  “I think this is the best thing you’ve ever written,” Devon continued. “It’s funny and clever like your other material. It has all the charm of the first two cantos.

  “But there’s more going on than a story about two idiot brothers on a quest. You present it comically, but you’re painting a deep mistrust of magic in this poem.”

  “What do you mean?” Calibot said, wrinkling his forehead in irritation. There it was again – the dark specter of magic haunting his success.

  “The basic plot of your story concerns two knaves who are on a quest to rescue a princess from an evil sorcerer,” Devon answered. “Thus, the villain uses magic. The heroes get the quest from the princess’s fairy godmother. One has to question why she would choose two brothers as thick as Drake and Drudger for the mission. Along the way, they meet several more magical creatures, all of whom make similarly foolish decisions about trusting your heroes. The Fairy Queen Titania gives them magical torches, with which they accidentally burn down The Enchanted Forest.

  “No good comes of using magic in your story, Calibot. You write it so that it is all extremely humorous, and it’s fun to read. But you are sending a pretty clear anti-sorcery message in Drake and Drudger’s Journey, which makes your subtitle – A Canticle to Knavery – all the more interesting.”

  Calibot frowned. Somehow, Devon was taking all the fun out of his triumph.

  “You’ve really found your voice as a poet, Calibot,” Devon said with a smile. “That’s its own kind of magic. You’re becoming a first-rate sorcerer.”

  Bile erupted into Calibot’s throat. It was bad enough Duke Boordin should suggest a wizard cast a spell on him. That was insulting, but the duke didn’t know who Calibot’s father was, didn’t know how Calibot hated him.

  Devon should know better. He knew damned well how Calibot felt, and calling him a sorcerer was just about as mean a thing as Calibot could imagine.

  “Stop it,” he said. “It’s not magic. It’s manipulating language. It’s finding the right turn of phrase. It’s making it funny. It’s a lot of things, Devon, and it’s not easy to do. But it is most certainly not magic.”

  Devon sat up on his elbow, spilling Calibot from his chest. He gave him a curious and infuriatingly playful look from those brown eyes.

  “It is to me,” Devon said.

  “What do you mean?” Calibot replied. Was Devon trying to hurt his feelings?

  “There are a lot of poets out there, Calibot,” he said. “Some of them are good; some are bad. Probably more of them are bad than good. I happen to think you’re one of the good ones and so does the duke, which works well for both of us.”

  Calibot sat up and stared incomprehensibly at him. Where was he going with this?

  “But not all of the good ones have anything important to say,” Devon went on as though he hadn’t noticed Calibot’s look. “Crafting clever poetry is one thing, but writing verse that has some deeper meaning than simple entertainment is an extraordinary power. A clumsily handled theme can kill an otherwise good poem. Likewise, subtly weaving the point of a story through the narrative is a difficult task. Some poets use their words like clubs, hitting you over the head with the lesson hard and often, so that you’ll understand what they were saying.

  “You, on the other hand, have mastered the rare gift of saying something important – that magic is dangerous and not to be trusted – but do so subtly. You never come out and say, ‘Magic is bad!’ You just demonstrate it over and over again through the knavery of your protagonists. You further disguise your theme by planting it in a comedy rather than a true epic.

  “Whether you like it or not, Calibot, that’s a kind of magic. It may seem quite ordinary to you, because you know how to do it. But to me, to the duke, it is an extraordinary talent that defies explanation.”

  He fell silent, and Calibot stared at the sheets. He chewed his lip angrily.

  “It’s just—” he began.

  “It’s just that you don’t like being compared to your father,” Devon finished.

  He held Calibot with his gaze. The look was firm, but there was a softness in those brown eyes, an understanding.

  “Yes,” Calibot said. The taste of bile in his mouth was overpowering.

  Devon leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. Then he sat back and stroked his face.

  “I’m so sorry, my love,” he soothed. “How terrible it must be not to feel your father’s love.

  “But feel mine. I love you. I love you more than anyone ever has or ever will. I’m yours, Calibot. I always will be.”

  Calibot stared back with tears in his eyes. Devon always knew what to say to ease the pain, salve the wound.

  “I love you too,” he said, and he kissed him tenderly.

  They fell back on the bed, and Calibot snuggled into Devon’s chest.

  “You really think it’s my best work?” he said.

  “I do,” Devon replied. “You’re going to be hard-pressed to top this in the fourth canto, and I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

  Calibot smiled. Every poet composed to be heard, to be remembered, and, most especially, to be praised. But no one’s approval mattered more to a poet than the people he loved. He inhaled deeply and drank in the scent of Devon’s cologne, the smooth feel of his skin, and the strength of his embrace. He closed his eyes and felt the first gentle pulls of sleep take hold of his mind.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  Devon tightened his embrace in response. Calibot’s mind relaxed, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he fell fast asleep on the satin sheets.

  But he didn’t get the chance. A loud knock at the door brought him instantly back awake. He turned to Devon, who was already giving him a quizzical look.

  “Were you expecting someone,” Devon asked.

  “No,” Calibot replied.

  The knock came again. It was more insistent this time.

  Devon disentangled himself from Calibot and slipped out of bed. He threw on a robe but didn’t get a chance to close it before there was a loud pop and a woman in a green dress and blue traveling cloak materialized in front of them looking very surprised.

  Calibot sat up, astonished and afraid. Devon whirled and went to his sword, snatching it out of its sheath and then putting himself between the woman and Calibot while striking a defensive pose.

  The newcomer wore a pack on her back and had a large sack slung over her shoulder. Her expression of surprise changed to confusion.

  “Now how did that happen?” she said aloud. “I was just trying to look through the door to see if anyone was home.”

  She leaned on a staff and appeared to think about whatever had gone wrong. Thick, curly, blond hair hung from her head, looking like it hadn’t been combed in a month or so. It framed a plain face that looked ridiculous, screwed up as it was, in concentration. Calibot estimated she couldn’t be much more than nineteen or twenty and figured she must be poor. He had never seen a courtier without makeup.

  “Oh, hello,” she said, when she finally noticed Devon. The facts that his robe was open and he was holding a sword as though he meant to behead her didn’t faze her. “Are you Calibot Draco?”

  “I am not,�
�� Devon said. “Who are you?”

  “Oh, damn,” she said, continuing to take no notice of anything, including the threat in Devon’s tone. “This was supposed to be his room.”

  She set down the sack, which clearly had something large and rectangular in it, and slipped the pack off her shoulders. This she rummaged through until she pulled out a piece of paper and began examining it. From his vantage point on the bed, Calibot could see it was some sort of map.

  “No, this should definitely be his room,” she said. She returned her attention, such as it was, to Devon. “Are you sure you’re not Calibot Draco?”

  “I am quite sure,” he said. “I am also quite sure I don’t know who you are, and I will hurt you if you don’t tell me.”

  She studied him for a second. Her eyes fell briefly on the sword and then returned to him.

  “You’re naked,” she said.

  Devon blushed despite himself. He lowered his sword and closed his robe, tying it shut hastily. He tried not to look awkward and failed miserably.

  “Who are you?” he said again, but the dangerous tone was completely gone from his voice.

  “I’m Liliana Gray,” she answered, “and I’m looking for Calibot Draco. Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve come to tell him his father’s dead.”

  Chapter 2: Elmanax

  Elmanax stared at Gothemus Draco’s tower in the moonlight and felt a surge of glee rush through his miserable heart. How many years had it been since the detestable human and his brute of a brother stole the Eye of the Dragon from him? Was it twenty? Twenty-five? He couldn’t remember anymore. He only knew he had endured agony since that day.

  Cob, the Gnome King, had been displeased and cast him out. “The purpose of a gnome is to guard the Treasures of the Earth, not to turn them over to power-hungry humans,” he’d said, as though Elmanax had somehow been complicit in the crime.

  Elmanax was thrown up from the ground and forced to live on the surface. How he hated the sunlight. It bleached his naturally brown skin until it was nearly the color of a human’s. It burned his eyes. The nighttime was only marginally better. The heat of the sun was absent, but the moon still cast hateful light over him like some putrid wave crashing in from a despoiled ocean. The open air tasted foul, completely devoid of the flavors of the underworld. He could barely smell the stone up here it was so covered in grass and moss.

  Those two barbarians got him exiled, and they’d made themselves rich and powerful with the magic they stole from Elmanax. It was insulting and infuriating and wrong.

  But finally, after years of Elmanax’s plotting, Gothemus Draco was dead. It had been so hard to get near him, but Gothemus and his brother weren’t the only humans with a thirst for power. The Council of Elders in Eldenberg had been jealous of Gothemus’s position for a long time. And Lord Vicia not only wanted Gothemus out of the way, she wanted to ascend to the Council presidency. He had easily convinced her destroying Gothemus Draco was an excellent means to get everything she wanted.

  Elmanax taught her the spells necessary to disguise the poison, so the old fool wouldn’t see it coming. He’d told her how to lure him out of his tower, so he would be vulnerable.

  And damn if they hadn’t actually done it! The Council listened to Vicia, and now the dirty thief was dead.

  With Gothemus’s demise, his magic was gone. Elmanax would be able to penetrate the previously impregnable tower. He would find the Eye of the Dragon, and he would return it to the underworld. Then Cob would welcome him back, and he would have his post again. Order would return to the world.

  He was unable to suppress a grin. He’d been plotting the death of the wizard for so long it was hard to believe it was actually here.

  He stared at the great, grey tower rising into the night sky like an insult. The lake behind it glistened in the moonlight. In the distance, the Wild Lands cast an imposing figure. They looked menacing in the darkness, and, without the magic of the Eye, they would be far less friendly to Zod and his iron shipments. Everything appeared somber and sinister and threatening. As well it should. The cozy arrangement the humans enjoyed was about to change.

  Elmanax snapped his fingers and slid into the earth. He may have been exiled, but he was still a gnome. He had magic at his behest.

  A moment later, he rose out of the ground just a few feet from the tower. He stroked his beard in anticipation. He walked around the great obelisk to the stairway leading up to the door. Elmanax had heard Gothemus used earth magic to create the tower out of the ground on which it stood. The smooth lines of the structure and the stairs leading to it seemed to indicate this was so. This was not worked stone. It was not carefully laid bricks. It felt organic. Elmanax cursed. More stolen magic. No human was capable of this on his own.

  He ascended the steps to the door. It was much taller than he. He was a gnome and therefore less than a foot tall. The handle was set at a comfortable height for humans. He’d never reach it on his own.

  Elmanax had come prepared, though. He pulled a white stone out of the sleeve of his blue tunic. He tossed it on the ground and triggered its magic. It grew eight legs and proceeded to climb the wall like a spider. When it reached the keyhole, it transformed again, making itself into an eight-legged key that fitted itself into the lock. Elmanax chuckled. This gnomish device would magically open any lock. With a mental command, he ordered it to turn.

  As soon as it did, searing pain, the likes of which he’d never known, surged through his brain. Every thought was instantly wiped clean, and he knew only agony. He had no idea if he screamed or not.

  After what seemed an eternity of suffering, it ceased. Dazed, he lay on the ground several feet from the staircase. He must have been thrown. Anger welled up in his heart.

  How could this be? The wizard was dead. There shouldn’t be any spells still protecting his domicile. No human was capable of that level of magic.

  Gothemus Draco was no ordinary human, though. He’d stolen the Eye of the Dragon from the gnome assigned to guard it. Who knew what other crimes he’d committed? Who knew what other sorts of magic he’d pilfered?

  Elmanax dragged himself to his feet, then took a few steps back and looked at the tower. There was a window high up that appeared to be open. He grinned maliciously.

  With another snap of his fingers, there came a quiet rustling all around him. Hundreds of cockroaches milled around his feet and then swarmed under his boots. In seconds, he was lifted up onto their backs. Then they set off for the tower.

  It was simple magic to stay mounted on the roaches’ backs as they climbed the tower wall. It took several minutes for them to make the ascent. When at last he was high enough, he put his hands out to the window ledge, smiling because there did not appear to be any shutters.

  As soon as his hands were upon it, though, a powerful shock of magic blasted through him. It raced up his arms and into his brain, filling him with the same mind-searing pain as before. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t think. He could only wail in agony.

  This time, though, he was some thirty feet in the air. He lost his magical connection to the insects and plummeted to the ground. Had he not been an immortal earth spirit, he’d have been killed by the fall. He landed with such force he felt his bones powder. He lay still, staring up at the sky, unable to move. Every part of him hurt. He was surprised his brains weren’t dashed out on the ground.

  It didn’t matter. He was a fairy. He could heal himself, especially given that he was lying on the earth and could therefore draw on its power.

  But it was going to take time, and it was going to hurt. He cursed Gothemus Draco again. The damned magician was dead, and he was still frustrating Elmanax’s efforts to recover the Eye of the Dragon. It seemed he wasn’t done with Gothemus yet. He would have to study the body to see if there was some way to undo the magic that warded the tower. Failing that, he’d preserve it until he could find someone to summon the thief’s spirit back fro
m the other side and force him to tell Elmanax how to break the spells.

  He was going to get in there. He was going to recover the Eye of the Dragon. He was going to be restored to his rightful place and home. Anyone who got in his way was going to suffer terribly.

  Chapter 3: Wyrmblade

  Calibot blinked in astonishment. Devon gaped at Liliana.

  “What did you say?” Calibot said.

  She turned and looked his way. There did not seem to be any surprise in her green eyes. Her expression was completely passive.

  “Oh, hello,” she said. “I didn’t see you there.”

  Calibot gawked at her. The weight of what she’d said about his father hit him in the chest with the force of a mallet. He was finding it difficult to breathe.

  “Maybe we should all sit down and have a drink,” Devon said.

  “Are you Calibot Draco?” Liliana said, not taking her eyes off Calibot.

  Calibot sank back into the sheets and gave a little nod. His head swam.

  “I’m Liliana Gray,” she said as though he hadn’t been able to hear her when she gave her name to Devon. “I’m sorry to say your father is dead.”

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Devon said.

  He indicated a chair as he turned away from her. Calibot watched him as he returned to the bedside and put his sword away.

  When did he last speak to his father? Was it five years ago? Six? Could it really have been that long?

  Devon poured wine. He offered a glass to Liliana, who ignored him. She was in the process of untying the rope that kept the sack closed. He sighed and proffered the glass to Calibot.

  “Here, Calibot, drink this,” he said.

  Calibot took the wine, but he didn’t drink. He stared absently at nothing in particular.

  “I am to give you this,” Liliana said.

  Calibot turned his gaze to her. She was holding out a long, narrow case. It was clearly the rectangular object he’d seen in her sack. It was made of polished wood – cherry from the look of it – and had a simple brass clasp on one side. He guessed there would be hinges on the other. Aside from the sheen of the wood, it was completely unremarkable.