Go Quest Young Man

by K. B. Bogen

  “Is that my fault?” Chesric looked at Erwyn meaningfully. “Perhaps you would like to repeat your earlier performance in a different, more convenient, direction?”

  Erwyn blushed. “Not really. I’m not sure I could, anyway.” He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I wish I knew how it happened, though.”

  “Try not to think about it, lad. If you do, it will sit in the pit of your stomach and gnaw at you. Quick way to go crazy, if you ask me.”

  Chesric put his arm around Erwyn’s shoulders, no easy trick since he needed to snake it in between the Erwyn’s bony shoulder blades and worn leather pack to do so.

  “We’ll figure out how it happened soon enough. Meanwhile,” he continued, “isn’t there something you can do to try to keep the incident from being repeated?”

  Erwyn drew his cloak closer against the chill he suddenly felt. “I don’t know, but I’ll try to think of something.”

  He wasn’t convinced it was possible, and wore a thoughtful frown as they started northward through the trench.

  The walls of their path shortened the further they walked from the remains of the sandcastle. When they reached the end of that corridor, the snow was barely a foot deep. They wouldn’t have to dig their way across the rest of the plain, after all.

  Funny thing, though. The snow was deeper near the castle than it was just about everywhere else.

  No, make that everywhere else. Not just about.

  But why should the snow be deeper near the castle? A lot deeper. More than could be accounted for by ordinary drifts. As they turned west once more, they discovered that the snow was less than a foot deep in every direction. Except around the castle. Why? Did Sharilan have something to do with it? Or was it just the fact that he’d used magic to keep them warm and to shelter them. Magic attracts magic.

  Erwyn had no answers. Since he left the School, it seemed he had been inundated with questions for which he didn’t know the answers. He had given up on listing them all.

  Listing them all ...

  For the first time since the journey began, Erwyn realized he had a practical use for his journal. Besides writing fiction. He could use it to write down his questions.

  Maybe that’s what he was supposed to do in the first place. Erwyn had never given it much thought.

  Situation normal. He’d received demerits more than once at school for the very same thing: not knowing (or caring) what to put into his journal.

  Well, there was one consolation. He hadn’t found much to write about most of the time. Of course, the exciting parts more than made up for the boring parts.

  Erwyn shook himself from his reverie. They started out of the castle in early morning, spent too much time digging in the sand, and another small slice of forever levitating the same sand to recover the wand.

  Then they’d rested and eaten. That meant that they actually started the trip fairly late in the day.

  They had been walking through the snow for quite some time now and even snow ten inches deep made walking difficult. Erwyn could tell because his legs felt like jelly.

  He looked toward the sun, now low on the horizon. They had perhaps an hour or less before dark. He looked ahead for some place to camp, but saw nothing but snow glistening in the late afternoon sun.

  Erwyn sighed. Was he going to have to try for another sandcastle? He was worn out. He wasn’t even sure he could maintain the spells on their clothing. There didn’t seem much chance of his dredging up a castle tonight.

  “That looks like a likely place.” Chesric’s abrupt comment startled Erwyn.

  “What? Where?”

  “Over there.” Chesric pointed to the west, of course.

  That was the only direction Erwyn had traveled since he’d started this whole adventure.

  He looked in the direction Chesric indicated. A dark blot on the horizon marked possible shelter. A forest, maybe, or some boulders. Either one would be better than camping in the open. Of the two options, Erwyn preferred a forest. A fire would be nice, too.

  Erwyn hugged his cloak closer. The evening was getting colder and he felt the chill.

  “At least it’s in the right direction,” he commented lightly.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s to the west.”

  “Why are you so set on heading west?”

  “I’m not ‘set on heading west.’ It just keeps getting in front of me.”

  Erwyn pulled his cloak tighter. It was definitely colder now.

  Even Chesric held his cloak close to his body, as though trying to force more warmth from the fabric.

  “Actually,” Erwyn felt he needed to explain himself a little better, “I decided to travel west because it seemed like the least difficult of all my choices at the time. Since then, I just always seem to end up going that direction.

  “I was chased into the Western Wood and the path through the Wood ran roughly west. Then the path spilled into the valley where you said there was only one passable route through the mountains. Which happened to also be to the west. And then ... ”

  Erwyn stopped speaking when his brain finally registered what his body already knew.

  “The cloaks have stopped working.”

  “You noticed that, did you?” Even Chesric sounded strained. “No matter. We’re almost there now.”

  “There” was a small stand of trees directly in front of them. Erwyn breathed a sigh of relief. They would have firewood tonight. He couldn’t possibly find the energy to re-spell the cloaks.

  Wearily, they made camp beneath the leafless branches of some old oaks. While Chesric cleared away a few old, wet leaves and patches of snow, Erwyn gathered armloads of firewood. The ground beneath the snow was tight-packed and showed signs of recent use. In minutes, they had a passable campsite and a roaring fire.

  Too tired to prepare dinner, the companions sat staring into the fire, chewing on dried bits of venison which Chesric produced from his bottomless pack.

  The fire hissed and crackled merrily, sparks dancing upward through the clearing in the trees and into a starless, cloudy sky. Erwyn allowed his mind to drift, trying to relax in the warmth of the fire.

  Not surprisingly, he found himself thinking about the mysterious sandcastles, trying to fathom their secret. He pulled the wand from its pocket and frowned thoughtfully at it. It was, he thought, the only clue he had.

  Before he acquired the wand, he never conjured castles of any kind. Only after Sharilan gave him the wand did the sandcastles appear. But what caused them? What tied the appearances together?

  Absently, he rubbed his thumb across the spiral carved on the side of the length of petrified wood. As he traced the design, he thought about his problem. It didn’t help.

  “This is getting me nowhere!” Erwyn almost hurled the stick into the fire. Instead, he took a few deep breaths and tried once more to relax. So many events in his life never seemed to turn out quite the way he planned them. He stared at the fire, continuing to trace the carving in the wood.

  Golden sparks drifted up from the flames, twisting and spiralling into the sky. Like a shower of gold. A shower of gold ...

  * * *

  “Betcha can’t!” Brendan had teased him unmercifully, his violet eyes dancing in the torchlight as the two boys headed toward the Apprentice’s Quarters.

  “I’m not falling for it this time, Brendan. You’re trying to get me into trouble.” Erwyn stalked across the courtyard, fully intending to go straight to his room.

  Behind him, Brendan sighed. “Oh, well. I suppose that just because Uriand did it doesn’t mean just anybody can.”

  Erwyn stopped. “Uriand? He managed it?”

  “Says he did.”

  That clenched it. Not only was Uriand the absolute worst student in their class, he was Erwyn’s greatest rival, as well. The fact that
he was the worst student simply made it easier for Erwyn to beat him at everything.

  Ten minutes later, Erwyn had the lock open on the library door. Once inside the room, he slipped between the stacks, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard. His foray shouldn’t take too long, assuming no one already had the book he sought.

  No one did. It lay on the huge reading table between a pile of history books and a box of bats’ wings. After quickly checking for alarm spells, Erwyn snatched the book from its stack. He ran his fingers along the worn red leather binding.

  This was it, the book old Falwrickel had come for the night Erwyn had inadvertently swept the ceiling. Master Level Spells, Volume 1. He took a long, deep breath. Well, if Uriand could cast one, so could he.

  He opened the book and flipped through its pages. Any spell would do, so long as it was harmless. But the more spectacular it was, the better. Aha!

  He stopped at page thirteen, “The Shower of Gold.” That ought to be good. Beneath the title was a short verse.

  “If thou be of proper mold, Cast thee then this Shower of Gold.”

  It seemed to have no connection to the spell itself. Since he didn’t know what it meant, he ignored it.

  Scanning the pages of instruction, he whistled. “Boy, the Master Level Spells sure are complicated!” But not impossible. And as long as he was there anyway, he might as well give it a shot.

  What was the worst that could happen? Well, for starters, he could end up doing time as a statue in the courtyard. Or get blown up. Or worse, he could be assigned as Nasty Nazurski’s lab assistant.

  He paused to rethink. Maybe he shouldn’t go through with this, after all.

  But, no, he’d come too far to quit now.

  He took a few minutes to familiarize himself with the spell. When he felt certain he had it, he cast, putting as much oomph! into it as he could.

  He succeeded only in giving himself an ache in the back of his head. An ache that rapidly slewed around to a point in front of his eyeballs, then shot forward, toward the table, and up to the ceiling.

  The roof exploded into a rain of golden, glittering particles. It fell in torrents from the beams. It drifted onto the books and nearly guttered the candles. In no time, the golden stuff was an inch deep on everything. And still it fell.

  “I think I might have overdone it.” Understatement of the year. How’d that dis-spell go again?

  He tried to dis-spell the shower. It didn’t work. He tried casting the spell again, like foxfire. The shower fell faster. There had to be a counterspell.

  Frantically, he flipped the pages of the book, searching.

  The glittery dust kept falling, gathering in piles six inches high.

  At last! The spell to halt the shower of gold. If only he could read it. Every time he stopped moving, the dust settled onto everything ... clothes, pages, eyes.

  Nearly a foot deep, now.

  He tried holding the book upright. That did it. If he held it a couple of inches from his face, he could just make out the instructions to the counterspell. It turned out to be a lot less complicated than the original.

  Minutes later, the shower slowed to a trickle, then stopped. He looked around. All he had to do now was clean up the ... too late.

  The door burst open. Well, actually, it slid open slowly, pushing a mound of dust behind it. But the effect was the same. Erwyn froze, staring at the opening, heart pounding.

  Master Gordrun stepped over the pile of glitter at the entrance and stood, hands on hips, shaking his head at the mess.

  “This I gotta see.” Master Nazursky poked his head through the doorway and whistled. “Very impressive.” He waded into the room, followed by Masters Potterby and Hexis.

  “I can’t remember a Sixth-Level Apprentice ever making such a mess before, especially using a Masters Spell.”

  “None ever has.” Falwrickel joined them. “Not in the hundred and four years I’ve been here.”

  What was this? A convention? Erwyn stared at the crowd gathering around him. “You mean Uriand didn’t ... “

  Falwrickel shook his head. “No. You’re the first to try.”

  “But ... “ He didn’t know what to say. Obviously, Brendan had tricked him.

  Gordrun headed for the closet, the one where he kept his paddle.

  Erwyn sighed. Great. The final humiliation. He’d probably be spending the rest of the semester standing up. If he were lucky. Shoulders slumped, he turned and cleared a spot on the table before setting the book down.

  A hand on his shoulder made him jump. “Okay, Apprentice,” Gordrun shoved a broom into Erwyn’s hands, “you made the mess, you clean it up. And when you’re done, maybe we can teach you not to be so sloppy next time.”

  Erwyn almost collapsed with relief. Until he realized exactly how much mess there was.

  “But what do I do with all this gold dust?”

  “Throw it in the trash. It’s just glitter. Worthless.”

  “Then why is the spell listed in the book?”

  “Any spell has a potential for being useful. You never know when a little glitter might come in handy.”

  A little?

  “Now get to work. And don’t try any more spells. At least for today.”

  “Yes, sir.” Erwyn leaned into his broom.

  “You might use this, too.” Falwrickel handed him a feather duster. “And remember, even a young sorcerer needs to be molded.” The old man patted Erwyn’s shoulder and shuffled out the door.

  Erwyn nodded and continued sweeping. Even a young sorcerer needs to be molded ... the proper mold ... mold ...

  * * *

  A mold! Erwyn sat up suddenly. Every time a sandcastle appeared, he’d been thinking about castles, constructing them in head. The rest of the time, he’d just stared at the ground, willing a castle to appear. Maybe the castles worked more like the glitter spell.

  With the Shower of Gold in mind, he stared at the ground by his feet. Mentally, he built up the image of a castle, like a candle mold. Then he “poured” the sand into the mold.

  As the sand in his mental picture fell into the mold, so the castle appeared in front of him. First the foundation, then the walls, roof, and turrets.

  He did it! A perfect replica, exactly as he imagined.

  Preoccupied with the castle, Erwyn didn’t notice anything amiss until too late. He heard a soft footstep behind him and started to turn. His concentration broken, the tiny castle fell to ruins, but he didn’t notice.

  A flash of color, the impression of a hand beside his head, and pain. His head seemed to explode in a shower of sparks.

  Well, at least I’ll get a chance to sleep, he thought, as the darkness of unconsciousness claimed him.

  If You Have to Be Kidnapped ...

  Pardon Me, Lady,

  Your Bronze is Showing

  “SORCERY IS AN OLD AND HONORABLE CAREER. THERE ARE THOSE, HOWEVER, WHO AREN’T VERY IMPRESSED WITH IT.” — Sorcerers’ Almanac, Section Three: On People and Their Influence

  Sunlight filtered through Erwyn’s closed eyelids. His eyes felt like they were glued shut. He moved, trying to shift into a more comfortable position. Somewhere inside his head a hammer was having a very loud argument with an anvil.

  To make things worse, someone started moaning loudly nearby. It took Erwyn a couple of minutes to realize that the moaning was his own. His stomach was turning flip-flops, too. Not good.

  He heard movement next to him and realized he wasn’t alone. Someone or something was leaning over him. Tensing, he mentally ran through the list of possible monsters in this part of the world and tried to think of spells to defend against them. As usual, nothing appropriate came to mind.

  Oh, well. Better to see what you’re up against than to die ignorant, he thought. Then he carefully opened his eyes.

  For a few se
conds, Erwyn couldn’t focus. When his eyes finally decided to work properly, he found himself looking at his own reflection in a polished steel chest-plate. Only the plate had a couple of more bumps on it than he was accustomed to.

  Slowly, he raised his eyes.

  His captor was tall and muscular, with long red hair bound by a twist of gold wire. Blue-green eyes watched him from a face whose features were both strong and determined. And most definitely female.

  Ignoring the throbbing in his head, Erwyn tried to twist into a better position to see the woman. It wasn’t easy, and he saw more than he really wanted to.

  In addition to the chest-plate, she wore matching polished steel greaves and a kilt made of strips of the same material with a leather backing. Well-worn leather boots with steel toes covered her feet. She wore an arm guard extending from her right wrist to her shoulder, also made of steel overlaid on leather. The top of a hunting bow slanted up from her left shoulder. She also held the point of a large, and apparently sharp, sword at Erwyn’s throat.

  Erwyn closed his eyes and scanned her using his steel location spell.

  In addition to the bow and sword, he located a pair of throwing knives in her boots, two steel pins in the hair, another knife (or was it a short sword? He never could keep them straight) in a sheath at her belt, and a half-dozen throwing stars in various other hiding places. Not to mention the dozen or so steel-tipped arrows in the quiver beside the bow. All in all, she was heavily armored ... and heavily armed.

  He sighed. Sometimes the steel location spell could be more a hindrance than a help. Now that he knew about all her weapons, he was more nervous than he might have been otherwise. He had no idea how many additional weapons she might have that weren’t metal.

  Having given her captive time to size up his situation, the woman prodded Erwyn with the toe of her boot. “Come on, get up. You’ve had plenty of time to sleep.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he muttered as he rose unsteadily to his feet.