Unchosen Mage (Legend of Ravenwood)

by M Norton

  Peter kicked at the thick layer of sawdust surrounding the beam. “This should be soft enough for your rump when I knock you off.”

  “You have it all wrong, my friend.” Krys grinned. “You’ll be the one eating sawdust.”

  “Yeah, just keep thinking that way,” Peter said.

  Krys leaned his quarterstaff, a hand longer than he was tall, against the beam and plucked one from the rack standing nearby. “I can’t wait til this championship.” He closed his hand around the smooth shaft then twirled it between his hands. “The weapons are fancier this year.” He opened his hand and allowed the pole to balance across his palm.

  “It’s about time,” Peter said. “Last year, they were terrible—crooked, unbalanced, weak. I still have a scar from that one that splintered and cut my arm.”

  “One thing’s for sure,” Krys said. “I’m not gonna let Zandur win.” He replaced the weapon in the rack and retrieved his own. “He thinks he’s so good, but he hasn’t faced me, yet, at least not in battle.”

  “This will make four championships titles in a row for you.” Peter poked Krys with the end of his quarterstaff.

  “At least I’m good at something.”

  They dropped the staves and pulled on their padded body armor, gloves, and face shields. They retrieved their weapons, crawled upon the narrow perch, and faced each other.

  “Is Crillin gonna give you a second chance—behind Myt’s back, maybe?” Peter twirled his quarterstaff hand over hand.

  “Not a chance.” Krys jabbed at Peter’s mid-section.

  Peter brought the tip of his weapon downward, blocking the strike. He swung and swept toward Krys’ feet.

  Krys jumped the pole.

  “Why?” Peter gripped the end of his weapon and swung it above his head.

  “Something about trust. And rules—” Krys stood straight and still. “That can’t be deviated from,” he said, mocking the wizard. He scooted back and drew in his stomach as Peter’s quarterstaff whizzed by.

  “How can you just stop using magic, though?” Peter asked.

  “Well, that’s the strange part. I don’t have too.” Krys dodged another sweep and advanced on Peter.

  Using his quarterstaff, Peter blocked the blow. “What? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know.” Krys held his weapon in front of him in a non-protective position. “But I got the impression that something like this had happened before, because he warned me about evil sorcerers and how they would try to get me to join them, and he couldn’t help me.”

  “He said he wouldn’t help you if a bunch of bad wizards came after you?” Peter stopped, stuck his weapon in the sawdust, and leaned against it. “That’s pretty mean. The village wizards are supposed to protect their flock, you know.”

  “I don’t think he meant it that way,” said Krys, relaxing his quarterstaff in front of him. “I think he meant that if I chose to follow them, there was nothing he could do.”

  “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.” Peter jabbed the tip of his quarterstaff toward Krys’ gut.

  Krys hopped backward on the beam. “Well, I still don’t have a mentor. And it looks like I never will.” He crouched to attack Peter again but then straightened up and looked past his friend.

  Zandur and his buddies walked in their direction, pointing and laughing as they strutted toward the arena.

  Krys’ stomach knotted up. “Come on, Peter. Let’s go.”

  “Go? We just got here.”

  Krys’ anger with his predicament bubbled up in him again. He pointed. “Look.”

  Peter turned. “Why do you want to leave?” He looked back to Krys. “You know you’re better with a quarterstaff than he is. Better than anyone in the village.”

  “You better believe it,” said Krys. “But right now, I don’t want to hear him run his mouth about how he beat me in the Choosing.”

  He jumped down.

  Peter bounded from the beam. “Yeah. You’ll wipe the floor with him at the championship.”

  They jogged out of the arena, dodged out of Zandur’s sight behind a wide tree, and stripped off their protective gear.

  Peter faced the clearing filled with wagons setting up for the festival “It’s time for mid-day meal.” He slung his gear over his shoulder. “Let’s go see what we can find.”

  “I’m not hungry. Besides, you already ate.”

  “Griddle cakes and jerky? You call that a meal?” Peter sprinted toward the wagons. “Come on,” he yelled over his shoulder.

  Krys caught up to his friend at a giant red tent.

  “I’m really looking forward to the festival kicking off,” said Peter.

  “You mean, you’re looking forward to the food.”

  “Mmmm.” Peter rubbed his belly. “Smoked turkey legs, spiced apples, grilled venison, pastries.” He licked his lips and his eyes sparkled.

  He nudged Krys in the ribs with an elbow. “Maybe they’ll even let us sample the honeyed mead and ale this year.”

  “Doubtful.”

  They walked to the center of the clearing where merchants attached a plethora of goods to their tents and on the sides of wagons: fine leather goods, baskets of all sorts and sizes, ironworks, musical instruments, small animals in simple wooden cages. Krys wondered if the coins he’d put back would be enough to buy some of the things he desired.

  The tantalizing scents of fresh-baked breads, herbs, flowers, fragrant oils, and other items filled the air with a pleasing olfactory blend.

  The crisp, enjoyable notes of numerous instruments drifted around the clearing and gave it a mystical feel.

  Peter picked up a loaf of bread from a large basket and inhaled its aroma. He dug into a small pouch and produced a coin. Krys saw no merchant around as Peter set the coin on the end of the wagon.

  Peter held the loaf up in front of him. “Lunch.” He smiled and ripped a large chunk off with his teeth.

  “You better get to the meeting cottage if you’re gonna to get your test results,” Krys said.

  “I still have plenty of time.”

  Krys craned his neck and saw that several students gathered around the front of the small building. “Just meet me at my cottage when you’re done, okay?”

  Peter nodded and walked away from Krys. He turned around. “I’m really sorry how this all turned out. If anyone deserves a spot as an apprentice, it’s you.”

  Krys nodded, but couldn’t think of anything to say to his friend.

  “I’ll see you in a while.” Peter turned and walked toward the gathering of students.

  Krys repositioned his battle gear. He glanced at the kiosks and wagons again. He sighed. He’d looked forward to the event for months.

  At least the upcoming quarterstaff championship would give him the chance to vindicate himself—he hoped.

  He’d been village champion for three years, proving he was good at something. Letting today’s terrible outcome drift into the background, he’d be able to at least enjoy the next few days. He would worry about his future after the festival ended.

  “Hey, Ander-twig.”

  Happier feeling gone, Krys’s body tensed and he wrapped his fist tighter around his quarterstaff. He spun around. “What do you want, Zandur?”

  [Back to Top]

  Chapter 3 - The Woman

  “The postings of apprentices should be up soon.” Zandur slapped his palm on his forehead. “Oh, that’s right! You won’t be an apprentice.” He leaned in nose-to-nose with Krys. “So it doesn’t matter, does it?” He chuckled.

  “Dunghead!” Krys shouted in his nemesis’ face.

  Zandur ripped his fine-leather gloves from his belt and threw them on the ground at Krys’ feet. His chest puffed out, he drew his balled fists up to chest level. “Go ahead, Anderwood, make your move.” A nerve twitched in his cheek.

  Anger bubbled in Krys’ gut. He dropped his battle gear to the ground and stepped back, pulling his fists upward and mirroring Zandur’s stance.

  The two lock
ed gazes. Fire burned in Zandur’s eyes and blazed in Krys’ soul. Fear had no hold on him—he finally had the opportunity to show Zandur what he was made of. He thought of the quarterstaff lying on the ground next to his foot and wished he could use it.

  Wizard Myt appeared out of nowhere, injecting himself between the two of them, a hand on each of their chests. “Save it for the championship bouts.” He turned an angry glare to Krys and then Zandur. “I would think the both of you would want to make a good impression on our guests.”

  For the first time since the exchange between Krys and Zandur began, Krys became aware of the gathering crowd. He bent and retrieved his gear, slinging it over his shoulder. He shot one more menacing look at Zandur, turned and sprinted through the festival grounds, his anger searing his insides.

  Right in front of him, a tattered cloak swirled in a wide arc, revealing the old woman in its folds.

  Krys skidded to a halt, spraying pebbles and dirt in front of him. Not her again! He glanced toward the wagon he’d seen her by only moments before. No one stood there. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

  “Krystomere Anderwood.” Her voice screeched as she gazed intently upon him.

  “What?” he shouted. “You’ve already cost me everything.”

  “It’s imperative you travel to the castle. You must find the wizard.”

  “You keep saying that!” Krys threw his quarterstaff and gear to the ground. “I don’t care about your castle and weird babble. I’m going home.”

  Her gnarled hands grasped his shoulders. “All Lanterra depends on you.”

  Krys pulled back, breaking her hold. “Why me? Find someone else to help you.”

  “It must be you!” the woman whispered.

  He retrieved his equipment and ran. His chest heaving, Krys dashed into his cottage. He pressed his back to the door as he closed it. His pounding heart drowned out all other sound. After several minutes he became aware of a raping on the wooden door.

  “Go away! I’m not going to the castle,” he yelled.

  “It’s me,” Peter cried. “Let me in.”

  Krys yanked the door open. He scanned the space before him, seeing no one but his friend. He reached out and grabbed Peter’s sleeve. “Get in here.” He slammed the door behind Peter and turned the latch. He went to the window, gazed out, and then pulled the curtains shut, plunging the small room into near-darkness.

  “You saw her, again?”

  Krys nodded.

  “Why does she keep telling you to go to the castle?”

  Krys shrugged. He crossed the room and lit the oil lamp on a table.

  In moments, the small flame bathed the walls in a warm glow.

  Krys glanced at Peter. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  Krys exhaled and slumped his shoulders. “Mentor! Who’d you get?”

  Peter leaned a shoulder on the main support post of the cottage. “Elder Myt.”

  “Wow,” said Krys. “The best wizard in the village.” He nudged the curled edge of the small rug in front of him with the toe of a boot. “Like that’s a big surprise.”

  “Actually,” Peter said as he dug in his pack. “I was hoping for Mirlaufen.” He pulled out a shiny red apple.

  “Mirlaufen? He’s ancient!”

  “He’s a great wizard.” Peter bit into the apple.

  “Well, just be glad you actually have a mentor.” Krys’ gut twitched and he felt a tinge of fear and uncertainty.

  “Don’t worry. Somethin’s gonna work out.”

  “Ha! Like what? I never even got to test!”

  “Well, at least you didn’t fail.”

  “Not much difference!”

  Peter stood straight. “Hey, I thought you wanted to show me something.”

  “Oh yeah!” Krys rushed to his sleeping alcove and snatched a battered wooden box off a small shelf and hurried back to Peter. The hinges creaked as he opened the lid and pulled a rounded, scarred terracotta object out. He held it at arm’s length by the thong of leather on which it was strung.

  “An ocarina?”

  Krys nodded.

  “You play?”

  “I’ve been practicing since I found it in a cupboard a few months ago.” Krys raised the small musical instrument to his lips and played a short tune.

  Peter crammed his palms over his ears. “Keep practicing!” He uncovered his ears and landed a light punch on Krys’ upper arm. “Just kidding.”

  “Father said it belonged to my grandfather.”

  “It’s not much to look at.” Peter plucked the ocarina from Krys’ fingers, turned it over in his hand and returned it to him.

  “No, but it sounds pretty good.” Krys smiled. “I think I’ll barter for a new one at the festival, now that I know how to play.” He tucked the ocarina back into the wooden box, closed the lid and set it on the table next to the lamp.

  Creaking floorboards drew Krys’ attention. “Did you hear that?”

  Peter nodded.

  Krys paused and listened. He heard the creak again and turned. A movement in the shadows at the far end of the room caught his eye.

  The old woman moved forward into the pool of light cast by the oil lamp.

  He jumped back, panic rising in him. “You!”

  She clutched something hidden by shadows in her gnarled left hand. In the other hand, she held a crooked walking stick.

  Her wide, terror-filled gaze met Krys’.

  "Krystomere Anderwood," she whispered in her scratchy voice.

  Peter edged up to stand beside his friend.

  “The fate of all Lanterra rests on you,” she said. “You must make right what was destroyed centuries ago.”

  “I told you before—” Krys said.

  “You can’t escape your fate,” she cut him off. “You are Lanterra’s only hope.” She shoved a package into Krys’ sweaty hands. It was wrapped in tattered leather and tied with a frayed cord. “Safeguard this book and do as it directs. Its entities will guide you when necessary.” Her knotted hand trembled as she withdrew it.

  “Entities? W-What entities?”

  “They will make themselves known.” She wheezed, glancing around. “You must leave the village. Time is your enemy.”

  A sudden pounding on the door made Krys jump. He spun around to face it and then looked back at the old woman.

  All color had drained from her face.

  A shiver of fear shot through Krys.

  “You are in grave danger,” she said. “You must run, now!”

  Twisting strands of radiant blues and white snaked their way around the edges of the door, as if to grasp it. The fingers throbbed with energy that pressed on Krys’ ears and seared his vision. The brilliant display transformed into a blaze that imploded on itself and shattered the door.

  “Krys!”

  He heard Peter’s cry as the woman stepped between Krys and the door and shoved him away. “Run!”

  Krys and Peter grabbed their packs.

  Krys looked at the woman. The walking stick blazed with intense light as she held it at arms-length in front of her.

  “That’s a wizard’s staff!” he said.

  The old woman appeared taller than she had just moments ago as she faced three creatures entering the cottage.

  The temperature of the room seemed to drop substantially. Krys shivered but didn’t know whether it was from fear or if the temperature actually changed. He retched as a putrid odor permeated the air.

  Krys gazed at the intruders. They wore robes of varied earthen shades that seemed to swirl and change as the creatures moved. One took a green, scaled hand and pulled the hood from its head, exposing reptilian features. Unblinking, yellow eyes with vertical slits stared out from the sides of its pocked and scarred head. The creature opened its wide mouth and revealed rows of rotten, yet sharp-looking teeth. A serpentine-like tongue slipped out and tasted the air.

  Krys felt frozen to the floor. Of all the odd things he’d seen in his life, none of them came
close to the sight, and smell, of these man-sized lizards. A chill shot up his spine.

  Peter tugged at his arm, but Krys still couldn’t persuade his feet to move, nor pull his gaze from the strange intruders—here in his cottage.

  The old woman stepped closer to the invaders. She raised her staff higher. One of the creatures slipped around her and advanced on Krys and Peter.

  The lizardman swept its long tail in a wide arc. “Watch out!” Krys, finally finding the ability to move, jumped back, dragging Peter with him. The tip of the scaly appendage slammed into a small table, sending it toppling across the room. The clay pot it’d held shattered on the floor.

  “We’ve got to help her!” Peter raised his hand and pointed outstretched fingers at the creature. “Hadro zeela.” A ball of fire shot forth and struck the lizardman in the chest.

  The invader stumbled backwards. It passed a clawed hand over its blazing robes and extinguished the flames. The creature snarled at Peter. Its throat fan expanded and turned bright red.

  Peter stepped back, poised to strike again.

  “Run!” the old woman yelled again as a lizardman advanced on her.

  Krys clutched the strange package in a tight grip and grabbed Peter’s arm. “Let’s go! Remo javisteri,” he yelled. The tingling sensation that always accompanied the change to invisibility spread across his skin.

  Not able to see his friend once the spell took effect, Krys held tight to Peter’s tunic as they ran from the cottage through the back door. He stole glances over his shoulder as they raced toward the safety of the forest nearby and threaded their way through the underbrush and trees.

  Invisibility wore off as they dropped to their stomachs under a thick cover of brush across the open area in front of his family’s cottage. They heaved deep breaths as they glanced at each other and then at the shadowed homestead.

  Wide-eyed, Peter stared at Krys. “You’ve never been able to do that spell.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing.” Krys strained to see what was happening inside the cottage. “What are they?” he whispered, drawing a sleeve over his brow and mopping up the cold sweat. He felt Peter tense next to him.

  “I’ve never seen anything like them before,” Peter said. “That poor old woman doesn’t stand a chance.” He crawled a few feet away from Krys and peered through the underbrush. “Maybe she got out the back door like we did.” He rose to his hands and knees. “Maybe we should try to help her.”