The Wizard's Gambit

by Kylie Betzner

  “Come along.” Margo walked ahead, rather stiffly as though her robes were over starched. Even so, she put a considerable distance between them. He caught up with her at the end of the hallway as she stopped before a large wooden door.

  “This is your room,” she told him, pushing open the door. She moved aside, allowing him to enter first. Mongrel stepped past her and gaped. The room was huge, at least in comparison to his prior lodgings, with enough space between the furniture to perform an intricate dance if he had wanted to. There was a large bed pushed up against one wall, and on the opposite end, a door that led to a private bath. A giant doorway opened to a balcony. This was a far cry from The Moose Tavern back in Kingsbury.

  “Are you pleased with your accommodations?”

  He spun around. In the doorway, Margo waited for his response, her head lowered and her hands folded demurely at her stomach. What a bashful girl, he thought and tried to catch her eye. He caught it for a moment, but she looked away. He thought he saw the slightest blush on what little he could see of her pale cheeks.

  “The room will do nicely,” he said, offering her a smile.

  “Really?” She sounded surprised.

  Apparently, the other guests had not been so easily impressed by their accommodations.

  “We would have provided a room that better suited your individual needs, but seeing as you were not on the list . . .”

  Mongrel raised his hand against further apology. “This suits me just fine.”

  “Good,” she said, though she did not smile.

  Mongrel thought to pull one from her.

  “So, you’re a wizard’s apprentice?” he said. “That must be very interesting.”

  She shrugged.

  “I’ll bet you know all kinds of magic,” Mongrel continued. “That’s probably neat.”

  Again she shrugged.

  Mongrel continued, “I’ve never met a magic user before—well, not a human one anyway. Maybe you could—”

  “No,” she said quickly, and then added, “I’m not licensed yet.”

  “I see,” he said, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden. It didn’t help the way she was looking at him, rather critically, with a gaze that traveled up his body from his leather boots to the wild curls atop his head. The corners of her mouth twitched as she fought off what might have been a smile.

  “So, what are you supposed to be, anyway? Some kind of huntsman?”

  Now it was his turn to blush. “What makes you say that?” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Well, uh, the weapons first off,” she said. “And all the leather—”

  “I do wear a lot of animal skin,” he said, talking over her.

  “And your physique,” she continued a little less confidently, the volume of her voice dropping with every word. “It looks like you do a lot of running—”

  “I try to stay fit,” he said, laughing nervously.

  “—tight butt.” He heard the last part clearly. They both stopped talking.

  Groaning, she fled behind a curtain of black hair, which could cover her face but not her embarrassment.

  Mongrel chuckled nervously. “Actually, I’m not a huntsman,” he admitted, and she peeked at him through a part in her hair. He sighed. “I’m a blacksmith.”

  “Oh,” she said unable to hide her disappointment, even behind her hair.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “We can’t all be princes and great warriors.” He smiled again. “I’m more of an everyman.”

  “Is that so?” she said, awarding Mongrel the smile he’d worked so hard for.

  He rubbed his forearm self-consciously. He had to admit, for a girl so plainly dressed, she was pretty when she smiled.

  “Well, if there is nothing else you need, I’ll be going,” she said. The smile was gone as quickly as it came. “Wizard White Beard looks forward to your attendance at tonight’s gathering.”

  “I’m Mongrel, by the way,” he called to her as she started for the door. “Just in case you didn’t catch it in the throne room.”

  She paused, thought for just a moment, and said, “Nice to meet you, Mongrel.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Margo,” Mongrel said, but she fled down the hall before she could hear it. She’d left the door wide open. He smiled to himself. There was someone out there just as awkward as him.

  Then, like a slap to the back of the head, he remembered why he’d come in the first place. There was a competition to win. But Margo was so pretty . . . He shook the image of her from his mind.

  “Stay focused,” he told himself. “The six kingdoms are counting on you. Whether they want to or not.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The reception began promptly at sunset. Men, elves, dwarves, and Grrargh filled the ballroom—the corners of the room, anyway, since they refused to mingle. Only Mongrel ventured from the wall to get some food from the refreshment table, which Wizard White Beard had scooted to the center of the room in hopes of drawing them out. But they remained huddled together like flocks of frightened sheep, though a few hungry eyes strayed to the table, especially now that Mongrel was filling a plate with fresh fruit, baked goods, and various tidbits of meat, which were all wrapped in bacon.

  Grrargh, it seemed, couldn’t care less for cooked meats; his eyes were on the elf princess’s bird dress. Apparently, ogres liked their meat really fresh. Mongrel tried not to think about it as he plopped a turkey leg onto his plate.

  “Ignorant savages, all of them.” Walder joined him at the refreshment table. He picked up a pair of tongs and pulled a rope of sausage onto his plate. “Don’t even know what to make of an open buffet.”

  “Your Grace.” Mongrel bowed his head, hoping the man would not recognize him. But it was too late. Walder scrutinized him with his one good eye.

  “So, smith, are you here on official business or is making a fool of yourself something you do on your downtime?” He frowned. “I would not have told you about the competition if I’d known you were going to make a mockery out of it.”

  “This competition is a mockery,” Mongrel replied, momentarily forgetting the authority of the man before him—authority that included the right to remove his head if he felt like it.

  “Oh?” Walder cut into a sausage with his fork. “How so?”

  “Well, for starters, everyone showed up ready for battle, not a friendly competition,” he said. “And besides, peace isn’t really something you can compete for; it’s something we should all be discussing as a group, together.”

  “Oh, you think so?” Walder plopped a few carrots onto his plate, taking care to make sure they and the meat did not touch. As always, Walder was a man of detail. “In your opinion, would it be better if we all just solved our problems with a big group hug?”

  “Could we?”

  Walder snorted. “You’ve got a good heart, lad; I’ll give you that. But you’re as green as a sapling. And if you go out there trying to hug them all into getting along, you’re going to get your arms chopped off. It’s going to be a warzone out there. Take the advice of an old man who has survived a few battles: battle is not for you. Go home.”

  Before Mongrel could muster a reply, Walder was back in his corner of the room. His horse was waiting for him there, and he rewarded it with one of the carrots. Mongrel thought it odd that a man would choose to spend his entire evening with a horse rather than mingle with the other guests. If given the chance, Mongrel would’ve conversed with all of the guests in attendance, one in particular.

  At that moment, she was no more than six feet away from where he stood, but there would be no speaking to her, not when she was standing next to Wizard White Beard. Of course, the wizard was always at her side, or rather she was always at his side. Mongrel tried to catch her attention, but she seemed too absorbed in their conversation with Buziba and his warrior, Akono, who had yet to remove his mask. Mongrel wondered if he would take it off to eat.

  Finally, they excused themselves from Buziba’s company to make c
onversation with Empress Eiko and her daughters. Ever so slowly, the wizard and his apprentice were making their rounds, though Mongrel doubted they would stop to speak with him, at least not in front of the other guests.

  She glanced his way.

  Now was his chance to win her over with a smile. But before he could straighten out that lopsided grin of his, she looked away. With a heavy sigh, Mongrel returned to the refreshment table, hunkering over his plate like a dejected dog.

  Footsteps approached the table, and for an instant, he thought it might be her. He lifted his head as several competitors braved the refreshment table. He could tell by the furs they were Kavik’s tribesmen.

  Mongrel moved down the table so they could form a line behind him. He kept his eyes low as he reached for the last turkey leg. A knife speared the meat into the table. His eyes widened when he saw how close his hand had come to being skewered. He looked up into the face of a young girl.

  “You can have it,” he said, pulling his hand back.

  She glared at him from across the table, her dark eyes brooding. She would have passed for threatening if it weren’t for the dimples and the childish braid over one shoulder, but she was still more threatening than a girl no older than twelve should be.

  “I’m Mongrel,” he said, offering her a nervous smile.

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Tikaani,” she said at last, pulling the knife out of the table and plopping the turkey leg onto her plate.

  “I’ve never met anyone from the Northlands,” he said, “Is it true you have one hundred words for snow?”

  She quirked her brow. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I know only three words for snow—one in the western tongue and one in Elvish. The Universal Language only has one word for snow.1 Dwarves actually don’t have a word for snow, which I find odd since it covers so much of the mountain tops.”

  The anger left her eyes. She threw back her head and laughed, revealing an item hanging from her neck. It was carved from bone into the shape of a wolf’s head.

  “Is that an amulet?” he said.

  Touching it with her fingers, she smiled secretively. “It’s just a necklace. Everyone in my tribe wears one. The wolf is my spirit animal.”

  “I was raised by wolves,” he said and then added, “for a time.”

  “Is that so?” Her eyes lit up with interest. “Can you speak their language?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “But I understand their body language. It’s all in the tail, really.”

  This brought a smile to her face. “Perhaps I misjudged you, Mequssuk.”

  “Me-qu-what? What does that mean?”

  “Shaggy dog,” she said.

  Now Mongrel was smiling. “That suits me just fine.”

  A shadow fell over him, wiping the smile from his face. A large, muscular man, presumably her brother, stood over Mongrel like a carrion bird, or rather a bear. Mongrel shrunk under his oppressive stature.

  “Tikaani,” said the man, his voice low and deep like the grunt of a moose. Around his neck he wore an item carved in the shape of a wolverine. Mongrel thought it fitting considering the way the man snarled at him. “Stay close. These other men cannot be trusted.” He glared at Mongrel.

  “I’m just getting some food, Kavik,” she told him before returning her attention to Mongrel. “Listen, Mequssuk, you seem like a nice guy, so I’m going to give you a warning: when the competition starts, stay out of our way.”

  She took her plate and headed back to her group. Kavik made a threatening gesture at Mongrel as he shadowed his sister, protective as a mother wolf.

  That’s enough socializing for one night, Mongrel decided, retreating with his plate to an unoccupied corner of the room, only there was none. He started for the exit when one of the dwarves waved him over. Even from a distance, he recognized Littlehammer. Aside from her mother, she was the only one who didn’t have a beard, plus hers was the only other breastplate with built-in breasts. But what sparked his memory were her eyes, green as the forest in spring.

  Mongrel made his way over to the group. After being rejected by everyone else that night, he was grateful to have an opening.

  There was a popular saying among elves that the way to a dwarf’s heart was with a very sharp knife, but Mongrel preferred the dwarvish saying: “A foo stomach equals a foo heart, sae fill them baith.”

  “Is ’at ye, Mongrel?” Littlehammer shook her head, disbelieving. “If we’d ay knoon hoo tall ye waur gonnae be, we’d ay called ye Tree.”

  “Ur Toothpick.” Her brother Battleaxe came beside her. He narrowed his eyes at the tall figure standing before him. Although Mongrel was a lot taller than Battleaxe, he felt very small as the dwarf sized him up. “Yoo’re still a scrawny lad.”

  “Littlehammer! Battleaxe! You’re just as I remember you!” He opened his arms to them. His heart pounded like a hammer on raw gold, which he thought an appropriate comparison since he was in the company of dwarves. Then he remembered the third sibling and searched for him among the others. “Where’s Pickaxe?”

  “I’m reit haur, ye idiot.” Pickaxe reached up and tapped him on the back. When Mongrel peered down, the dwarf gasped. “Whaur’s yer beard, laddie? Ye said yoo’d wark oan it. Whit happened? Did it jist fall oot?”

  “My job doesn’t allow me to grow one,” he replied. “Apparently, it’s not a professional look.”

  Their eyes bulged as he said this. Their mouths hung open, speechless, as they tried to wrap their minds around the very thought that beards could be considered anything but appropriate.2

  “Nae professional?” Littlehammer scrunched her face. For lack of beard, she made up for in braids. Two hung thick over her shoulders, nearly reaching her knees. A third braid wrapped around her head like a crown. Thick bangs fell over her forehead, but they did little to soften her look. She shook her head. “Ah’ll ne’er understand tall folk.”

  “It’s aw ’at fresh air. Isnae healthy.” Battleaxe folded his arms across his chest. “Agreed,” Pickaxe chimed in. “Jist look at uir puir Mongrel.” He gestured one meaty hand at his waist. “A decade out in th’ open air an’ he’s all skin an’ bones.”

  “Fer th’ loove of gold eat some ay ’at food, laddie.” Littlehammer pushed the plate toward him.

  Battleaxe eyed the little tidbits on the plate. “Hmph. Looks like elvish dainties. Daen’t they hae onie guid, hearty food?”

  “Here, try this.” Mongrel offered him a thick hunk of steak. He declined, so Mongrel held it out to Pickaxe next. “It’s wrapped in bacon.”

  “Bacon, eh?” Pickaxe took it from him and popped it into his mouth. “Nae bad,” he said after swallowing the thing whole. “Hoo thooghtful ay ye tae brin’ th’ food. We’re practically starvin’ tae death . . . ye shood go gie some more.”

  “Why don’t you get your own?”

  Battleaxe snorted. “An’ risk runnin’ intae those snotty elves? Nae oan yer life.”

  “You know as well as I do that they won’t touch a crumb of it,” said Mongrel.

  “Weel, if it’s nae guid enaw fer them, it’s nae guid enaw fer us.” Battleaxe knocked Pickaxe’s hand down as he reached for another bite. He leered at Mongrel. “Ah’m sure Mongrel doesn’t min’ elvish food efter aw.”

  Littlehammer spun on her brother. “Ye leave heem aloyn. He didne hae a choice in th’ matter, did ye, Mongrel?”

  “Oh, they’re not so bad once you get to know them,” he said, then added, “Most of them anyway. They’re not all pompous like the ones here tonight.”

  “Gie alang wi’ an elf?” Battleaxe shook his head. “Ah ‘hink nae.”

  “I’d bet one hundred gold coins you could if you’d give one a chance,” said Mongrel.

  “Part wi’ gold?” Pickaxe covered his ears against further offense.

  Littlehammer shook her head, braids swinging back and forth. “Yoo’ve gain soft since leavin’ th’ moontains.”

  “A
h’ll bit he can’t e’en hauld a pint ay ale,” Battleaxe added, staring him down. From somewhere within all the armor and sheep’s wool, he produced a flask.

  Mongrel met his gaze and smiled. “I’ll take that bet.”

  Twenty minutes later he was too slobbering drunk to drink, and the siblings were hauling his limp body back to his guest room, laughing heartily as they did so. He passed rows of disapproving faces, the elves most of all. Even distorted, he recognized Laerilas from among them. He took a second look, but this guy had blond, not brown, hair. He shook his head. Maybe he'd just had too much to drink.

  Several hours later, Mongrel awoke in an unfamiliar place, in a bed the size of his room back at The Moose Tavern. Slowly, he searched his memory for clues as to where he was and how he had gotten there. He remembered, though his memory was muddled, that he had volunteered for a competition and had attended a social gathering in correlation to that action. Faces—some familiar, some new—passed before his eyes as he sorted out the details of the evening. Littlehammer, Margo, even Laerilas—maybe, maybe not. He had no reason to be there, and the elf he saw had blond hair, not brown hair. Maybe Battleaxe was right: maybe he couldn’t hold his liquor anymore.

  His stomach turned. Clutching his gut, he rolled out of bed and made his way to the balcony for some much needed fresh air. The night was cool and the breeze refreshing, but it was too late. He braced himself on the ledge and heaved over the side. Down below, someone bewailed a ruined pair of sandals.

  When he finished, Mongrel lifted his head and took in the view. The lake shimmered with moonlight and reflected the mountains looming in the distance. Everything in-between was forests, lush and wild. There was no distinction between borders as far as Mongrel could see, but the boundaries were there.

  Somewhere deep in the forest, a wolf howled. Mongrel knew the voice. Out of old habit, he returned the call. Two more voices joined in, long and low. A tentative smile crept onto his face. Were there really wolves still alive that remembered him? He dared to believe it as he sucked in another chest full of air, cupped his hands around his mouth, and released a long, low note. Again, his call was returned. Elated, he jumped up and down, not caring if anyone saw him acting a fool. From the windows of other guest rooms, foul tempered voices hollered at him to stop so they could sleep. Mongrel didn’t hear their complaints, only the chorus of the wolves as they called to him, their message welcoming. He was suddenly breathless. They had not forgotten him after all. He stroked the wolf fur lining on his jerkin and recalled his first adopted mother.