Eye of the Wizard: A Fantasy Adventure (10 page)

Jamie ignored him and looked at Romy. The demon had donned Neev's black cloak, hiding herself so as not to alarm the villagers. Still, if Jamie looked closely, she could see fire burning inside that black hood. When she had asked Romy how her hair of flames did not burn the garment, Romy had shrugged and said, "For the same reason it doesn't burn my head, silly," as if Jamie were a toddler. It made little sense, but Jamie had left it at that.

She now sighed. Wandering around like a mercenary, a demon one of her companions... no, this was not how Jamie had imagined her life.

As the Bullies entered the village square, several peasants gathered around, looking intrigued but also fearful, staring at the Bullies' armor and weapons. Jamie supposed they made an odd sight, what with Scruff's towering frame, Cobweb's purple skin and glowing hair, and Romy cloaked all in black.

"Well, we should announce our services," Scruff whispered, cheeks flushing. "Jamie, tell them."

She glared at him. "This wasn't my idea. I'm just here hoping to use my sword. You tell them."

Scruff turned to Neev, who shook his head, and Cobweb, who seemed more shy and frightened than the villagers. He even looked pleadingly at Romy, who raised an eyebrow as if to say,
I'd only scare everyone away.

"Fine!" Scruff whispered. "I'll do it." He turned to the villagers and cleared his throat. "Uhm... hi there. Uh, yeah. We're, hmmm... bullies. No, no, wait." The villagers were beginning to flee. "We're not the bad kind of bullies. I mean, we are, but only to your enemies. We're bullies for bucks. You, uhm, got a problem? Cuz you see, we'll, hmmm... we'll bully it away, and—"

Jamie made a sound halfway between sigh and snort. She pushed her brother back and faced the villagers. She drew her sword, which gleamed in the sun, drawing awed whispers.

"Need to hire some brawn?" she announced. She straightened, not even five feet tall, but struggling to appear as large as possible. "We'll fight for you. We do it all, from scaring off troublesome teenagers to slaying dragons. We are your heroes for hire."

"Bullies for bucks," Scruff muttered, "like I said."

One of the villagers—an elderly man in a brown tunic—meekly raised his hand. "Do you take care of dogs?"

"Of course!" Romy said, gaining some of Jamie's confidence. She spoke from the shadows of her hood. "Are packs of wild pitbulls terrorizing your children? Is a neighboring village siccing Rottweilers at you? We deal with all manners of vicious hounds!"

The elderly peasant cleared his throat. "Well, see... it's not quite so bad," he said and straightened his tunic.

Scruff hefted his mace and said, "That's okay. A stray is stealing your chickens? We'll take care of that. After all, you need to protect your livestock, don't you?"

"Actually," the peasant said, "it's my neighbor's poodle. She keeps pooping on my lawn. I talked to my neighbor, but nothing helps. The darn poodle just won't go anywhere else."

The Bullies gaped at him silently, then at one another.

Great,
Jamie thought and rolled her eyes.
So it's come to this.

"I'll pay you," the peasant offered.

Eyebrows raised, Neev shrugged. "Well, I suppose that for the right amount of coins, no job is too small for Bullies for Bucks."

"I'll give you a sack of turnips," the peasant said.

"A sack of turnips
each
," Romy demanded from her cloak.

"One sack for the lot of you," the peasant said, "and you get to sleep in my barn tonight."

"Deal!" Romy said and jumped up and down in excitement.

The other Bullies sighed.

Romy shrugged. "Hey, it's a start."

Jamie kicked her.

* * * * *

That evening, Scruff stood in the peasant's yard, hiding behind an oak tree. In the sunset, he watched the grassy lawn, waiting for the poodle to appear.

Hiding is hard when you're so big,
Scruff thought, keeping his arms pressed to his sides behind the tree. Romy and Cobweb hid behind a second tree, easily concealed.
My tree trunk is wider, and yet I can barely squeeze behind it.
Sometimes Scruff wished he could be thin like his siblings. It would make times like these easier.

Scruff sighed. Those thin siblings of his were off at the tavern now, probably drinking themselves into oblivion. The two claimed to be allergic to dogs, refusing to join the gig.
They're allergic to dogs like I'm the Queen of England,
Scruff thought. He knew his siblings. They just didn't want to admit they'd sink so low as to ambush poodles—not Neev the mighty warlock and Jamie the heroic knight.

At least Cobweb and Romy joined me,
Scruff thought, watching the girls hide behind the tree, waiting for the poodle. Romy's hair blazed orange in the darkness, and Cobweb's glowed with white light. Scruff found himself thinking that the spiderling, with her purple skin and sapphire eyes, was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He felt his cheeks flush.

If I were a knight, maybe she'd like me,
he thought, feeling big and clumsy and stupid.
But I failed at being a knight. Hiding behind trees, waiting to scare a poodle.... Is that really my life now?
Scruff couldn't remember ever being this depressed, even when first arriving on Hermit Island. He had hoped to be a knight by now, slaying dragons and saving maidens. Scaring poodles was somewhat less glamorous.
But we do need those turnips.
His stomach rumbled.

"Shh!" Romy whispered. "We can't hide if your tummy keeps growling."

"Okay, okay," Scruff whispered. Norman clutched in his hands, he addressed the girls. "You know the drill. When the poodle shows up, we leap out, waving weapons and screaming."

"And then we catch the poodle and
eat
it!" Romy said with joy.

Scruff shook his head. "No, Romy, we've gone over this a million times. No eating poodles."

Romy pouted. "But we love poodles in the underground! We eat poodle noodle soup. Pnoodle soup."

"You're making that up," Scruff said, wanting be anywhere else in the world.

Romy shook her head, hair of flame crackling. "Nu uh. It's all true."

"How could you possibly have poodles underground?" he demanded, feeling his face flush.

Romy shrugged. "How could you possibly have poodles
over
ground?"

"All right, all right, just be quiet," Scruff said, clutching Norman. "I think I hear the poodle."

He peeked from behind the tree. True enough, the fluffy dog came wandering into the yard. She was a tiny dog, no larger than a cat, covered with curly white fur, sporting a pink ribbon on her head.

"Now!" Scruff shouted and leaped out, brandishing his mace, howling. The girls leaped out with him, screaming, waving their arms and jumping up and down. Romy especially looked fearsome, her fangs glinting, her bat wings flapping.

The poodle stared in shock... then fell over and lay still.

Scruff lowered his mace.
Oops.

"Oh no!" Cobweb said, eyes widening. She ran forward, knelt by the poodle, then looked up with teary eyes. "She's d-dead. Heawt attack." She covered her eyes, sobbing.

"Yum yum, turnips and pnoodle soup tonight!" Romy said, rubbing her belly. "Mmm mmm."

Cobweb tried to revive the poodle, but to no avail. The spiderling lowered her head, her gossamer hair covering her face. The sight of her crying tore Scruff's heart. Awkwardly, he put a hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her.

"She's in a better place now," he said, patting the spiderling's shoulder.

Cobweb raised her teary eyes. "Weawwy?" she asked.

Romy interjected. "She sure is." The demon was stuffing the poodle into a pot.

"Romy!" Scruff growled, snatched the poodle, and gave the demon a withering look. Romy stuck her tongue out at him and turned away, arms crossed.

A door creaked, and the elderly peasant emerged from his house, beaming. "Good job, good job," he said and danced a jig. "Here, have
two
sacks of turnips."

"Do you have any noodles?" Romy asked him.

"You're not eating the poodle!" Scruff howled. He stared at the dead dog in his arms, forlorn.
I can't believe what we've sunk to,
he thought and heaved the longest, deepest sigh of his life.

The next morning, the Bullies left the village, carrying two sacks of turnips.

Chapter Seven

Snow and Fire

Jan Rasmussen had been away from Burrfield for six years, and he was scared to return.

As he walked the path through Teasel Forest, boots rustling snow, he thought of Amabel's beauty—her gray eyes, dark blond hair, impish nose.
The most beautiful girl I've seen,
Jan thought. She had been fourteen when he left Burrfield, and he sixteen.

"Wait for me," he had said and kissed her, but six years had passed. She was probably married by now, raising a family, but still Jan dared to hope. For six years he studied, finally becoming a warlock last week, and for these six years he dreamed.

"Maybe she'll run toward me," he told his pet snake, "kiss me, tell me she waited every day on the outskirts of town."

The familiar—a baby viper named Baumgartner—sat on Jan's shoulder. He hissed as if agreeing. Sometimes it seemed like the snake understood everything Jan said.

During the past six years, studying in the pits of the Coven, he thought about Amabel every day. During the lonely nights, sleeping in mossy caverns between his grimoires, he pretended that she lay beside him. In his mind she never changed, never aged. What would she look like today, six years later?

What about me? Have I changed?
Jan examined his reflection in icicles upon birch branches. His hair still boasted the shagginess of youth, and his cheeks were pink from the cold. When he had left Burrfield, he was a dour youth with messy hair and jutting bones. He was wider now, his features harder, but his eyes had remained unchanged—the same strange eyes, midnight black flecked with gold like stars.

"She'll recognize me at once," he said to Baumgartner, crossing a bridge over a frozen stream. The birches shivered at his sides, heavy with snow.

Of course, for a warlock, he was still a kid. At twenty-two, he was the youngest warlock in the world, possibly the youngest in history. The others were stern graybeards with bushy eyebrows, backs bent and eyes squinty from decades of leaning over spellbooks in candlelight. Many had not left the Coven in decades, even centuries, spending their lives underground. Jan did not want to end up like them. Six years in the Coven—weaving black magic underground, never seeing daylight—had placed loneliness and hunger within him. He made no friends in the Coven. The other apprentices feared his powers, and even the old warlocks grumbled about his shifty eyes and frequent snarl. Jan did not care. He had not joined the Coven to find a home, like some of the apprentices who were outcasts in the outside world.

Jan had joined the Coven because he knew he had a gift. He knew—since he was born—that he was made to weave black magic. It was in his bones.

Baumgartner hissed, severing Jan's thoughts.

"What is it, friend?" Jan asked, patting his familiar.

The snake released a strange, high-pitched mewl. Jan's hackles rose; he hadn't known snakes could make such sounds. Most warlocks chose bats, hawks, owls, or other flying beasts to be their familiars, but Jan had chosen a snake. While the other warlocks could spy from above, Jan's familiar would creep below, more dangerous than any winged creature.

"What's wrong?" he asked again. Baumgartner was coiling and hissing.

With snapping twigs and stomping boots, the answer revealed itself.

Ten men emerged from the forest, five behind Jan, five before him, trapping him on the road. They held clubs studded with nails, pointed sticks, and chipped daggers. Unshaven and dirty, they wore random patches of fur and dented armor.

Outlaws,
Jan knew,
and hungry ones by the looks of it.

"Hello there!" Jan said, amusement tickling him. The road to Burrfield had been long and somber, but this encounter promised some entertainment.

"Good day," said one of the outlaws, stepping forward. He seemed to be their leader, and Jan guessed that he was of noble birth. He was taller and broader than his friends, hinting at a past affluent enough to provide steak dinners, and when he smiled, he revealed no missing teeth, which was more than could be said for the others. His sword was rusty and chipped, and his breastplate dented, but both were made of costly steel; they had once been the weapons of a knight.

"These are hard times," Jan said, "if knights have sunk as low as to wander Teasel Forest with footpads."

The outlaw-knight nodded, his smile vanishing. "You have good eyes, friend, if you could spot my background; my name is Sir Corlin Morno of Queenpool. These
are
hard times, and they just got harder for you. Empty your cloak's pockets, and we'll let you live."

The outlaws raised their weapons, greed and bloodlust filling their eyes. Jan's smile widened. This
would
be fun.

"Are you sure, dear Sir Morno?" he said. "The pockets of this cloak contain strange things... marvelous, wondrous things to be sure... but dangerous, friend. Are you sure you want to see them?"

One of the outlaws, a squat man with one eye and a studded club, growled. "I say we kill him."

Jan shrugged, one eyebrow raised. "That's certainly a possibility."

Sir Morno shook his head, eyes dark. "We are not murderers, only hungry men. Empty your pockets."

I like this!
Jan thought. "Very well," he said and complied. Out of his pockets, he pulled a bat skull, a ball of cobwebs, and a pickled cow's eye.

"What the—" Sir Morno began when Jan tossed the items into the air.

With a quick spell, the items exploded above, raining ash and sparkling black magic.

"A warlock!" an outlaw cried, but it was too late. The black magic seized them, twisting them, knocking them down. They screamed and writhed as Jan watched with a smile. He uttered a few more words, and the outlaws shrunk, sprouted white fur, and twitched their whiskers.