Eye of the Wizard: A Fantasy Adventure (3 page)

"The ogre!" one said, covering his eyes. A little girl whimpered. Even the puppets looked at him, then covered their button eyes and cowered.

Scruff lowered his head, spirits crashing. It felt like somebody had poured icy water down his tunic. With a sigh, he turned and walked away.

Something hit the back of his head. A rotten egg, he realized. The children laughed behind him. For an instant rage filled Scruff, and he considered rushing toward the children, howling and waving his arms.
That'll scare the daylight out of them.
But he only kept walking away, sadness drowning his rage. Howling at the children would only prove they were right, that he
was
an ogre. Eyes moist, Scruff left Scribe Square, heading into narrow Cobbler Avenue.

If I were a knight,
he thought, picking egg shells from his hair,
nobody would toss rotten eggs at me. Nobody would call me an ogre. They would call me Sir Sam Thistle, like they called my father.

On days like today, Scruff could barely believe he was Father's son. Father had been so proud, noble, and handsome. How had he, Scruff, become this lumbering, shaggy-headed beast?

Rubbing tears from his eyes, Scruff finally reached the church. Gargoyles stared upon him from the spire, their maws mossy and their horns chipped. The sound of chanting monks came from within the church, and Scruff could smell the incense they burned. Walking around the church, he entered its old graveyard, which lay behind a few ash trees. Roses climbed over tombstones and statues of angels, petals shivering in the breeze. Walking gingerly over fallen petals, Scruff made his way to his parents' grave. He stood before it, head lowered, so sad he couldn't stifle a tear. Ravens stood on a nearby grave, watching him curiously.

"I'm sorry, Mom, Dad," Scruff said in a small voice. "I'm trying."

He had promised Father he'd become a knight. You had to keep a promise you made on your father's deathbed. Everybody knew that. You
had
to. Jamie was well on her way to become a knight, keeping her own promise. His brother Neev was apprenticing at the Coven, a council of warlocks dug into tunnels beneath Batwog Mountain; he would soon complete his apprenticeship and fulfill his promise from five years ago. But he, Scruff, just couldn't do it.

"I've let you down," he said to the grave, wiping tears away. "I'm trying to be a knight, but it's so hard."

Only one thing made Scruff feel better on days like today. He left the graveyard and walked down a dirt path, heading to the southern edge of Burrfield. Past the well and silos, Scruff reached the craggy wall that encircled the town, the wall built after Grobbler Battle to keep out warlocks and their monsters.

By the wall he found the thorny bush he sought, a venerated hedge called Old Thicket. A thousand years ago, thorns had covered Burrfield; the town founders sought security between the prickles, but suffered too many cuts and eventually uprooted the plants. They left only Old Thicket, and still it grew, a reminder of Burrfield's prickly past. Wincing, Scruff rummaged between the thorns, ignoring the pain, and finally pulled out his favorite weapon: Norman.

My old friend,
Scruff thought, lovingly hefting the spiny mace.
Jamie is thin, fast, and deadly like the sword she wields, but you are like me, Norman; overgrown and brutish.
Scruff had never had a dog, but he loved Norman the way people loved their pets. Maces were for guards or outlaws, not knights, but Scruff didn't care; Norman suited him more than any blade.

The other squires could not lift Norman, and even Lord Bramblebridge would have trouble wielding it, but Scruff was stronger than an ox. Lips tightened, he carried Norman past Prickle Gate, out of town and into Teasel Forest. Mist swirled around his boots, and the birches rustled around him, their leaves dappled with sunlight. Bluebells moved in the breeze and robins fluttered among the boughs.

Alone between the trees, Scruff swung Norman against some boulders, shattering them, scattering chips of stone. Whenever he felt bad he came here, to this secret place in the forest, where he could beat away his aggression. Stone shards covered the forest floor from previous bashing sessions.
I'll never be a knight. I'll always be the brute, the simpleton, the failure.
As the stone shards flew, his tears burned.

A breeze blew, and a malodor hit Scruff's nose, severing his thoughts.

Scruff frowned, lowering his mace, panting. It smelled like mold and rotten leaves, but ten times worse. He had never smelled anything like it. Covering his nose, Scruff stepped toward the source of the smell, wishing his chain mail didn't creak so much. Beside a fallen log, he found several clawed, smoking prints. They raised a stench of rot and wisps of black smoke.

"What the...," Scruff muttered. What could have left such tracks? It wasn't human. It wasn't an animal. Scruff had never seen anything like it. The chill that ran through his body spoke of that night five years ago, the last time monsters had come to Burrfield.

The breeze blew again. Though it was a warm April day, the breeze was cold as winter. Scruff shivered and clutched his mace.

* * * * *

Her sword moved like a viper. With a cry, a thrust, and a whoop of triumph, she landed her coup de gr
âce. Her wooden blade hit her opponent, a hulking squire who towered over her, twice her size and clad in chain mail.

"That's a kill!" Lord Bramblebridge announced with a nod. His red mustache curled up, a sign of pride. "Good job, Jamie."

Yeah!
Jamie thought, panting. She sheathed her sword, spat, and outstretched her hand for her opponent to shake. Giving her a dirty look, the squire rubbed his side, where her sword had struck; Jamie's blows left bruises even past chain mail. Grumbling, he shook her hand.

"Good fight," he muttered, staring at his boots.

Several other squires stood around them, also muttering and rubbing bruises. Their faces were red and dusty. Jamie had beaten them too.
They're upset that little me, not even five feet tall, could beat them,
she thought with a smile, pushing back strands of her short, damp hair.
If they knew I was a girl....

Lord Bramblebridge slapped Jamie's back, a mighty blow that nearly knocked her down. Bramblebridge was squat and powerful as an armored bulldog, and his friendly slaps could leave bruises. Jamie was so tiny that a slap on the back, a friendly punch on the shoulder, even a hearty handshake could hurt her. But what she lacked in size, she made up for in agility.
Scruff is strength; I am speed.

"My boy, you are the best swordsman I've seen in decades," said Bramblebridge, cheeks beaming, bald head glistening. "Your brother Scruff is thrice your size, but you prove that even a baby-faced runt can be the deadliest warrior around."

"Thanks," Jamie said, knowing Bramblebridge meant it as a compliment. She looked over the line of squires she had beaten, beefy boys now bruised and battered, and pride swelled within her. At this rate, she could be knighted within the year, becoming the youngest knight Fort Rosethorn had produced.

I wish you were here to see this, Mom and Dad,
she thought.

Remembering her parents, cold sadness washed over her warm pride, and Jamie lowered her head.
Poor Scruff; he can't let go of the memory.
Jamie felt bad for him, so bad that her stomach ached. Her brother tried so hard. He excelled at all other classes—he'd memorized all the heraldic poems, was a perfect rider, an expert falconer. But give him a sword, and he dropped it like a burning coal.
Oh Scruff, why can't you just let go, why can't you get over that day?
Jamie knew the memories of Grobbler Battle filled him whenever he touched a sword. It tore Jamie's heart whenever Bramblebridge yelled at him, drove him from the yard in shame.

"If I may, my lord," she said to Bramblebridge, "I'd like to go find my brother." Her heart still raced from her fights, and her clothes were sweaty.

Bramblebridge rolled his eyes and snorted, mustache fluttering. "Go find the oaf, if you must," he said, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. "But don't encourage him. I know you want him to keep practicing swordplay, but he won't get it. God knows I've tried. He's just not knight material, your brother. Scruff was born to pull a plow, not wield a sword. Instead of training for knighthood, he should seek a career as an ox. Slap a yoke onto him, he'd make an excellent draft animal."

Jamie nodded, wanting to argue but biting her tongue. As much as she hated to admit it, Bramblebridge was probably right.
Well, not about the ox part, but about Scruff not being knight material.
Like it or not, knights had to use swords.

Sighing, Jamie approached the rack of swords in the corner of the yard. She hung up her wooden training sword and retrieved her real blade, Father's blade, that same blade Scruff had dropped during Grobbler Battle. Filigreed and jeweled, the sword was called Moonclaw, and whenever Jamie bore it, she knew she was honoring Father's memory.

Slinging Moonclaw over her back—it was almost as long as she was tall—she left the training yard, pebbles crinkling under her leather boots. As she walked away, she heard the other squires whispering behind her, probably wondering how in hell this slight, short boy with girl arms had beaten them.

Jamie sighed again, heading around the dovecots behind the barracks. Every day, more and more squires whispered. Every day, she heard more whispers of "girly" tossed her way. That had not happened a couple years ago, but at age fifteen, faking boyhood was becoming difficult. These days, new squires usually thought she was a girl at first, until she punched their noses, bent their arms, and wouldn't let go until they took it back.

How long can I keep up this act?
Jamie wondered. A few years ago, nobody would imagine she was a girl, but every day she looked less boyish. It wasn't fair! She was a thousand times better at the sword than anyone, so why couldn't she be knighted on that merit? Why did she have to maintain this charade? Sometimes it made Jamie want to scream and smash things.

With a sigh, Jamie remembered the tales of Lady Lenore, her heroine. Twenty years ago, the beautiful noblewoman, disguised as a boy, had become a knight and heroine, slaying trolls and dragons across the kingdom, clad in the purest white steel. As a little girl, Jamie would beg traveling bards to sing of Lenore, and they would sing of monsters slain, towns saved, and treasures found. As the years went by, fewer bards sang Lenore's poems, and these days few remembered her.
Where are you, Lady Lenore?
Jamie often wondered, fearing in her deepest thoughts that her heroine had died. More than anything, Jamie dreamed of becoming the next Lenore.
One day the bards will sing of me, Jamie Thistle, the Lady Knight. I'll do it for you, Mom and Dad.

Leaving Fort Rosethorn behind, Jamie walked through a garden of clover, morning mist still clinging to the purple flowers. She crossed Gorse Bridge, dandelion petals and ducks floating down the stream beneath her. A memory flooded her from five years ago: during Grobbler Battle, Scruff had carried her over this bridge, bodies floating below in the water. Jamie blinked, pushing the memory aside.
That was a long time ago.
No monsters had invaded Burrfield in five years, not since the town built its new wall.

Moonclaw clanking over her back, Jamie stepped around the stables and toward this wall, the wall built to keep out grobblers. She knew where to find her brother. Whenever Bramblebridge scolded him, Scruff ran to find his hidden mace and smash boulders in Teasel Forest. Usually Jamie would leave him alone, letting him beat out his aggression, but today she wanted to talk to him. Today did not feel like other days, though she could not explain why. Perhaps it was just that they weren't kids anymore. She was fifteen and would be knighted soon, and what would happen to Scruff then? They needed to figure things out.

Maybe I can give him private lessons,
Jamie thought.
I'll teach him swordplay in secret, alone in the woods. I can be a better teacher than Bramblebridge.
Jamie nodded to herself, lips tightened.
I'll make sure Scruff is knighted with me this year, come hell or high water.

She stepped out the gates, leaving Burrfield and entering the woods. Bluebells carpeted the forest floor, and birches and elms rustled around her, casting dapples of light. The smell of earth, pollen, and leaves filled her nostrils. Where was Scruff? Usually she could hear him bashing boulders from here, but the forest seemed oddly silent today. Even the robins did not chirp. Jamie walked between the trees, leaves and pebbles whispering under her boots.
Where are you, Scruff?

Jamie was far from Burrfield when a moldy stench assailed her, so putrid she felt dizzy.

"What the—" she began when three creatures burst from the trees.

Jamie's breath died.

The three creatures were shaped like men, but looked more like fallen logs, rotten and covered with mud, moss, and snails. Lichen draped over their pale skin, and their eyes were red, their teeth sharp and green. Their hair was made of worms. Jamie recognized them at once.

"Moldmen," she said in disgust, drawing Moonclaw with a hiss. Her blade gleamed in the sunrays that fell through the canopy.

The moldmen opened their maws, squealing, a sound like dying boars. Bugs and mud filled their mouths, and their eyes blazed. Icy fear flooded Jamie, but she shoved it down.
I will fight like Lady Lenore, fearless.
She narrowed her eyes and held her sword high as they rushed toward her.

Their claws reached out, dripping slime, and Jamie's blade flashed left and right. Severed moldmen hands flew against the trees, and the creatures screamed so loudly, Jamie's ears ached. One severed hand caught her foot, still alive on the forest floor, tripping her. Jamie fell with a yelp, the moldmen swooping down onto her.

She thrust up her sword, impaling one of the creatures. He writhed on her blade, snapping his teeth at her. His drool hit her face, hot like dripping wax. Jamie screamed, eyes narrowed, and shoved with all her might. She managed to push the moldman off, then slashed her sword left and right, cutting the other two moldmen. She kicked wildly, knocking off the severed hand that clutched her. It flew.