Magician (2 page)

Cutting across the King’s road,
Pug gained a little shelter in the gully that ran alongside it. The
wind intensified and rain stung his eyes, bringing tears to already
wet cheeks. A gust caught him, and he stumbled off balance for a
moment. Water was gathering in the roadside gully, and he had to step
carefully to keep from losing his footing in unexpectedly deep
puddles.

For nearly an hour he made his way
through the ever growing storm. The road turned northwest, bringing
him almost full face into the howling wind. Pug leaned into the wind,
his shirt whipping out behind him. He swallowed hard, to force down
the choking panic rising within him. He knew he was in danger now,
for the storm was gaining in fury far beyond normal for this time of
year Great ragged bolts of lightning lit the dark landscape, briefly
outlining the trees and road in harsh, brilliant white and opaque
black. The dazzling afterimages, black and white reversed, stayed
with him for a moment each time, confusing his senses. Enormous
thunder peals sounding overhead felt like physical blows. Now his
fear of the storm outweighed his fear of imagined brigands and
goblins. He decided to walk among the trees near the road, the wind
would be lessened somewhat by the boles of the oaks.

As Pug closed upon the forest, a
crashing sound brought him to a halt. In the gloom of the storm he
could barely make out the form of a black forest boar as it burst out
of the undergrowth. The pig tumbled from the brush, lost its footing,
then scrambled to its feet a few yards away. Pug could see it clearly
as it stood there regarding him, swinging its head from side to side.
Two large tusks seemed to glow in the dim light as they dripped
rainwater. Fear made its eyes wide, and it pawed at the ground. The
forest pigs were bad-tempered at best, but normally avoided humans.
This one was panic-stricken by the storm, and Pug knew if it charged
he could be badly gored, even killed.

Standing stock-still, Pug made ready to
swing his staff, but hoped the pig would return to the woods. The
boar’s head raised, testing the boy’s smell on the wind.
Its pink eyes seemed to glow as it trembled with indecision. A sound
made it turn toward the trees for a moment, then it dropped its head
and charged.

Pug swung his staff, bringing it down
in a glancing blow to the side of the pig’s head, turning it.
The pig slid sideways in the muddy footing, hitting Pug in the legs.
He went down as the pig slipped past. Lying on the ground, Pug saw
the boar skitter about as it turned to charge again.

Suddenly the pig was upon him, and Pug
had no time to stand. He thrust the staff before him in a vain
attempt to turn the animal again. The boar dodged the staff and Pug
tried to roll away, but a weight fell across his body. Pug covered
his face with his hands, keeping his arms close to his chest,
expecting to be gored.

After a moment he realized the pig was
still. Uncovering his face, he discovered the pig lying across his
lower legs, a black-feathered, cloth-yard arrow protruding from its
side. Pug looked toward the forest. A man garbed in brown leather was
standing near the edge of the trees, quickly wrapping a yeoman’s
longbow with an oilcloth cover. Once the valuable weapon was
protected from further abuse by the weather, the man crossed to stand
over the boy and beast.

He was cloaked and hooded, his face
hidden. He knelt next to Pug and shouted over the sound of the wind,
“Are you ‘right, boy?” as he lifted the dead boar
easily from Pug’s legs. “Bones broken?”

“I don’t think so,”
Pug yelled back, taking account of himself. His right side smarted,
and his legs felt equally bruised. With his ankle still tender, he
was feeling ill-used today, but nothing seemed broken or permanently
damaged.

Large, meaty hands lifted him to his
feet. “Here,” the man commanded, handing him his staff
and the bow. Pug took them while the stranger quickly gutted the boar
with a large hunter’s knife. He completed his work and turned
to Pug. “Come with me, boy. You had best lodge with my master
and me. It’s not far, but we’d best hurry. This storm’ll
get worse afore it’s over. Can you walk?”

Taking an unsteady step, Pug nodded.
Without a word the man shouldered the pig and took his bow. “Come,”
he said, as he turned toward the forest. He set off at a brisk pace,
which Pug had to scramble to match.

The forest cut the fury of the storm so
little that conversation was impossible. A lightning flash lit the
scene for a moment, and Pug caught a glimpse of the man’s face.
Pug tried to remember if he had seen the stranger before. He had the
look common to the hunters and foresters that lived in the forest of
Crydee: large-shouldered, tall, and solidly built. He had dark hair
and beard and the raw, weather-beaten appearance of one who spends
most of his time outdoors.

For a few fanciful moments the boy
wondered if he might be some member of an outlaw band, hiding in the
heart of the forest. He gave up the notion, for no outlaw would
trouble himself with an obviously penniless keep boy.

Remembering the man had mentioned
having a master, Pug suspected he was a franklin, one who lived on
the estate of a landholder.

He would be in the holder’s
service, but not bound to him as a bondsman. The franklins were
freeborn, giving a share of crop or herd in exchange for the use of
land. He must be freeborn. No bondsman would be allowed to carry a
longbow, for they were much too valuable—and dangerous. Still,
Pug couldn’t remember any landholdings in the forest. It was a
mystery to the boy, but the toll of the day’s abuses was
quickly driving away any curiosity.

After what seemed to be hours, the man
walked into a thicket of trees. Pug nearly lost him in the darkness,
for the sun had set some time before, taking with it what faint light
the storm had allowed. He followed the man more from the sound of his
footfalls and an awareness of his presence than from sight. Pug
sensed he was on a path through the trees, for his footsteps met no
resisting brush or detritus. From where they had been moments before,
the path would be difficult to find in the daylight, impossible at
night, unless it was already known. Soon they entered a clearing, in
the midst of which sat a small stone cottage Light shone through a
single window, and smoke rose from the chimney. They crossed the
clearing, and Pug wondered at the storm’s relative mildness in
this one spot in the forest.

Once before the door, the man stood to
one side and said, “You go in, boy. I must dress the pig.”

Nodding dumbly, Pug pushed open the
wooden door and stepped in.

“Close that door, boy! You’ll
give me a chill and cause me my death.”

Pug jumped to obey, slamming the door
harder than he intended.

He turned, taking in the scene before
him. The interior of the cottage was a small single room. Against one
wall was the fireplace, with a good-size hearth before it. A bright,
cheery fire burned, casting a warm glow. Next to the fireplace a
table sat, behind which a heavyset, yellow-robed figure rested on a
bench. His grey hair and beard nearly covered his entire head, except
for a pair of vivid blue eyes that twinkled in the firelight. A long
pipe emerged from the beard, producing heroic clouds of pale smoke.

Pug knew the man. “Master Kulgan
. . . ,” he began, for the man was the Duke’s magician
and adviser, a familiar face around the castle keep.

Kulgan leveled a gaze at Pug, then said
in a deep voice, given to rich rolling sounds and powerful tones, “So
you know me, then?”

“Yes, sir. From the castle.”

“What is your name, boy from the
keep?”

“Pug, Master Kulgan.”

“Now I remember you.” The
magician absently waved his hand. “Do not call me ‘Master,’
Pug—though I am rightly called a master of my arts,” he
said with a merry crinkling around his eyes. “I am higher-born
than you, it is true, but not by much. Come, there is a blanket
hanging by the fire, and you are drenched. Hang your clothes to dry,
then sit there.” He pointed to a bench opposite him.

Pug did as he was bid, keeping an eye
on the magician the entire time. He was a member of the Duke’s
court, but still a magician, an object of suspicion, generally held
in low esteem by the common folk. If a farmer had a cow calve a
monster, or blight strike the crops, villagers were apt to ascribe it
to the work of some magician lurking in nearby shadows. In times not
too far past they would have stoned Kulgan from Crydee as like as
not. His position with the Duke earned him the tolerance of the
townsfolk now, but old fears died slowly.

After his garments were hung, Pug sat
down. He started when he saw a pair of red eyes regarding him from
just beyond the magician’s table. A scaled head rose up above
the tabletop and studied the boy.

Kulgan laughed at the boy’s
discomfort. “Come, boy. Fantus will not eat you.” He
dropped his hand to the head of the creature, who sat next to him on
his bench, and rubbed above its eye ridges. It closed its eyes and
gave forth a soft crooning sound, not unlike the purring of a cat.

Pug shut his mouth, which had popped
open with surprise, then asked, “Is he truly a dragon, sir?”

The magician laughed, a rich,
good-natured sound. “Betimes he thinks he is, boy. Fantus is a
firedrake, cousin to the dragon, though of smaller stature.”
The creature opened one eye and fastened it on the magician “But
of equal heart,” Kulgan quickly added, and the drake closed his
eye again. Kulgan spoke softly, in conspiratorial tones. “He is
very clever, so mind what you say to him. He is a creature of finely
fashioned sensibilities.”

Pug nodded that he would. “Can he
breathe fire?” he asked, eyes wide with wonder. To any boy of
thirteen, even a cousin to a dragon was worthy of awe.

“When the mood suits him, he can
belch out a flame or two, though he seems rarely in the mood. I think
it is due to the rich diet I supply him with, boy. He has not had to
hunt for years, so he is something out of practice in the ways of
drakes. In truth, I spoil him shamelessly.”

Pug found the notion somehow
reassuring. If the magician cared enough to spoil this creature, no
matter how outlandish, then he seemed somehow more human, less
mysterious. Pug studied Fantus, admiring how the fire brought golden
highlights to his emerald scales. About the size of a small hound,
the drake possessed a long, sinuous neck atop which rested an
alligatorlike head. His wings were folded across his back, and two
clawed feet extended before him, aimlessly pawing the air, while
Kulgan scratched behind bony eye ridges. His long tail swung back and
forth, inches above the floor.

The door opened and the big bowman
entered, holding a dressed and spitted loin of pork before him.
Without a word he crossed to the fireplace and set the meat to cook.
Fantus raised his head, using his long neck to good advantage to peek
over the table. With a flick of his forked tongue, the drake jumped
down and, in stately fashion, ambled over to the hearth. He selected
a warm spot before the fire and curled up to doze away the wait
before dinner.

The franklin unfastened his cloak and
hung it on a peg by the door “Storm will pass afore dawn, I’m
thinking.” He returned to the fire and prepared a basting of
wine and herbs for the pig. Pug was startled to see a large scar that
ran down the left side of the man’s face, showing red and angry
in the firelight.

Kulgan waved his pipe in the franklin’s
direction. “Knowing my tight-lipped man here, you’ll not
have made his proper acquaintance. Meecham, this boy is Pug, from the
keep at Castle Crydee.” Meecham gave a brief nod, then returned
to tending the roasting loin.

Pug nodded back, though a bit late for
Meecham to notice. “I never thought to thank you for saving me
from the boar.”

Meecham replied, “There’s
no need for thanks, boy. Had I not startled the beast, it’s
unlikely it would have charged you.” He left the hearth and
crossed over to another part of the room, took some brown dough from
a cloth-covered bucket, and started kneading.

“Well, sir,” said Pug to
Kulgan, “it was his arrow that killed the pig. It was indeed
fortunate that he was following the animal.”

Kulgan laughed. “The poor
creature, who is our most welcome guest for dinner, happened to be as
much a victim of circumstance as yourself.”

Pug looked perplexed. “I don’t
follow, sir.”

Kulgan stood and took down an object
from the topmost shelf on his bookcase and placed it on the table
before the boy. It was wrapped in a cover of dark blue velvet, so Pug
knew at once it must be a prize of great value for such an expensive
material to be used for covering Kulgan removed the velvet, revealing
an orb of crystal that gleamed in the firelight. Pug gave an ah of
pleasure at the beauty of it, for it was without apparent flaw and
splendid in its simplicity of form.

Kulgan pointed to the sphere of glass.
“This device was fashioned as a gift by Althafain of Carse, a
most puissant artificer of magic, who thought me worthy of such a
present, as I have done him a favor or two in the past—but that
is of little matter. Having just this day returned from the company
of Master Althafain, I was testing his token. Look deep into the orb,
Pug.”

Pug fixed his eyes on the ball and
tried to follow the flicker of firelight that seemed to play deep
within its structure. The reflections of the room, multiplied a
hundredfold, merged and danced as his eyes tried to fasten upon each
aspect within the orb. They flowed and blended, then grew cloudy and
obscure. A soft white glow at the center of the ball replaced the red
of firelight, and Pug felt his gaze become trapped by its pleasing
warmth. Like the warmth of the kitchen at the keep, he thought
absently.