Speed Chess

It was a castle once, with a bustling town around its base, but now it was a ruin surrounded by dense forest. The sorcerer climbed over a waist-high remnant of a defensive wall and made his way into a building so long-abandoned that it seemed unlikely to have remained standing without some magical aid.

The statue sat at a table, across from an empty chair, with the chess board between, its fingers having seemingly just released the tip of one of the marble pieces.

“The Bishop, then? Interesting move. I would have thought the rook.”  He laid his cloak over the back of the chair and set his bottle and glass down beside the board. “No matter.”

If he sat long enough, he’d be able to see the stone hand moving away from the piece, so slowly as to be nearly imperceptible. It would move only so far: the statue needed to see its opponent’s play clearly, but to withdraw it any further would eat already-precious time.

“The Queen again; you’re in check. Mate in…” he checked the board again, hand still on the piece, just to be sure, before releasing. “…six moves.”

He wondered how long it would take.

Fantasy Drabble #377 “Conjurer For Hire”

It was maybe twenty feet tall, and screamed continuously, probably because it was on fire. It had appeared instantly in the midst of the enemy lines, already screaming.

“Do we… do we attack?”

The sorcerer shook his head. “It won’t be able to tell the difference between your men and the Raiegan soldiers. Keep them back until it disappears.” When the King gave him an annoyed glance, he added “…is my advice, your Majesty.”

“How long until it disappears?”

“Not really sure. Maybe five or six minutes.”

Burning Raiegans flew through the air by the dozens. “That should do.”

A Close-Run Thing

The Sorcerer limped from the mouth of the cave, tearing fabric from his robe to wrap around his wounded arm. “Minthray! Minthray!”

“Here, my Lord.”

“Bring the horses. And water.”

“The beast, is it—”

“Finished. Go.” He sat down in the dust, sighed, coughed, and was thinking seriously about laying down when he heard a noise behind him. He twisted, hands at the ready, and saw her: a little girl, hair tied up in colorful ribbon, dressed as if for Temple. “You’re dead.”

“I am. You’ve won. But I have a question.”

The hair stood up on the back of his neck, and his shaking hands held their place, but he answered conversationally: “Ask away.”

“You could have taken my offer, and had great wealth, and even more power than you already possess. Which is clearly substantial. Instead you fought.” Her head cocked to one side with a sickening cracking and grinding of bone. “Why?”

“You would have killed everyone in the town.”

“What do you care? You’re more like me than them.”

“You’re dead; I’m not.”

“True.” She slumped, and her body was already bleached bones when it hit the ground.

Minthray returned to find him vomiting and laughing.

Fantasy Drabble #372 "Good Morning"

He wakes a little bit at a time: the tip of the tail twitches; a foreclaw slips from its sheath; the spines on his back slowly raise one by one; his eyelids flutter, one and then the other, and then they open to see the sorcerer standing before him, arms folded, eyebrow raised, waiting.

"What?"

The sorcerer responded, exasperated, "That's your opening question? Not, 'how did you know I'd be waking now, today, from my sixty-three year nap?', or 'how has the world changed since I've been asleep?', or even 'how did you find this, my secret lair?'."

"Seriously, what?"

Fool’s Point

The sorcerer came to a fishing village in the North, trudging slowly, using his staff as a cane, his Shadow behind him, feeling his age. A boy child ran up, asked: “My Lord?”

“An Inn?”

The boy pointed up the street at an old, solid two-story stone building with a third somewhat ramshackle story of wood built atop it. “There, My Lord. Yilley’s.”

“Come visit me there, in the morning. I will have errands.” The sorcerer flipped him a small silver coin. “With your parent’s permission.”

“Yes, My Lord!” The boy ran off, virtually airborne from excitement. The Sorcerer continued up the road towards the water.

I will take him, wizard. I will take the whole village.

The sorcerer chuckled, “Oh, you’ll do no such thing.”

You have come here trying to hide, to escape, but I am at your heel, and I will take them all, and then you.

“That’s not why we’ve come, Shadow,” the sorcerer scoffed. “That’s not it at all.”

At the edge of the village the path split, one branch heading down to the docks and the other winding its way up to a rocky point overlooking the bay. The sorcerer, in spite of the protestations from his knees, chose the latter.

Will you throw yourself from the summit, to appease me? I will not be denied.

“That’s not it either. You’re as foolish dead as you were alive, Shadow.”

Call me whatever names suit you; I will feast on yours.

“Seven hundred years, no one has figured out my true name yet. I doubt you’ll be the first.” It was, however, the only way the non-corporeal Shadow could possibly hurt him. He continued climbing well past the point of exhaustion, propelled only by necessity: he could not have the Shadow wreaking havoc in the village overnight.

Your arrogance will be your undoing.

“You said that when you were alive. Well, here we are.” He had reached the peak, finding there a burial cairn marked with a stake overlooking the sea. “Take a look.”

This is neither my grave nor yours.

“I didn’t even know that was here. We came for the view, Shadow. What do you see?”

I see the grave and the hill and the village and the ocean. I see—

“The ocean. It stretches out like a blank slate as far as the eye can see, a great seeming emptiness. But even the ocean hides great activity: life teems just below the surface. What of the sky?”

What riddle is this, sorcerer? Are you so desperate to delay our reckoning?

“The sky seems even emptier, and it goes on forever. But even the sky holds birds, and clouds and rain. Beyond it are the numberless stars and planets. Yes?”

Sorcerer, you—

“You are dead, Shadow, by my hand. But you are dead in the world. I could have dispelled you into a void so empty it would drive you mad. I still can. Is one last stab at revenge worth the risk?”

Gunakadeit

The sorcerer's only excuse was that he'd been sleeping when they'd appeared out of the rolling fog at full sail, slid alongside starboard with pitch-dipped arrows trained, and signaled for Mellesdane to surrender. He awoke to the clamor of shouting and the thunder of heavy boots against the deck overhead.

A steward came to fetch him, young and terrified. "You must come now, My Lord. We are taken by Raiegan pirates."

"Not to worry, friend." He took the time to dress in his best finery as the steward trembled in the doorway. "All will be well."

Once he was dressed, they made their way to the ladder and up into the sun. The Captain and crew of Mellesdane had been lined up on the weather deck, guarded by sword-wielding pirates whose Captain stood on the forecastle.

"Good morning," the sorcerer said, pleasantly.

"And who are you?" The pirate Captain snarled.

Mellesdane's Captain called out, in a valiant attempt to cover what he imagined must be the obvious. "A nobleman from the Southern Coast, and my passenger. He has done nothing to—" a Raiegan gave him a blow to the stomach for his trouble.

"A nobleman, are you? Would there be those willing to pay a ransom for your safe return to shore, then? From the looks of you, I'd wager aye."

"Perhaps, if you knew who to ask, which of course you don't. In any event you'd never live to spend it."

"Do not invoke my wrath."

The sorcerer smiled. "We're far out over a deep sea, Captain. There are worse things hereabouts than you and your men for one to fear; yet I do not fear them. What do you glean from that?"

"That you're a fool in need of a—" The pirate Captain froze in place, eyes fixed and widening.

The deep ocean contains very old horrors, things of immense bulk and appetite. Such a creature — easily as big as either ship — was approaching from astern, driving ahead of its massive head a great white churning bow-wave.

"You have suffered a misfortune, Captain. You have raided the wrong ship. It is an easy mistake to correct: leave your spoils where they are and go."

Some of the pirates turned to follow their Captain's gaze, spied the approaching creature, and a murmur of panic rose from within their ranks. They began inching towards the planks that joined their deck to Mellesdane's. When the creature let sound a terrifying noise, that motion exploded into a frenzied scramble.

The pirate Captain was not far behind. Soon their planks were withdrawn and their sails set and they were pulling away. They picked up speed as the monster approached, barely staying ahead of it as they headed for the horizon.

"Was it real?" Mellesdane's Captain asked, at the sorcerer's elbow.

"What?"

"The beast! I have seen you conjure illusions to delight an audience and I have seen you call down sparrows to carry a message, My Lord. Which!?"

The sorcerer grinned.

The Sentinel

The sorcerer had no difficulty gaining access to the long-abandoned Keep. He climbed the long stone stairway, made his way inside, found a dusty table in the Lord High Constable's room, and laid out his books. No one had been brave enough to accompany him.

An eerie voice sounded behind him. "You wish to read to me, warlock?"

The sorcerer turned, regarded the spectral figure of a knight in plate armor leaning on a greatsword as if it were a cane. "If you like."

"I'd wager you have stories to rival my own. Perhaps you even fought some of the same battles?"

The sorcerer chuckled, "I'm not that old, Carisbrooke."

"You know me?" The ghost cocked his head to one side.

"The whole of the valley knows you." The sorcerer said respectfully. "They warned me of the danger."

"To them I am the ghost in the castle. You name me."

"I've done my research. I wasn't sure until I saw your crest, there on the hilt of your sword. I thought you might be Baron Fellenmaine or even Old Shmorid the Wilting."

"Fellenmaine fled before the battle. I don't know what became of him. Hopefully great ill. Shmorid died outside in the bailey, honorably. Presumably he went to his rest."

"Yet you did not."

"My oath to the King binds me even after death, or so it would seem. I have no cause for complaint."

"So here you are. John of Carisbrooke, John the Red, right hand of the last of the Old Macklish Kings, Ælbrad—"

"Æl-bard."

"My apologies. You fell defending the Keep and your King from the invading Vedek army. At some point later you reappeared as an apparition, and the Vedek fled. Since then you have driven any and all invaders from the Keep."

"I can do little things. Knock over a flagon here, blow out a candle there. And of course the ghostly visage you see before you now. It's usually enough."

"…For seven hundred years."

"Has it been? And on what invader's behalf do you propose to end my hauntings?"

"There are no invaders, Sir John. Only me."

The ghost shimmered with laughter. "Very well, recite your incantations. Expel me, evict me, exorcise me. Do your worst. Others have tried, but perhaps they were not as powerful as you. I'm fascinated to see if it finally works."

"The books aren't spellcraft, Sir John, they're history books. They're for you."

"What need have I for—"

"To read. The history of the valley, seven hundred years' worth, starting with Ælbard's death. The wars are over, Sir John. The valley is well-ruled from a capitol far down the coast, two hundred seventy years now. Read. I'll turn pages for you if it's too much effort."

The specter seemed incredulous. "You would teach me history?"

"The towns of the valley want to repair the Keep, use it as a museum. It would be good for tourism, put gold in their pockets. You're all that stands in the way. Read."

Muddy

The agreement with Isenette obliged her to keep the peace in the valley, meaning: prevent hostile armies from climbing Midz-Aset's mountain to challenge him, and send none of her own. It did not require her to stop small parties of adventurers from trying their luck, however, and that was by the dragon's design.

He needed the occasional entertainment.

When the group of Raiegan swordsmen burst into his lair, interrupting his slumber, he had bathed them in a stream of flame and steam that should have stripped blackened flesh from the bones before they could clatter to the ground; they had winced but had emerged from the assault undamaged. He had lunged into their midst, swinging claw and tail and snapping jaws shut; he had found only air as the swordsmen leapt aside at speeds that should have been impossible, their long ribbon-braided black hair whipping from side to side. Clearly they had the assistance of well-chosen magics. A challenge.

It had taken him nearly ten minutes of studying their attacks, deflecting them, watching for patterns. When he resumed his own attacks, he halved their number so quickly that the rest panicked and tried to flee, only to be chased down before they could reach the narrow tunnels.

Returning to the cathedral-like main chamber of his lair, standing over part of a Raiegan leg and a smear of Raiegan brain, he rumbled, "Wizard, where are you? I owe you a favor for the distraction and the meal. Show yourself."

A disembodied voice: "'Trust not the wyrm', says Prenadax, in one or other of his books."

"I knew him. One of his students? Or just a fan?"

"I never had the pleasure. My teacher was a lesser-known student of Oelianus Minor." A drawback to living in a cavern: the voice  bounced around far too much to guess the intruder's direction.

Another name he knew, all too well. "And your master sent you to avenge his own?"

"You killed Oelianus Minor?"

"Is that forgotten so soon?" Midz-Aset snorted, steam billowing out to disperse into the cold, dry cave air. "It was in war, not for sport, wizard."

"Sorcerer, actually."

"I'm sure the distinction is important to you." Midz-Aset found a comfortable spot between two piles of coin, and settled down. "You gave the Raiegans assistance of considerable value; how much did you charge them? I hope it was a great deal."

The voice laughed. "They paid without blinking. I suspect they thought they'd recoup their investment a hundredfold from your hoard."

"I tire of speaking to a ghost. Show yourself and I will let you live."

"I continue to be guided by Prenadax."

"He lived to be a ripe old age, that one; mostly by never doing anything interesting. Is that the life you wish to lead?"

"Whatever shape my life, I wish it to continue after today. What oath will a dragon keep?"

"A written treaty between myself and royal blood. Are you by any chance a King?"

"I'm afraid not. Anything else?"

"A purchased parole."

"What would your price, hypothetically? I seek an estimate. I see you have an interest in precious metals." The voice had taken on the tone of friendly banter: the sorcerer expected to live.

"An interest I am more than capable of slaking on my own." As was any dragon worthy of the name. "Perhaps you have some magic that might be of use to me?"

"Truce, to negotiate?"

Midz-Aset snorted.  "I agree."

The sorcerer appeared, only a few yards in front of his nose. One lurch forward, one bite, would end the negotiations. But the sorcerer's magic could prove valuable. The dragon regarded him: young-looking, though that could be a glamour or youth magic. If he was a student of a student of the more recent Oelianus, though… "You are a child."

The sorcerer shrugged. "I'm older than I look." Which could mean anything. "You are more than nine hundred, by my count. The Raiegans thought you'd be a tottering old husk by now."

Reigan soldiers, probably on leave and looking for opportunities to make one immense score. Trained, but not bright. They didn't understand dragons. "You didn't correct them."

The sorcerer grinned. "Advice wasn't in my contract."

"Still, a risk. If you knew they would fail, that would leave you in jeopardy, however strong your magic." Because most of that magic wouldn't work directly as a weapon, given a dragon's natural resistance. "How could you be certain I'd be forgiving? Or, at least, persuadable?"

"Oelianus told stories to his students, and so did my master. You have a reputation."

"Fair enough. What can you offer me that I don't already have? Or that I can't get on my own…"

"Look around you; what do you see?"

"Treasure. Gold and gemstones. Rock walls. Stalagmites?"

"Trash."

"I beg your pardon?" Midz-Aset said it politely, through bared teeth.

"There's humanoid bones everywhere. Elvish, dwarven, orcish… but mostly human, everywhere. And half-melted armor plate. Broken weapons and torn leathers." He pointed to piles of detritus as he spoke; he finished on a man-size pile of dung. "Not to mention the droppings."

"I haven't gotten around to burning that yet."

"Certainly. But why should you bother?"

"Because I don't want the place overflowing with my own shit?"

"No, I mean: why should you bother?"

"You're going to clean my lair for me? This is only a few years' worth of garbage, sorcerer. You'd have to keep coming back. Somehow I don't think I can trust you to do that."

"Not me, you— my Lord. I was thinking of a golem."

Midz-Aset was suspicious. "You would leave a spy to assist your next attempt at robbery?"

"He would obey only you, answer only to you. I wouldn't even be here when the spell completed, to give it any other instruction. A blank slate."

"How long would it last?"

The sorcerer raised an eyebrow. "In theory? Indefinitely. As long as part of it survives intact and in contact with the earth, it will regenerate."

It was tempting.

"You are a Lord, Lord of the mountain. Surely a Lord should have a servant—"

"Enough, I am convinced."

The sorcerer knelt down, gathered up a handful of earth: it was fine, dusty. "I need water, as a binding agent. Otherwise it won't form. If you will direct me towards—"

Midz-Aset launched himself into the air, over the sorcerer's head, towards the ceiling of the cavern. There was a spot, if he remembered correctly. He hung in the air — silent and unmoving for a bare second, between wing-beats — and listened. When he was sure, his tail lashed out and struck the rock wall, high up, almost to the ceiling.

Shards of stone rained down: the sorcerer quickly held up his hands, directing the larger, potentially dangerous pieces away from where he was standing. By the time it had all come to rest, rivulets of water had run down the cavern wall from the new breach, to pool in a corner.

Midz-Aset swooped down and alighted where he had lain previously. "There. Water."

"Much obliged." The sorcerer walked over to the rapidly enlarging body of water. "This isn't going to flood the lair, is it?"

"It's not an unlimited supply: runoff from the snow melt above us, collecting in reservoirs in cracks and crevasses."

"Excellent. I begin."

The sorcerer closed his eyes, stretched out his hands, spoke a few words in a language unknown even to the ancient dragon. The pool began to bubble, the clear water began to darken with silt, thicken with it. Soon it was a roiling lumpy mass, sucking the water down off the wall faster than it could run on its own.

The sorcerer backed away from the pool, lowered his arms, looked satisfied. "There."

"There? There what? You've made me a soup of boiling mud."

"I told you, I won't be here when it completes. You want to be certain it's no spy, yes?" He raised an eyebrow at the dragon. "Yes. It won't be long. You'll know when it's ready."

"And then what?"

"And then you tell it what to do. Command it as its lord and master. You might want to give it a name, so it'll come when you call. They're not all that smart. Although…" the sorcerer shrugged, "it's not an exact science. Some are smarter than others. It'll be smart enough to clean, for certain. Maybe smart enough for more complicated tasks. And I think our business is concluded."

Midz-Aset was too entranced by the goo now forming into a discernable shape to do anything but nod. He followed the sorcerer's progress — out of the chamber, down the main tunnel, and up the narrow surface passage — with his ears.

The pool had become a humanoid mass of sloppy wet earth. It moved, reaching out, pushing itself up, pulling itself out of the hole left by its own creation. It was larger than a human, smaller than an orc. It had rounded river-stones for eyes and no mouth. It stood silently before the dragon, glistening — but oddly, not dripping onto the cave floor. Magic.

"You're muddy."

It nodded.

Give it orders. "Clean my lair. No, wait: keep my lair clean."

It nodded, and set to work.

It took much explanation for Midz-Aset to get the golem to pick up bones, ruined armor, and droppings while leaving gold and treasure. He had to show the thing where to put the garbage, as well: there was a pit, a deep chasm just off the main chamber. But before long, the creature was hard at work, and Midz-Aset was increasingly pleased with his 'purchase'.

He watched it clean until he fell asleep.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

One hundred and forty-three years later, Midz-Aset swooped low over the heads of a caravan of merchants on the gravel road from Haffton to the Jeweled Porte. Most of the merchants and their guardsmen scattered into the woods: the guardsmen at a dead run, the merchants at a somewhat slower waddle. The dragon ignored them: he was more interested in the oxen.

One wagon-driver had remained, and his face was familiar, even unchanged. The dragon, surprised, studied him closely and then rumbled pleasantly, "I know you."

The man hadn't moved a muscle yet, but the familiar face broke into a smile. "So you do, My Lord. How is your golem?"

"I call him 'Muddy'. He was dumb, at first, could only clean. He got smarter as the years went on. He reads, and can write in the dirt."

"Fascinating. I must have been having a good day when I cast that spell."

"I count him among my most valuable possessions, sorcerer. You have my thanks along with your life. And I will leave your oxen when I feed. How come you to a merchant caravan?"

"I sell cures to noblemen: for consumption, for cancer, for insanity. For lack of tumescence; that's a big seller." He shrugged. "There's little call for war-magics these days, the balance of power being what it is. And you? You must be eleven hundred by now. Any ills I could treat?"

"Dragons grow stronger with age, not weaker. But you know that, as I recall. My only complaint is boredom; have you a cure for that? With your power and mine we could conquer half the coast. Purely as a diversion, of course."

"I appreciate the offer, but I think I will limit myself to medicine."

"A pity," the dragon said, wisftfully.

"I hear there is a great war in the East. Perhaps you could—"

"There is always talk of a great war in the East, but it never turns out to be true. One gets there after days and days of flight and it's only a few hundred men on horses trying to get some plundered loot over a very long wall." Midz-Aset snorted. "And the dragons there are pathetic, not worth a challenge."

The sorcerer smiled politely. He looked vaguely impatient to resume his progress towards the Porte.

"Well, trust me, sorcerer: peace never lasts. Someone grows greedy or corrupt, or soft or complacent, and the balance tips. You will be Warlock again, before long, assuming your youth-magic holds." Midz-Aset drew in his wings and leapt over the sorcerer's wagon, to land on the next one back, crushing it to kindling, and his jaws snapped shut on a bleating ox.

By the time he was done his meal, the sorcerer's wagon was out of sight. He began meticulously collecting up — with his mouth — gold spilled from ruined carts. None of the merchants or their guardsmen had returned to try to rescue the pack animals from their fate, and he wasn't really hungry enough after devouring twelve oxen to want to maneuver his bulk between old-growth trees for the purpose of chasing the humans down. Once upon a time he would have done it just for sport.

Perhaps he was getting old.

The Order Of Things

"I have been searching for you for months, wizard."

It was an unwelcome interruption; the sorcerer was enjoying his porridge. Mungk's food was decidedly better than what he could cook himself in his cabin in the hills, and when he craved culinary satisfaction, he walked down to the tavern. A fair hike, but always worth it in the end.

Without looking up, the sorcerer said, "I've been right here; it would appear you have finally looked in the right place."

"Do you know me?" The voice was familiar. The sorcerer glanced up to find a callow young man

"...Ollial, if I remember correctly."

"Your memory has yet to fail, I see. Excellent. This would not have been as satisfying if you had been a crumbling old invalid."

Between spoonfuls, the sorcerer asked, "What is 'this'? Why are you here, Oll-isle?"

"I would think it obvious even to you, old man." Ollial's robes were resplendent, screaming of power and wealth, in sharp contrast to the sorcerer's simple garb. The staff, gnarled and dangerous, was well-known to the sorcerer.

"You hold your father's staff."

The implications were obvious, but it was no surprise Ollial felt the need to speak them: no doubt he had scripted this encounter in his imagination and played it to himself many times. "I have taken my rightful place at the King's hand. My father was old and weak, like you. The King saw that."

Of course the King had stood aside for the challenge: regardless of the outcome, he would possess the stronger court wizard. Unless both had died, which hardly ever happens. "A shame. Your father was a good man and a talented conjurer. Did he ever tell you the story of our fight against the demon Wyxlock? He—"

"I care not for your reminiscences, old man." The inn's small dining room had quietly emptied of patrons. Only Mungk, in his place behind the bar, remained.

"Again a shame. It's a good story." He called to Mungk, "Barman! I'll have a wine, I think. A red, and not the swill you keep for the locals. Something from the basement." He would be safer down there, and Mungk was smart enough to arrange not to find anything suitable for a time.

"Right away, my Lord." The owner's enormous frame shifted as quickly as the sorcerer had ever seen him move as he disappeared through the kitchen doors.

"Ollial, if you already have the King's confidence, why bother with me? Surely a tired old man taken to the hills is no threat to you. Especially if you have so handily dispatched your father."

Ollial snorted. "My father at his best was not your equal. As for you: your retirement was voluntary — I simply propose to make it permanent."

"Then I can put your mind at ease. I will never return to the Palace, not tomorrow, not ever. Not for power, not for gold. I have put down such cares."

Ollial shrugged. "You could change your mind. Seek to regain your place—"

"I won't." The sorcerer was final in is tone, but the youth made no move to depart. The sorcerer knew he would not convince him. "Very well. Let's adjourn to the road, then." He slurped up the last spoonful of porridge, thankfully still warm enough, and dug in his pocket for a gold piece, which he tossed onto the bar. More than enough to cover his running tab with Mungk.

Outside, on the dusty road, they made an odd pair. Ollial fairly glowed as the sunlight fell upon his finery. The sorcerer, on the other hand, looked the part of a peasant. The youth — having taken his position — called, disparagingly, "You don't even have your staff!"

"I won't need it."

With an exasperated tone, Ollial muttered, "As you wish." He began chanting under his breath, staff held in the standard attack position.

The sorcerer knew the spell from the words. Ollial likely didn't even know their meaning; most young wizards learn phonetically at first. "What's that, Shurlough's Wilding Embers? It won't work..."

The youth ignored him, and flaming ash spat from the end of the staff, focused on the sorcerer. To Ollial's apparent surprise, the column of fiery debris parted in the middle and bypassed its target. The sorcerer was unaffected.

The youth quickly recovered his composure. "No doubt you have devised counters for many of my father's spells—"

"I taught him that one."

"—but that is not all I have in store for you, wizard!"

"It's not too late to go home and forget this nonsense, Ollial. You could tell people that you defeated me and they would believe you. I'll never show up to contradict your tale."

Ollial ignored him and began another incantation.

"Redborn's Wracking. A better choice, but—" As if on cue, the ground underneath the sorcerer began shaking, kicking dust up around his feet. "—unlikely to have much more effect than the Embers. Give it up, now, before any damage is done." A crack appeared in the ground, through which a faint red glow emerged, but the tremor was already dying.

Ollial cursed him, crying out, "Only one of us will leave here alive, wizard."

The sorcerer only shrugged. "I didn't even have to counter that one, boy. You don't know enough about geology to use a spell like that. What will you throw at me next, lightning? Ice? What will you throw at me that I haven't seen a thousand times? With your father at my side, no less? Haven't you been paying attention to his stories all these years."

Ollial grinned. "Better than you know, wizard." He reached into the folds of his robe to produce a shining green emerald, as big around as a clenched fist, flecked with red and seeming to glow from within. "Remember this?"

"Only too well."

"Even with my father's help you barely survived long enough to imprison Wyxlock inside this stone."

"And there he should stay, Ollial. For your own good—"

"Enough of your patronizing. The demon shall have his revenge and I shall be free of you!" He cast the stone upon the naked ground and it immediately began to glow brighter, shaking, until it finally began to spin on one facet. "See, It draws power from the Earth. You should run, old man; give the demon a good sport of it—"

"You're a fool."

The stone grew, malformed, and with a great tearing sound became a cloud of dust which dissipated to reveal the bony, black, terrific form of the demon. It hissed and snapped and surveyed its surroundings, including both duelists.

"Why have you released me?" It addressed the sorcerer with a death rattle of a voice.

"He released you." The sorcerer nodded towards the youth.

"Yes, demon, it is I who—"

The demon ignored Ollial. "And what is your price for my freedom, my Master?"

"Hungry?" The sorcerer asked, and again nodded towards Ollial.

Ollial took a step backwards and held up his father's staff. "Wait—"

"You never learned the order of things, Ollial. Perhaps it's your father's fault for failing to teach you. He appears to have paid dearly for that oversight. Wyxlock here understands the order of things, don't you, Wyxlock?"

"I do, my Master." The demon turned and bared four rows of curved, pointed teeth at the youth.

"Master? He imprisoned you for a century!"

The sorcerer laughed, "Only a century? To a demon, do you imagine that to be a long time? Wyxlock was terrorizing man before he was man, hairy and without words. Left to his own devices he is immortal — but I could have destroyed him and he knows it. Instead I only jailed him for a time. I could likely destroy him now, and he knows it. Better than you. He seeks my favor, now, so that he may later return to his avocation. Go on, be done with it. Leave the staff."

Ollial began frantically reciting a spell as Wyxlock lunged, but the youth was nowhere near fast enough. In a streak of motion the demon's claws ripped the staff from his hands and knocked him spinning to the ground, taking an arm off at the shoulder for good measure; the severed limb windmilled through the air and disappeared into the long grass on the far side of the road. The gurgling screams ended as quickly as they began, as Wyxlock began his long-deferred meal.

The sorcerer's eyes did not linger on the gory scene as he walked over to pick up the staff. He pulled a rag from his pocket to wipe the blood away from the gnarled wood, and then turned to walk back into the tavern. Over his shoulder, he called to the demon, "Your debt to me is paid; be on your way and do not trouble me again."

"I understand." There was no 'my Master' at the end of it, but the sorcerer did not doubt that Wyxlock would obey; the demon understood the order of things.

Longaminus

The sorcerer had not been this far down the coast in centuries. Not because the roads were not safe this far from the Capitol: no highwayman would attempt to waylay one such as he.

The towns hereabouts had not seen a magician of quality in years, in fact, and he was making a quite a tidy sum as he progressed from place to place renewing blessings or curses, curing mystical ailments, investigating local mysteries. Grateful town fathers gave him many a gold coin to drop into his impossibly capacious bags. The townspeople generally avoided making eye contact, and gave him a wide berth.

When he reached the gates of the village he had known as Ang Bo, he was not surprised to find it a town of almost a thousand calling itself Angaborough City.

He was, however, somewhat surprised to see the great statue of the giant standing astride the fountain in the center of town. The towering creature was posed in an stance of action — one foot in front of the other, hands raised with clenched fists — as of course it would be. It was thankfully intact, no missing pieces. The sorcerer surveyed it for a moment, remembering, and then laughed aloud.

The townspeople, overcoming their natural caution, stared. He exclaimed to them, “What a fine and mighty giant you have there!” They managed to regain their sense, and scurried off to hide behind heavy doors.

Now alone, the sorcerer found a perch on a low stone wall at the edge of the square. He retrieved a small bottle of clear water from his bag and threw it to shatter against the statue. While the water ran and dripped from the stone, he spoke a few quiet words.

When nothing happened, he reached into the bag and found a book, which he opened and read intently for a few moments. When he found the passage he had misremembered, he checked to make sure there was still water on the statue before speaking the words again, changing several inflections.

When the giant moved, it was only slowly, as if he did not really believe movement was possible. First his massive stone fists unclenched, and the bulging arms dropped to his sides. After a moment, he turned away from the city center to look out across the top of the city wall to the mountains beyond.

“Are you in any pain? Stiff at all?” The sorcerer asked conversationally.

The giant turned back and regarded him blankly.

“Hungry? Thirsty? You have the fountain there, of course. If you’re hungry, I’m sure an ox or two can be found…”

“I know you, wizard,” The giant said, a rumbling avalanche of a voice.

“Of course. I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me after all this time. Of course, I look somewhat different. My hair and beard are white now.”

“Your voice is the same. How long?”

“Oh,” the sorcerer shrugged, “four hundred years, give or take. Had I known I would have come sooner, but—”

“Had you known?”

“The spell is supposed to wear off. In hours, normally. Days, perhaps. Because you are so large I put more power into it. But it should have worn off in time.”

“It did not.”

“So I gather. I apologize.”

The giant stared at him. After a moment, he turned again to look at the mountains in the distance. “I often wondered if the mountains still stood. Everything else is changed.”

“I would imagine so. Did you come from there?”

“Yes.” The giant knelt down, drinking noisily from the fountain. After he was done, he sat heavily on the brick between the fountain and the surrounding grass. “My people are from the mountains. I came down into the valley to find my fortune.”

“I did not think giants cared much for fortunes—”

“By ‘fortune’ I mean luck.”

“You are also quite a bit more well-spoken than most giants I have met.”

“For a time I had nothing to do but watch and listen. One learns the niceties of conversation when tens of thousands take place at your feet.”

“I don’t doubt it. How did you find your luck?”

“Not terrible, at first. I am large and strong, and there always is need for strength. When the Vedek army came through, I joined their progress. They could feed me, and I felt useful. When we attacked the village, I was to batter down the gate. Of men with swords or bows I had no fear, and of wizardry I was alas ignorant. I charged towards the gatehouse with joy in my heart, only to hear your voice and become immobile.”

“Forgive me.” The sorcerer said it not out of fear, but of regret.

“It is of no matter; war is war. Now that you have released me, I feel only relief.”

“What was it like?”

The giant was silent for a moment, as if travelling on a long journey back through time in his mind. “At first I did not understand what was happening. It was as if time had frozen for me while the battle raged without me. The Vedek were slaughtered. I could see the orange light from the burning siege engines falling on the walls, the black smoke drifting past me on the breeze. When darkness fell, the people of the village — Ang Bo — came out and finished off the wounded, began robbing the dead. Wizard, what did they pay you?”

“Not much. They didn’t have much.”

The giant chuckled. “Whatever it was, it was money well spent. You are a very effective defense.”

“Not much call for that sort of thing these days. Just petty robbers on the roads, the occasional tax revolt. But I never had much use for the Vedek; they were always attacking their neighbors, so warlike. These days they’re mostly fishermen. And after that?”

“I was alone, standing in the field beside the road. The children would come out and throw stones at me. Trees began to grow around me, and after some years I could no longer see the walls or the gatehouse. I could hear wagons on the road. From time to time I could tell that there was fighting. At least once part of the town burned, but I could not tell how much or how little was left.”

“Sounds about right.” The sorcerer observed. The old town — within the old wall — was only partly the town he remembered, ancient buildings in the pre-unification style. The rest were relatively new, two hundred years or less.

“Then, men came and began cutting down the trees. They had grown huge, towering over even my head by then. I saw buildings outside the wall. No doubt they needed the wood for more. One great tree knocked me down as it fell. I ended up with my face in the mud, one leg up in the air behind me.”

“Did they right you?”

The giant’s laugh boomed out; if anyone in the town had been unaware of his presence, they were now informed. “The lumberjacks? How could they? Can you imagine what I must weigh? They left me, face down, blind.”

“For how long?”

“I have no way to know. I could hear things, sounds, but I did not know what they were. Eventually the soil must have built up and covered my ears, for I could no longer hear. I tried to occupy my mind, telling myself stories, making up songs, but in the end I went mad.”

The giant got up and once again stared out at the mountains. “Do you think they have grown taller? It seems to me they are slightly taller than they were.”

“I have no idea. Do mountains grow?”

“Of course. Sometimes they grow, and sometimes they crumble or wear away. Sometimes they blow themselves apart and kill everything for leagues around. You did not know that?”

“No, not at all. I knew about volcanoes, but not about the other.”

“Every giant knows this. The Earth is never still.”

The sorcerer was aware that there were townspeople gathering, in doorways and around corners, peeking at the pair of them and listening. “How did you come to be in the town square?”

The giant sat, closer to the sorcerer this time. “Suddenly I could hear and see again. There were men dressed in an unfamiliar style, and there were buildings — houses — all around, except for the spot where I had lain half-buried. They had rigged ropes and pulleys and were lifting me onto an enormous cart made from hard wood, with wheels as tall as themselves. I was on my back for the first time, and could see the sky. A day and a night went by while they were moving me. I watched the moon pass overhead. I could hear horses and oxen doing the pulling, but I think the men helped too: there were many voices. Here in the square there were more ropes and pulleys, and they raised me over the fountain, facing the main avenue there. That was two hundred years ago. Oh, here comes the militia.”

The sorcerer craned his neck around. A double column of armored men carrying pikes was marching up from the barracks at the bottom of the hill. “Yes. Don’t worry; I’m sure they’re just a little concerned about their statue having become a living stone giant.”

The giant laughed, “I worry not; they are good people, and I have enjoyed their hospitality. Once I was in place, they held a ceremony, declaring me their symbolic protector. A street festival followed; I think a rich town father paid for it all. Now, they throw me coins for luck. Brides wade into the fountain and kiss my kneecaps so that they will be blessed with healthy children. Those children play and splash at my feet; when they grow old they sit together at the fountain’s edge and reminisce about their youths. I watch and I listen.”

“What will you do now? They will want to know—”

“I have no idea. What use is a stone giant to the world today?”

“You could help keep the bandits off the road. And, they are still building out, part of the town is on the other side of the river, even. You could carry materials.”

The militia had deployed themselves in a ring a respectful distance away from, but surrounding, the fountain and the giant and the sorcerer. Through it, with cautious authority, stepped the old bearded Mayor.

“Ah, Roglish,” the giant said. “You are looking well. Not much time to visit the fountain these days, I would imagine. How are your children’s children? Martine must be ten now.”

The old man was wide-eyed, and took a moment to recover from the surprise before addressing the sorcerer. “Great Wizard, I welcome you to Angaborough City, and I ask humbly: why have you given this, our statue, life? Have we angered you?”

“No, Mayor… Roglish? The giant was never a statue, but rather a giant frozen in place by me long ago during a battle. But we are enemies no more, as you can see. Nor is he an enemy to the town.”

“Not at all,” offered the giant. “I would like find work here, if it is possible. And of course, I can help protect the town.”

“Indeed you can.” Roglish bowed deeply. “I am delighted to hear it.”

“Perhaps we could arrange for a cow or several pigs to be slain and cooked for our friend?” The sorcerer suggested.

“They need not be cooked. Though, I would not mind if they were.”

“It will be arranged. How shall we address you, oh, giant?” Roglish asked.

“My parents were simple and did not bother to name me. When I came down into the valley I called myself Okur, but it no longer seems like a name for me.” He shrugged, stone shoulders rumbling. “I think I will have to find a new one.”