Realms of Magic - Brian Thomsen King [105]
He returned to the present as a delicate hand touched his shoulder. He turned and found the emerald eyes of Lelanda scant inches away from his own. The gold band on her finger reflected a greatly distorted image of his own countenance.
"You shouldn't be up," he said, urging her gently back to the couch.
"I'll be okay," she said, "the wound's almost healed. Hang up the axe and come to bed."
Orlando nodded and lifted the magical weapon from its resting place. He turned and elevated it to a place of honor above the hearth. Next to it, he hung the amulet that had saved his life.
"Rest quietly, old friend," said the crimson-haired witch.
Orlando said nothing, but in his heart he knew that Lelanda's wish had been granted.
THE WILD BUNCH
Tom Dupree
The robe shimmered seductively as the young apprentice held it up to the candlelight. Its color was a brilliant royal blue, and it was fashioned from a shiny, silky, luxurious fabric that the student had never seen before. It was soft and cool to the touch, but bespoke great elegance and power.
It was commandingly beautiful, but the fascination was not in its color or texture. The apprentice could not tear his eyes away from the symbols that were inscribed on the robe, either sewn in or painted on the fabric, he couldn't tell which. There were signs and sigils emblazoned everywhere-hundreds of them. Intricate handwork covered every bit of free space on the garment's surface: calligraphy, runes, drawings, letters, shapes, and forms whose mysteries were far beyond the young man's understanding.
He was entranced.
He lifted the robe closer to get a better look.
"Put that down, lad. And sit yourself down." The voice was calm, controlled, but it came from right next to the boy's ear-almost from inside it-and made him flinch in startlement. How did he do that? How did the master move so quietly? The boy turned to face his wizened tutor, the man whose esoteric knowledge had drawn him here. With a reluctance that surprised him, the young man handed the robe to his master and sat.
"The most important thing I will ever teach you comes here, now, on your first day. It is simply this: you have a great deal to learn. The magical art may appear effortless to the uninitiated; a bit of waving, a bit of mumbling, and POOF!-whatever one's heart desires. But each conjuration, each illusory spectacle, requires agonizing hours of study and concentration. There is no shortcut, no easy way to make yourself the wizard you want to be. Your art will demand work, my lad. If you cannot pledge to accept this sacrifice, then leave me now. A mage should be regarded with awe, not mirth.
"That robe is remarkable, isn't it? The last time I saw it worn, another young student of the conjurative arts had recently arrived in this village. He appeared at the door of the Ale Hearty tavern one rainy afternoon, dripping wet. He strode to the bar and announced that he was a magic-user, in search of fame and fortune."
*****
New mages are a fairly rare sight in Schamedar, and the aforementioned one did not go unnoticed, not even in this undistinguished tavern. He was of tall, if slim, human build, with an overly erect bearing that was hardly required by either the venue or the company. His clothing was less than modest, and drenched, at that. He carried nothing except for a small pack and a walking staff, which he set at his feet. Never mind fame; this was a person in severe need of fortune.
"Why, Mystra be praised!" growled a swarthy little cut-purse with a wide, gap-toothed grin, who was sitting at a table with two other morally impaired citizens. "A mage! If you aren't the answer to a prayer! Come and wet your throat with us!"
The stranger ambled over.
"Sit, sit," implored