Champions of the Dragon: (Humorous Fantasy) (Epic Fallacy Book 1) Page 2

  “Whatever you say, say it loud,” said the ancient wizard. “Now stop looking stupid and face the crowd.”

  Murland blinked, stupefied. “How…how can this be?” he managed to ask.

  Kazimir took him roughly by the arm and turned to wave at the crowd, raising Murland’s hand victoriously.

  The people cheered his name over and over.

  “So it has been said, so shall it be!” said Kazimir. “Murland Kadabra will fight for thee!”

  Murland waved, and a wide smile crept across his face. Had he really been chosen? What untold magic must he possess?

  “Say something,” Kazimir urged out of the corner of his mouth as he handed Murland the scepter.

  Murland was petrified, and though he tried desperately to speak, all that came forth was a confounded, “Uhh…” His voice echoed for miles as a piercing, high-pitched noise issued from the scepter.

  Kazimir pulled it back from his face a bit, and the noise disappeared.

  “I, uh…don’t know why he picked me…I’m not really that good at performing mag—”

  The ancient wizard quickly yanked the scepter away. “Three cheers for Murland Kadabra the Humble!”

  The crowd cheered again, but with slightly less fervor than before. Murland could already see many of them heading for the beer tents.

  Kazimir grabbed his arm roughly and tossed something to the floor. A great flash of light was followed by choking white smoke as the wizard pulled Murland back down through the trapdoor.

  As they hurried down the stairs, a delighted Murland asked, “Did we just disappear?”

  “Sure, kid,” said Kazimir with obvious annoyance. “Just try to keep up.”

  When they reached the base of the enormous podium, the great wizard opened another hidden trapdoor, revealing a narrow stairwell that led down to the dark catacombs below.

  With a whispered incantation from Kazimir, the wizard’s staff began to shine enough for them to see.

  “Whoa,” Murland gasped.

  “Stick with me, kid, and you can ride my coattails right to the top,” said Kazimir.

  To Murland’s surprise, the tunnel led them to the wine cellar of Abra Tower. He followed the old wizard up into the kitchen and out to the main hall.

  “Go on then,” said Kazimir, “get your things. I must speak with your superiors.”

  “Yes, sir! Er, Most High Wizard.” Murland tripped over his robes, but he found his feet and hurried up the spiraling stairs to the top of the tower.

  ***

  Kazimir shook his head as he watched Murland stumble up the stairs. He turned to the headmaster’s office and easily disengaged the locking enchantment and pushed the door open with a word.

  Headmaster Zorromon the Off-White didn’t look surprised in the least, for he was in the middle of pouring wine.

  “Yes, thank you, I will take some wine,” said Kazimir, closing the door behind him with a wave of his hand.

  Zorromon had been about to ask just that, and he glared at the ancient wizard. “Your tricks do not fool me, Kazimir.” Regardless, he poured him a glass and set it on the other side of the desk.

  The Most High Wizard sat down across from him, downed the glass in one large gulp, and tossed the headmaster a heavy coin purse. “That should be sufficient to replace the fool.”

  Zorromon nodded and sipped his wine, eyeing the sack nervously.

  “So, what’s this kid’s story?” Kazimir asked. “Is he slow in the head or something?”

  “No, goodness no. He’s bright enough, and a hard worker. He just can’t seem to grow any wizard leaf.”

  Kazimir raised a brow and snorted arrogantly, sounding rather like a pig in the throes of passion. It was a laugh that he thought he had remedied when he was a teen, back when he was a student of the wizarding school. That hideous snort had gained him much teasing back then, and Zorromon did not miss the chance to smirk, as though he had won some small battle. “It isn’t that hard,” said Kazimir with a huff. “I take it someone is sabotaging his plants?”

  “Yes, and the poor fool just plants another and tries again.” Zorromon sighed. “I had hoped he would have figured it out years ago.”

  “Sounds like he’s slow after all,” said Kazimir, raising his glass.

  Zorromon shrugged and gave him a refill. “He’s a good lad. But we can’t graduate him, and as you know, Abra Tower hasn’t had a dropout in over a century. Our funding from the crown has been cut in half in the last decade as it is, what with all this peace time. If apprentices start failing…well, it is better this way. At least he will be remembered as a hero.”

  “I don’t know why you all grovel at the feet of that ridiculous king,” said Kazimir, glowering at his old peer as though he were a disgusting insect. “It is insulting to the world of wizardry. In our day, wizards were respected for the superiors that we are, not beholden to the whims of the royal treasury.”

  “You have always had your point of view, Kazimir, and I have always had mine.”

  “Yes,” said Kazimir, downing his drink and setting it on the desk. “And one of us is right.”

  He got up and turned for the door, having nothing more to say to his old acquaintance.

  “See to it that death comes to him swiftly,” the headmaster called after him, as though the boy’s fate had been weighing heavily on his mind.

  Kazimir turned at the door, his long white beard hiding a sneer. “I shall feed him to the dragon first then, when she is hungriest.”

  Zorromon gulped.

  ***

  Murland ran down the stairs two at a time, his pillowcase full and tied to a stick resting on his shoulder. He came to the bottom of the stairs and found Kazimir waiting for him. The door to the headmaster’s office suddenly opened, and Zorromon emerged, holding a wooden box out before him.

  His voice seemed to croak with grief. “Dear, dear apprentice Kadabra. It appears that the wide world has more in store for you than the manure pile. Please, take this, from all of us, as a token of our faith in you.”

  Murland could hardly contain himself. He knew what kind of box the headmaster held before him.

  Zorromon lifted the lid, and Murland dreamily reached for the wand inside. His fingers touched the smooth wood…

  SNAP!

  The lid suddenly closed, and Murland pulled his hand back and gave a delighted squeal of surprise.

  The headmaster laughed.

  Kazimir rolled his eyes.

  “Go on then, take it.” Zorromon opened the box wide.

  Murland carefully took the wand from its velvet bedding. It was oak, he could tell, and lined with silver runes carved into the sides. At its tip was bound a ruby, and in the middle…

  “Headmaster, er, is that tape?”

  “Yes, that. It is the broken wand of Allan Kazam, he who threw down the Dark Lord Zuul. It is said that one might rise up who can mend it,” said Zorromon.

  “It is? I’ve never heard that before,” said Murland.

  “The wand of Allan Kazam?” said Kazimir, suddenly beside Murland and glaring at Zorromon dangerously. “Where did you get that?”

  Zorromon said nothing. It was his turn to sneer at Kazimir.

  “Thank you,” said Murland, quite enchanted.

  Zorromon pointed a finger to the sky. “Ah! I almost forgot. I’ve a special invention for you. I just finished the incantation last night.” He put two fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle.

  Out of the office flew a leather backpack with wide white wings. It landed on the floor beside Murland, but having no feet, it simply fell over and tucked in its wings.

  “The road is long, and a traveler needs a good bag to carry his burden,” said Zorromon proudly.

  Murland put the wand and his pillow case inside the pack and tightened the strap. It beat its wings swiftly and flew up to hover beside him.

  “Come then,” said Kazimir, offering Zorromon one last scowl. “Drak’Noir waits for no man.”

  Murla
nd was pulled along by the old wizard and waved jubilantly back to his headmaster. “I will do Abra Tower proud!”

  “You already have!” Zorromon waved back, silently sniffling.

  Chapter 2

  The Champion of Vhalovia

  In the human kingdom of Vhalovia, far to the south of Magestra and east of the Golden Gulf, one Sir Eldrick awoke with a pounding head.

  How much had he drank last night?

  He tried to clear his muddled mind as he sat up. The back of his head was tender, and when he investigated with his fingers, he found crusted blood around the spot. He rubbed his bleary eyes to get his bearings.

  Refuse surrounded him, and two tall brick walls loomed on either side—he was in an alley.

  The sun was bright in the street beyond, and the noise of the crowd emanating from it was impossibly loud. He attributed his sensitive hearing to a bad hangover, but then the memory of the night before came back to him—he had gone to a pub, but had gotten in a fight with seven infantrymen before even wetting his whistle.

  The rest was a blur, but by the bruises, scrapes, and cuts on his knuckles, he knew that he must have gotten in his share.

  He got up, dusted off his brown trousers, and tucked in his ruffled and stained blue shirt. He went to the street and he watched, surprised to find people hurrying by. He hadn’t seen the streets so crowded since the king’s wedding ten years before. Listening closely to the murmuring voices, he discerned one name spoken repeatedly in excited tones, “Kazimir! Kazimir!”

  He then understood. The Champion of the Dragon was being chosen today; Drak’Noir had returned to Bad Mountain.

  Sir Eldrick followed the masses down Baker Street, past the docks, over the Silver Gate Bridge, and finally to the amphitheater. He had attended many plays and orchestras here over the years, yet he had never seen such a gathering. Judging by the overflowing crowd pushing their way in, Sir Eldrick guessed that everyone and their sister had come to hear the proclamation of Kazimir the Most High Wizard.

  As he was shouldering through the crowd, he bumped into a woman and began to apologize, but when she turned around and saw his face, she beamed at him.

  “Sir Eldrick…there you are!”

  “I…uh, yes, here I am.” Sir Eldrick studied her face, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name. This must have been very apparent to the woman, for her smile slowly died, and she searched his eyes.

  “You can’t be serious…”

  “Sorry, it was a long night. I know that I should know your name…”

  “You’ve been in my bed twice, and you don’t know my…” She glanced around, embarrassed.

  Sir Eldrick shrugged. “Sorry lass. Not your fault. The old memory ain’t what it used to be. Perhaps if you showed me your backside, it would jog my memory.”

  He had been trying to be funny, but the woman didn’t find it amusing in the least, it seemed, for she slapped him across the face.

  “What’s my name?” she said, cocking back the hand again.

  “Uh, Laura?”

  Another slap.

  “Try again, hero.”

  “Brittany?”

  Her eyes went wide, and this time she kicked him in the crotch.

  The crowd nearby gave a laugh as he doubled over with a groan.

  “That’s my sister’s name, you pig!”

  Sir Eldrick tried to speak, for he had finally remembered that the woman’s name was Catherine, but she had already turned on her heel sharply and was storming off.

  The crowd laughed and jeered, and someone helped Sir Eldrick to his feet.

  “Still up to your old tricks, eh Queen Defiler?” said the man who had helped him up.

  People looked at him with sudden recognition. He gave the man a shove and pushed through the crowd. Taunts and jeers of “the king should have hung you from the gallows” and “shame on you, traitor” followed him into the arena.

  When he was finally free of the taunts and had once again become just another face in the crowd, he made his way down to one of the few remaining spots where someone might stand and watch the high podium.

  Far below, standing in long rows in front of the raised stage, Sir Eldrick saw his former brethren, the Knights of Vhalovia. His old best friend, Sir Ardthar, was there, along with many others he had known for years. They had been his brothers one and all, but that had been a long time ago, when Sir Eldrick was still the hero of Vhalovia.

  Higher up stood the queen and her three grown children. The eldest daughter, Princess Penelope, held her baby brother, bundled in a bright blue blanket. Sir Eldrick had heard of the newest addition to the royal family, Prince Edwin. Indeed, rumors of the child’s parentage flowed like chimney smoke through every town and village in Vhalovia.

  Queen Elzabethalynn Winterthorn stood tall and proud, as though she hadn’t been a part of one of the juiciest royal sex scandals that Vhalovia had ever known. Her long black hair hung in thick curls about her shoulders, and her voluptuous frame was well hidden behind a puffy dress—which Sir Eldrick knew must have been the result of her head advisor’s attempt to show her in a less sultry light.

  Sir Eldrick stood far away from the queen with the commoners, but even from the distance, he could make out her deep-green eyes—eyes that had so often held him in a loving gaze, but no longer.

  Staring at the woman he had loved so deeply and feeling that old ache in his heart, Sir Eldrick wondered why he had returned to the city. He had been pondering the question for days. But still he did not remember what mad idea might have driven him back to the city that had once loved him so. He had woken up in a pub in the city a week ago, with no memory of how he had gotten there. Likely he had been on another days-long bender, which was not an uncommon occurrence, but since leaving a year before, he had never had any inkling to return.

  Sir Eldrick had decided that his drunk self had returned to the city to steal away with the queen, as they had often imagined during their hours of pillow talk. But the talk had just been talk, and to the queen, Sir Eldrick had just been a convenient distraction, and a way to get revenge on her unfaithful husband.

  The king’s personal guards soon took to the stage, and the buzz of the crowd only intensified. When King Henry Winterthorn at last appeared, the noise became unbearable. Sir Eldrick fished in his pockets until he found his flask, his eyes never leaving the king he had betrayed. He hadn’t seen the man in over a year, but the wounds bled anew.

  He tipped back the flask, but to his dismay, it was empty.

  Finally, the king raised his hand, and the racket died down to a low hum.

  “The rumors are true,” said the king in that deep, authoritative voice that Sir Eldrick remembered so well.

  The gathering fell deathly quiet. He scanned the crowd, letting the tension build.

  “It has been twenty-seven years since the great wyrm was driven from Bad Mountain, and now…she has returned. The time has come once again for the Champions of the Dragon to march forth and vanquish our foe. Once again, a hero will be chosen from the five kingdoms of men, elves, dwarves, and ogres. Kazimir has come to name the Champion of Vhalovia!”

  A flash of blinding light suddenly flared on the podium. Shocked exclamations gave way to joyous cheers. When the smoke cleared, the Most High Wizard himself stood tall beside the king.

  Kazimir raised his glowing staff, and the crowd fell silent once more, their voices lost to awe.

  “Dragon flame seen in the night.

  Fleeting shadows taking flight.

  The wyrm has claimed its mountain home.

  As was written in the ancient tome…”

  The man beside Sir Eldrick nudged him. “Who you think he’s gonna name, eh?”

  “Who gives a shit,” said Sir Eldrick with a shrug. “The beer’ll be flowing tonight, that’s all I care to know.”

  “Right you are, ole boy, right you are,” said the man with a toothless grin.

  Sir Eldrick became annoyed listening to Kazimir
ramble on with his ridiculous rhyming and monotonous timing. He wished the long-winded wizard would get to the point. A feast was sure to follow, and not only would the beer flow, but wine and spirits as well. And on top of that, the women would be all kinds of worked up…

  “…I name this night, Sir Eldrick van Albright!”

  The name echoed through the amphitheater.

  Silence followed.

  The crowd began to stir. “Slur Sirsalot?” someone said in a confused voice. Others laughed, and much more colorful nicknames were called out. Sir Eldrick found himself sinking lower and lower.

  When no one stepped forth, Kazimir repeated his proclamation. “The Champion of Vhalovia shall march forth this night. Step forward to glory, Sir Eldrick van Albright!”

  Sir Eldrick pulled down his hood and glanced around nervously.

  The crowd all looked around for the named one, but no one nearby had recognized him yet. He glanced behind him. People crowded the entrances. He was a big man, but perhaps he could still quietly push through without raising suspicion. Questioning voices began to grow, and the crowd became restless. The chant for “Slur Sirsalot!” echoed through the amphitheater.

  He took advantage of the distraction and began to gently push his way through the crowd and up the few flights of stairs to the gate. When he reached the top, he shouldered past a standing guard, making sure to turn his face away in time. With every step, his confidence grew, and soon he was at the top, heading for the crowded streets beyond.

  He kept his head low and fished out a piece of paper from his pocket. Due to his drinking, he often blacked out for days on end, and more times than not, he had no memory of where he was or where he had come from. He had gotten in the habit of writing down such information whenever he stayed at a new place.

  The paper read: Garrett’s Lodge, Smuggler Street. #27.

  Smuggler Street was only a few blocks away, and Sir Eldrick headed in that direction with his head down. He seemed to be one of the only people walking in the direction opposite the arena, but no one paid him any mind. There were no guards about, as they were all working the arena. Soon he made it to Garrett’s lodge and disappeared inside.