Wizards and Kings

By Arlan Gerig

I look like a peacock in a lion’s den. My gaudy green robes swish across the smooth marble as I eye the four armored guards escorting us. We enter the throne room. I step behind Zofan, my mentor and fellow wizard, and twiddle my fingers.

The guards clomp to either side of King Roganvel’s throne, swords at their sides. A towering statue of Roganvel pierces me with its stony gaze. It curls my toes, as does the living version, so I study the dragon images embroidered in the room’s rugs. Now there is something I like.

“State your purpose for coming here, Zofan,” Roganvel thunders. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t throw you and the boy into my dungeons.”

“Sire, Gwynfar and I represent the people slaving in your mines.” Zofan calmly tucks his wand under the arm of his blue robe. “The ones who provide your comfortable lifestyle request an end to these constant wars against our neighbors.”

I keep my wand hidden in my pocket so I won’t turn myself into a goat or five-legged cat. Don’t need to repeat that mistake twice.

Roganvel’s brows crease. “I provide for these peasants! None starve, and many own the finest Naran horses and lavish homes. What more do they want?”

“Freedom, your highness,” Zofan replies. “Those not working the mines are forced into bloody battles where few survive.”

Roganvel rises. His rich purple robes, embroidered with red dragons, pool about his feet. “I’ve heard enough. My people don’t respect me and neither do you. Guards, remove their heads.”

I gulp. I treasure my head. It’s the only one I have.

We whip out our wands. The first guard charges forward, sword thrust out. Blue lightning flashes from Zofan’s wand and throws him into the tapestried wall. My wand produces a pathetic puff of green smoke.

Zofan points his wand at Roganvel. “My dear king, this is why the people sent us to represent them. You speak of luxuries and protection, but impose tyranny.”

The second guard aims his sword at me and lunges. My wand sparks once. I scream.  Zofan flicks his wand and blue lightning flings the guard against the throne.

“Thanks,” I murmur. How embarrassing.

Zofan shakes his head. “After all these months of training, Gwynfar, you still cannot perform the simplest spells. Try not to get hurt.”

“I make a mean porridge, though, with fresh milk and apples.”

Zofan scowls. “So can any common maid. Focus!”

“My people must learn their place,” Roganvel shouts. “You two will serve as an example.”

The third guard clanks toward us. I wave my wand and thin green lightning sizzles to the floor. The guard steps over it until he’s blown backward by Zofan’s blue strike.

An unfamiliar wizard in crimson robes slips from behind Roganvel’s throne. Red lightning leaps from the stranger’s wand and shatters a large chandelier over us. Zofan waves his wand, turning the falling pieces to drifting feathers. I shake my wand, pretending to help.

Roganvel’s raucous laugh chills my soul. “Zofan, did you think I did not know of your power? I present the great wizard, Goan.”

“We know each other well.” Goan snickers. “Right, brother?”

Brother?

Goan’s wand blazes red lightning at Zofan’s chest. Zofan gasps, then stumbles. He returns a blue blast that misses Goan and burns a hole through a potted fern. Two more of Goan’s blasts throw Zofan against Roganvel’s statue. He slides to the floor, unmoving.

A lump forms in my throat. Goan saunters in front of the throne and sneers.

Roganvel chortles. “Your mentor is defeated. You are hereby banished to the deepest, darkest mines to show what reward defiance brings. Guard, arrest him!”

Better to be arrested than handed my own head. I stand still while the guard tromps forward with chains.

Goan eyes me like a rotten egg. “Worthless apprentice trash, you made a mistake relying on my brother. Don’t risk death by using your wand.”

“Never did me much good, anyway.” I drop it on the rug.

As the guard binds my wrists, cold metal bites into my skin.

No. It can’t end this way.

I close my eyes and summon my courage. Zofan needs me. The miners need me. Time for a desperate, experimental move.

I envision the embroidered blue and purple fire-breathing dragons.

“Smokus entrenchus,” I whisper.

When I risk a peek at Goan, purple smoke billows from the rug and encompasses him. Goan coughs and waves his wand, red lightning setting a tapestry on fire. Trapped in purple smoke, he coughs again, wobbles, then falls unconscious.

Blue smoke has already enveloped the last guard. He backs away, coughing and gagging. He trips over the potted fern and collapses.

Roganvel glowers. “Very clever, young apprentice. I see that neither outlawing wizards nor destroying their spellbooks has dissuaded you. How did you learn such an ingenious spell?”

“I adapted this from dragon imagery. It’s my first time trying it in a real-life situation.”

“You’ll still fail.” Roganvel reaches for a scarlet cord to summon more guards, then stops. “I should kill you myself.”

He pulls a dagger from his robes and proceeds down the marble steps, careful to stay off the rug.

I smile. “Poor clothing choice, highness. Smokus entrenchus.”

Red smoke flows from the dragons on Roganvel’s robes. He drops the dagger to cover his face. “Desist!”

The red smoke stifles his curses. He coughs, then crumples. A weak cheer makes me turn.

Zofan leans against the king’s statue. “Well done, Gwynfar!”

I grin. Guess I’m really not worthless apprentice trash. “Let’s use these chains on Roganvel, then instate his son as king. He’ll stop these wars.”

Zofan nods, shakily standing. “Yes, let’s. Perhaps the prince will do better.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother?”

Zofan sighs. “We don’t choose our families, Gwynfar. Let’s focus on the suffering miners.”

The miners and my lousy wandwork are next on my agenda. I can’t count on everyone to wear dragons on their clothes.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Arlan Gerig has a love for fantasy and sci-fi that is often reflected in his writing. He has recently published with Havok and has a YA sci-fi novel currently under construction. Although his church’s mission trip to the poverty-stricken side of the Bahamas has been postponed twice, he hopes to go next year. Arlan lives with his wife, three kids, two dogs, a cat and a rabbit.

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