Wizards and Chickons

By Arlan Gerig

I run to the cabin, desperate to warn Zofan about our impending calamity. Maybe I shouldn’t have chosen “wizard” as my occupation. I burst inside and nearly collide with my mentor. He stops me with a scowl and folded arms.

“Gwynfar, look outside. Tell me what you see.”

I peek out the window, and my calamitous news flits from my mind like all those spells I’ve tried to memorize. “A large section of the chicken hutch is burnt. Your cooking get away from you?” I force a grin, but I’m pretty sure I know how it really happened.

Zofan shakes his head. “Your miniature dragons escaped from the barn.”

“My magic fence must have malfunctioned.” I don’t add again.

“But it wasn’t dragons that burnt the hutch. I had to deal with this while you were gone.” Zofan waves his hand and strides out the door.

I follow him to the pen for newborn chicks. A male miniature dragon lies inside. His black wings keep several chicks close to his scaly gray body.

My eyes widen. “He’s not trying to eat them.”

Flames flash from a chick’s beak. I jump back, staring at the fuzzy yellow bodies, each with a long gray tail.

“We have chickens crossed with miniature dragons!” Zofan holds up purple spotted eggshells.

I flinch. “Don’t blame me. Dragons are great escape artists. Should we call them dragochicks? Chickagons?”

“Just fix your magic fence.”

Brilliance strikes. “Chickons!”

Zofan glares. “What did you learn on your mission?”

I gulp. Right. The reason I’ve been gone for three days.

“Former-king Roganvel has hired an army since his banishment and is coming soon to slaughter us and King Rupert.”

Zofan pulls on his beard. “Why didn’t you tell me this when you arrived?”

“You distracted me with the chickons! You know how I love animals. Anyway, we have time to plan. I took our secret shortcut through the forest.”

Zofan paces, whips out his wand, and flings random blue lightning strikes. Glad they’re not aimed at me.

“The king has soldiers to protect him, but I can’t take on a whole army. Gwynfar, have you practiced your wandwork?”

I grip my wand with sweaty hands, aim at a toad, concentrate, and produce a puff of green smoke and an explosion like a thunderclap. The toad hops away.

Zofan clenches his teeth.

My cheeks grow hot. I wonder if the grocer is hiring. “The boom might scare someone to death.”

“Or make them slice off your head. Did you inform the king?”

“I sent a messenger explaining our crisis, but we have time––”

Pounding horses’ hooves cut me off, coming through the not-so-secret shortcut.

We live on the outskirts of the village, and the nearest neighbor is farther than I can run before being filled with arrows. Zofan and I hurry back inside.

Soldiers on horseback surround our cabin. Roganvel dismounts in dirty royal robes. He’s flanked by three armored soldiers. Zofan stands in the doorway, wand tucked under his arm. I stand behind him, heart pounding, and lay my wand on the mantel. It won’t do me any good.

“Zofan, I lost my kingdom because of you.” Roganvel growls like one of my dragons. “Now my son rules the land. I’ll deal with him soon enough, but first I’m here to teach you a lesson. Larg!”

A soldier clomps forward, holding a flaming torch in one hand and a sword in the other. I swallow hard. I know what comes next: fried wizards. Barbecued enchanters. Scorched sorcerers. I don’t relish the thought of any of them.

The soldiers dismount, and one thrusts his sword at Zofan. Blue lightning from Zofan’s wand blasts the soldier into the horses. The steeds buck and whinny.

Five more soldiers clank forward. They clutch battle-axes, flails, and crossbows. Zofan places his wand on the ground and slowly raises his hands.

What can I do?

I rush to the window and search the skies. Several miniature dragons fly above the barn. I curse under my breath. How did my magic fence not work?

Time for that later. I’m hoping the dragons can help us.

Nothing attracts dragons like fire and the call to dinner. I make a sound somewhere between a choking cat and a hooting barn owl. The dragons hoot-screech back and swoop between soldiers frozen in fear.

“Don’t be cowards,” Roganvel shouts. “Kill the wizards! Those dragons are harmless.”

“Do you know dragons?” Larg snaps.

A dragon flits close to the flaming torch, and Larg whacks it with his sword. The weapon glances off the gray scales, knocking the dragon into the dirt. It jumps up, growling and spitting sparks. Larg retreats a step.

The dragons circle the cabin, forcing the soldiers back. Zofan grabs his wand. A soldier swings his battle-axe, but Zofan shatters the blade with a blue zap.

I hoot to the dragon in the chicken hutch. He crashes through the pen, snarling and baring his teeth. The chicks follow him, hopping between the soldiers’ legs and breathing flames.

“We came to destroy wizards, not be roasted by fire-breathing chickens,” Larg shouts at Roganvel. “I’m out!”

“Chick-ons,” I correct him.

“I’m out, too,” echo the other soldiers. They dash to their horses and gallop away, ducking and swatting at the circling dragons.

Zofan points his wand at Roganvel. “What do you have to say, you self-righteous imposter?”

Roganvel steps backward, kicking a chick. It chirps and sets his robes on fire. He stumbles into the water trough and douses the flames.

The clank of marching soldiers is a welcome sound. A tad late, but King Rupert has arrived.

“Blast,” Roganvel says. Still dripping, he mounts his horse and bolts toward the forest. King Rupert’s soldiers spread after him like a tidal wave.

Zofan turns toward me with a proud grin. I smile back. My apprenticeship is secure, but still––maybe I can train dragons and chickons on the side.

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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