Chapter Nine
With that, I angle down through the sky.
Surely, I am a sight to see. Unless creatures with wings are common here, which I doubt.
They seem either robust or slight and magical in nature, though there could be fae among them.
Maybe every planet has fae, who generally look after nature.
Many fae have wings. Case in point, Salt Creek.
She has cute little wings. Anyway, with the magical dome keeping most fighters within the arena, I doubt they have ever laid eyes on an “alien” with wings, especially one bearing the prince of the realm and a chained fae creature.
My assumption is right as I alight in a grass field next to the sturdy-looking homestead.
A man’s head pops up from behind a bushel of hay.
He is holding some sort of curved farm equipment.
He’d either been hacking at the hay or gathering it up.
At any rate, the look of surprise on his wide face is undeniable.
Greet him, I command the prince.
“How do you do, fine sir?”
“Are you... the prince?”
“I am.”
I set the portly prince down and command him neither to run nor speak unless I command him to. The sprite I continue holding, since she is completely bound and helpless. Leaving the prince standing in the field, I walk closer to the man to better reach inside his head, which I do now.
I need normal clothing for the lad. Do you have something that might fit him? Also, you will speak freely and openly with me, without worry of repercussions. I will not harm you unless you try to harm me. Understood?
Understood. And yes, he’s about my size. I should have something that fits.
Be warned, there might be a magical tracking device embedded or woven within his clothing.
Then I will burn the clothing, if you think that will help.
Better to bury them far from here. On second thought, I’ll dispose of them.
I’m grateful.
Please fetch him some clothing as soon as possible. As you can see, we are not here to hurt you. We are a friendly lot.
I see that, but his father will have us killed.
That is why we live under an umbrella of magical protection.
His family and their lot are unaware of our presence.
To them, this hill is barren. My son, as it turns out, became quite a competent, though minor wizard.
Anyway, it is his spell that protects us.
They will not know of your help. Nor will they know of your existence. I promise. You are safe.
With that, he nods and trots off across the field and into the farmhouse. I hear him speaking to someone, then hear a confused woman. He returns shortly, bearing an armload of clothing.
I found these in the laundry bin. They are not yet clean, but they are comfortable and should help him remain inconspicuous, if that is a goal of yours.
It might be. I’m making this up as we go.
He wasn’t joking. The body odor emanating off them is enough to bring tears to my eyes.
No doubt the prince has never smelled such odors and will protest. I don’t really care if the odors offend him, which is why I command him to love the smell, to appreciate what it smells like to put in a hard day’s work.
With that command firmly in place, he takes hold of the farmer’s clothing, actually sniffs deeply from the dirty armpits of the linen tunic, and slips on the loose clothing, while simultaneously stripping off his royal garb.
He hands me the brightly colored royal clothing in a haphazard bundle.
I grab it, command him to wait here, and with Salt Creek in one hand and the clothing in the other, I take flight, swooping down the hill, looking for a good repository for the clothing, and find something that just might work.
Indeed, it is a rocky cleft within the hillside.
I circle it a few times, satisfied that it is indeed deep and far away from the farmer’s homestead, and drop the clothing within.
I really don’t want to be followed by Baltazar and his goons, and I really don’t want to put the farmer in harm’s way.
With that, I fly back to the farm on the hill.
There, I thank the man, commanding him to immediately forget us once we leave.
I also command the bloodthirsty prince to forget the farmer as well.
Mutual forgetting. Before I take flight with Salt Creek and Pickles in tow, it occurs to me that with the very sturdy jerkin and doublet the prince had been wearing now gone, I don’t have any way to grip him safely by the nape of the neck.
I ask the farmer if he has a coat we could use, promising to return it to him when we can.
He agrees on his own volition without any prompting from me.
After more yelling in his farm, he emerges with a coat that I am certain will be too small on the prince.
As it is, it fits snugly and provides me with a firm grip, and with that, with the prince and sprite hanging from each hand, I lift off.
Pickles now smells to high heaven, which makes me giggle, especially since he seems enchanted with the eye-watering fumes.
Now, onto my next task: lift the teleportation spell so that myself and others like me can safely go home again.
Of course, I don’t just want to flee this planet of horrors. I want to shut down the cruel Games, too. First things first, though, look for another magician to help break the cursed teleportation spell.
And there, just beyond the next hill, I spy many fingers of smoke, from many buildings. Surely, a town or village.
And there will be a wizard there? I query the lad.
Almost certainly, depending on the size. If too small, then possibly no.
How does one find such wizards?
Just look for the red roofs; it’s their calling cards.
And as we near the community, packed with ramshackle cottages, farms, tents, and shacks, I do just that: look for a red roof.
I almost give up hope until I spy one on the other side of town. In fact, it is a very brightly painted red-tiled roof. No mistaking it; also, it is the only one of its kind.
Each wizard is given a town, the boy goes on. Early in life, they must prove themselves competent and gifted. And later, wise and discerning. And of course, loyal to my father and the Dark One.
Who gives them their magical power.
Yes.
Are the wizards immortal?
No. They die of old age and must be replaced, especially if they lose their minds, which many wizards tend to do. It’s a real problem. New wizards move into the previous wizards’ homes. It’s a good system. Brings in fresh perspectives and occasionally even new magic.
Okay, I’m landing in the alley behind the home. Will he know we’re coming?
Very likely.
Well, let’s land, then act like we are citizens in need of help.
Except he would know all citizens. Oh, and you have wings and she’s bound in glowing chains. He will know something is wrong and turn you in immediately, if he doesn’t turn you into a frog first!
The wings will be gone, and there is nothing we can do about her. Perhaps I can swaddle her in a blanket, make it appear she’s a sleeping child.
She won’t be happy.
It’s better than being discovered, though she would make for a very cute frog.
Be careful, vampire. Father and Baltazar would level this town if they knew I was being hidden here.
All the better to swaddle.
We alight in the alley behind the small home.
Compared to the horrors of the arena, the place looks almost painfully ordinary.
A narrow path runs between two low stone buildings, with a weathered wooden fence stretching along one side.
A cotton blanket hangs over the top of it, likely left there to dry in the sun.
I jump up, snatch the blanket, and expertly swaddle the little wood sprite.
Pickles is right. She is not happy about it.
I shush her and remind her that I just saved her life and was, in fact, trying very hard to get us all home alive.
This seems to pacify her slightly. At least she stops kicking and resumes only glaring at me, which, considering Salt Creek, is probably the best she can do.
I assure her that once I have a handle on the situation, I will see to releasing her, but that she is, in essence, too fierce for her own good at the moment.
Luckily, whatever language communication spell that had been placed on us in the arena, is working out here, too.
So, with my wings retracted, the sprite swaddled as securely as a newborn babe, and the prince dressed in plain farmer’s clothing, we make our way down the alley toward the wizard’s home.
We find a side entrance, then knock on the heavy oak door.
Apparently, wizards are open for business 24/7, though this world has closer to twenty hour days and utilizes a five-day week, per the prince.
So, they are expected to be open 20/5. That seems excessive.
Then again, these aren’t simply people waving wands and performing party tricks.
They are healers, advisors, protectors, and, when necessary, avengers.
They care for the sick, settle magical disputes, defend towns from outside threats, and deal with dangers most ordinary people never knew existed.
In many ways, they are the doctors, shamans, and guardians of this world.
Becoming one is not easy. Wizards are highly trained, rigorously tested, and expected to carry the weight of their communities on their shoulders. And yes, they can only be male.
That said, I don’t know what to expect, though with luck, I can influence him as needed. And with that thought in mind, I knock again.