The Malicarn #3
Buck held his sword out in front as he walked over the grass, keeping pace with the men lined up beside him.
No one was overly focused on speed or accuracy, each man falling a bit behind or ahead as his attention drifted to other parts of the field.
Buck could see Kreek, in full wizard regalia, at the center of their line, holding aloft his staff.
Buck’s platoon followed up a hill, toward an old temple ruin where they were supposed to clash with a platoon from one of the other Guild chapters.
But when they arrived, they found no one else there.
Buck’s platoon wandered around the ruins for a few minutes, stepping over old stone walls and the remnants of statuary before finally deciding to continue down the hill in the direction of Kreek and the other platoons.
As they approached a line of trees, another chapter president, not dressed for today’s event, ran up to them, shouting and waving his hands.
“What are you doing?” he yelled. “You are supposed to be dead!”
“But there was no one back at the ruins for us to fight,” said Buck’s platoon commander.
“It doesn’t matter, this whole flank is destroyed. Just die now, and it will be fine.” And so, without encountering any enemies or swinging any swords, Buck’s entire platoon was wiped out. They lay down on the field and played dead for two hours.
Later that afternoon, after the potluck lunch and a series of historical speeches, Buck and Wallace agreed to walk the perimeter of the battlefield and retrieve any garbage or personal artifacts strewn across the grass.
They trekked toward the northern edge of the field.
Many Guild chapters were heading home, and Buck could hear their carts rattling back to their villages, the calls of their men echoing beyond the hills as they rode away.
The sun was setting and an orange dusk settled over the land.
Buck and Wallace split up, each canvassing a different side of a line of trees.
Buck pulled behind him a small wagon, half filled with dropped scarves and broken wood swords heaped in a messy pile.
As he bent over to pick up someone’s discarded mug of ale, a screech broke across the sky.
Right above him was a ball of fire, arcing over his head, plunging toward the earth.
Great wings, the color of emeralds, stretched out from the flames.
Buck found himself under the shadow of a dragon.
No such beast had been seen within the Malicarn for a generation.
Dragons fed off magic, and so in a land devoid of magic such creatures were scarce.
Yet here one was, falling to the ground.
Buck leapt behind a small rock and covered his head.
The ground shook when the dragon hit it, a deep groan bursting forth like a guttural scream.
Buck remained behind the rock for a long time, even as the noise calmed and all he could feel was the heat of the dragon’s breath.
Slowly he peeked over the rock and looked at the beast’s remains.
Buck did not know how dragons died, but it made sense that they would die in fire.
Where before was a grassy field was now a crater, smoking and filled with the fiery, ruinous corpse of the great creature.
Only a few visible remains of its armored hide could be seen amid the smoke.
Buck had never seen its head, could not tell from the terror in its face what had caused it pain and distress.
As he watched the smoking remains, he noticed something else.
A small figure, stumbling out of the crater.
It was a man, a mask flung down at his side, tearing open the shirt he wore and falling half naked onto the ground, a few feet from Buck.
A dragon rider. A true harnesser of magical forces.
In legends and histories nearly as powerful as the wizards themselves, and some of the wizards’ greatest enemies.
How incredible that one would come now, and fall among the Guild!
Buck rushed over to the rider, grabbed him by his arms, and dragged him behind the rock. The man was shouting, babbling in a tongue Buck could not comprehend.
“You are safe,” Buck said. “Do not worry, you are safe here.”
From the line of trees Buck saw Wallace running toward him, waving his hands and shouting.
“I am here!” Buck yelled, then looked again at the dragon rider. The man had no beard but his face was calm.
“I am safe?” the rider asked, haltingly, in a strange yet beautiful accent.
“Yes, you are safe,” said Buck. “This is the Malicarn. Don’t need worry about wizards. The Guild will protect you.”
2.
Before her lessons, Queen Hannah liked to sneak away to the royal menagerie below the stables.
The castle warden filled it with plants, animals, and birds gifted by visitors.
Hannah’s favorites were the bright colorful ones, with feathers that popped out of their heads or scales that sparkled in the sun.
There were the singing birds, who chirped sweet little melodies.
And there were the water creatures as well, frogs who hopped and swam and dove in the large pool at the center.
The whole building was made of glass, and when Hannah walked inside the air was always warm and wet.
Hannah assisted the warden with cleaning and feeding, and she liked to sit on a stone and hold out her hand full of seed as dozens of birds flocked to sit on her arm and nibble at her palm.
She lingered too long, and the stern figure of her tutor appeared outside, above on the hill, shouting her name.
“Best be off, Your Majesty,” the warden said to her, and Hannah brushed off her hands and trudged back toward the castle.
It was a winter morning, with a bit of fresh overnight snow on the ground.
Hannah’s weak leg stung in the cold, and she limped as she walked up the hill.
Her leg bothered her always, but the pain was sharper when it was cold outside.
Hannah’s tutor, an old frail man named Fennick, was responsible not just for instructing the young queen but for chaperoning her around the castle grounds, ensuring she was on time to appointments and properly dressed for royal visitors.
Fennick did not talk much about himself, though he seemed to know at least a little bit about everything related to castle life.
Hannah’s lessons took place in her private chambers, in the upper level of the castle’s old tower.
Hannah and Fennick sat on opposite ends of a small desk, reading passages together from the Book of Knowledge and discussing theology.
Hannah massaged her leg as Fennick read through a series of verses.
“This one here: ‘Ye shall not partake in the whims of the enchanter, nor learn by his side.’ And this—” He flipped to another page. “Here: ‘He that useth divination shall be cursed, as shall the witch, and the wizard, and the driver of enchanted beasts.’”
Hannah had heard the verses before. Fennick liked to read them, and today he did so with a special urgency.
He would go on long explanations about how the Malicarn was better now without magic, how her advisors had brought order and stability to the realm, unlike the reign of her father, which was full of terrors.
It was all academic to Hannah, who didn’t remember the old days of magic anyway.
“You should be happy we are rid of those times,” Fennick said. “There were terrible deeds. Wizards of all kinds; stones called dreamtalkers, which warped the minds of common men. There were horrid beasts, demons of the underworld, dragons, who—”
Fennick stopped, as if he was going to say something else, but instead he put away the book. For whatever reason, Fennick seemed reluctant to mention dragons in front of her today.
“Well, we do not worry about such things now. The Citadel is dangerous and fearsome, but it is no threat to us.” The Citadel, a black-walled castle in the west, was the home of the Necromancer. No man ever approached it, but it loomed menacingly over the valley below. So Hannah had heard.
After studying theology, Hannah and Fennick worked on arithmetic and geometry, conducted some discussion of scientific principles, and then ended with a lecture on history.
Fennick pontificated long and loud about the Great Wizarding War, the renowned acts of the Council of Heroes, and much more lore besides.
Fennick had lived through much of this historical era and could recall it in vivid detail.
“At the Battle of the Morlon Kastaun, two factions fought against one another, the Red Mages and the Blue Sorcerers. They met at a spot, in the north of the valley, where the black walls emerged from the foot of the mountain, the old wizarding temple—” Even for Fennick this was proving to be a long and digressive anecdote, since they were supposed to be discussing the history of monastic orders.
“—and one side faced against the other in the greatest display of wizarding magic the world has ever seen. The ruins of the Morlon Kastaun stand still as a monument to that slaughter.” Fennick liked to talk about wizards, no matter what the Book of Knowledge said.
Mornings were for study, but afternoons were for royal business.
Not that Hannah’s advisors needed her present.
She had just turned sixteen and so for another year, until her regency was over, she had little direct authority and her advisors managed the realm.
When she left Fennick—and was relieved that he did not insist on escorting her directly to the Privy Council—Hannah took a detour and headed for the yard to watch weapons training instead.