The Specialty Wizard

By Robert von Engman

Airports Bendigo used to think his biggest problem was that he was named for a road sign. That was before he was magically transported to the realm of Albemarle where creatures of fantasy are real, and Earth is just a myth known only to wizards.

Now his greatest challenge is finding a way to defeat an evil warlock, slay a vampire warlord, and rescue a kidnapped princess. And if that’s not enough, it all has to be done in a week!

A manageable task, perhaps, for the greatest of sorcerers; but how can a thirteen-year-old boy hope to succeed? And how will he keep secret the fact that he has no powers when everyone thinks he’s a specialty wizard conjured to save them all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 23, 2008
• ISBN: 9781450070089

Robert von Engman

R. L. Vaughan was inspired to write his debut novel by years spent living in the truly magical realms of Scotland and Australia. He currently lives in The Woodlands, Texas, with his wife, two daughters, and two wiener dogs.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

About the Author

For A. Barnes and L. Brown,

two old friends from a kingdom lost to time

and for

Grace Jordan and Sally Clark,

who always enjoyed my stories

Chapter 1

THE ORB

We’re doomed, Montag, announced Lenn Brown gloomily. Your spell has failed. He wrinkled his ancient dwarven face into a frown and spat into the enormous fireplace.

The sullen young man seated beside him twisted uncomfortably in his flowing robes. Be patient, he replied. "It will work. It must work."

Mallecot shoulda done it, grumbled Lenn, unconvinced.

His companion glanced over with disgust. Master Mallecot would never have done it. You know he has forbidden its use, and who can blame him, after what happened last time? He paused and looked nervously about the dark tower room. I had no choice but to cast it myself. We need help. The master is too old for the journey, and I—

Hoo. You’re too young, said Lenn, chuckling mirthlessly.

"Am inexperienced," completed Montag icily. He squirmed again and continued, addressing the fire as much as his companion.

I’ve done the right thing, he argued halfheartedly. The master always says if ever he casts a bad spell, he casts another to correct it.

Hoo! It’ll take more’n one to fix this!

Montag glared at him. That’ll be enough of that! No one must suspect what has happened! No one! Dvorchek’s name must not be mentioned! If the king were to learn of this . . .

Lenn reached down and jingled a pouch at his waist. Your master’s gold has sealed my tongue well. Too bad he can’t seal Varnac’s as easily.

That is another name, said the wizard somberly, that must not be spoken. He paused to look up into the arching gloom. "The last thing we need is to draw his attention."

As if in response, the fire collapsed in a cascade of sparks. Lenn shivered and poked at it with his broadaxe.

How can it work? he sighed, returning to the argument. The knowledge is lost. Nobody remembers how to battle the blood-gulpers.

Just because you dwarves aren’t long-lived enough to remember vampires—

"That’s dwarfs! corrected Lenn immediately. D-w-u-a, uh, f-f-s."

Montag rolled his gray eyes and pulled impatiently at his scraggly beard. Whatever. Look, it doesn’t matter whether anyone’s left from those days or not. The dragnet incantation seeks knowledge in whatever form is available. It could be a living person, but it could also come as another spell or a talisman. Anything. He straightened in his chair, apparently relishing the role of master, even if only to a renegade dwarf. And, he added, knowledgeably, it can reach beyond our reality. It can operate on any plane.

If you did it correctly, said Lenn. Hoo. Look what it drug in last time! He paused to poke again at the fire. How will we know if it works?

Montag looked at him reproachfully. I’ll know.

Well . . . You’d better know soon. It’s been a week. The moon’s already at first quarter.

The moon matters not, said Montag. Already it may be too late. The king is too grieved to lead. The master is plagued with guilt. And Varnac is surely feeding nightly now, thanks to that traitor Dvorchek.

So what do we do! growled Lenn, sick of being lectured by the apprentice.

We wait, said Montag, his voice softening. Don’t you know by now that’s what wizards do? We wait. His head bowed forward as he sank into despair.

The logs sputtered disagreeably, and pigeons cooed in the rafters. Lenn stared into the fire and sat idly, not bothering to whittle or polish, to sharpen or burnish, to use his hands in any way. Unlike most of his kind, he was remarkably unskilled, though no human craftsman could match him. He looked down at his small cracked hands. Like him, they excelled only at destroying things. Long ago, they had driven him from his clan to these humans; and soon, it seemed, they would lead him to his doom.

He thought of the spell in disgust.

What help could they possibly receive? How could they even hope to stop Varnac? The greatest evil the world had ever known was awake again, and who in all the known kingdoms could possibly stand against it?

*     *     *

Thirty-four dollars, please.

Airports Bendigo stared blankly at the clerk.

I said, that’ll be thirty-four dollars, please.

Uh, sorry. The boy blinked and pushed a wad of bills across the walnut counter. Ten of the dollars had come from his mother’s purse. She’ll kill me! he thought. And there’s no way that I can hide the thing.

Still, thirty-four dollars was a great price; he’d seen worse ones in the mall for two hundred. That would have to be his argument.

One dollar change. You want a bag? The man looked skeptically at Airports’s thin frame. Can you get this home?

Airports felt a flush of embarrassment and turned quickly to escape the critical stare. Yeah, he replied, backing up to the counter, just put it in the pack for me, and I’ll be fine.

Ah, very good! The clerk seemed to appreciate his ingenuity. He lifted the heavy marble ball gently and eased it into the open backpack, placing the small wooden pedestal on top. The bag settled with a creak and dug into Airports’s narrow shoulders.

All set, hot rod!

Thanks. He leaned forward and trudged out of the curio shop as gracefully as he could, self-conscious beneath the man’s following gaze.

He felt dazed and sick. Impulse buying always did that to him. He should have waited another week, cooled down a bit, but this had been bigger than he was from the start.

He stopped and looked at the window display of various-sized spheres. They were all interesting, but one in particular had spoken to him. Like the others, it was solid marble, its surface polished to enhance the curious colors that appeared to float in a creamy white matrix—orangey healed fractures, reddish brown swirls, limy green splotches. To Airports, it had looked like an alien world, a globe compiled from the Voyager data—Io, the pizza moon of Jupiter, perhaps. Or Miranda. Or Triton. He had to have it; there could be no other answer.

The shopkeeper had called it an orb.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t the kind of thing that would interest most thirteen-year-old boys. But then, most thirteen-year-olds didn’t have a forty-volume library on vampirism or a trophy in fantasy gaming.

At the thought, Airports suddenly felt self-conscious and odd. He was regretting the purchase more and more. What in heaven’s name had compelled him to buy it?

He crossed Main Street and proceeded down the alley beside the hardware store, around an overgrown lot and through a large culvert with dripping water and round-bellied spiders and clouds of tiny white gnats. He made it a point to know the shortest and safest ways home. It was essential knowledge when your name was Airports and you were small for your age and you moved a lot.

Airports’s father was a computer programmer. His job had taken his family many places over the years, some overseas and exotic. These mostly occurred before Airports was born or when he was very young, so their impact on him was subtle and subconscious, except for one very big thing. His name.

Airports had had the extremely improbable luck of being born in a taxicab on a highway west of Melbourne, Australia. That in itself wasn’t so bad, only it happened to be beneath a large road sign indicating the way to the two airports and the city of Bendigo. Since their last name happened to be Bendigo, the cab driver had claimed it was a sign, pun intended. Airports liked to fantasize about tracking that driver down and killing him.

An elm-lined avenue marked their neighborhood. He returned to the sidewalk and slowed his pace. He needed time to refine his argument. The orb was a bargain, but he knew what his mother would say. She’d quote Uncle Sax. It’s not a bargain if you don’t need it. But he did need it. Why was another question, one he hadn’t yet figured out.

Funny that his favorite was the only one he could afford.

Maybe it was just luck, but luck in these things usually went the other way. Most of the time when he saw something he liked, they’d either stopped making it, or you could only get it overseas or something else just as inconvenient.

Walking with his head down fretting on this, he didn’t see the bully until he was right on top of him. The Bradely boy rose like a bad moon from behind the fender of his dad’s gigantic SUV, sponge in hand, arm muscles glistening wetly. Rivulets of water meandered down the driveway and spilled into the street; the vehicle shone like a mirror. Airports would normally have noticed these signs, but his normal vigilance had deserted him.

The bully grinned wickedly at the welcome diversion and moved out to block the sidewalk.

Carports! Just the person I wanted to see. He squeezed out the sponge with an exaggerated motion and tossed it into a bucket.

Uh, hi, Billy, said Airports, trying to sound nonchalant and unafraid.

The bully paused to look him over like a salad bar, ticking off possible tortures from a rapidly constructed list.

Watcha got in the bag, Bus Terminal? he demanded shortly, pointing lazily at the small tan backpack.

Crap, thought Airports, he doesn’t miss a beat. The weight of the pack made him feel slow and vulnerable.

Nuthin! he replied, too quickly. Just schoolbooks, PE gear. You know, dirty socks and stuff. And my name’s Airports.

Uh-huh. Must be some mighty heavy underpants, Train Station. Billy’s meaty face twisted into a sneer. Looks like it’s about to tip your wormy butt over.

Airports smiled wanly. Yeah . . . I guess.

How ’bout I lighten it up for you? The boy stepped toward him threateningly.

Airports tried to push by. Look, there’s nothing in there, and I’m late! he said, a little too loudly. I’ve got to go.

The larger boy grabbed his arm and spun him around. You can play with your dolls later, he sneered. Lemme see the bag! He started tugging at a shoulder strap.

Airports snatched his arm away as his mind went white. Billy glared at him from the end of a rapidly narrowing tunnel. A ringing began in his ears. Acid burned his stomach, and tears welled to blur his vision.

Then as always, something clicked in his head. Something broke loose and rose to the surface as if through dark water, and the familiar sound of it cresting returned him to his senses.

"Let’s go! Now!" Billy was getting worked up. Airports gave him a detached look and knew he couldn’t oblige. Normally in such moments, his mind behaved oddly. He would see an antagonist not as a bully—a hated enemy—but as a simple force of nature, something to be dealt with but not judged.

This time, however, it was different. Something personal intruded. Something angry. There was a sudden overpowering urge to protect the pack. Like some twisted maternal instinct, it writhed inside him, flailing against his insides and tearing loose years of suppressed anger, years of frustration. It was far more than an absence of fear; it was a surge of power and wild freedom.

Gooseflesh rose, and deep within him, something alien smiled a terrible smile. He removed the pack.

Billy Bradely smiled triumphantly and held out his hand. Airports strained embarrassingly to hand him the heavy pack. Then just as the other boy’s fingers began to close around it, he let go. It was a common mistake; it could have happened to anyone.

Billy Bradely always washed cars in flip-flops. Airports knew this without looking. The boy howled in pain and rage as the loaded backpack fell on top of his exposed left foot. Airports didn’t hesitate. He snatched up the bag and ran, mumbling an apology for good measure.

It was like running in a dream. Or through clear molasses.

Slow enough unencumbered, he knew there was no way he could beat a junior high sprinter while lugging his heavy burden. The righteous anger fled him, and he was himself again, suddenly occupied with the task of pure survival. The remnants of the alien part of him hoped the foot injury was serious, but the rational part simply prayed for enough lead time to complete his plan.

He knew where to go. He had also learned the most dangerous ways home.

Two houses down, he cut through a yard and pulled up at a redwood gate. He didn’t want to stop, but it was necessary, and it served his purpose. Struggling back into the pack, he watched as Billy caught sight of him and altered course. All signs of injury were gone.

The stout boy bore down on him like an angry cannonball. There was a moment of frightened paralysis at the sight, and then Airports pushed through the gate and into a spacious suburban backyard. A crab apple tree hugged the far fence.

He hustled toward it, the orb slamming hard into the small of his back and threatening constantly to unbalance him. Four feet from the trunk, he leaped into the framework of twisting branches and scrambled up them with an ease Tarzan would have envied. It was the type of skill one develops with repetition and a mad rush of adrenaline.

On the far side of the small tree, a horizontal limb extended over the fence. Airports eyed it but knew he would never make it in time. On cue, Billy burst through the gate and spotted him immediately. He was trapped, but it didn’t matter. He looked down and smiled.

Beneath the tree, an enormous black dog stared silently up at him. Aroused too late to catch Airports, it turned to face the new arrival. The presence of Doberman blood was unmistakable.

Despite the commotion, the dog merely stood and stared. Not one part of it moved. Not the ears, not the eyes, not the tip of its tail. Billy was just as still and just as quiet; but Airports, perched in the tree, could see his throat work in a dry swallow.

Billy, he whispered sharply, trying to sound sincere, run!

A sudden tremor passed through Billy as mind and muscle debated the advice. Muscle won, and he turned and pushed off with astounding speed.

It was the worst thing he could have done.

The dog tore after him without a sound, its back claws ripping up tufts of grass, its jowls flapping. Even Airports, safe in the tree, had to shiver at the terrifying sight. Billy slammed the gate as he passed, but it bounced open again comically, and the dog passed through without breaking stride. In less than a second, both boy and dog rounded the house and were gone.

His alertness restored, Airports wasted no time in crawling out over the fence and making his escape. Minutes later, he ducked into his own backyard, smiling inwardly and crowing at his own cleverness. Bendigo-the-Brave, he thought proudly, using his role-playing name, can have the best of any knave!

Then he saw the silhouette in the upstairs window. Yarra! She was in his room again!

His mother had let her in—no doubt about it. When would she learn it was his room, not the living room? He leaned against his burden and rushed into the house, muttering Stupid, pompous, pain-in-the-neck neighbor over and over under his breath.

They didn’t get along, but their parents did. Football games, dinners out, dinners in, camping; it didn’t matter what, Yarra was there to ruin it. Sometimes, they got along, at least for the short duration of a pillow fight or a good movie; but then the differences returned. Yarra was popular and had her clique. There was a certain protocol that had to be maintained.

Outside his door, he paused to take a deep breath and then rushed into the room. She was there all right, standing with her back to him.

Fearing one of her gambits, he challenged the center immediately. What are you doing in here? he demanded.

Over for dinner—spaghetti, I’m sure. We had planned to go out for a real meal. She turned around, and Airports almost gasped out loud. She was holding and fingering his diorama of Nosferatu stalking up a staircase.

Be careful! he shouted, rushing toward her. You’ll break it!

It was a stupid tactic, but it was his favorite model, and he couldn’t restrain himself. Nosferatu’s pointy ears were particularly fragile.

The girl’s response was to fix him with teasing blue eyes and stroke all the harder on the model’s bald resin head, her lips pressed tightly together for emphasis. There was nothing he could do to stop her, not that he wanted to antagonize her further—that usually made things worse.

His mind raced through his options. Best to try misdirection—take one toy away by offering another. He shrugged off the pack and rolled the marble sphere onto his bed with a flourish.

Look what I bought! he announced, smiling broadly.

She glanced at the bed and looked away indifferently. He hated showing her the orb, but at least, she couldn’t hurt it. As an afterthought, he kept a tight grip on the pack to protect its remaining contents from her prying eyes and hands.

Killer decor, she said sarcastically as she strolled around observing the plain wooden shelves and posters that covered the plasterboard walls. All the flat places—the shelves, desktop, bureau top, window ledges—were covered with plastic and epoxy models and dioramas of a macabre nature. Werewolves and mummies, graveyards and ghouls menaced the lowest shelf. Role-playing figurines, tiny pewter orcs and goblins, patrolled among them. There was a ceramic skull, a rubber mask, replicas of the Isle of Lewis chessmen, dozens of books on fantasy gaming, even more on vampirism—all lovingly arranged in a precise order that never varied from house to house, town to town.

She paused before a six-foot poster of the scantily clad comic heroine Vampirella. For God’s sake, get a life will you? You’re getting too old for this stuff. You should be interested in cars or football or something. Or girls. She frowned at the poster. Real girls.

Airports winced. He didn’t like being reminded that he didn’t have a girlfriend. What did people expect of him, anyway? They moved so much, and he was only thirteen for crying out loud!

Yarra continued to clip about the hardwood floor in her ridiculous little heels, the pampered princess preaching to the pauper.

If you knew half as much about girls as you do about ghosts and goblins— She paused to squint at a yellowed print of molars and incisors, drawn in rows and labeled with letters and numbers. What’s this?

Airports answered her without enthusiasm. It’s a copy of an eighteenth-century lithograph. I ordered it from the Smithsonian catalog.

Yes, but what is it?

A vampire teeth chart.

She sniffed loudly and shook her head. That’s exactly what I’m talking about! Really, when are you going to grow out of this?

She was parroting her parents now, and it made Airports bristle. They had a lot of money, but so what? Her dad was a lawyer. That sort of cancelled things out.

There’s nothing wrong with this! he snapped, losing his cool.

She’d done it to him again. He’d try to argue, but she’d just smile and roll her eyes, and he’d get flustered and babble like a fool. Then he’d get mad at himself, and it would be all the worse. Putting up with it at school was bad enough, but here in his inner sanctum . . .

Lot’s of people are interested in the occult—and don’t say it—not just nerds! We’re both smart. You know that. You know I’m right.

Yeah, that oughta shut her up. Sheep.

She smiled and rolled her eyes. Lots of people? Name one.

Airports’s mind went south. Drop dead.

She sneered and turned to his bookcase. That’s no way to treat company, Bus Terminal.

God he hated that nickname. Curse that Billy Bradley. He remembered the dog and smiled. Maybe Yarra wasn’t so tough either.

She grew silent as she studied his treasures and reloaded. Airports took an anxious breath as she reached up and began fondling some figurines. He wished he could call for backup.

What do you see in this stuff? she asked, sounding strangely sincere. It caught him off guard.

It’s fun. You should try it some time.

You don’t have to be odd to have fun. Lots of other things are fun.

Like what? Football? Broken bones and dislocated knees are tons of fun. And I’m too short for basketball, and Little League’s only in the summer! He was talking faster and faster now. Lord, here we go. You can find gamers in any town. They might be Poindexters, but they’ll cut you a break. They don’t care what you look like or how much money you’ve got! He took a ragged breath. Yarra was staring at him with amusement, eyes wide and mouth open in feigned amazement. It was infuriating.

You don’t understand! he continued, still out of breath. "It’s easy for you to make friends, you’re a girl! You just go out for cheerleading or flirt with the boys or get your mom to take you out and buy you all the right fashions. My mom takes me to Sears and tries to come into the fitting room for crying out loud!" A stinging pricked at his eyes, and he turned away quickly. This was getting out of hand.

Just go away, he said huskily, his voice breaking. He didn’t need this aggravation. Ever since he’d started school, she’d been on his case. He knew all about kids that needed to pick on others to feel good about themselves, but this seemed to go beyond that. Yarra was wealthy and popular, yet strangely enough, she seemed continuously jealous of him.

A wet upwelling surged inside him. I don’t believe it, he thought. I’m crying! That’s all I need! He forced down a deep breath. What was this all about? He’d been edgy and emotional all week. Ever since he first saw the orb. He looked down. It lay among the covers like some great egg ready to hatch. But hatch what?

Amazingly, his heartfelt outburst had affected Yarra as well. She was lecturing now, sounding sincere but feeling superior. He knew the routine well. It was galling, but at least she was on his side, providing helpful advice rather than criticism. He rubbed his eyes as nonchalantly as possible and turned to face her with a sigh.

Oh, Bendigo, it’s not your fault the way things turned out. You’ve got every right to be a nerd. She began counting on her fingers, ticking off the points. Born in a taxi on the side of a road, named for the signpost above it by your goofy parents, always the new kid. If I was in your position . . . well, if I was in your position . . .

She stopped abruptly. Airports looked from his shoes to her face. Her eyes flitted toward the bed, and he saw her pupils dilate with a disturbing rapidness. He turned and saw the orb, nestled heavily in his quilt, glowing with soft amber light. Surely, it was a trick of the setting sun, but a glance at the window showed otherwise. The glow was internal, not a reflection. Light was seeping from the stone, diffuse and hazy, like sunlight through a dusty room.

As they watched transfixed, the light seemed to focus, to sharpen and brighten. It began to dance deep in the heart of the orb, pulsing and flickering spasmodically as if laboring to be born. Blades of radiance stabbed coldly at the curving walls. As it struggled, its efforts became more and more frantic—urgent and desperate. An angry captive star, it splashed the sheets with warmth and painted the walls with color. With a glorious final surge, the light escaped the confining sphere and poured over them, pushing like the wind, burning away all sight and sound, all smell and thought—encompassing them with nothingness. There was a moment of intense cold followed by a sickening spin before the light pulled back—a physical thing—sliding over their skin and plucking at their hair like static.

Through blurry eyes, Airports watched the light pulse and ebb until it drew back into itself, shifting from hard to soft, from clear to cloudy. It was contained now within a transparent ball, a crystal ball. As the light faded, the glassy surface seemed to fog over and harden, to swirl with creamy whites shot through with flashes of color—iron-stained fractures, brown blobs, greenish splotches. With a final twinkle, the motion ceased, the colors froze, and Airports stared at a polished marble globe. He recognized it as his own—but nothing else was familiar.

He rubbed his eyes. They were no longer in his room, and they were not alone.

Chapter 2

THE TOWER

Liquid shadows leaped about, sliding over high stone columns, swimming over shelves of books and stacks of scrolls, merging and molding with strange faces. Flames crackled in a cavernous fireplace, barely lighting the high-vaulted room.

Airports sneezed violently. The air was sharp and electric, full of ozone and anticipation. There was a scuffle behind him and a sharp intake of breath he recognized as Yarra’s. She was staring openmouthed beyond him. Across a small round table supporting the orb was a young man: blondish, shockingly pale even in the warm firelight, with the scraggly beard of a teenager and a ridiculous pointed hat—sky blue with yellow crescent moons and stars.

The young man seemed in awe of them. He kept looking from Airports to Yarra to the globe, his mouth ajar, his eyes wide.

To his left was a shaggy stump of a figure, thickly bearded and darkly greasy, with snags of teeth showing and flinty eyes glinting like coal, shining like the massive axe that rested between his booted feet.

In the corner behind Airports, Yarra cowered among a curtain of cobwebs, her eyes wide and white and frightened. He felt a surge of pity and surprised himself by backing toward her in a protective gesture. There was a movement in the arched doorway to his left. A tall figure appeared and seemed to glide into the room. Blue robes, white beard, fierce eyes, pointed hat.

Airports couldn’t help but think of Merlin.

The wizard glared at him, and Airports wilted. Then the stare shifted to the thinly bearded youth, who also shriveled beneath the blistering gaze.

"Montag! The voice rolled like thunder, as loud and stern as Airports’s gym teacher. What have you done?"

The young wizard flinched, snatched off his pointy hat, and began wringing it before him with both hands. M-master, I . . . I only sought to . . . He jerked his head frantically toward Airports, his mouth working soundlessly, his arm gesturing. Master Mallecot! he shouted, regaining his composure, "May I present, the vampire slayer!"

Airports felt his jaw drop and his head spin. He swallowed dryly. They were looking at him!

The tall wizard leaned forward and squinted as if he had only then noticed the two children cowering near the wall. His eyebrows crawled together like two caterpillars and slowly unknotted as his face relaxed. His beard twitched nervously.

These? he asked, looking at them in disbelief. These are creatures capable of slaying Varnac?

Montag spoke up, trying desperately to save face. No! It was the boy I first saw in the crystal. The girl is . . . a mistake.

"I would say they are both a mistake! snapped the big wizard. A mountain range of wrinkles sprang up on his brow. You can’t really expect this boy to challenge Varnac?"

The dwarf smiled raggedly and hooted softly like an orangutan. Hoo! He’s too frail. He ducked his head and looked sheepishly from wizard to wizard. Airports felt his cheeks flush. Yarra even managed a peep of a laugh. To think he was trying to defend her!

The larger wizard considered a moment and then turned on Montag, his gray eyes flaring up like egg whites. And who gave you permission to use the orb? He placed an oversized hand atop the marble sphere.

The orb. The thrill of sudden realization passed through Airports.

But, Lord, Montag pleaded, his voice nasal and whiny, I thought it would please you. You . . . You know we are ill-equipped to deal with this threat. I . . . I merely sought knowledge, enlightenment. I did no more than you taught . . . Am I never to think on my own? Act on my own?

At the challenge, the large wizard seemed to swell in size, his shadow clawing up the wall, consuming the light and engulfing the room in inky dark. I never taught you to disobey! To act foolishly! With impatience! By the Ethyrean Seas, have you learned nothing of the true lessons I teach?

Airports watched the young man’s Adam’s apple bob like a fishing cork before taking advantage of the argument to turn and confer with Yarra. Keeping an eye on the dwarf, he leaned over and whispered, Are you all right?

She whispered back, her voice wavering but with typical undercurrents of surly anger. What’s going on!

Airports took a deep breath before answering. Somehow . . . Somehow, I think we’ve been transported here by the orb. Look at the pedestal and everything—it’s just like the one I bought today.

Yarra didn’t bother to look. She stared at him a moment before heaving a sigh and rolling her eyes. I must be insane! I forgot who I was dealing with! She looked away. This has got to be a dream. I must be dreaming! She began pinching at her bare forearm, painting a trail of angry red splotches.

Airports grabbed her hand. Stop it! he hissed. Look around! Everything’s in color! People don’t dream in color!

"I do! she whispered sharply, yanking her hand away. At least, I think I do." Her face went slack as she searched her memories. She turned toward the wall again, oblivious of the matted webs.

Airports gave her some time as he searched his own feelings. He was still remarkably calm, the eye of a hurricane, relaxed and unshakable. This world seemed perfectly natural to him, familiar even.

Yarra’s honey-colored hair shimmered in the orange light, and he realized she was trembling. He dropped his backpack, placed a hand on her shoulder, and whispered in her ear.

Listen. All of this seems to be about me. You just got pulled along for the ride. He paused a moment, deciding how to proceed. "Momma, your father, the principal back at Oakleigh, they’ve all said I have a special talent. I don’t know what they meant, but they all said it at one time or another. The same exact words. I don’t know, maybe I’ve got some kind of destiny or something."

He immediately regretted opening up to her. The girl’s face turned toward him, rotating into the light like the surface of some malevolent moon, her eyes sharp and eyebrows arched skeptically.

"Destiny? You’ve been watching too many movies, you roach-faced monkey butt. You’re just a geek living in a fantasy world!"

Airports bristled. "In case you haven’t been keeping up with current events, where do you think we are? A fantasy world! See—he pulled her around to face the room, gesturing as he spoke—dwarf over there, wizard over here, another wizard over there, leather books, skulls, pointy hats, castle walls—"

He stopped abruptly. The wizards had grown silent and were staring at them.

The dwarf spoke up, matter-of-factly, his voice amazingly deep for such a shallow frame. "Way I figure, he must be important. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here. He paused to duck his head and twist his mouth into a smirk, ‘Less Monty here’s made a mistake. Hoo."

The young mage fixed a harsh gaze on the dwarf who took it without flinching.

Yeah, I reckon, added Mallecot absently, stroking his flowing white beard. Montag seems to have handled the procedure adeptly. He paused to stare at his apprentice. And what, exactly, did you ask for?

Montag came to attention. Sir, I directed the orb to find a solution to our . . . problem.

Mallecot continued to stare. Hrmph! Did you now? And didn’t I warn you about nonspecific commands? Magic is exacting! Imprecision leads to catastrophe!

He paused to catch his breath. After a few tense moments, he sighed and spoke again.

Still, he mused, tilting his head toward Airports, "there must be something of value here. Yet can we trust him any more than the other?" He moved toward Airports with a satiny rustling of robes.

Who be ye! he bellowed, speaking formally. Airports found the tone hard to resist or ignore and wondered if there was magic in it.

I’m . . . I’m . . . Airports Bendigo, he stammered. He never liked making that announcement and braced for the inevitable response. It didn’t come. Strange names, he guessed, were normal here. He liked the place already.

And this? The wizard looked disapprovingly at Yarra.

She’s—her name is Yarra. Yarra Burnley. We’re from America. He included the latter for good measure, realizing it was a meaningless addition. We . . . uh, come in peace.

He stretched out his hand instinctively to shake hands, and as he did, his watch slipped from beneath the cuff of his jacket. At once, the big wizard drew back with a gasp.

Montag, he whispered hoarsely, "what have you done?"

Airports, arm still outstretched, glanced at his watch and back at the agitated mage. It’s just a watch, he explained, turning the dial toward Mallecot. It’s for telling time. Sort of like a sundial. It’s nothing to be scared of. It’s . . . it’s kind of like . . . the magic of my world.

Mallecot ignored him.

Send him back, he rasped at Montag. Send him back now!

It was Montag’s turn to look horror stricken.

But . . . But, Master, you said I handled this adeptly. The orb chose him. You know this!

Don’t argue, said Mallecot flatly. Do it!

Montag swished about in his robes, looking to the left and right as if for an answer. He froze suddenly, apparently finding it. Airports, shocked and dismayed by the sudden turn of events, found he was inwardly cheering.

I understand, Montag began, speaking calmly and with respect. It is an important lesson. He changed his voice slightly to quote, If ever you cast a bad spell, cast another to correct it.

His eyes cut over slowly toward Mallecot, who frowned fiercely and then relaxed with a sigh.

Well spoken, he said quietly. We shall continue down this course. But I will watch things closely. He tilted his head to the side to look down at Airports and Yarra.

Strange, he murmured.

Talk about strange, said Montag, hurrying around the small table to join them. Look at his hair. He reached up and patted at Airports’s short spiky cut. He’s like a little hedgehog! Montag’s own hair was shoulder length as was the older wizard’s and the dwarf’s.

Airports held still, not knowing what else to do, as the men began to warm to them—approaching, poking, asking questions. Yarra tried to hide behind Airports but kept spilling over to one side or the other.

What kinda boots are these? asked the dwarf, waddling forward and tapping Airports’s sneakers with the flat of his broadaxe. Up close, he looked even more cartoonish—a reddish beard with feet—Yosemite Sam without the rootin’ tootin’ vocabulary. Hair grew all the way up his face, practically sprouted from his eyes, poured from his ears and nose. It was flecked with gray, and from his few snags of teeth and murky brown eyes, Airports guessed he was fairly mature—for a dwarf.

They’re just basketball shoes. See, you pump on this orange ball to fill them with air. It makes them fit snug. He bent over and demonstrated.

Amazing! exclaimed Montag. You are surely wizard material, then?

Yarra had had enough.

He’s no wizard! she spat over Airports’s shoulder. Where are we? What are we doing here? What do you want with us? She spoke bravely, but Airports noticed a quiver of fear near the end.

Montag started to answer but froze. His mouth, half open, began to droop as his jaw slackened. His eyes took on a dreamy, soft-focus aspect.

Airports had seen the look before. So had the mage’s master.

An enormous slab of a hand cuffed the apprentice in the right ear, sending his hat sailing and splaying his hair about his head. The dwarf let out another hoot and chuckled softly. The big wizard bellowed again.

"UN-BE-LIEV-ABLE! Have I chosen an apprentice so vacuous headed as to be dumbfounded by simple beauty? And what would be your response if she were a foul-fanged snotgobbler rather than a golden-haired princess? Would you throw your hat at her and run?"

The young apprentice’s color improved dramatically as he blushed. Airports thought it was a mean thing to do, humiliating him like that. But a wizard’s training would have to be strict, he guessed; and at least, it shut Yarra up. She’d no doubt spend the next few minutes quietly listening to a mental echo of golden-haired princess.

Funny, he’d never considered her anything but hateful and immature; and after all, she was only fourteen. But this was obviously—very obviously—a different world, a medieval world. Maybe fourteen wasn’t so young here. Maybe it was marrying age. The thought disturbed Airports, and he felt a stirring appreciation for the seriousness of their situation.

Montag trotted sheepishly into the dark corner to retrieve his hat and returned with head bowed. Seeing Airports’s sneakers, he stopped and risked an upward glance with furtive eyes.

Forgive me, he said. I have handled this badly. Permit me to introduce myself, I am Montag, and I am at your service. This is my master, the imperial wizard Mallecot, defender of the realm of Albemarle.

With that, he bowed deeply, sweeping the dusty floor with his cap as his arm swung before him, pendulum-like, to settle clasped against his chest. An insulted snort rang out from behind him, and he added, still bowed and with a distinct deadpan, And that is Lenn Brown, a dwarf.

Lenn tapped the shaft of his broadaxe sharply on the floor in reply. Montag rose in a flourish and reached out to take Yarra’s hand. She pulled it back instinctively then paused and eased it demurely toward him, placing the other on Airports’s shoulder for balance. The look on her face made his stomach turn.

Montag kissed the back of her hand sweetly and then placed it to his forehead for a long moment. Yarra breathed sharply and tried to suppress a nervous giggle. Montag released the hand and straightened.

Truly, you speak as one high-born. I should have realized. Please forgive my indiscretion.

She giggled again, and Airports shrugged off her hand with a jerk of his shoulder. She speaks like a witch! he exploded. "She’s no more a princess than I’m a wizard!"

He regretted the outburst immediately. Hadn’t his Uncle Sax, Sincere Sax the car dealer, taught him the importance of concealment in negotiations? He could endanger them both with talk like that.

Only the dwarf had not been taken aback. Hoo? If that’s what witches look like where you come from, I can’t wait to see the nymphs!

Airports felt his stomach squirm again in discomfort as the pressure of their eyes fell upon him. Who knew how important it was for him to be important? Their safety, and ultimate return home, might depend on his perceived station. And there was something more, there was a deep-set need in him to feel important. To be important.

He could hear Uncle Sax. Over 80 percent of dealing is acting. Nothing but hollow posturing. Think of bargaining this way and it’s fun—a game.

The fire popped loudly, providing a distraction. He looked over at it, took a deep breath, and unfocused his eyes—one of the secrets of public speaking—before turning on the dwarf with all the bored disdain he could muster.

"Oh, of course, she’s a princess. And I am a wizard. I was just making a . . . joke. He paused to shake his head in exasperation. I swear!"

Mallecot looked down at him with a pinched face. "I don’t believe I care for your humor, wizard or not. In Albemarle, we learn to keep a civil tongue in our heads from an early age. Earlier than you."

Airports suppressed the urge to blurt out, Yes, sir!

Yarra shot him a strange look. He knew she was bursting to expose him, but that would mean giving up her newly acquired crown as well. He was actually impressed that she had the presence to grasp that fact—what with all that was going on.

Mallecot continued to stare at him, and Airports felt naked and uneasy. The wizard was sizing him up, applying a critical eye he hadn’t bothered to employ on a mere boy just moments before. Airports knew better than to meet his gaze. Like magnets placed pole to pole, he felt an unbearable need to scoot away, to change the subject.

Why . . . Why are we here? he asked weakly, hoping to divert the nosy wizard.

I will answer that, Mallecot, the voice echoed from the arched stairwell, noble and proud but strangely sad. Shadows climbed the wall and merged into a silhouette. Airports could make out the jagged points of a crown.

The wizards and dwarf bent forward rapidly, their robes swishing, the axe rasping the floor. Airports and Yarra stood tall and watched.

I am Duncan, ruler of this realm, said the figure, stepping into the half circle of firelight. "And you are here to save it!"

*     *     *

King Duncan was the most handsome man Airports had ever seen. His face was masculine without being rugged, wise without being old, intelligent without being refined. His silver beard was trimmed in smart, dramatic angles that promised decisiveness; his expression was distant without being aloof. His purple robes of state were lined at collar and cuff with fine white fur. A jewelled crown rested regally on his brow. He nodded solemnly at Airports, and Airports could not help but do likewise.

Unbidden, Montag began dragging a heavy chair forward, but the king waved him off and shuffled to the mantle. He leaned on it a moment and then lifted his eyes toward Mallecot. I’m correct, am I not? he asked. You have indeed conjured an answer to this threat?

The big wizard gave a terse nod but said nothing. The room grew still as the king stared down into the fire, the silence broken only by the rude hiss and pop of green wood.

Airports studied him without staring openly. Duncan’s bearing was undeniably noble, but there was a weary slump to his shoulders. Facial lines showed like chasms in the stark light; his eyes held a wild, harried look. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Generations ago, he began softly, forcing Airports to step