Wand: A Fantasy of Witches, Wizards, and Wands

Acting on a split-second decision, fueled by the dregs of adrenaline, Nick darted to the left, behind the great pine trunk.

The shaga, while not skidding to a stop as Nick had intended, did hesitate for the briefest of moments. Its sudden indecision caused it to falter in its steps. Tangling on its legs, it tripped. Two-thousand pounds of armored meat heaved to and crashed into the trees against which Nick had, only two seconds earlier, been using as props. Like toothpicks to the strength of a man the trees snapped before the force of the tumbling shaga.

Nick still had his hands over his ears, crouched into a ball a few feet away from the panting beast when a man came striding out of the dense forest, bearing a bejeweled sword in his hands. Its gems glinted against torchlight held aloft by other people in the trees.

Instantly noticing the enchanted sigils and gemstones decorating the sword, and the iron-forged chain comprised of talismans and charms slung rakishly over the man’s shoulders, Nick recognized him as a warlock in full battle dress, and his enchanted sword as a stang, one of John Dee’s Eight Weapons of Magic, and the most powerful weapon in a wizard’s arsenal.

With the shaga struggling to stand, the swordsman exploded into action, breaking into a jog, stang poised in thick, spiked gloves, lips moving in the manner of a spell-weaving chant.

It seemed impossible that something—a man no less—might get the jump on the world’s most powerful predator, but Nick watched enthralled as the battle-mage jumped onto and leaped from a boulder, driving his stang straight into the great beast. Even more improbably, the man had managed to position it directly into a narrow fissure between the body plates.

An unholy howl burst from the shaga, chest-rumbling but dreadfully hoarse, as if its lungs had been pierced, which Nick supposed—with no pity whatsoever—that they had.

It took a long time for the shaga to die; as it thrashed and roared, magma spurted out of its wound. The warlock released his hold on the weapon and backed away. The stang began to glow red-hot. Heat waves roiled. Even from ten feet away Nick was forced to retreat or else risk second-degree burns. Some of the split remnants of the trees the shaga had decimated caught fire, the pieces closest to it bursting into flame. A short warlock doused the flames with a fire extinguisher.

The sight of such a modern contrivance in the employ of the worlds’ oldest and most defiantly unchanged defensive order inspired a manic laughing fit in Nick. He wondered if they had machine guns too.

By the time the shaga stopped moving, all that remained of the blade that had claimed its life was the melted misshapen handle, a single red bloodstone unaffected by the heat.

Treating him as if he were a damsel in need of rescuing, the valiant warlock helped Nick up. He ground salt into the ego-wound by patting Nick on the back. “You’re safe now, boy.” He straightened up and rakishly introduced himself. “Michael Delving, at your service.”

Eyeing the man, a terrible realization occurred to Nick. “That was awfully good timing.”

Michael Delving, warlock extraordinaire, waved this aside. “We know what we’re do—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Nick interrupted, rage now replacing fatigue. “You arrived just in time to deliver the death-stroke. Almost as if you were lying in wait, hunting it, waiting for me to bring the brute to your feet.” He paused to take a breath and rub a tender shoulder. “Almost as if you were using me as bait.”

The man did not answer, but simply stood there staring down his crooked nose at Nick.

“Let me guess,” Nick said. “You got Duchaine’s call that we were in trouble. You used a seeing stone or maybe one of you even borrowed into a bird or something to locate me. You located me” here he pitched his voice carefully so they wouldn’t miss the undercurrent of sarcasm “came within sight, probably spotted me running into the cabin, scared out of my mind. Then you waited. You waited until I led it out here. And when it was completely focused on me, you knew it wouldn’t be expecting you.”

“The boy is sharp,” an old warlock said in a raspy voice.

“What is wrong with you people?” Nick practically shrieked. “It’s like you’re perfectly fine using a kid to bait a frigging monster!”

“This isn’t our first rodeo, boy,” Michael Delving boasted. “We had it under control.”

Shaking his head, Nick told them about Molly. Before his teenage angst even had a chance to dissipate, he watched disgustedly as two of the three warlocks marched over to the ruined cabin, helped Molly out of her whirlpool, and then proceeded to perform the Mesmer on her. While Michael restrained Molly, the elder warlock held some kind of burning incense up to her nose. The tiny tendrils of smoke swiftly calmed Molly down. Now that she was in a relaxed state, the warlocks employed autosuggestion on her. By their words Nick could tell they were specifically targeting her memory of the shaga attack.

A few minutes later Michael came striding over to Nick. “Don’t worry about her. She accidentally left her fire grate open, letting a spark jump out and light her cabin on fire.” Here he grinned, displaying a fine set of faded-to-yellow teeth.

“What are you—”

Nick was interrupted by a sudden loud whoosh. The other warlock had dropped his torch onto a pile of newspapers, lighting the wreckage. Molly sat crying into her hands a few yards away.

Within minutes an inferno blazed.

The three battle-mages stood watching it for a while. Apparently they were making sure the blaze wasn’t going to spread to the surrounding foliage. Nick only reluctantly turned his attention from the mesmerizing fire when he heard the elder warlock call his name.

“It’s time to go, Nick,” the man said, slinging a rope-harness around his shoulders.

He and the other man had hogtied the shaga. Its body had cooled, giving it an ashy dark appearance that contrasted greatly with its former (terrifying) glory. As they started dragging it, Nick realized they’d placed some sort of skied cart beneath it. How they’d managed to construct it so quickly and hoist up the behemoth to position it was a complete mystery to him. Plus, he could not figure how it helped them lug a one-ton behemoth.

Must be magic, he thought with more than a bit of irony. He supposed warlocks had ways and magic they didn’t teach at the Institute.

He set one foot forward and followed the battle-mages.

“Don’t worry about Molly,” the elder man said. “Her insurance will cover the damages, and she’ll never recall how a shaga somehow managed to decimate her cabin.”

“Is it that strange that a shaga should do that?”

The other warlock, whom they called Arthur Penrose and who was barely older than Nick, answered, “This far south it is. The herd resides in a valley fifty miles north of here. Steep hills. Shaga’s can run up to thirty miles an hour in short bursts, but to make it up those hills out of the valley would require tremendous endurance. This does fit Master Bailey’s theory though, about the mythics.”

As they grunted and dragged the huge beast through the rough terrain of the forest floor, Nick asked, “What theory is that?” mostly to get his mind off of what they’d done and from wondering where Duchaine was.

Master Bailey, the elder warlock, answered, “The mythics are becoming more aggressive.”

Nick could attest to that fact, even if he didn’t have any clue how they acted before.

“When you add this up with the recent explosion in the mythic population,” Master Bailey continued with a grunt, “it’s clear as day that they are being prompted, or possibly prodded by someone or something far worse than shagas and trolls.”

Nick shivered and zipped his jacket. The sudden chill had nothing to do with the wind.

What was worse than shagas and trolls? A super mythic? A wildly powerful sorcerer? Lex Luthor?

Inspiration struck—though absent any wisdom. Nick asked, “Could it be the Mythmage?”

The warlocks dropped their ropes and turned as one to face the journeyman wizard. Master Bailey approached Nick. He spoke slowly, clearly enunciating each word. “Where did you hear that name?”

’Um—”

“Do not think about it, just answer the question.”

“A dream, I think,” Nick added the second part defiantly.

“Hmm.” Master Bailey took a deep breath. You could hear the wetness and age in his lungs. “However you learned of that name, it is not one we use with impunity. Some names are better left unspoken.”

“Okay, but,” Nick said, “who is . . . He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” He forced back a grin.

Old Bailey returned to his younger counterpart, retrieved the rope harness, and resumed their trek.

They’d trudged a few miles when Arthur’s right foot abruptly sank into a soft spot in the earthen path. He yanked his foot out and shook it. Crumbly leaves and clods of dirt broke free. Everything seemed fine until the young man burst out in shrieking song. He dropped the reins and started hopping around, stamping his foot and screaming.

“What is it?” Master Bailey asked, holding out various talismans in succession.

“S-scarab!” the younger man managed to say before dropping to a seated position to clutch his calf.

Bailey yanked out his biollene, handily sliced aside his compatriots pant leg, and then ordered the younger man to “hold still and try to halt its movement” while baring the white-handled blade.

As Nick cringed, Bailey stabbed Arthur’s leg, driving knife into calf.

Over the screams and while pressing the man’s thigh to the ground with his knee, Bailey carved around the wound site. Blood oozed.

“Go to your astral sanctum,” the wizened warlock ordered. “Do it, Arthur. Visualize your door in the Dreaming. Do you see it?”

A few seconds of agonizing cries and numerous drops of life-juice were spilled before the man said “Yes” through clenched teeth.

“Good,” Bailey said in a soothing yet still raspy voice. He continued to cut. “Visualize your magical name. Can you see it, there on the door?” He paused in his bloody work Arthur restrained another scream to answer in the positive. “Good lad,” Bailey resumed cutting. “Now, open the door. Open it and enter your sanctum. It is your domain. No one can ever enter your sanctum. You are safe there. Inside your sanctum there is no pain. Know this.”

Arthur Penrose began to relax. Soon he was lying motionless.

Bailey dug out the aggressor, a small beetle-shaped creature, its shimmering blue exoskeleton coated in blood. With tedious care he placed the impaled corpse on the ground. After dusting it with some kind of flesh-eating potion produced from a vial within his vest, he turned to look at Nick.

“It’s okay.”

“What the frigging heck was that thing?” he tried and failed miserably to keep the sheer panic out of his voice.

“A skeleton scarab,” Bailey answered. “Dangerous little mythics. If you are unlucky enough to disturb their nests—which they intentionally build where people and animals are likely to trod—they will burrow into your flesh and eat you from the inside out. Fortunately there was only one. Otherwise it would have been messy.”

“Mythic insects?” Nick whined. “That’s it, I’m never sleeping again.”

“Don’t move.”

Nick froze. Following Bailey’s gaze, he spotted another skeleton scarab sniffing at his feet. First instinct demanded he stomp on the litter bugger. His foot was eighteen inches up, hovering over the scarab when Bailey ordered him to stop.

“Why?” Nick asked though the side of his mouth.

“If you step on it, it will likely take that as an invitation to burrow into your foot. Let me handle it.”

Nick managed to restrain himself while Bailey went about his warlock business. The old man retrieved the half-empty vial he’d used earlier. In absolute stealth the man crept toward the scarab and unstoppered the vial, whispering a blessing over it before tapping out a few dashes directly above the insect. His outstretched hand was positioned perfectly; the potion fluttered down directly onto the scarab.

Even as it squeaked and hopped around in agony the otherworldly beetle began to disintegrate. Nick zipped backwards, fleeing straight up a skinny trunk, ignoring scratches and biting pain as the pine park tore into flesh.

For good measure Bailey dumped the remainder of his potion over the nest.

A couple minutes later, arms shaking with the effort, Nick climbed down from his perch. He stared at the steaming remains of the scarab. “This forest blows. How far to headquarters?”

“We’re close,” Bailey said, wrapping his junior partner’s leg with gauze. “A quarter mile. But it doesn’t matter.”

Nick groaned. “Why? Is a tricycloplot after us now? Or, or, or, maybe a dragon. Yeah, that would be fun. Hey wise, old man, are there vampires in these woods too? I haven’t been attacked by one of those yet. Or how about some nice hideous orcs. I bet they’re fun.”

“Keep your voice down, boy,” Bailey warned.

“Why should I?” Nick shrieked, raising his voice so that it echoed through the forest. “It seems everything can find us and is free to attack us. How come there are still so many mythics anyway? I thought you warlock guys were supposed to be the best. You’ve had fifteen years to hunt and kill these things.” He paused to catch his breath, and then unleashed the full measure of his frustration. “Why haven’t you killed them all yet!”

Bailey held up placating hands while scanning the forest for threats. “You really shouldn’t do that. There are worse things than scarabs and shaga’s on this Preserve.”

“Like what?” Nick said in a softer tone.

“A horde of trolls, for one,” Bailey spoke in a reverent voice. “They are highly resilient to magic, and always hunt in numbers—with warg’s. And when I said it doesn’t matter, I only meant we can’t haul both the shaga and Arthur out of here.”

Nick spotted rustling bushes. “Someone’s coming. You see that, over there?”

Bailey drew his stang. Up close, Nick appreciated for the first time just how intricately the sigils had been etched into the tempered faces of the blade, and how well crafted the pommel was, with its tediously selected gemstones and charms. Here was a wizard’s weapon.

“It’s okay,” Bailey said, peering into the foliage. “It’s just Duchaine and Michael.”

The two warlocks came shambling out of the trees. The hero, Michael, observed the separate mounds of swiftly decomposing scarabs. He sniffed at the air.

“That’s Dragonsbane,” he said. “You boys run into a pest problem?”

“We took care of it,” Bailey answered.

“Dang and blast,” Michael said, “I’m gone for five minutes and you have a party without me?” He looked over at Duchaine, and then smiled. “The legend saw the smoke from the cabin deal, thought we were still there.”

“You all right, Nick?” Duchaine asked.

Nick produced his best ‘are you serious?’ scowl from his arsenal of teenagery expressions. He was trying to decide how he might sue the warlock department for child endangerment. Unfortunately he couldn’t take them to court without revealing the wizarding world. Darn rules.

“I’ll carry poor Arthur over there,” Duchaine said, “and you and Michael can take the shaga. Nick, you watch our rear. If anything comes up to bite us in the ass, signal us.”

“What kind of signal?”

Duchaine considered. “Uh, scream once. That ought to do it.”

“Or maybe I’ll just let it get you,” Nick muttered to himself.

Duchaine checked their coordinates using a compass. True to Master Bailey’s guestimate, they reached their headquarters within a quarter mile. As they crested the hill, its chimneys and rounded towers came into view. Nick stopped.

His parents had once described the DME to him, mentioning how it had branches all over the country, and how most of its buildings were constructed using an ancient Druid technique involving Euclidean geometry and alchemically enhanced bricks, each brick being laid using both ladle and spell-weaving. But nothing they’d said had prepared him for this breathtaking sight; the turrets and towers, crenellated walkways and keeps, the curtain walls and astonishing symmetry of every last brick. Its size alone would impress the most jaded architect. And to think it was nestled right here in the Adirondacks, with the buffer world completely ignorant, despite its drastically advanced technology, its satellites and spy planes.

Bailey grinned, pausing to give himself a brake. “Welcome to the Department of Magical Enforcement.”