‘Hmm, that probably isn’t right…’
A wet thudd of viscera began to slowly patter back to the ground; A new hole ripped into the road expired with stray a magical energy and nipped at slow pieces of air hungrily. Haggard and dressed in a moth-eaten brown robe, the stunned Wizard coughed while lying upon the ground in the settling dust, his breathing strained as moments before there was a troll was attempting to crush his windpipe. ‘What was in that flask!’ Carrick coughed as he quickly thought better of getting any closer to the radiant magic still bubbling in a visible green haze. Carefully he kicked away the detached troll hand resting on his boot.
‘I think it was two parts stone-rot and more parts than necessary lamp oil.’ Carrick’s companion scratched at her nose with thought, now trying to remember when she last brewed a firemote flask. ‘I was a bit drunk when I brewed up that batch sorry, they normally aren’t supposed to explode…I should really start labeling these…’ Aya looked down into her haversack as several loose glass vials, each filled with a faintly glowing liquid, clanked against an assortment of metal tins and canisters. ‘He was a jumpy bugger wasn’t he?’ Aya decided the subject best changed as she bundled up the detached hand in a hanky and stuffed it into her smithing bag. ‘How’s the neck?’
‘I may yet recover after a stiff drink and a bit of a lie down, but by the hells Aya I’m going to throttle you when I can stand again!’
The Potion-smith looked to the sky in search of any words that weren’t an admission of guilt. ‘Look, there’s risk in every action. Say I threw a healing draught at him instead, they’re a very similar colour-’
‘Stop!’ Carrick held his hand up as he sunk further into the support of the ground — the remaining magic remnants inside the crater giving life to a small daisy patch of some apparent sentience. ‘I’m sorry for snapping, I think you saved our lives there… regardless of potential immolation.’ Carrick rubbed his throat while watching the daisies build the beginnings of a tiny log cabin. ‘You wouldn’t have anything resembling whisky in that bag of yours would you?’
‘Well I have things corrosive things with whiskey in them’ said Aya as she began rifling through her haversack for a tea pot. ‘Up for a cup of tea instead?’
Tea in Lundra, specifically the making of tea, was a time honoured tradition passed down through the generations. A passage from one of the earliest pieces of Lundrian literature translates loosely to a cup prepared poorly will lead into a cup thrown quickly. Thinking on this while attempting to still the spinning horizon, Carrick watched some clouds drift by overhead as his Lundrian friend ignited some gathered kindling with her bare hands.
Born into a sodden country of never ending rain, Lundrians had developed an ability to partially quell and kindle flame within their presence and have proved handy to have around whenever a campfire refused to stay alight — despite the lingering smell of brimstone. This, along with their solid black eyes and friendly smiles, have led many to a superstition that Lundrians long ago had descended from the lesser evils of the hells, and will sprinkle salt across any door that one has passed through to ward of dark spirits.
Carrick came close to nodding off with his thoughts as the kettle broiled in the background, no wonder Lundrians like to travel.
‘Ready!’ Aya poured the tea into two wooden cups and dumped the soggy leaves onto the embers of her roadside fire. ‘Sorry if this cup is a bit tart Carrick, I know you’re not one to ever be bitter’ she half smiled as she proffered the mug to her friend.
‘Don’t be cute, I want to vomit enough as it is.’ Carrick replied sitting up and taking the cup.
They drank in silence, enjoying the quiet breeze and stillness of another pleasant autumn day in the nation of Stallinger. This was not a silence of strangers, one new and self conscious with awkward chatter, but it was a silence of familiarity. Small steps cover great distances and the trial of distance, when shared, makes close friends.
Jacob McCray
-2019
Sunday Short Stories 