Carrick was cold.
In the windblown bluster of the small glade a certain wizard was beginning to grow stroppy. His time-battered robe was proving to be exceptionally draughty and, after four weeks spent travelling in panic, the patch lined material was beginning to resemble a brown quilt long in needing of a cleansing flame or a rather long wash.
Never considering himself a fashionable Wizard, Carrick was beginning to feel every bit of his irksome moniker: Carrick the Dishevelled.
Wizards of the modern age were both fearsome conjurers of the arcane and on the whole not particularly enthusiastic about the idea of camping. Holding dispositions unsuited for the outdoors, many a wizard would jump at spending their night in a nice warm tavern as a opposed to roughing it sleeping under the stars, but with all things in life sometimes the worst was bound to happen.
In his tired thoughts Carrick was once again running through a myriad of simple spells that could help make another night spent outdoors even slightly bearable. The rune of comfy lounge, created by he of the reclined circle Benson Alderbridge, for example was able to summon a comfy lounge from nearly any flat surface. People had laughed at Benson in the early days, claiming that such a spell was impractical, but as it were Carrick would give ten years of his life back for something that reclined.
Then there was Kepple the Mad, a Wizard so bitterly disgusted by the concept of night that he created a spell able to encase the user in a gigantic shard of ice on the very moment that they bagan to get sleepy. The ice would then remain, keeping the caster frozen until around breakfast, whereafter the tomb would explode in a suitably dramatic fizzle.
‘Maybe not the ice spell’, Carrick muttered to himself as he hugged his arms tighter to his chest and stared at the dying campfire waft ash over his bedroll.
Aya had told him to be patient, small sticks and dry leaves first, don’t use any green wood or it will smoke. He chose to ignore her advice of course; A wizard should not fear fire, they should not fear any element. Wizards were able to summon pillars of flame from their fingers with nary a whim, controlling the lick of fire upon a candle’s wick should be easier than it was to lick a soggy stamp, but after wasting all the matches and hurting his wrist trying to use the flint-steel Carrick had resigned himself to the dejection of being cold.
Falling backwards in exasperation Carrick the Dishevelled became lost in the patches of sky that half flitted through the canopy overhead and wondered when his friend, Aya, would return.
…
‘Shouldn’t be too hard’ Carrick had been considering the faint echo of those words recently.
He had owed a favour –a small favour really– to a friend who’s unrequited love of violence came easier to him than his love of blinking; and as a result Carrick was rather keen to square that particular debt.
Too tight to spend 20 coppers on the postage service, Carrick’s friend had booked him a place on a wagon heading in the direction of the border. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard mate’, Versale people always understated things, ‘just two or so days down to the border, grab yourself a pint and give the guard there a letter. How easy is that!?’
He should have known though; of course it was bandit season, of course there would be trolls, of course there would be a bunch of psychopaths out hunting people with a wagon full of arrows.
Battered and now almost a month’s walk in the wrong direction Carrick was seriously starting to wonder why he didn’t just offer to pay the 20 copper delivery back when he could. ‘Maybe if I die a Postman would deliver my ashes back home’ said the Wizard to himself, placing a hand over his forehead in the universal gesture of I just realised that I am an idiot.
‘Psst- Carrick.’
Jumping at the sudden voice Carrick tumbled into what he hoped to be a defensive looking pose.
‘Knock it off, it’s only me’, said Aya, limping out from the treeline. She looked to be covered in a combination of dirt, leaves and a few types of blood, but was smiling rather happily. ‘I found a pub’.
‘What the hells happened to you!?’ Carrick replied to his swaying friend whom he guessed to be either drunk or horribly concussed.
‘Well I got attacked by a wolf, but importantly…I did find a pub.’ Falling unceremoniously to the ground Aya held a thumbs up in the vague direction of Carrick. ‘Carry me there?’
‘My my what a mess’ Carrick grunted as he helped his friend stand. ‘Some pathfinder you are. Right, should I just follow the blood trail?’ Taking Aya’s weight against his shoulder Carrick heard his friend mumble something in Lundrian that was probably a threat to his entire bloodline.
Gulping in very real terror he began to move into the darkness.
…Even walking to the pub was hard these days.
J.McCray
2020
Sunday Short Stories 