The Wizard of Smaug Copyright Bruce Norman, 1992 All rights reserved Chapter 4 ----------------------- "Awaken! Awaken Lord Perrywinkle!" It was the most beautiful voice he had ever heard. As sweet and sultry as a summer's night, and yet, as youthfully innocent as a swan. Desperately Perrywinkle forced away the black clouds that gripped his mind and drifted into consciousness. Standing over him was a young girl. A look of concern was on her face. Her long blonde hair floated behind her like mist, softly reflecting the pale light of the setting sun. Her body was clothed in simple white robes as if fancier stuff would insult her beauty. She smiled at him. "Uh, hello" said Perrywinkle confusedly. "Are you here to buy some dung?" "Oh no, sweet Perrywinkle, I am here to look after you. For this past week I have watched over you. When you were feverish, I sang to you. When you cried aloud in pain, I comforted you. Six times daily I have changed the bandages which cover your horrible wounds. I have bathed away the nasty dung smell which clung to you like a living thing. Under my care, you have grown strong again. Well, stronger at least." "You, ahem, bathed me?" asked Perrywinkle, somewhat embarrassed. "Of course, you silly!" giggled the girl. She tweaking his nose. "I have bathed you, and fed you, and watched over you, and wiped your bottom, and..." "Yes, yes, yes" said Perrywinkle, now very embarrassed. "I take it then that I have been asleep for awhile?" "Oh no, silly Perrywinkle!" said the girl, laughing gently. She raised a dainty white hand and playfully smacked Perrywinkle in the face, sending rippling shocks of pain through his cheek. "Don't touch my face!" Perrywinkle cried. Alaesha laughed aloud and smacked him again. "You are so silly Perrywinkle! Do not tease me with your talk of being merely asleep for awhile! You know, as well as I do, that you have barely escaped the jaws of death! Oh when you fainted, and bumped your head, it was expected you would awaken within the hour. How lucky for you that kind Lord Bluetspur suspected that your injury might be more serious! If it was not for him taking you under his own personal care...." "His own personal care?" "Yes, his own personal care! Wise Lord Bluetspur's suspicions were right it seems. Less than an hour after he took you into his care, you developed a deadly sickness!" "Really?" asked Perrywinkle. "Really!" affirmed Alaesha. "But Lord Bluetspur would not give up so easily. He devoted all of him time to caring for you. He would let no others approach for his fear of them disturbing you!" "Really," mumbled Perrywinkle, dryly. "But the Bishop was worried. Lord Bluetspur is a busy man you know, and he really doesn't the time to look after terminally ill Court Wizards you know. So, the Bishop offered to take over your treatment. Lord Bluetspur was quite upset at first, I think he's quite fond of you. Anyway, he told the Arch-Bishop to leave you in his care so he could `finish you off'". "Really," said Perrywinkle. He looked about the room. "I don't suppose you know when the next caravan to the land of Soote would be leaving, would you?" "Oh my darling little Perrywinkle!" laughed the girl grabbing his cheeks and stretching them into a clown-like grin. The pain in Perrywinkle's face, merely rippling seconds before, now washed through his body like a mighty ocean. He silently screamed as she spoke to him. "Do not joke so about leaving the land of Smaug! You know very well the penalty for a Court Wizard deserting the king is death by torture! Ha ha ha, it is good to see you joke though, it means you are regaining your health. Your burns have almost healed you know!" "Yes, funny joke. Ha ha ha," whimpered Perrywinkle. "Might I ask who you are by the way?" He winced as she once again reached for his face. He did his best to refrain from screaming. "But of course, my curious little Perrywinkle!" responded the girl, squeezing his nose. He was getting used to the pain now, and only sobbed quietly as his nasal nerves screamed in protest. "I am Alaesha, daughter of Croesha the witch....I mean, Croesha, which is my mother, who is a herbalist. Yes, a herbalist." Alaesha smiled nervously at Perrywinkle, who was far to disoriented with pain to notice the slight trembling in her voice. "So your mother's an herbalist" responded Perrywinkle. "What does that make you?" "An apprentice herbalist" replied Alaesha. "I mixed the balm for your burns. The Arch Bishop has been so pleased with my treatment that he has left me completely in charge of your care. But relax now, you must rest, and I must tell the Arch-Bishop of your recovery!" Alaesha blew Perrywinkle a kiss and backed out of the room. Perrywinkle sighed in relief. His facial nerves were began to calm down somewhat. Interested in his recovery, Perrywinkle held out his right hand in front of his face. It was very pink and sore looking, but relatively uncharred. His face, he assumed, was in similar condition. Perrywinkle kicked back his blankets. He was dressed in some sexless gown, which hung open at the back, allowing a slight breeze to blow over his buttocks. Perrywinkle carefully explored his small room. After a tentative search he discovered the rags which he had worn a short time ago. They had been laundered, but were still so charred and torn that he dared not put them on. More pleasing was his discovery of his small spell book. "Well" he said to himself. "If I'm to be Court Wizard, I suppose I'd best read the damned thing!" He held the book in front of him. It was small, bound in soft black leather, and covered with what he assumed were runes. In a flowery almost indecipherable script, the name of the tome was scrolled in red across the front: "Ye Tome oft Magik". Perrywinkle flipped to the first page and began to read. Greetings Wyzard, be thankful that ye has attained this rank, for blesd art those who weild thy powrz oft Magik! Know ye now that thy ranks oft Wyzardry beyest fraught wyth perylz et dangerz beyond thy ken. As a Wyzard thou muste tayk thy four sakred oaths oft Wyzardry. Know them weyl, for ye muste serve theym ift Magik shall serve thee! Perrywinkle paused in his reading to, once again, curse the atrocious spelling of wizards. Oonos: Thou shalt alwayz serve thy beste interests oft thy land oft Smaug. Does: Thou shalt always serve thy best interests oft thy people oft Smaug. Tres: Thou shalt always do what thy rightrful King of Smaug sayeth, een if he requesteth thy destroy thy land and people. Qautaros: Thou shalt always serve thy wishes of thy Court Wyzard oft Smaug, lest thou bey Court Wizard, in which cayse thy oaths number only tres. Penciled in at the bottom was a small note. Quinquayos: Thou shalt not partayk in nookey. Perrywinkle sighed, but continued to read. The next page was titled "Thy Casting oft a Speyl: Baysic Rulez" Wenst thou casteth a speyl thou art calling on thy powerz oft Magik. Important it bey that thou ne're entrust thys knowledje to otherz. Let not the temptress steeyl from thou thy secrets oft Magik! Let not thy servantz reayd thys tome! Above all, make use always oft thy Ritual oft thee Wyzard when castying thy speyls! Whenst thou casteth thy speyl, knowest thee well that thy castying ist ackomplished by thy speayking oft two wordz, and mayking thy gesture oft magik! That bey all, thy speyking oft two words, and thy making oft one gesture! Thy common man, if knewest he oft this fakt, would'st surely slayest all our kinde for trikerey! To proteykt ourselfs, to protekt thyself, makest use thus of Wyzard's Ritual! Wenst thou casteth thy speyl, prelude it with grate chants and dancez oft no particular purpose. Thees chant muste be in length oft no leys than ten minutes! At thy compleytion oft thy chant, speyk yee then quietly thy wordz of Magik, and maykest thy last gesture. Then thy powerz shalt be releaysed w'thout thy comprehention oft peasents. Perrywinkle gasped, so it was true! It wasn't just the bloody sheep spell, or the fire spell, all magic was equally simple! These Wizards were nothing but bloody thieves! Charging huge piles of gold to cast their spells. Screaming and wailing of the tortures and drainage involved in magic. Complaining of years spent in dark musty rooms, learning to channel mystic energies, what sickening lies! Even Lord Bluetspur must follow these baysik rulez. It would explain that ridiculous chant-dance he performed before curing that sheep. Perrywinkle sat down and began to think. His agile mind quickly dreamed up gestures and jigs he would use when casting spells. It certainly wouldn't be acceptable for Court Wizard Perrywinkle to let the secret get out! Perrywinkle shivered, thinking of the chaos that would result if peasants ever learned the spell of fire. The mindless goats, spurred on by cheap ale and talks of revolution, would undoubtable char their hands off casting globes of fire against the guards of King Mortis. For the first time Perrywinkle began to comprehend the true responsibilities of being a Wizard. Completely engrossed, he flipped the page. The next chapter was entitled "Thy Perilys oft Speylcast." Know ye, oh mageling, that thy path oft magik ist wraught with perilys and pain! Eyn thy casting oft a symple speyl will result in horryble sufferying on thy part! Only thy speyl oft sheyp bladder and stomak curing ist somevat freey from thys horrible curse. Thus, tis suggest that thy learn not thy other speyls 'less thou be tempted to cast theym, and in doing so ensure thy own destruction! Perrywinkle snickered, they couldn't be serious! All spells except for the spells of sheep bladder and stomach ailment curing were dangerous to the wizard? Impossible! Perrywinkle's formerly-charred right hand twinged a little. Een thy simplyst speyl, thy speyl oft fyre, shal char and byrn thy hand unto a lyump oft coal! Bewayre all other speyls, or they shayl be thy death! Cure ye thy ailments oft sheyp, and bey happy with thy lot! Perrywinkle groaned and flipped a few pages ahead until he found the familiar page entitled "Thy Beyginnerz Speyl oft Fyre." He read it worriedly, and fully. Thy begyners speyl oft fyre. Rayse thy ryte hande and speyk thy word 'fooble-fyre'. Then kast ye thy ball oft fyre. Whenst thou hast caste thys speyl, a byrning globe oft fyre shal apear een thy hand! Throw ye it quikly, for t'shall byrn and cooke thy flesh lyke thy flames oft hell! Ouch! Perrywinkle swore that, from now on, he'd bother to read the entire spell before he went about casting it. Worriedly, he flipped through the spellbook, glancing only at the bottom of each spell, and reading their dastardly side effects. "Causeth thy tongue to blystr and sweyl" "Now thy eyes shall byrst from thy head" "Thy feet shalt now suffyr thy growyth of carnivorys moss" "Thy belly shall fyl wyth acyd" "Thy bones shalt shattyr with thy force oft thys speyl" Perrywinkle slammed his book shut. His face was completely drained of blood. Suddenly being Court Wizard didn't sound like such a great idea. When did that carriage for the land of Soote leave anyway? "I see you are studying your spellbook little mage" came a voice from the door. Perrywinkle looked up, it was Lord Bluetspur. He wet himself. "Do not fear Perrywinkle, I would not dare attempt to harm the Court Wizard...without the King's orders. You are safe, for now, but soon your time will come!" "What do you mean?" asked Perrywinkle nervously. "Oh you see, Perrywinkle, I know as well as you do that you are no mage. How you managed to get that senile fool Teflour to give you a spellbook I can not surmise, but still, you are no mage. You must suffer to become a mage Perrywinkle! Suffer as I have suffered!" Lord Bluetspur's voice exploded into rage. "Ten years Perrywinkle! Ten years of catching small poisonous scorpions for that fool Teflour to flavor his tea with! Ten years of dusting his hovel! Ten years of watching the old pot-head drinking and looking at those elf books! Ten years of magical 'experiments' in which I was beaten, bloodied, and maimed! Oh it was hell Perrywinkle, but I lived through it, and I deserve to be Court Wizard!" "Why didn't you leave?" asked Perrywinkle, now somewhat intrigued. Lord Bluetspur threw up his hands and sat on Perrywinkle's bed. "I couldn't, my father wouldn't have me back in the house!" Lord Bluetspur stooped forward and spoke in a nasal voice, evidently imitating his father. "So you wants back in, eh Bluey?" Lord Bluetspur's eyes flashed insanely. "Mayhaps thou should'st have thought of that before ye left the sewers? Now be of with ye!" "Please father!" whined Bluetspur, in a high pitched childish voice, "please let me come back and be a rat catcher! I don't want to be a wizard anymore, that fool Teflour tried to blow me up!" "How horrible," commented Perrywinkle, in true sympathy. "But he wouldn't let me back!" cursed Lord Bluetspur, returning to his normal voice. "Oh I begged, I pleaded, but I'd lost my chance to be a rat catcher. I suffered for ten years." Lord Bluetspur rolled up his sleeve, pointing to a patch of discolored skin. "This was from Teflour's `let's boil acid' experiment." He ripped open his shirt showing two wicked scars. "I gained these beauty marks when Teflour decided he wanted to be a knife thrower, not a wizard." Maybe he's not so bad thought Perrywinkle. He's a 'kindred soul' of sorts. Why should we be enemies? "I'm awfully sorry" he said. "Sorry? Sorry! Oh you'll be sorry you little twerp!" yelled Lord Bluetspur jumping to his feet. "I'll make you so sorry you'll wish you'd never pulled your nose out of the dung heap. Rest up, little Perrywinkle, for tomorrow you lose your position and die!" Without further words, Lord Bluetspur turned and walked angrily from the room. Perrywinkle heard the depressing sound of a key turning in a lock.