Read Online Is This Apocalypse Necessary? - Wizard of Yurt - 6 by C. Dale Brittain - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. Dale Brittain
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the Dragons' Scepter should be in here somewhere.
The next several pages were blank, to be followed not by new spells but by a sort of memoir, written in a more rushed hand. "Having been most grievously maltreated, I shall bid adieu to the confines of this kingdom and cast my fate and that of my purple companion to the eddies of the air."
Purple companion? I bent closer, growing more interested in spite of myself. This purple companion, it appeared as I continued to read, was winged, and the wizard rode upon it. Naurag seemed to have had some sort of quarrel with his king, although I couldn't determine over what—all that he told me was how his enemies had conspired against him, "casting truth from them as one would a spent gourd." Gourd? I read on.
"For belike 'tis the jealousy of that magic-caster whom I drove hence which now poisons the thoughts and actions of the man I believed ere now to be my faithful lord. That one's aim is e'er bent on securing my purple companion to himself."
I knew that back in the days before the wizards' school was founded, western wizards quarreled with each other constantly, and in this case it looked as though a disagreement with another wizard had escalated until Naurag, whose ledger I now held, had been forced to flee his own kingdom. And what was this 'purple companion'?
The creature seemed as devoted to Naurag as a large dog, readily obeying the wizard's magical commands even while he was still working out the exact words to use for them, sleeping with its wings spread over him at night as they fled across the Western Kingdoms, expecting in return only a steady diet of melons and gourds.
Suddenly I realized what it must be. An air cart. Not the dead skin but the living purple flying beast from which it had originally been made. I knew that such beasts lived up in the northern land of wild magic, but I had never seen a live one. Too bad—this one sounded rather likeable.
I wondered somewhat guiltily how the two flying beasts whose skins now served as the school's air cart and mine had happened to die. I rather hoped they had lived long and happy lives, watching little flying beasts grow up around them, until, rich with experience, they had expired naturally, happy in the knowledge that even when they were gone their skins would keep on serving the men who had been their friends.
Out in the courtyard I heard the sound of hooves, then voices—King Paul, home again at last. He always took off for a miles' long run on his stallion whenever he had something to think over. In this case, I thought, turning a parchment page, his thinking was unlikely to have resulted in any satisfactory conclusions.
This part of the memoir was rather disjointed, having apparently been written at odd moments as the wizard and the flying beast fled from their enemies. The kingdoms still had the same names, and it was disconcerting to see places I knew mentioned here as being ruled by cruel kings with savage and volcanic tempers, unlike the rather peaceable lot into which we wizards had, ever since the Black Wars, shaped the lords we served.
"Having perfected the commands which my purple companion is most wont to obey, I hereby record them for the benefit of the next wizard who may essay to tame one of these creatures." The spells, written down carefully in the Hidden Language, were exactly what we still used to direct the air cart—the spells I had recently been teaching Antonia.
I sat back, chewing thoughtfully on a pencil. The castle had grown quiet around me. Was this perhaps not a real memoir at all, but something the Master had created just for me? Were references to what the kings of men could do to each other without organized wizardry to oppose them supposed to make me realize how necessary it was for someone responsible to take over the school's direction?
But I shook my head. The Master was dying, without nearly the energy to have forged an elaborate document that looked so convincingly like
The next several pages were blank, to be followed not by new spells but by a sort of memoir, written in a more rushed hand. "Having been most grievously maltreated, I shall bid adieu to the confines of this kingdom and cast my fate and that of my purple companion to the eddies of the air."
Purple companion? I bent closer, growing more interested in spite of myself. This purple companion, it appeared as I continued to read, was winged, and the wizard rode upon it. Naurag seemed to have had some sort of quarrel with his king, although I couldn't determine over what—all that he told me was how his enemies had conspired against him, "casting truth from them as one would a spent gourd." Gourd? I read on.
"For belike 'tis the jealousy of that magic-caster whom I drove hence which now poisons the thoughts and actions of the man I believed ere now to be my faithful lord. That one's aim is e'er bent on securing my purple companion to himself."
I knew that back in the days before the wizards' school was founded, western wizards quarreled with each other constantly, and in this case it looked as though a disagreement with another wizard had escalated until Naurag, whose ledger I now held, had been forced to flee his own kingdom. And what was this 'purple companion'?
The creature seemed as devoted to Naurag as a large dog, readily obeying the wizard's magical commands even while he was still working out the exact words to use for them, sleeping with its wings spread over him at night as they fled across the Western Kingdoms, expecting in return only a steady diet of melons and gourds.
Suddenly I realized what it must be. An air cart. Not the dead skin but the living purple flying beast from which it had originally been made. I knew that such beasts lived up in the northern land of wild magic, but I had never seen a live one. Too bad—this one sounded rather likeable.
I wondered somewhat guiltily how the two flying beasts whose skins now served as the school's air cart and mine had happened to die. I rather hoped they had lived long and happy lives, watching little flying beasts grow up around them, until, rich with experience, they had expired naturally, happy in the knowledge that even when they were gone their skins would keep on serving the men who had been their friends.
Out in the courtyard I heard the sound of hooves, then voices—King Paul, home again at last. He always took off for a miles' long run on his stallion whenever he had something to think over. In this case, I thought, turning a parchment page, his thinking was unlikely to have resulted in any satisfactory conclusions.
This part of the memoir was rather disjointed, having apparently been written at odd moments as the wizard and the flying beast fled from their enemies. The kingdoms still had the same names, and it was disconcerting to see places I knew mentioned here as being ruled by cruel kings with savage and volcanic tempers, unlike the rather peaceable lot into which we wizards had, ever since the Black Wars, shaped the lords we served.
"Having perfected the commands which my purple companion is most wont to obey, I hereby record them for the benefit of the next wizard who may essay to tame one of these creatures." The spells, written down carefully in the Hidden Language, were exactly what we still used to direct the air cart—the spells I had recently been teaching Antonia.
I sat back, chewing thoughtfully on a pencil. The castle had grown quiet around me. Was this perhaps not a real memoir at all, but something the Master had created just for me? Were references to what the kings of men could do to each other without organized wizardry to oppose them supposed to make me realize how necessary it was for someone responsible to take over the school's direction?
But I shook my head. The Master was dying, without nearly the energy to have forged an elaborate document that looked so convincingly like
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