A pool of river water slowly spread out from beneath Ethar’s still-soaked cloak. He watched the circumference swell into a pond-sized puddle as the Wizard Council went back and forth. They were discussing Ethar the Blue’s future at the Wizard Academy and had been droning on and on for hours.
Could Ethar have used a simple drying spell? Of course, but first and foremost he felt he deserved the discomfort as a punishment for his continual failures. Secondly, he was petrified that he would fail at the spell, confirming for the entire council that he ought to be expelled immediately.
No one in the history of the Wizard Academy at Montouk had ever been expelled.
“It’s in the motto!” Grey Beard Geoffrey cried. “All Accepted, All Excel!”
The Head of Finance chimed in with his squeaky voice. “It would take a pretty penny to re-chisel the signage around campus and greater Montouk.”
An argument ensued over the process of spell casting and its cheapness versus the craft of stone working. The issue with spell casting was the work looked shoddy and fake, whereas a Master Mason worth their salt would ensure the design looked handmade, since, obviously, it was.
Truly, the future of the academy’s illustrious reputation and immaculate stone work hung in the balance, and it was all because of one small, scraggly, soaked, hopelessly inadequate wizard.
Ethar wished he could melt into the puddle beneath him.
A scroll the length of an elephant’s trunk hung from the podium of the Head of the Wizard Council. The scroll was a complete list of Ethar’s record during his time at the academy: each class grade, what he regularly ate, the number of group projects he had completed, average losses the academy had accrued during his explosive stint in potions class, and, most damning, names of every single Hero who had died on Ethar’s watch.
The scroll was seven feet long. Two meters, if you prefer.
As the Council Head droned on through the list of deceased Heros, the full weight of Ethar’s failures settled on his scrawny shoulders.
All he had ever dreamed of was becoming a wizard. His father and mother scrimped and saved to send him to the city of Montouk. No two people believed in him more. Little did they know what a failure their son was. As the years went by, Ethar allowed them to believe their son was becoming a talented wizard who was aiding Heroes North and South (nobody ever went East, and rarely West) in fulfilling their destinies. When in reality, it seemed Ethar’s only talent was ensuring the Hero met a creative although unfortunate fate before their quest could be completed.
Ethar thought of his latest failure, the chiseled cheekbones of the Hero lying splattered with mud, his muscular form half in, half out of the rushing river, lungs filled with water. A quick death, but a death nonetheless. Shifting in his now only slightly damp robes, Ethar struggled to remember the Hero’s name. He’d stopped learning their names. After a while, there hadn’t seemed a point. Was it something that rhymed with brandy?
Ethar could use a tall glass of brandy right about now.
At last, the Council Head paused. There was the distinct scratch of a quill against parchment. Then he spoke the dead Hero’s name. “Sir Harold of Orange.”
Not even close to brandy.
Lifting his head, Ethar listlessly looked across the Council. Their ornate stools towered above him, peering down like long-beaked birds in an eagle’s nest.
It dawned on Ethar that he could save the school’s reputation by making his own decision. He would leave. He didn’t know where he would go, certainly not back home to the mountains where his poor, aged parents eked out a living as goat herders. But he would leave the Academy, leave Montouk, perhaps even leave the entire realm. Beyond the borders in the East were the Shattered Realms of Ardor. They took in anyone, even middle aged wizards (and, Reader, you ought to know that middle aged for one endowed with Wizard blood is on average 300-500 years old) who could barely grow a beard and suffered from a severe case of acne.
Removing his blue hat from his head, Ethar cleared his throat. Just as he was about to speak, the heavy walnut doors to the council chambers burst open! Thunder boomed and lightning crackled, a stray tendril snapping the pointy top of one of the council member’s hats. With a snap of her fingers, the offended Witch extinguished the spark.
Fog sparking with bright blue lightning roiled across the polished floors, billowing in piles like ominous dust bunnies against the base of the stools. From the fog emerged a hunched shape dressed in filthy rags. Stringy grey hair woven with trinkets and baubles from across the realms masked much of the wrinkled face. Male or female, it was impossible to tell. A bony finger stretched out, pointing directly at Ethar.
Knees knocking in fear, Ethar crinkled his once pointy blue hat in his white-knuckled grasp. There was no mistaking the presence who had barged into the hallowed chambers. Pheides the Augur (whom you must never jokingly call Pheides the Ogre or you may face the same fate as the Boy King of Miramor. Let’s just say he never grew into being the Man King of Miramor) spoke in a raspy voice, with a sour breath that seemed to soak into every Wizard and Witch’s cloak. “A defender of men ye shall seek, the prophecy that hath foretold the doom of the great lizard in his stronghold. To the elves ye must go; begin this quest or fie upon thee! Thou shalt be cast out to scrimp and sow.”
Another roll of thunder shook the council chambers, and with a bright flash, Pheides the Augur vanished.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Eventually, the Headmaster looked to the Divination Professor, who was white as a sheet. The other council members followed suit until all twenty-five eyes (the Headmaster had lost an eye in a gambling bet gone horribly wrong) were fixed upon Professor Edovius (called Edovius the Obvious behind his back).
In a trembling voice, Edovius said, “I do believe Pheides the Augur is referring to the ancient Defender of Men prophecy, the prophecy that speaks of a Hero destined to slay Uvrolth the dragon, Destroyer of Men. It would appear Pheides has seen that this Wizard Trainee is the one to take on aiding the fulfillment of this prophecy and to accompany the Defender of Men Hero.”
The Headmaster cleared his warbly throat. “Yes, Professor Edovius, I think we all caught that from Pheides. Did you perhaps have any inkling this was coming?”
Edovius shook his head, the wisps of hair behind his giant ears wafting in the air.
Taking over, the Council Head looked directly at Ethar the Blue. “My interpretation of the augur’s final line is this, Ethar. Should you fail to aid this unknown Hero at fulfilling his destiny, you shall in fact be expelled from the academy.”
With that, the Council Head began rolling up the scroll. Other council members started to leave their stools and speak in hushed tones with one another as they drifted out of the chamber.
Eventually, Ethar was alone. A strangled gasp burst from his chest, and he realized he didn’t know the last time he had taken a breath.
Sinking to his knees, Ethar struggled to wrap his mind around what had just occurred.
He wasn’t being expelled—at least, not yet.
But he had to complete an ancient prophecy that no Wizard, Witch, or Hero had ever successfully completed in over a thousand years. Countless men had died attempting to take on the title of Defender of Men, their loyal aid dying alongside them.
Was death worse than expulsion?
Grimly, Ethar shoved his crooked blue hat on his head and stood. He strode out of the chamber, not exactly brimming with confidence, but with the resolute knowledge that he was certain to find out one way or another.
As an author, Alexandra Rexford enjoys writing stories with wit and romance, including a dash of danger. In a perfect world, she would spend all her time writing, reading, sipping hot cocoa, and snuggling with her dogs.
Featured image by Kevin Jackson.
