Eye of the Wizard: A Fantasy Adventure (2 page)

As he looked around wildly, he saw the grobblers surround Mother. They clutched the log she swung, wrenched it free, and knocked her down. They began to claw and bite her. Scruff felt like somebody stabbed him with an icicle.

"Leave her alone!" he shouted and leaped onto the grobblers, but they shoved him back, smiles dripping blood and drool. One slashed his shoulder, and Scruff screamed, blood soaking his shirt.

Smoke filled his mouth and nostrils, making him cough. The grobblers were burning the house, tossing logs from the fireplace onto the rug and tapestries. Scruff's eyes watered and he could not breathe. The smoke filled the room, black, heavy, choking him.

"Everybody out!" he shouted, hoarse. He could just make out Jamie ahead; the smoke hid everything else. Scruff lifted his sister and ran outside, shouting. "Neev, Mom, follow me!"

He stood in the night, smoke flowing around him, screams and shouts echoing down the street. Had they heard him? Were they alive? Guilt ached in his belly. He had dropped his sword, had failed to defend his family.
I'm a coward.
His tears fell and his body shook.

Neev burst out from the burning house, ash covering his face, his hair singed.

"Mom's dead," he whispered, eyes haunted. He suddenly seemed so young, a skinny child, frightened, all his disdain and smugness gone.

The grobblers emerged from the burning house, screeching. Blood covered their claws and fangs.

"Run!" Scruff shouted. He ran through the burning town, holding Jamie in his arms.
Mom. Dead. It can't be.
Scruff trembled as he ran, tears on his cheeks. Neev ran beside him, his face pale and ashy. Around them, soldiers were battling dozens of grobblers, and the smell of blood, sweat, and fire filled the air. One of the creatures grabbed Neev's foot, tripping him. He fell, bloodying his nose, then managed to kick himself free and keep running.

"Where will we go?" Neev shouted over the roar of fire, grobbler screeching, and clanking armor. His eyes were red and moist.

Scruff pointed to Friar Hill which rose ahead between burning houses. Sometimes wandering priests would preach atop the hill, giving it its name. Today Scruff saw a hooded, robed figure standing there, wreathed in flame, arms moving as if conducting the slaughter.

"Father said a warlock is leading these grobblers," Scruff said, running toward the hill. "That looks like our warlock. Father will be there."

They ran around the town stables where horses screamed, over old Gorse Bridge, and past the Porcupine's Quills Tavern which rose in flame. Bodies of townsfolk littered the roads and floated down Gorse Stream. As he ran, anguish filled Scruff, bringing tears to his eyes.
Mother is dead. I couldn't save her.
His breath ached in his lungs, and he felt like dying.

Jamie sobbed in his arms. "I want Mamma," she whispered, trembling.

Her tears pained Scruff more than his wounds.
I won't let them get you too, Jamie,
he swore, his boots thudding across bloody cobblestones. He suddenly loved his siblings so much—even Neev—that his heart seemed to clench.

Finally they reached Friar Hill, raced up the grassy slope, and froze. The warlock stood ahead, clad in black robes, face hidden in the shadows of his hood. The children crouched behind a fallen log, cloaked in shadows. The warlock did not see them; he was busy waving his arms as if conducting. As his hands moved, the grobblers below swept from street to street. The warlock controlled them like a puppeteer. Hatred filled Scruff, burning, spinning his head.
There is the man who destroyed the town, who murdered Mother.

As the children watched from the shadows, Father came running up the far side of the hill, axe in hand, armor glinting in the firelight. Scruff bit his fist, eyes blurry.
Father! He'll take care of this.
He crouched low, hidden, watching. His siblings trembled beside him.

"It's
you
," Father said to the warlock, eyes hard. He stepped toward the cloaked figure. "I knew it would be you."

The warlock turned toward Father, his black robes swishing, darker than the night. "Well well, it has been a while, has it not?"

"Not long enough," Father said. "Leave this town."

The warlock's voice was dry and deathly like old bones. "Do not interfere with my plans again. Stay back, or I'll kill you before you've taken a step."

Father charged, axe raised.

The warlock grunted, as if surprised that Father should truly attack. Scruff guessed that few people ever dared attack him. The warlock began to utter a spell, raising gaunt hands gloved in leather.

Father reached him. The axe swung.

Black sparks fluttered around the warlock's fingers.

The axe slammed into the warlock's side, and Scruff heard a horrible crunching sound, an inhuman sound, like the sound of splintering wood. Scruff held his breath. Was the warlock dead?

No—he still stood, the axe embedded in him.
How can he still live?
Growling, the warlock grabbed Father, and black lightning flowed from those gaunt, gloved hands, slamming into Father. The bolts crackled, smoking, raising Scruff's hair. Father cried and fell.

"Dad!" Scruff screamed, leaped out of the shadows, and ran forward. His heart felt like it had frozen and shattered. Neev and Jamie ran with him, also screaming. Scruff curled his fingers into fists, prepared to pummel the warlock, but was too late. Cursing and clutching his wound, the warlock uttered a spell and vanished like a ghost. The axe hit the ground, clanging. In the town below, the grobblers howled in fear and began to flee, their courage gone with their master.

Tears in his eyes, Scruff knelt by Father. Was he dead? Scruff leaned close, the smell of seared flesh spinning his head. Father still breathed, but his breath was shallow. His hair was burnt, and smoke rose from him.

"You did it, Dad," Scruff said, tears falling. "You banished the warlock. I'll take you to a doctor. You'll be fine."

Father was pale. He held Scruff's hand. "Take care of your family when I'm gone," he whispered, words so soft Scruff could barely hear. "Become a knight, Scruff. Follow in my footsteps."

"I promise," Scruff said, then let out a sob. Father's breath died, and his hand fell from Scruff's grip.

He was dead.

Father, no...,
Scruff thought. He lowered his head and tasted tears on his lips.

"I promise too, Papa," Jamie sobbed, hugging Father's body. Ash rained around her, coating her hair and face. "I'll become a knight someday too."

Tears on their cheeks, Scruff and Jamie turned their heads and looked back at Neev. Their brother stood two steps behind, cloaked in shadows, fists clenched at his sides. Fire burned behind him.

"Aren't you going to promise too, Neev?" Jamie asked, voice trembling. "Aren't you going to be a knight?"

Eyes aflame, face ashy, Neev shook his head. He spoke through a tightened jaw. "No. I won't become a knight." His voice was soft but full of rage and pain. "I'm going to be a warlock."

Chapter Two

The Giant and the Runt

Spring had come to Burrfield, and it was a beautiful day.

Daffodils and primroses covered gardens, windowsills, and Friar Hill, their scent wafting through the town, mixing with the morning scents of dew and baking bread. Children ran playing along cobbled streets, free from winter's confines, while starlings chirped and geese honked in clear skies. Leaves coated oak saplings, bright green and newly sprouted, like uniforms for pupils on their first school day. Ancient pines used to tower along Burrfield's streets, gnarled and wise as old kings, but most had burned in Grobbler Battle five years ago. Whenever Burrfield's new trees leafed, the town celebrated; it meant beauty and peace had returned.

It was a perfect day—for everyone but Scruff. He was miserable.

Standing in Fort Rosethorn's courtyard, surrounded by fellow squires in chain mail, he tried to swing his sword. He pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, and focused on the swipe, a complicated move called The Wolfbite. It was no good. His fingers trembled, dropping the wooden sword. It thumped at his feet.

"SCRUFF!" Lord Bramblebridge bellowed from across the yard, cheeks puffed red. His bald head glinted with sweat and his orange mustache bristled; bad signs. "What in the heck is wrong with you, Butterfingers?"

Scruff sighed, eyes stinging, staring at his fallen sword. "Sorry, my lord."

Scruff hated sword practice. It had been five years since Burrfield burned, but the memories still haunted him. Whenever he touched a sword—even this wooden training blade—the pain returned like a punch to the belly. That day, so long ago, he had dropped Father's sword in fear, letting the grobblers kill Mother. To this day, swinging a blade made Scruff's belly hurt, his hands shake, and his eyes moisten.

Twenty other squires stood around Scruff in the courtyard, swinging their blades, all mastering the moves with ease. Dust flew from stomping boots, covering sweaty faces. The sounds of grunts, clacking wooden blades, and chinking chain mail filled the air, echoing between the crumbling towers and barracks. Roses covered the old fort walls, their scent mingling with the tang of oiled mail, sweat, and leather armor.

Lord Bramblebridge came marching toward Scruff, shoving squires aside, gut sucked in, barrel chest thrust out. "What in blazes is the matter, boy?" he demanded, a foot shorter than Scruff, but tough as an old bulldog. Lord of Burrfield, the stocky Bramblebridge had been Father's friend, but he treated Scruff like one might treat goo found on one's boot.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Scruff said again, lifting his sword. "It's just... I can't do it. I'm no good at swordplay."

"Tell me something I don't know, Professor Brainiac!" Bramblebridge was shouting so loudly, his cheeks glowed red like apples. "You are the worst excuse for a squire I've seen, and I've been training squires for thirty years."

Scruff lowered his eyes. Five years ago, when he moved into Fort Rosethorn as a squire, he had beamed with pride. His father had trained in this fort, and joining its ranks meant the world to Scruff. Fort Rosethorn stood upon a hill in southern Burrfield, a cluster of towers and barracks, all built of crumbling bricks overrun with weeds and roses. This was home to a dozen knights, three hundred soldiers, and twenty-odd squires... Bramblebridge ruling them all with his iron fist.

Father thought the world of Fort Rosethorn,
Scruff knew, eyes stinging.
But I let him down. I just can't do it.

Blinking back tears, he glanced at his sister Jamie. She drilled beside him, swinging her sword so fast, it whistled. Ten years old when Burrfield burned, Jamie was now fifteen and deadly with the blade. She wore her black hair short like a boy's, and dressed as one too, sporting a tan jerkin and leggings. Even her face was boyish, with fiery eyes, tightened lips, and freckles sprinkled across her upturned nose. Only Scruff knew she was a girl; she had been pretending to be a boy since learning that girls couldn't be knighted.

"Looking at Jamie, eh?" Bramblebridge said, sweat dripping down his forehead. "Well you should, lad. Jamie is the best swordsman we have. He might be five feet tall on his tiptoes, and barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, but he can beat your lumbering butt any day with a blade."

Scruff nodded. "Yes, my lord." Secretly, he wished he were small and limber like Jamie. She had not grown much since Grobbler Battle five years ago, but he had just kept sprouting. He now stood closer to seven feet than to six, and weighed three hundred pounds. Children would taunt him, calling him an ogre, and Scruff often cried into his pillow at night, wishing he were small and speedy like his sister.

Lips tightened, he tried to swing his sword again, emulating Jamie's flawless technique. But it was no good. Just touching the sword made his fingers tremble. He dropped the blade again, missing Bramblebridge's foot by an inch.

Bramblebridge stared down at the wooden blade, up at Scruff, then sighed. "Just... go away, Scruff," he said. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and spat. "You're hopeless."

Scruff stumbled off, head lowered, chain mail chinking. The sounds of clacking swords died behind him, and Scruff could feel the eyes of the other squires against his back. He could just hear their taunting, calling him a beast, a mindless golem, a creature better tied to a plow than decked in armor. Scruff felt like crying. It was embarrassing to be eighteen and still useless with the sword. The other squires had mastered these moves years ago, yet Scruff kept failing sword practice, year after year.

Scruff sighed.
When will I become the man I want to be?
Even his childhood nickname stuck. His true name was Sam Thistle the Fourth, but nobody called him that. To everyone, Sam Thistle meant his deceased father, a knight of honor and distinction, a hero in this town.
But I remain Scruff... or Butterfingers... or the Ogre.
Scruff sniffed. As hard as he tried, he couldn't become as respected as his father.
Jamie took after Dad... while I'm just a lumbering, stupid, overgrown beast.

Wishing he could disappear into oblivion, Scruff left the dusty courtyard. He walked past the barracks and armory, crumbling buildings covered with roses, magpies nesting on their roofs. Shooing aside peacocks pecking for seeds, Scruff stepped under a portcullised gate, leaving Fort Rosethorn behind. From here, standing atop Rosethorn Hill, he could see all of Burrfield below, a sprawling town of wattle-and-daub houses, young oak trees, and a stone church with a single spire. Feet dragging, Scruff walked down the hill and along cobbled streets, heading to that church.

He shuffled down Baker Lane, where the scents of apple muffins tickled his nostrils, and into cobbled Scribe Square. Several vendors stood hawking fruit, parsnips, fish, and sausages from carts. In one corner, a group of children were watching a Punch and Judy show. Briefly, Scruff considered watching the puppets too; even at his size, he loved puppets, and they could always soothe him. He headed toward the show, but the children noticed him and started whispering.