Wistril Compleat
WISTRIL COMPLEAT
Frank Tuttle
Published by Sizzling Lizard Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Sizzling Lizard Press
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Cover Art by Beth Murray ©2009
Table of
Contents
I knew the first time Wistril bellowed from
behind his desk that I'd be writing several stories about the
rotund wizard. Wistril represents a side of wizardry I see too
little of, that of the grumpy, reclusive academic.
All poor Wistril wants out of life is a quiet
place to continue his research, a steady supply of his favorite
Upland persimmon beer, and four large meals a day. You won't find
Wistril out wandering the countryside on heroic quests. He
steadfastly refuses to enter the employ of monarchs or nobles. He
has little or no patience even for his fellow wizards, with whom he
communicates only infrequently and even then via scrying glass.
But like most of us, what Wistril wants and
what Wistril gets are two very different things.
First, there's Kern. Kern is Wistril's
apprentice; how Wistril wound up with an apprentice at all is
anyone's guess, and how he wound up with the sarcastic Kern is a
mystery even to me. But I hope you'll agree that together Wistril
and Kern make up a formidable (and entertaining) team.
That's a big part of the series. Wistril
bellows. Kern quips. But amid all the bluster, there's a genuine
respect between them. And a strong friendship.
Take Wistril and Kern, set them high atop a
mountain in down-at-the-heels Castle Kauph. Add Sir Knobby,
faithful gargoyle jack of all trades and Cook and three hundred
assorted other gargoyle staff and at least that number of venerable
haunts.
Do all that, toss in some trouble, and you've
got the book you're reading. I hope you enjoy it.
Oh, and the title -- Wistril Compleat. Does
that mean there will never be another Wistril story?
I wouldn't count on it. Wizards have a way of
popping back up at surprising times. I can almost hear Wistril
bellowing now -- "Confound it, are you never going to finish that
new story?"
I'd better go and do as he says. It is
unwise, as they say, to provoke the displeasure of wizards.
Questions? Comments? Just want to say hello?
Then head on over to
www.franktuttle.com
and
see what Frank is up to now. Or email Frank at
[email protected]
.
by Frank Tuttle
The torches hurled on the tiny inn's
wood-shingled roof, which should have touched off an inferno with
the first lick of flame, merely guttered and went out. The oil
splashed on the wooden walls of the leaning, ancient structure
steadfastly refused to ignite. Even the thin, bubbled glass window
set crookedly in the inn's warped front door defied a burly
sergeant's attempts to shatter it with a five-pound battle
hammer.
The Captain glared while mouthing the words
carved into the inn's door frame. The Goat's Head Inn, they read.
The Goat's Head in of Dervanny, home of the Great Wizard
Wistril.
The Captain's men -- six hundred Prissic
mercenaries left unemployed after the fall of Imperial Kent --
wandered uneasily through the deserted village. Simple wooden doors
could neither be kicked in nor hacked apart; window-shutters,
clasped shut only with bits of string, resisted sword and mace
alike.
The sergeant with the hammer gave up on the
inn's windowpane and unleashed a savage kick at one of the three
weather-beaten rocking chairs lined up on the inn's narrow porch.
The chair didn't budge. The Captain heard a wet crunching sound
from within the sergeant's boot.
While the sergeant howled and flailed, the
Captain lifted his gaze above the inn's roof-top and toward the
squat range of mountain peaks to the west. There, nearly atop the
tallest peak -- was that a castle?
The Captain squinted and raised a
spyglass.
"I thought so," he grumbled. Four towers,
four walls, arched entryway over retracting ramp -- a wizard's
dwelling. "Lieutenant!"
"Yes, sir?"
"Collect the men. Bring the siege works
forward."
"Yes sir. Shall we start with the inn or the
church?"
"Neither," said the Captain, pointing to the
castle and the thin ribbon of road that wound toward it. "Until we
deal with yonder wizard."
Goats bleated. Cows mooed. Dogs barked. Worst
of all, children laughed and shouted.
"Close that window," said Wistril in
exasperation. "And bring me another beer. This one is flat."
Kern rose from his writing-desk, stretched,
and crossed to the window. A shrieking mob of children charged by
below, pursued by the gangling, knock-kneed gargoyle that normally
lurked about the south-east tower furnace.
One of the children tripped on the hem of his
too-long robe. The gargoyle tapped the child gently on the head,
hooted in glee, and shambled away.
"Lorris is it!" cried the children. "Watch
out! Lorris is it!"
"Close that window!" roared Wistril from
behind his desk. "I can no longer abide that racket." The rotund
sorcerer sighed and shook his head. "The whole populace of Dervanny
has taken refuge in my rose-garden. My courtyard smells like a
barnyard. And my fool apprentice does nothing but stand in front of
the very window I've twice asked him to close."
Kern closed the window. "I'm overcome with
pity for you, Master," he said. "Noisy children, smelly animals,
and flat beer. It's inspiring, how you bear up under such an
enormous burden. Never a complaint or petty outburst -- "
Wistril banged his half-filled mug down on
the desk. "Apprentice Kern. Beer. Now."
Kern took up the mug and backed toward the
door with a bow. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"While you're out, call in the scouts. I want
to know if that infernal army has given up and moved on yet."
"I'll bet a week's pay they haven't," said
Kern, pausing at the door. "Another week's pay says they won't just
'move on' if they do give up on sacking Dervanny. How long can you
keep the stasis spell on the village, Master? And what of your Oath
of Peace?"
Wistril pondered his desk-top and said
nothing until Kern shrugged and opened the door. A pair of
bedraggled gargoyles stood in the hall. The tallest gargoyle's
knobby fist was poised to knock.
Kern stepped aside. The gargoyles shuffled
past, wings drooping, eyes downcast. Kern shook his head. "Looks
like I won my bet," he said to Wistril. "Shall I begin drafting a
full and unconditional surrender?"
Wistril's fingers blurred and sparked. Kern
blinked, and found himself in the cellar, two steps from a
beer-keg.
"Show-off," he muttered.
"Halt."
The Captain waited for the dust to settle.
Men coughed, grumbled, shifted their packs. Horses shuffled
nervously to and fro.
"Lieutenant. We'll camp here for the night
and start up the mountain at dawn. Post the guards."
The Lieutenant nodded. Ahead, the road
vanished beneath a thick line of towering, swaying pines.
The wind gusted suddenly, filling the forest
with a thousand dry wooden rustles that sounded like soft,
malicious whispering. The wind waned and died.
The whispers, though, grew louder, more
distinct. The Lieutenant heard one word emerge from the soft
babble. With a chill, he realized that his name was being called
out, whispered over and over like some dire incantation.
"Lieutenant!" snapped the Captain. "Post the
guards."
"Yes, sir. At once." The Lieutenant wheeled
his mount, eager to ride away from the shadowed, whispering trees.
As he rose, the Lieutenant saw scores of nervous faces lift up
toward the trees as if they, too, heard their names in the
wind.
"That's a nice touch, those voices," said
Kern, tapping the crystal ball on the desk. "How'd you learn their
names?"
"I didn't," said Wistril. "Each voice repeats
a random set of syllables. Every utterance is nonsense, but
approximately one in every four listeners will find words amid the
babble -- most often, their own name."
Wistril gestured and the image in the crystal
vanished. "The sun sets in twenty minutes, apprentice," he said.
"We shall need the equipment in the north tower for the remainder
of the night's activities. Open the tower. Engage the scrying
spells."
Kern nodded. "Straightaway. But before the
festivities begin, I have a question."
"Be brief."
"Do you have anything up your sleeve beside
phantom voices and will-o-the-wisps? And, if so, can you use it
without breaking your Oath?"
Wistril shook his head. "You sadden me,
apprentice. Are you so certain we shall fail?"
"Not certain. Just worried. I'm worried
because you intend to show yonder band of murderers things that
would send a sane man fleeing back to the Sea. I'm worried there
isn't a sane man among them."
"I see." Wistril glanced at the whirling,
intricate brass goblin-clock on the book-shelf. "Sunset is in
eighteen minutes," he said.
Kern stamped out of the study. He heard the
slap of small, bare feet echo down the empty hall followed by
snatches of childish laughter. A stern adult voice admonished the
child to be quiet, lest they "distract the good Mage from his
labors and our defense."
Kern hurried toward the tower, wondering just
how secure the villagers would feel if they knew the good Mage's
powers were bound by an oath of strict non-violence.
The tower was cold, dark, and thoroughly
haunted. "Wake up, gents," said Kern. "We've got a long night
ahead."
The small, cheerless cook fire crackled and
spat. The Lieutenant stared into the flames and tried to ignore the
whispers in the pines.
An ember popped, raising a shower of sparks
high into the night. The Lieutenant watched the sparks dance until
he realized Captain Garrel was staring at him.
"You still hear the voices, don't you?" said
the Captain.
"I was mistaken," said the Lieutenant. "It
was just the wind."
The Captain smiled, his wide, scarred face
demonic in the flickering firelight. "I hear them too, Lieutenant,"
he said. "Voices calling my name. It's the wizard. Wants to unnerve
us. Wants us to turn back."
Shouts sounded from the water-wagons. The
Lieutenant whirled, but saw only soldiers scrambling for weapons
and cover.
Sentry horns joined the shouting.
"Clever," muttered the Captain. The
Lieutenant turned, sword drawn, to find the column of smoke from
the cook fire growing thicker, darker. The smoke spun and writhed
-- and took on the form of a shrouded, skeletal specter with red,
burning eyes.
The smoke-phantom solidified, gave a high,
airy wail, and sailed away from the cook fire.
"Sir -- " began the Lieutenant.
"Order the men to put down their weapons
before they kill each other," said the Captain, ignoring a phantom
that gibbered at his shoulder.