Songs of the Dying Earth

Byron Tetrick THE COLLEGEUM OF MAUGE

Dringo crested the last tired hills of The Mombac Ambit just as the evening flickered into night with a pulse of dim purple light. Below him, teasingly close, the meager glow of a small village cast umber shadows upward through silhouetted branches. So near, yet so far. The shrieks and moans of night creatures seemed to approach him with alarming speed. A sudden amplified roar followed by a piercing howl shredded the last vestige of his nerves. They’re fighting over me, thought Dringo as he quickened his pace, knowing now he had little chance to reach safety. He drew his small dagger. At an angle between him and the village ahead, a nightjar’s mournful oooeeahh promised further menace.

“I suppose it would be best to increase our stride, don’t you think?” spoke a voice at his side, its suddenness elevating Dringo’s banging heart beyond what he thought possible.

A young man, elaborately dressed as though he planned meeting other distinguished nabobs, joined Dringo’s trotting gait without further introduction. Voluminous robes of opalescent fabric trailed the stranger like pennants fluttering in a strong gale. An elaborate spiked hat jostled atop his head despite the stranger gripping silver-corded tassels with one hand. “I cast a Spell of Convenient Disregard earlier,” he puffed in staccato, “but it seems to be losing potency.”

Dringo could make little more of the man who strode beside him in the gloom of the rapidly darkening night other than he appeared about his own age and similar height. He put his mistrust of magicians momentarily aside; better an unknown ally than a known death in the jaws of a visp or deodand. “Do you know any additional magic that could aid us?” asked Dringo, with similar breathlessness.

“None that I can conjure in our present predicament, other than an admonition that whoever of us lags, most likely will suffice as dinner for our pursuers, allowing the other to reach safety.” With that he laughed and surged forward, his pearl-colored garment becoming ghost-like as his distance lengthened.

Though the village lights appeared closer, they were yet some distance away when suddenly the young magician halted and bent over, hands resting on his knees. Still gasping, he spoke: “We’re safe now within the boundaries of a protective spell surrounding the village.”

Dringo slowed but did not stop. “How can you be certain?”

“I see it,” the stranger huffed. “Like a kalychrome it shimmers just beyond the visible spectrum. I doubt you see it.”

Not satisfied with such a vague — and invisible to him — assurance, Dringo kept his pace and soon passed him. He struggles for breath as if he might collapse; perhaps he sees the flashing lights one experiences just prior to passing out, thought Dringo. Better to leave him to occupy the hunger of the night creatures.

“Wait! Slow! A moment only and then we can continue,” pleaded the man. He laughed again as he stood upright and started walking. “I’ll buy the first gill. Slow, and keep me company.”

“Hardly incentive enough to risk my life,” replied Dringo

“True, but I promise we are safe within the magical barrier that protects the town.” He spoke a few unintelligible words and waved a hand. “Perhaps you can now see the faint aura of that which shields us?”

Dringo looked about. There did seem to be a faint, noctilucent shimmer to the air that quickly faded from his vision. “Well, it’s gone now.”

“No. No. I just don’t have powers enough to hold it within your sight any longer. But you did see it, yes? So slow, and we will build our thirst at a more leisurely pace.”

With misgivings, Dringo stopped and waited.

“I’ve traveled far this day with only the scrape of my soles as comfort, and caws and screeches to distress me.” He held out a hand. “Gasterlo. We’ve outdistanced death and surely we are meant to be friends.”

Dringo reciprocated. “Dringo, a lonely traveler myself. I’m curious that you are so versed in magic and yet so young. I doubt we’d have made it otherwise.”

Gasterlo lifted a hand in modesty. “My earlier spell could not hold the creatures at bay a moment longer and the power to guard our environs is well beyond my paltry abilities. In fact, it is to become a Master Magician that I left the comforts of an indolent life and venture forth. What entices you? You don’t have the look of a vagabond nor the errant.”

Dringo hesitated a moment only. What harm can come from openness? “I seek my father. I have — at least so said my mother — only his looks and nothing else that connects me to the man who sired me.”

“A noble cause, Dringo! We will ponder our futures over that ale I promised. We draw near the periphery of the town and already I can smell the roasting of meats, and my throat yearns for something other than the fusty water I carry.”

As they approached, the town exhibited a liveliness surprising for the lack of nyctophobia so common in the folk that dared to live within the Ambit. Shutters were open on many of the small cottages that abutted the road creating a warm lambency to their path. Cries of greetings and well wishes were generously spoken by those who happened to peer out as the two strangers passed. One would think that they had just heard that the dying sun was to be invigorated on the morrow and that they expected to wake to a dawn of renewed brilliance, such was their obvious mood of sanguinity.

The road led to a small area of shops. Gasterlo pointed to the only two-story building. A weathered plank hung from an equally feeble gibbet. A flickering lantern shared the crossbeam throwing shadowy light on the crudely lettered sign: GRIPPO’S HOSTELRY. “Our destination, it would seem. I see nothing ahead more promising.” Gasterlo held the wooden door open and the travelers entered the inn.

Inside, the bonhomie was even more in evidence. Every table and chair was taken by smiling, red faced men. An elevated side room seemed to be the center of attention to all within, though many turned to look as Dringo and Gasterlo entered. From the raised alcove a young man stood up and shouted: “Gasterlo! We had all but given up. Come have a seat.” He roughly pushed the shoulders of an old man sitting nearby. “Make room for our friend.” The man rose with a subservient nod. Several others moved to the side allowing Dringo to glimpse the speaker’s companions. Four additional young men, two dressed in elaborate doublets of brocatelle and two clad in flowing robes similar to those worn by Gasterlo, were seated on benches that flanked a table of knurled deobado. Succulent food was spread across its surface, and Dringo’s stomach lurched in an attack of envy.

Gasterlo stepped up, turned back to Dringo who had hesitated and said, “My cohorts. Join us.”

Just then an officious innkeeper bustled up, shoving several local patrons out of the way. “Make room! Don’t hinder their path, you uncouth rogues. Let these high goombahs join their friends.” He guided them through the crowd to the table. “I assume you’ll be wanting a gill, or do you wish something stronger? An absynthea? A green croate? I am Grippo and I’m at your service.”

“Beer is fine,” replied Gasterlo without glancing at the innkeeper. He clasped his friend with a hearty embrace. “Cavour Senthgorr, you look well. Are you ready to start training?”

“Indeed,” he replied. “For too long have we been dogwadled by our powerful fathers. They perch in their manses content to watch the dying sun sink deeper into morbidity while they use their maugism to taunt their rivals and play games of spite with the small folk.”

“Precisely!” agreed Gasterlo. “If nothing else, let the Twenty-first Eon, if this be our last, be marked by a renewed thrust of triumphant vibrancy — but here, let me introduce Dringo. We two barely escaped the maw of a visp — or some other equally horrible death — not moments ago.” Gasterlo named his friends around the table: Cavour Senthgorr; Tryllo Makshaw; Zimmy Garke; Luppie Fross and Popo Killraye. All were sons of magicians of greater or lesser renown and were to be fellow students at the collegeum. Dringo felt diminished and uncomfortable; the young men were noticeably of higher status and breeding.

Room was made at the table and they took seats. The beer arrived delivered by a lass of sturdy stock who smiled shyly at Dringo. Gasterlo pulled out his purse, but Cavour halted him, “Our expenses are covered. The school has set up an account. However, you might add a few tercels into the common pot.”

“The munificence of our fathers surprises me,” said Gasterlo.

Dringo ventured into the conversation: “Was it you who lofted the encirclement around the town?”

“Hah,” snorted Popo Killraye. “We have many weeks of study before we’ll be able to repel an insect. No, Lord Lychenbarr has protected this town for our benefit.” He waved an arm in a gesture encompassing the crowd. “Thus, the gratitude of those around us.”

“I wondered about the festive mood of the people. The Ambit is not known for folk who dare stroll beneath the shadow of a mowood tree, much less cavort openly along gloamy streets.”

Tryllo Makshaw chuckled. “It seems that Lord Lychenbarr wants us to have a place away from the collegeum to do the things young men do without disturbing his symmetry. He is a fusspot and a querulous magician who has been pressed into service to instruct us reprobates.” He nodded towards another buxomly server jiggling towards the adjoining table. “I look forward to our time here. We shall see exactly how grateful the townspeople are when it comes to surrendering their daughters’ virtues.”

Cavour pushed a plate of fried trotfish towards Dringo and spoke to Popo, “Hand over that red-looking fungie. You both must be starved. Grippo! Another gill for all at the table.”

Dringo had forgotten the food but was now ravenous. Gasterlo and he filled plates, and more beer was brought to the table. The evening seemed to progress as a moment in time quickly come and gone. There had been much laughter and goodnatured ribbing as only young men lacking attachments can perfect without rancor. Though still crowded, the inn began to quiet with small groups wandering towards the door, usually after stopping by their table, doffing hats and speaking a few ingratiating words. Dringo felt quite above himself surrounded by these sons of powerful magicians. They seemed to enjoy his comradeship, though, as he did their boastful banter. The innkeeper had arranged for their rooms upstairs and by unanimous decision they decided on one last drink before retiring.

Luppie Fross leaned over to Dringo. “Where does your journey take you next?” he asked.

“Good question, Luppie. I’ll brood over that tomorrow with a clearer head. I’m searching for my father.” In a moment of braggadocio, he added, “He was a magician himself, you know?”

“What?” shouted Luppie. He turned to the rest of the table. “Dringo tells me his father is a magician.”

Embarrassed, he held up his hand. “Hold on! I base that only from some stories I heard from my mother. She only had a short time with him but he did tell her he was a magician of minor rank — of course, according to her, he also claimed many things of which he was not. I don’t even know if he yet lives.”

“Dringo told me he goes on a quest in search of his father,” remarked Gasterlo.

“Tell us more,” said Zimmie.

“Indeed!” added Popo.

“There is little more to tell,” said Dringo. “Though I don’t know where to begin or whether I can survive the task, I seek my father. Without the aid of Gasterlo tonight, my journey would have ended with only my gnawed bones marking the failure of my mission. But it is a deathbed promise I made to my mother.” Dringo made a gesture with his hand. “You all have spoken disparagingly of your fathers this evening, and I well understand why. Yet, you have someone to measure yourself to. I do not.”

The table fell silent for a moment. But then Cavour leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “I have an outrageous idea, Dringo. Join us at the collegeum. What better way to prepare yourself for the rigors ahead than to have a quiver of spells at your call?”

At once everyone spoke: “Yes!” cried Tryllo. “Splendid!” said Zimmie. “Bravo!” agreed Popo. Luppie raised his beer in a salute, and he and Gasterlo clanked their tankards.

Dringo was bewildered, dizzy with drink and the onslaught of thoughts racing through his mind. It was an outrageous idea. “How can that happen? I have only a meager purse. I have no father who has provided a stipend. I know nothing of magic, and obviously you all have some basic skills.” He proceeded to give a litany of other arguments, his voice becoming ever more plaintive as he realized that suddenly he did want this, more than anything.

“Fiddlefaddle,” said Cavour. “The collegeum has been funded by the Magicians Guild. One more scholar will hardly matter. We will help cover any incidentals. Won’t we, fellows? As for thaumaturgical abilities, we are all fledglings. Gasterlo here is the only one that has more than rudimentary skills.”

“I am honored, my fine new friends,” said Dringo earnestly. “But you hold a station high above me. It will be obvious to this Lord Lychenbarr of whom you speak that I don’t belong.”

He hesitated a moment and then added in a somber tone, “I am a bastard.”

They all looked at each other, and then suddenly the entire table broke out in raucous laughter.

Finally, Gasterlo spoke, though haltingly, unable to contain his amusement: “We’re all bastards, Dringo. You don’t imagine that magicians take wives, do you? They live in their manses surrounded by poinctures, sandestins and other entities. Their energies flow in directions that at times seem not even human. They are capricious at best and unreliable always. I suppose my father has sired many bastards; and why he chose me is as mysterious as the most complex spells are to my untutored mind.”

“Makes me wonder if I want that for myself,” joked Tryllo. “Dringo can assume my place.”

Cavour placed a hand on the table, palm down. “Oh, we will be different. Let us make a pact now, that one: We will remain friends and not become factious old men; and two: We will use our skills in a lighthearted manner.”

One by one the young men laid a hand on another. They all turned to Dringo.

With a smile, he added his hand to the stack.

Lord Lychenbarr frowned down at the assemblage from a raised platform. He paced the dais, his robes swishing the air in the muted chamber like the sound of rustling leaves. “I am tasked,” he finally began in a voice both powerful and resonant, “with transforming you nescient novices into wizards. It would be easier — much easier, in fact — to change a grub into an eagle.”

Dringo heard Tryllo whisper something to Popo and they both laughed.

Lord Lychenbarr’s lean face, elongated further by a thin, grey wisp of a beard, darkened with annoyance. He murmured a series of inaudible words.

As if all sound had been banished, the audarium fell silent. The shifting of feet, the rustle of paper, even the slight wheeze of Zimmie’s breathing ceased instantaneously. Dringo could not move. He tried to look to his side but his sight was as constrained as his body. A burning prickle began to build within his bowels and quickly bloomed in intensity.

Lord Lychenbarr glared at them. “To say I require absolute obedience and submission to my will in all things can be assumed.” He smiled, but it was more a look of malice. “Let me add, I also demand quietude and attentiveness. Are there any questions?”

They all remained motionless, of course.

“Good, then we will proceed.” he said.

“I just activated three somewhat minor spells in rapid succession.” He raised a finger. “The first was the Spell of Unbending Rigiditosity.” He added a second upraised finger. “The second was just a tincture of Lugwiler’s Dismal Itch — you would not want to experience it in its undiluted grandeur. And the third…”

By this time a fire burned vertically through Dringo’s entrails. So great was the pruritus that he would have torn into his body to reach the source.

Lord Lychenbarr paused as if he had forgotten his train of thought. “Ahh…yes, I neglected to verbalize the third.” He laughed, and then spoke a complex chain of strange syllables.

At once, the room was filled with groans of relief. Dringo looked about the room and could see that they all had suffered as greatly as he.

Lord Lychenbarr continued without notice. “The third was Triskole’s Fundamental Reversal that removed the two previous spells. The ability to hold even one such spell in one’s mind requires much study and meticulous execution. To utter one mistaken pervulsion will cause unanticipated results. With that in mind we will begin with Amberlin’s Warning of Infinite Consequences, a precept critical to the structure of all spells.”

Their first day was a day of humiliation and mortification. Even Gasterlo, who all agreed was at least initially more skilled, was inept. Surprisingly, Dringo found Lord Lychenbarr’s lecture on theory comprehensible, although his first attempt at effecting a primary spell spectacularly futile. Yet, he didn’t feel overwhelmed, and a real glimmer of confidence began to form. As they filed from the room with Lord Lychenbarr’s exceedingly crude derision keeping pace with them, Dringo’s high spirits, however, were shattered.

“Dringo, I’ll see you in my chamber before your dinner,” Lord Lychenbarr commanded.

Well, he knew it was coming. The morning they departed the inn for the collegeum, the seven of them had planned how they might pull off the ruse. To better look the part of a young aristocrat, his friends had each donated a few pieces of fine clothing. Tryllo offered to vouch for Dringo. “You will be a distant relative whose family is highly regarded by my father,” suggested Tryllo. “The worse that will happen is that Lord Lychenbarr will place his boot up my arse right after he does the same to Dringo.” The story would be that Dringo’s father, a mighty magician, was delayed in hearing word of the formation of the school and had sent Dringo on while he would make arrangements with the Guild.

Entering Lord Lychenbarr’s chamber, Dringo stiffened his shoulders and tried to appear assured. “Lord Lychenbarr, you wished to speak to me?”

Lord Lychenbarr stroked his wiry chin-whiskers and stared at Dringo. Finally he spoke: “Dringo, I have no authoritative documentation enrolling you into the collegeum. Nor have the appropriate funds arrived.”

Dringo held his gaze and answered with as much boldness as he dared. “I’m certain my credentials are enroute, Lord Lychenbarr. I traveled from lands west of the Flattened Sea. I must have outraced the messenger with the documents.”

“I’m afraid that explanation will not suffice,” said Lord Lychenbarr, shaking his head.

His friends had suggested that Dringo should use bombast and threaten Lord Lychenbarr with the wrath of a powerful father if necessary; however, Dringo was now certain that approach would not work. It was obvious that Lord Lychenbarr could not be intimidated, and it would only open the door to questions for which he had no answers. “I plead for your indulgence, Lord Lychenbarr. This first day has humbled me, but I eagerly await your instruction tomorrow. I will do better. I urge you not to dismiss me.”

Lord Lychenbarr regarded him with a look of contemplation, but then surprised Dringo by saying, “I’ll wait a few days. Go to your dinner and out of my sight.”

Dringo left determined to think no more on the matter. There was nothing else he could do, in any event. After all, the sun might neglect to rise tomorrow leaving that difficulty in obscurity.

The next day, Lord Lychenbarr drove them with relentless energy, demanding exactitude in all things and punishing errors with zest. Dringo, in particular, received painful attention. Late in the day, Lord Lychenbarr departed the room without a word and did not return, leaving them to debate whether they, too, could depart for dinner. Lugwiler’s Itch was very much on their minds.

The following day saw little improvement; nor the day after. On the fifth day, Dringo and Gasterlo managed a momentary Spell of Refulgent Luminosity. Their excitement spurred the others, and within two more days the entire class could duplicate the feat.

The following weeks saw a transformation in Lord Lychenbarr that was as magical as anything Dringo could have imagined. Their mentor had become a patient and enthusiastic teacher, now as quick with praise and encouragement as he had previously been cynical and invective. One evening, following a day of tedious dissection of Killiclaw”s Primer of Practical Magic, he asked them all to join him on his balustraded aerie for a drink. The speckled sun doddered on rays of pale, lavender beams as it fell below the rounded hills of the Ambit and the evening air was cool and fragrant with the sweet aroma of dymphny and telanxis.

“Initially, I resented having to leave my own manse,” began Lord Lychenbarr. “You have won me over with your youthful energy and enthusiasm.” He paused to refill their glasses with a rich, yellow wine. “I am so satisfied with your progress that I’ve decided you are ready for your first practical test tonight.”

This was greeted with loud moans and mumbled complaints.

Lord Lychenbarr laughed. “Here is your task: You are free to make the journey to Grippo’s this evening. I warn you, the dangers are plenitude: visps; erbs; fermines; asms; all the hideous creations of magic gone awry.” He waited a moment, and then added, “Of course, if you don’t feel ready…”

Dringo was the first to voice: “NO! We’re ready.”

A chorus of loud agreement echoed into the purple twilight.

The young mages returned the next evening, blurry-eyed and unsteady, but in a carefree and relaxed demeanor. Dringo also felt a renewed self-assurance. It was one thing to mouth a few words from memory, and quite another to come forth with precision the exact pervulsions necessary when under duress. He and Gasterlo had had a good laugh after arriving at Grippo’s the previous night as they recalled their first fearful meeting, now seemingly so long ago.

Lord Lychenbarr began joining them for dinner in the small common room laid out for that purpose. The evenings became as much a time for learning as any daytime lecture. The pragmatic aspects of thaumaturgy just seemed to make more sense following a fine meal lubricated with even finer wine.

The months progressed rapidly. The winter was mild in spite of little assistance from the sun that seemed to labor every morn to rise above the frosted edge of the horizon. Tryllo Makshaw, though not at all insufficient in ability, decided to leave the Collegeum of Mauge. “We labor while the dying earth exults in its release. We should be exuberant in joined celebration while this glorious planet gives forth its fruits and wines, its nymphs frolic in unabashed nakedness and the songs of the dying earth still echo in our ears.”

Though Tryllo was missed, especially during their occasional sojourns to Grippo’s, the demands of Lord Lychenbarr were unceasing, leaving them little time to think on the matter. Dringo continued to excel, but he still worried that Lord Lychenbarr might renew his investigation into the lack of his enrollment documents. He took solace in that at least he was much better prepared to meet the unknown challenges once he resumed the search for his father.

Lord Lychenbarr never allowed the young magicians to progress beyond the use of madlings, a lesser and thus more controllable form of sandestin. To attempt encodement of the working instructions of a spell into the unpredictable mind of a higher entity had caused misadventure to many wizards. He pointedly emphasized caution every day the lessons entailed practical employment.

Disaster struck, as is usually the case in all things subject to the hubris of young men.

Cavour Senthgorr was attempting a derivation of the Spell of Hastening Profundity. Failure to recite the pervulsion correctly triggered a lesser entity to enlist the aid of a demon of known irritability and vengeful retribution.

The demon stood swathed in the gases and stenches of his subworld. He loomed above them turning his head back and forth with malevolent smaragdine-colored eyes. A ridged crest fanned the length of his back like the dorsal fin of a sea creature. Below a pouched gut that gave the appearance of a large, living meal just eaten, swayed a pendulous sex organ. It looked at Cavour and spoke: “Your beckoning is inconvenient. However, I subjugate my own desires to your will.” Its voice was surprisingly human-sounding and serene, made ghastly by his next words: “I will require an assistant.” He again looked around the room and returned his eyes on Cavour. “None of you will suffice. I will make a golem using the eyes of…” he looked at Gasterlo, “you.” He turned to Popo Killraye. “I will use your legs. They look sturdy enough. And I think…”

Cavour’s voice croaked as he yelled, “Halt! I discharge you from your task. You may return to your abode.”

The demon chortled. “One instruction at a time. Precedence requires me to forgo that option.” He turned back to his inspection of body parts with what may have been a grin splitting its maw.

Dringo looked over to Lord Lychenbarr who appeared deep in thought as he chuntered a spell in sotto voice. His brow was furrowed in worry. Dringo tried to deduce what type of spell Lord Lychenbarr would attempt: Probably the Agency of Far Dispatch. Whatever…it didn’t seem to be effective. What could fortify his spell?

On impulse he uttered Jonko’s Gentle Aswaggment of Imperious Desires.

With wonder and relief, they all looked at each other in silence. The creature had vanished.

Lord Lychenbarr, visibly shaken, said to Dringo, “Well done. What made you think that spell would work?”

“The demon seemed so obdurate in its intentions that it occurred to me that your spell couldn’t work without a mollifying additive. We’ve used Jonko’s Gentle Aswaggment to calm small forest animals before.” He shrugged and splayed out his arms. “It’s all I could contrive at the moment.”

Lord Lychenbarr approached Dringo and put a boney arm around his shoulders. It was the first physical contact any one of them had ever had with this enigmatic man. “I say again, well done. I would not have thought to co-join those spells. I can see now where the two used in conjunction could have many useful applications. I believe we shall have an extra ration of spirits with our dinner tonight. Certainly, I will.” He turned and departed the room.

Dringo could still feel lingering warmth on his shoulder. “Why, he is nothing but a frail, old man beneath those flowing robes,” he thought with a surge of affection.

Following dinner that evening Lord Lychenbarr asked Dringo to see him in his chambers. Dringo had no reason to be uneasy following an amiable meal where Lord Lychenbarr once more praised Dringo’s resourcefulness. That changed as he entered the chambers.

Lord Lychenbarr began sternly, “I have been instructed that without a sponsor you are to be dismissed.”

Dringo paled. “Surely, given some more time….”

Lord Lychenbarr’s raised a hand in a stopping motion. “You have done well here, Dringo; and I am not one who takes commands from my peers. His features softened and then a smile. “You have a sponsor, Dringo. I will be your benefactor.”

Lord Lychenbarr became cautionary at the Collegeum of Mauge. “I realize now that I have imposed too much of my own brashness in your tutorage. After that near disaster with the demon, we will again concentrate more on theory and put more emphasis on the usage of activans and potions. Even the dominant magicians of the Grand Motholam eventually undid themselves through impetuosity and lack of rigor.”

Powerful magicians began to visit the collegeum as rumor spread that Lychenbarr was developing potential rivals. Dringo thought them all uniformly haughty, boastful, arrogant, supercilious, and pompous. These powerful pandalects, without fail, immediately attempted to impose their own distorted imprimatur; and it was obvious to Dringo that Lord Lychenbarr realized that he had made a mistake in allowing such visits. None alarmed him more than when he announced that a communication arrived stating that Iucounu the Laughing Magician would honor the collegeum with an assessment.

Iucounu chose to use a whirlaway of grandiose design. Dringo and his fellow students watched from an upper window as the corpulent wizard bounded from the conveyance, crossed a short expanse of swaying grasses on his stubby legs and called into the manse commandingly, “It is Iucounu. Present yourself before my felicitous thoughts are overtaken by irritation and vex.”

A servant greeted Iucounu and led him inside and up the stairs to the audarium where they all awaited.

Lord Lychenbarr welcomed Iucounu. “Was your journey without trial?”

Iucounu, in his notably squeaky voice, giggled. “One minor annoyance that was quickly dispatched. Nothing of consequence to one such as myself.”

He wore an ill-fitting gown of pale gentian with maroon abstract designs. It did little to mask his rotundity. His large head rode above the silken mass like a boulder perpetually out of balance. “So these are the young mages I hear so much about,” he said, looking about the room. Suddenly, Iucounu screamed a high-pitched invective that tested the upper range of the audible spectrum. He held out an arm with his finger rigid in accusation.

“Cugel. It is you!”

Lord Lychenbarr followed the line of Iucounu’s venomous stare. He turned to him. “You are mistaken. This is Dringo.”

Iucounu squinted. He accessed a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from some hidden reservoir of fabric and walked a few steps closer. “Ahh…. The resemblance is uncanny. The same slender stature. Hair the color of a crow’s wing. The visage of a fox.” Iucounu frowned but seemed to calm.

A stunned Dringo stepped forward. “Then you know my father?” he asked without guile or premonition. “My quest is to seek him out.”

Iucounu squealed, “Do I know your father? Do I know your father? A thief and a trickster. He irritates me worse than a canker on my scrotum.” He raised an arm and rushed forward as if to strike Dringo.

Lord Lychenbarr raced forward and placed himself between the two. “Stop, at once! Iucounu, I will not allow you to disrupt the harmony of this collegeum. Whatever your annoyance, Dringo has done you no mischief. He is—”

Iucounu chanted a spell of spatial transposition hurling Lord Lychenbarr across the room and against the wall with such force that stones loosened and fell, ribbons of dust drifted from the rafters covering Lord Lychenbarr who lay slumped on the floor.

Dringo rushed to his side.

Lord Lychenbarr tried to raise his head but failed. Dringo knelt and cupped the back of his head.

“I’m sorry, Dringo…” Lord Lychenbarr managed in an old man’s voice. His hand searched for Dringo’s and placed an object the size and weight of a glass marble firmly into his palm. “My legacy to you, my dear friend,” he whispered.

Iucounu towered over them. “Dringo, you are too much in your father’s image. You want your father? You shall have him!” He invoked the Agency of Far Dispatch followed by an infliction of the Spell of Forlorn Encystment.

Dringo could hear the sound of Iucounu’s girlish whinny as reality shifted in a dizzying swirl of sky and stars and awareness.

Dringo looked at himself through an ocher err-light, his image distorted further by a strange opaqueness, as if looking through amber. His eyes were open but unblinking. No movement was discernable. Nor was there a trace of sound. He tried to move. It was a sensation beyond the scope of anything he could imagine. Null. Nothingness. An absolute disconnect between mind and body. He sensed no beat of his heart, and he realized at that moment that he did not breathe. There was no pain. There was no cold. There was no heat. Was there life, even? So this was the Spell of Forlorn Encystment. This was worse than being buried alive. Wait! He was buried alive. Forty-five miles beneath the surface of the earth to be exact. But there was no hope even for death to bring a cessation of this perpetual nullity. He turned his mind towards Iucounu. There was hate, at least. But he couldn’t even hold on to that because if it was possible to still “feel” anything, he did still feel the fragility of Lord Lychenbarr’s head as he cradled it in his hand. Was Lord Lychenbarr yet alive? Dringo cried. But he didn’t cry.

Time passed. Or he assumed it passed. His universe now ran on a different clock. He didn’t seem to sleep, but at times awareness of his own thoughts would recede without volition and then coalesce like a dream suddenly coming into focus. It occurred to him that madness would be the adjunct to his situation. He began to discipline his mind by recalling the entirety of every spell he had learned with each pervulsion recited in exactitude. A mistake required him to start from the beginning. Later, the slightest hesitation was cause enough to start all over again. More time passed.

Dringo was in one of his less cognitive states, his mind meandering as he gazed at himself in the strange reflection of his encystment, when suddenly he noticed a minor imperfection in his countenance that had gone unnoticed. Like passing a painting on a wall, day in and day out, while being unaware of the actual image until one actually looks at it. For the first time he concentrated on the image. Although indistinct and vague, there were other minor differences that suddenly seemed obvious. Now he understood what Iucounu meant when he told Dringo he could have his father!

He was looking at his father, not himself. Iucounu had placed him facing Cugel. The irony and the cruelty were manifold and magnified.

The reality shift was almost physical. Where before there didn’t seem to be perception of depth, now he could see that Cugel was no more than an arm’s reach away. What might be going through his mind? He didn’t even know he had a son. Would he think that Iucounu had created a doppelganger as a further perverted punishment? Maybe Cugel’s sanity had already departed his body and his thoughts would be inconsequential. My father. Now that was something to contemplate.

Time progressed. Dringo existed in what he now thought of more and more as a dreamlike state, vacillating at various levels of awareness. His initial claustrophobic fears of insanity receded. At times he looked into his father’s eyes and had imaginary conversations in his head. He found other matters to dwell upon. Would he even be aware of the sun’s final struggle when it came?

It was during one such contemplative moment when he became aware of a sensation. It was infinitesimally slight. But when there is nothing, then anything seems immense. Some time passed before he could even place the locale on his body; so long it seemed that he had been disassociated from it. It was the orb that Lord Lychenbarr had given him. It moved.

Physical awareness grew. First his hand began to tingle, and then it felt like an animal was running up and down his arm. Next he became aware of heat and odors, and his lungs filled with a gasp of hot, stale air. He blinked. Realized he blinked, and blinked again.

Perched on a rock shelf of only a few inches width and approximately a foot away, there sat a miniature halfling with a smug look on its impish face. “My indenture is complete,” it said. “Release me — as I have released you — so that I may return to the subworld.”

Dringo moved his head about. He was free. He need only say a spell to return to the surface. “I am indebted to you, little friend,” spoke Dringo. His words sounded strange to his ears.

The creature sneered, baring needle-sharp canines. “I am not your friend and I am not small. I only assume this size because crushing you would negate a satisfactory fulfillment of my obligation. How do you think I fit into Lord Lychenbarr’s orb? Now release me.”

“Of course, you are relea—”

The entity disappeared.

“—sed.”

Dringo’s encystment was gone but the hollow in the earth created by its removal was barely large enough to turn his shoulders. Cugel’s encystment was as before. The features of his father were easier discernable now. He reached out and touched its surface. Though his hand could not penetrate it, neither could he feel it. Was Cugel aware? He was soon to be very surprised if he was not. Dringo rehearsed the required six lines to expel himself to the surface. It was increasingly more difficult to breath and the heat was unbearable. He confidently recited the words.

Dringo was ousted like a living magma. He lay on wet grass too weak to move other than to suck in the cool air. It was night; or had the sun gone out? At the moment it did not concern him. Eventually, he stood on his unstable legs and slowly paced in the darkness. Before he lost his nerve, he uttered the identical pervulsions with the addition of three critical words.

The ground shivered, then quaked, then erupted as Cugel was ejected to a spot not three feet away from where Dringo stood. Cugel lay motionless for a disheartening length of time. In the gloom Dringo could see that his chest did rise and fall; but was there a sane man in the body?

Abruptly, Cugel sat up. “I’m thirsty,” were the first words Dringo heard spoken by his father.

“Can you stand?” asked Dringo. “We will have to go in search of water.”

Cugel tried to lift himself using an arm to lever himself up but failed. “A moment, first. I think my time beneath the earth is longer than I supposed.” He lifted his head towards the sky. “Is it night or has the sun cast its last shadow on the dying earth?”

Dringo looked heavenward also. “I think it is night only. We have twilight enough to dimly see each other and the ground beneath us, but we will know in a few hours.”

Cugel laughed. “Just so!” He squinted at Dringo. “Are you a cruel joke played on me by Iucounu? You appear to be a replica of me, though not so dashing.” Without waiting for an answer, he slowly turned on his side and rolled to a crouch, then rose up to a standing position. “Well, if you are a demon sent to mimic me and raise false hope, at least lead me to some water before you inter me again.”

Dringo answered, “I assure you I am of flesh and blood. But you are astute in suspecting the malicious frolic of Iucounu. More than you can imagine, Cugel.”

“You know me by name! More reason to suspect a foul hand at play.”

Dringo ignored the comment and turned to face the downward slope of the hillock upon which they had found themselves expelled. “Come, let us seek some water. We have much to talk about.”

They stumbled down the small hill in the darkness. Twice Cugel stopped and sat, the second time saying, “I will wait here while you search. You seem more sprightly than I. You may even find a suitable container for returning the refreshment, thus eliminating the need for both of us to traverse these difficult slopes.” Dringo disregarded Cugel’s complaints and continued on. The terrain kept leading lower to eventually funnel them into a line of fragrant Myrhadian trees that flanked a small arroyo from which they could hear the gurgle of a brook. Both of them cupped hand after hand of the sweet water until their stomachs were distended gourds.

They sat together on a broad, flat rock above the water line.

Cugel, in a much improved humor, smiled and said to Dringo, “Your resemblance to my own is remarkable. Who are you, if not a minion of Iucounu?”

Dringo shook his head at Cugel’s opacity. “You can’t fathom another possibility?”

Cugel sat mutely with thin, pursed lips.

Dringo realized that his impatience with his father was more a matter of anxiety than frustration. “I am your son!” he blurted.

He watched Cugel’s face closely for a reaction. It was not what he expected.

Cugel laughed uncontrollably. “That is an impossibility. You are too close to my own age. Iucounu, show yourself. Your trickery lacks coherency.” He leaned forward to study Dringo’s features. Suddenly, he raged: “Clarity has reasserted itself. Iucounu, you have robbed me of more years than I ever imagined! The Spell of Forlorn Encystment has maddened me! I thought myself buried a year or perhaps two, but this? It is too much. The Law of Equipoise has been tilted to an extreme that demands equally severe punition.”

Finally he calmed. He looked again towards Dringo. “So I have a son. Who is your mother? Perhaps you can refresh my memory?”

“My mother’s name was Ammadine. Sadly, she is gone now.”

Cugel shook is head. “No, I don’t remember. However, it is an appealing name. Was she pretty?”

“She was one of the Seventeen Virgins of Symnathis. They are chosen for their beauty and purity, and their arrival at the Grand Pageant is the signal event of the gala. The caravan that was to deliver the young virgins was one year guarded by a young man calling himself Cugel the Clever. Only two arrived as maidens. My mother was not one of them.”

A smile or a smirk crossed Cugel’s face. Dringo couldn’t tell in the faint light. “Yes, I remember. A misunderstanding of responsibility. I was not given an opportunity to enlighten the Grand Thearch. The caravan arrived without incident, and I would rate my conduct at a value well above the remuneration agreed upon, which I might add was never forthcoming.” He paused and reflected. “Was your mother light of hair with amber-grey eyes?”

Dringo answered, “No.”

“Ahh. Was she short with dark hair and breasts that swelled—”

“My mother,” Dringo interrupted, “was a young girl who lost her high station and gave birth to a bastard son who grew up without a father…” His voice faltered.

Cugel nodded. “This I regret. You should consider that during this time Iucounu was exacting harsh punishments upon me for motives both unreasonable in their pettiness, and lack of proportionality, considering the absence of ill will on my part.” His tone lost its flippancy. “I had thought myself finally free of Iucounu, but he found a way to return from his dissolution. Whether from the Overworld, the Underworld or the Demon-world, I know not. But that fact remains. And his revenge was the Spell of Forlorn Encystment.”

Dringo couldn’t help but look at his father somewhat differently, “I too, know first-hand the brutality of Iucounu, father.”

Cugel relaxed back on the rock. “Tell me your story.”

When Dringo had finished, Cugel said to him, “We have much more to tell each other, and I think you have a great deal to teach me of magic. It is settled then. We will join forces to plan the ultimate prank on the Laughing Magician.”

They clasped hands in their oath. The dawn light had brightened the sky and the red orb crested the very hill they had earlier descended.

“I see the sun still rises,” said Cugel to his son. “It appears that this tired old earth has one more day in it. Let us get started.”

THE END