A Touch of Magic (2 page)

Bobby nodded his head in agreement. “Yeah! His knees are all stiff, too. I keep wondering when he’s gonna knock himself over.”

“I was thinking the same thing! I wonder if he has a sister, so she can show him how it’s done!” Randall cackled.

Both boys were startled by a harsh voice, directly behind them. “So, you boys think yer experts, now do ya?”

They turned to see a gruff-looking militia man, giving them a dark look. He had shaggy brown hair, and a bushy black mustache. He put his hands on the boys’ shoulders, and Randall noticed that he was missing the last two fingers on his left hand.

“Uhm,” Randall gulped. “Well, you see, we were just…”

“Yeah, just flappin’ yer gums, that’s what. I’ll tell you what. I’ll suit you boys up in some practice gear, and let you take a whack or two at each other. If yer half as good as that trash you were talking, I’ll sign you both up right now and make real men o’ ya!”

“Uh…sure! Why not!” Bobby said, before Randall could protest.

“Harlowe!” snapped the man, and one of the men practicing disarming moves snapped to attention. “Help me get these two lads chest plates, helmets, and a practice sword. We’re gonna see what kind o’ stuff they’re made of!”

“Sure thing, Cap’n!” the man named Harlowe called, with a wink and a grin.

After the two men went into one of the tents, Randall turned to Bobby.

“Look Bobby, I’m not so sure about this,” he said worriedly.

“Come on! You said you wanted to join the militia. This is your big chance! You heard the captain; if we do good, he’ll sign you straight up! Who knows? If you do good enough, he might even make you a captain or something!” Excitement crept into Bobby’s voice with every word, and the mood was infectious.

“Yeah! That’s right!” said Randall. “Let’s show them what we’ve got!”

Soon, both boys were suited up in a chest plate and helmet. The armor was way too big for either boy, but Bobby did a much better job of filling it out than Randall did. The helmet they gave Randall was so big that he had to tilt his head back to see out from under its edge, and the nose-guard on it came down to his chin. The wooden practice swords they were given were too heavy to be simply wood, and Randall guessed that there was probably a metal core inside to give it weight. It was a lot heavier than he expected, and a lot more unwieldy than it looked. The militia man named Harlowe gave each of them a brief lesson on how to hold their swords, how to parry a killing blow, and how to deliver a swing. He spoke loudly, pitching his voice to carry across the market, and a crowd started to gather to see the spectacle. He looked up once or twice, appearing to judge the size of the crowd. Once he appeared satisfied, he stepped back.

“Let’s give these two fighting men some space! Okay gents, show us what you got!”

Randall tried to step forward in the guarded manner that Harlowe had shown him, but he was having a lot of trouble with the oversized fighting gear. He felt like he was a big turtle, only his shell was two sizes too big. Even worse, the helmet had turned on his head, so that he had to hold his head cock-eyed to even see out of the thing. His first swing at Bobby missed by at least a foot, and the weight of the practice sword drug him in nearly a full circle. Even worse, the swing had spun his helmet even more off-center. Luckily, Bobby wasn’t faring much better, and his sword slipped from his fingers on his first swing, and hit the ground with a loud thunk. Some folks in the crowd laughed out loud, and others started to call out taunts and jeers to egg the boys on.

By the time Randall had his helmet righted, Bobby had gotten his sword back in his hand. Randall swung hard, and the sword hit Bobby’s shoulder-guard with a ringing smack. Bobby staggered sidewise, but the shockwave that traveled up the sword, making Randall’s hand sting like fire. He dropped the sword with a cry, clutching his hand to his chest. Bobby charged, swinging wildly. He’d found the sword’s balance, it seemed, and his beefier frame gave him a definite advantage with the gear.

Randall abandoned his sword and backpedaled furiously away from his friend. His retreat turned into a full rout as Bobby chased Randall around the fighting circle twice before tripping on a stone and falling down on his face. By now, the crowd was shrieking with laughter, pointing at both boys and taunting and jeering. Randall glanced over at the crowd as Bobby picked himself up.

Oh no! Melinda was there. And she was pointing and laughing along with everyone else—watching him make a fool of himself. He’d wanted to prove that he had the stuff it took to be a soldier. All he was proving was how worthless he was, just like she always said. He was never going to be a soldier; he was never going to amount to anything! He’d certainly never be able to talk to Melinda again, after he’d unmanned himself so in her eyes.

Suddenly, Randall realized that the militia man had never intended to make soldiers out of Randall and Bobby. All he wanted to do was put on a show at the boys’ expense. Randall felt the shame welling up in his face, and something else, too: rage. It just wasn’t fair! Born second, he always came second, never first. Nothing ever came easily to him. Nothing ever would.

Determined not to cry, Randall forced his shame and anger down into his belly where it gelled into a lump of cold fury. He turned to face Bobby, empty hands clenched into fists. The rage continued to build inside of him, but controlled and icy. He stood there trembling, feeling it build up to murderous levels. The rest of the world seemed to melt away as Bobby advanced, until it was just the two of them alone in the universe. A light was growing behind Randall’s eyes, filling his mind, filling his body. He felt powerful, invincible, shielded from any harm by the light and his rage.

 Bobby halted a pace away from Randall, sword at the ready. Breathing heavily, he called out “Do you give up?”

 Bobby was the reason everyone was laughing at him. Bobby didn’t even want to
be
a soldier in the first place! It just wasn’t
fair
! The light within Randall had grown to bursting, calling on him to destroy his foe, and take his rightful place as victor on the battlefield. Telling him that his victory was at hand, and that it was Bobby who would be yielding. Randall ground out between clenched teeth “Never!”

Bobby’s eyes widened in fear, and he flinched back, reflexively swinging his sword in a wild arc. It seemed to move in slow motion. Randall barely noticed it, his attention held by Bobby’s reaction.

Why does he look so afraid? Randall wondered.

The strange light in his head coalesced into a pinpoint of bright purpose, focused on Bobby. It was ripe, ready to be used to do his bidding.

I’m supposed to do something now, Randall thought. Something’s supposed to happen.

And then Bobby’s practice sword collided with his temple, driving all consciousness from him.

* * *

“Randall, wake up!”

Someone was shaking him, but he didn’t want to get up. His bed was too warm and comfortable. But the voice wouldn’t go away.

“Hey, Randall! Open your eyes! Are you okay? Oh, please be all right!” the voice said, sounding scared.

Randall cracked open his eyes, which was a colossal mistake. Sunlight blinded him, and pain exploded in his head. He rolled over onto his side and emptied his stomach onto the grass. After he had finished throwing up the last of his breakfast, he moaned and rolled onto his back. His memory came back to him in a rush.

“You hit me,” he accused.

“Well, I didn’t expect you to just stand there and let me!” Bobby started, defensively.

“Don’t scream,” Randall said weakly. “Head hurts.”

He heard Harlowe’s voice, also nearby. “He’ll be fine, kid. He took a good whack, but that’s what helmets are for. Get him somewhere cool, and get him somethin’ to drink. That was some swing! If you want to come back tomorrow so I can show you some more stuff, get here early.” Randall heard him walk away.

Just great, Randall thought. They already like him better.

“Hey Randall, you heard the man. We gotta get you up and something to drink. I was really scared for you,” Bobby said.

“Too hot in this armor. Gotta get it off” Randall replied.

“Randall, you’ve been out for a while. They already got you out of it. C’mon Randall. Please get up.” Bobby begged.

Randall groaned and started trying to lever himself up. The pounding in his head threatened him with another wave of nausea, but he eventually sat up with Bobby’s help. This time, he only tried to open his eyes a little bit, and found that he could manage it if he kept his eyes squeezed down to slits. His vision was blurry, but he could tell most of the crowd had already moved on now that the spectacle was over. There was no sight of Melinda. That was just as well; he didn’t really feel up to her derision at the moment.
I’d just as soon never see her again
, he thought.
I wish that blow had killed me.

Bobby helped Randall to his feet. They stumbled together a short distance before Randall had another wave of nausea hit him, and he dropped to his knees, giving in to the urge to empty his stomach. Bobby helped him back to his feet, urging him to keep walking. They eventually made it to Frank’s Inn.

Bobby steered them toward one of the only empty tables in the place, and ordered a mug of ‘the Cure’, a local herbal tea reputed to help hangovers. Randall already knew that Melinda wasn’t working today, and he didn’t recognize the serving girl. Frank usually hired on extra help during the job fair.

“I’m not really thirsty, Bobby,” Randall said as he laid his head on the wooden tabletop. The room seemed to swim, and the motion threatened to make him sick again, but he managed to fight down the urge to vomit. His headache was getting worse, and he was feeling incredibly tired. “Think I just wanna sleep,” he said.

“Hey lads,” called out a boisterous voice. “Mind if I join you? Seems all the other tables are full,” the stranger declared as he sat down at their table.

Randall groaned and glanced up at the newcomer. He was an older gentleman, but with an air of youthful energy about him so that it was hard for Randall to guess his age. His swimming vision might have had something to do with that, too. Randall thought he must be in his late forties, at least. He was dressed in simple clothes: a cloth tunic, stained an uninteresting shade of brown. The plain brown hair on his head was losing a two-front war against encroaching grey and a receding hairline.

“Oh, hey. Aren’t you the boy that just took a good whack to the noggin?” the man asked happily.

“Go away,” Randall moaned, pain overcoming his sense of manners.

“Pleased to meet you too, m’boy. I’m Earl. Head hurt much?” Earl asked, ignoring Randall’s rudeness.

“What do you think?” Randall asked sarcastically, never raising his head from the table.

“I bet!” exclaimed Earl. “That was some whack! So, is it the kind of pain that pounds and pounds and makes your eyesight blurry?” Randall just nodded his head slowly, from where it was resting on the table. “Sometimes a good whack like that can knock a man cross-eyed, so he can’t see straight for a month.” Earl went on with obvious enthusiasm. “I remember this one time…”

Every enthusiastic word that Earl said felt like it was drilling deeper and deeper into Randall’s brain, aggravating his already pounding head. Finally, Randall had all that he could take, and he snapped. “Hey, look!” he exclaimed, quickly lifting his head. Before he could finish, nausea swept over him again, and he doubled over beside the table retching, though there was nothing left in his stomach to come up.

“Ah, nausea too, I see,” Earl said, growing serious. He looked at Bobby. “Listen up, boy. Your friend has a concussion, and it looks to be a bad one. If you don’t do exactly as I say, he’ll probably be in a coma within the hour, and dead by morning.” Bobby gasped and paled. “The boy needs willow bark tea to ease the swelling in his brain. I think I saw some willow trees out by the stream. You know where I’m talking about?”

He waited for Bobby to nod nervously before continuing. “Good. Go strip me off at least two good handfuls of bark, as much as you can carry. Hurry lad!” Bobby rushed out of the door, leaving Randall in Earl’s care.

“Am I gonna die?” Randall asked. The way his head was pounding, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to live.

“Not if I can help it,” Earl answered, pushing something smooth and metallic into Randall’s hand. It was about the right size to be a mug handle.

“Not thirsty,” he said, eyes still closed.

“That’s alright, boy. Just hold onto it a bit while I talk to you.” Earl said.

Holding onto the mug, Randall felt comforted somehow, though he couldn’t pin his finger on the cause. Maybe because it felt so cool and refreshing in his hand. He’d take a drink in a minute—just not now.

“Now listen up, boy. I have some things to tell you, and they’re best told before your friend gets back. I didn’t just run into you by accident. I came to the job fair because I’ve decided I needed an apprentice. So, soon as I get to this gods-forsaken town, there you were, all puffed up full of anger and shining like a lighthouse on a stormy night. I noticed you all the way from the butcher shop, boy. There’s no doubt, you’ve got the Talent.”

“What talent?” Randall asked. His head was definitely feeling better.

“
The
Talent, lad. For magic,” Earl said in a low voice.