Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Sorceress (3 page)

“Why didn’t you wait till after the
quenching before you escaped?”

“Because she’s a sorceress.”

“So?”

“And she’s evil.”

“So?”

“Well, she’s a… She’s just not my type.”

“Why not,” I wondered.

“She’s… too pale… and too blond… and too
short.”

“What complexion do you prefer for your
woman?”

“A complexion about like yours.”

“That’s too dark. What hair color do you
like?”

“About like yours, with little streaks of
grey.”

“Then she would be too old for you,” said I.
“A young man like you should have a beautiful young woman. How tall
do you prefer?”

“About your height.”

“That is way too tall for a woman.”

“I know,” said Ellwood, and then turned and
rushed out of the room.

I didn’t see anything more of Ellwood Cyrene
that day, but in truth he could well have been there and I simply
didn’t see him, which is to say, I immediately went back to sleep
and had the strangest dreams. I remember nothing about them, except
that they were adventurous and heroic and very manly. Yes, they
were very manly indeed. Then next morning I woke feeling a bit
better and had just managed to sit upright when my friend returned,
acting as though nothing strange had happened between us. I will be
honest. While I was somewhat bothered by the strange dialog that we
had engaged in, I was none too sure that it was not the mere
workings of my imagination, which is to say a dream.

“How are you feeling?” asked Ellwood.

“Better,” said I. “I am a bit bothered by
our conversation of yesterday.”

“You were out of your head yesterday,” said
he. “Anything you remember me saying is no doubt a result of your
overactive imagination mixed with delirium.”

“You think so?”

“It was probably all a dream.”

“If it was, then it was a manly dream,” said
I.

“No doubt.”

“That’s the only type of dream that I
have.”

“That’s very strange,” said he. “That’s true
of me also. I have nothing but manly dreams—dreams with lots of
killing and mayhem. Sometimes there is bloodlust.”

“And beautiful women?” I asked.

“Yes. Oh, yes. Many beautiful woman, um…
running around. Sometimes they are nude.”

“Sometimes?”

“Almost all the time… all the time. They are
always running around nude… with their navels and what-not
showing.”

“Me too,” said I. “I really like women.”

“I do too,” said Ellwood. “Some of my best
friends are women.”

“Friends?”

“No, not friends. Acquaintances… um,
companions? Conquests! That’s what they are. They are conquests.
Dozens of women. Scores! Hundreds! And all of them, running around
and all of them beautiful, and not the least bit intelligent or
accomplished in any way.”

“That makes me feel better,” said I,
stopping to pull out something that was stuck in my teeth and
turned out to be the wing of a fly.

“Good,” said he, setting in my lap a tray,
which I had here to for not noticed. “I brought you some
breakfast.”

“So you escaped the sorceress.”

“Yes, I did,” said Ellwood Cyrene. “I would
have stayed to um… dally with her, but I had to find you before you
were eaten by a cat and have you returned to human form.”

“That makes sense,” said I. “Where is she
now?”

“I led her on a trail halfway to Goth and
then worked my way back here. Sooner or later though, she’s going
to figure out what I’ve done. Then she’ll be back here, twice as
angry.”

“Maybe you should have led her only half as
far, then she would only be twenty percent angrier,” I opined.

“Eaglethorpe, you are as good a
mathematician as you are a story-teller,” said he.

“Thank you. Where am I, anyway?”

“This is the third floor of The Reclining
Dog. Finish your breakfast and come down to the taproom. We will
plan our next move.

I ate my breakfast, which was very tasty
indeed. It was a traditional Antriadorian breakfast: two eggs,
white pudding, three large sausage links, two strips of bacon,
fried potatoes with onions, beans, kippers, mustard greens with
olive oil, and of course a ham steak. I know what you are thinking.
You are thinking “What? No flapjacks?” In fact, Ellwood had brought
a stack of four very nice looking flapjacks along with some
disconsolateberry syrup, but conscious as I am of keeping fit and
trim, I had only ten or twelve bites. And I also did not eat the
mustard greens.

After I got up and washed my face, I must
say that I felt great, which is to say not at all like someone who
was turned into a toad. I did find that as I walked across the
room, there was more bounce in my step than was typical, but by the
time I had gone down two flights of stairs, the bounce was gone,
and I was walking in a far less toadly and a far more manly
way.

It was mid-day and the taproom at The
Reclining Dog was full. You may remark on the fact that as I tell
my tale, I mention that I go into this establishment and the room
is full, or I go into that establishment and the room is full. All
I can say is: that’s Antriador! It is a party town. I have been to
big cities and small cities, to villages, to hamlets and to towns
of all sizes— industry towns, farm towns, and college towns, but to
my mind, none of them has so many taverns, pubs, and saloons as
Antriador. Not only that, as I mentioned already, they are usually
full, which is to say a lot of people are in them.

Though the room was full, it was not
difficult to spot Ellwood Cyrene, who had a table to himself right
in the center. I had just reached his table, when someone called
out “where is Ellwood Cyrene? I want to buy him a drink!”
Naturally, I called back “I am right here!” It was then that I
spied eight warriors moving through the crowd toward our table. I
drew my sword as the first approached. His attention was completely
on Ellwood Cyrene and not on me, and he continued to not notice me
as I smacked him across the face with the flat of my blade. He went
down with blood spewing from his nose.

Two of the other warriors were quickly upon
me. Meanwhile, pandemonium broke out in the bar. People ducked
under tables and headed for the exits. Both my new opponents swung
their swords at me. In an incredible feat of dexterity and agility,
I dodged both, while at the same time slicing into the middle of
the first and kicking the second. Then whipping around, I ran
through the one that I had kicked, all the while tossing a pair of
throwing stars from my sleeve, hitting two more across the room.
The first warrior, which is to say the one that I had hit in the
nose, lunged for me. I grabbed him by his leather jerkin and swung
him around to use as a shield as two daggers flew at me from two of
his friends. I tossed his body aside as the remaining three
warriors all attacked at once, and in what could only be described
as the greatest demonstration of swordsmanship that the world has
ever seen, I dispatched the three of them without so much as a cut
on my finger.

I immediately sat down and began to write
some notes, while Ellwood Cyrene climbed out from beneath the table
where he had been hiding.

“What are you doing?” said he.

“I’m taking some notes for when I write the
story of how Eaglethorpe Buxton defeated ten swordsmen while
Ellwood Cyrene hid beneath the table.”

“I counted only six swordsmen.”

“Oh, there were ten.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes. Don’t worry. This is going to be a
very accurate account.”

“It will be accurate, will it?”

“Oh yes.”

“Then you are going to explain how someone
called out “where is Ellwood Cyrene? I want to buy him a drink!”
and you called back “I am right here!” causing the warriors to
mistake you for me? Are you then going to describe how the
Eaglethorpe Buxton fighting the swordsmen was actually Ellwood
Cyrene and the Ellwood Cyrene hiding under the table was actually
Eaglethorpe Buxton?”

“I don’t really think that’s important to
the story,” I explained. “What is important is that one of us
fought twelve warriors and defeated them single-handed, not which
of us did it.”

“I see your point,” said Ellwood.
“Thank you.”

“And it’s on your head,” he muttered.

“I’ll tell you what,” said I. “I will write
the story your way, if you tell me why people are always trying to
kill you.”

“Write it however you wish,” said he.

Taking into account that a group of
sword-wielding would-be assassins, fifteen strong, had found and
the gone after Ellwood Cyrene, attempting to kill him,
notwithstanding my valiant efforts on his behalf, we decided that
it was probably a good idea if we found some other location for
ourselves. To wit, which is to say therefore, we left. Ellwood had
brought my horse Hysteria and had her stabled nearby along with his
own, so we quickly packed and set off for Potter Town, which was an
area of simple houses and low class eating establishments just
outside the northern city gate. Ellwood offered that it was a good
idea to get out of Antriador entirely, but I was loath to leave as
I was still expecting to make a sizable fortune from my play. Ten
percent of gross receipts are nothing to sneeze at. We stopped at
the local well to discuss the matter.

A word about the well in Potter Town. This
particular well was a relic of some earlier civilization who had
inhabited the promontory where now sits Antriador. It was made of
stone, which is to say the well was made of stone and not the
previous civilization, though a good many of the monuments from
that civilization are indeed made of stone. This well had carved
all around the outside, fanciful images of people now long
forgotten. Its center was formed of a round silo some eight or nine
feet tall, and above this was constructed a wind-mill to take
advantage of the plentiful breezes that made their way up the slope
from the sea. The windmill turned a long shaft with a screw which
pumped up the water from some unseen underground aquifer. The water
poured out of about twenty spouts cut into the stone silo and
flowed into a pool thirty feet around. This three foot deep pool
was enclosed by close-cut stone walls, which too were carved into
the images of people, and it was this pool which the local people
dipped their buckets into for their daily water. This alone would
have made it an interesting landmark, but there was more. Shooting
off from the pool in three directions, like three spokes of a
wheel, were stone horse troughs. Water flowed into these troughs
when there was an excess in the pool and they were six inches lower
than the pool itself, so there was no backflow. From each of these
horse troughs, a series of gutters spread out like the branches of
a tree, carrying the small amount of overflow away. What need of
the builders of this system was fulfilled by these gutters, one may
only guess, but the locals today use them to bring water to their
gardens.

As Hysteria and Ellwood’s horse drank from
the troughs, he and I talked over our options.

“I know you don’t want to leave for any
length of time,” said Ellwood, “but you should at least leave for a
few days.”

“I don’t see how leaving for a few days will
help pie.”

“What?”

“Pie. I smell pie.”

“Oh no,” said he.

“Oh yes,” I replied.

I scanned the little square until I could
see that which I could smell, which is to say a pie. A chubby
little red-head with a checkered apron and a brown bonnet stood in
an open doorway holding a pie.

“Eaglethorpe.”

“Hmm?”

“Eaglethorpe!”

“What?”

“As I have no desire to interfere with the
love of your life…”

“I’ve never even seen her before,” said
I.

“I meant the pie,” Ellwood continued. “As I
have no desire to interfere, I’ll be leaving you now.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have business in Auksavl, but I’ll be
back to Antriador in five days.”

“That will be the twelfth night.”

“Twelfth night of what?”

“It will be the twelfth night of this
business with the sorceress.”

“Is that significant?”

“Not really.”

“You are so odd, Eaglethorpe.”

I waved goodbye to my friend, but did not
dally, for though a man may well wait for a pie, it is a verifiable
truth that a pie seldom waits for a man. So, leaving Hysteria where
she was, I hopped over to the where the chubby little red-head with
a checkered apron and a brown bonnet held her pie.

“Good day, lovely piesmith,” said I, bowing
at the waist.

“Good day, Sir.”

“Might I inquire whether that pie is bound
for an inn or perhaps the market?”

“Indeed it is neither, Sir.”

“Then might I purchase it?” I asked.

“Might I ask first your name, Sir? You seem
to be a man of heroic bearing and noble manner.”

“You are very perceptive, my pretty
piesmith, for indeed I am Eaglethorpe Buxton, famous storyteller
and adventurer. Really of late I have been more of an adventurer
than a story-teller, for though my tales of the great heroes and
their adventures have been repeated far and wide across the land, I
find myself having even more wondrous adventures than any of the
characters in my stories. Still, the appellation, which is to say
the name of Buxton and of Eaglethorpe, is best known for stories so
I still introduce myself as first a storyteller and then an
adventurer.”