Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web - Volume 1 (48 page)

“Oh, that’d be about twenty years ago, too,” she said, prodding the fire with a large twig. “Minus one month. That’s how long my training lasted back home in Red Fern. And for some strange reason, none of the few wandering wizards I’ve since encountered over the years were eager to take me on as an apprentice after offering me a few lessons. I had to learn most everything on my own with a few spell books I discovered and purchased. In the meantime, I work my small farm in Red Fern to earn a living, going out now and then to sell potions that I brew or tell fortunes for a small fee.” She nodded confidently. “I’m pretty good at reading palm lines and face freckles or consulting river pebbles. Would you like to toss a handful? No charge.”

“No thank you,” Leo politely replied. “I’m happy to let my future unfold as it will. So far I haven’t been disappointed,” he said, gently nudging Megan who sat next to him.

“Suit yourself. I guess there’s something to be said for living life as it comes barreling at you. I guess that’s what I’m doing now.”

“Carmella, we’re on our way to Morrenwood,” Megan informed her. “Since it’s just a stone’s throw from Red Fern, why don’t you join us on the road? I’m sure Nicholas wouldn’t mind serving as your driver.” She leaned forward and glanced at him with a playful gleam in her eyes.

“It’d be my pleasure,” Nicholas said. “It’s a bit crowded on that other wagon.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Carmella replied, deeply touched by his kindness. “But at this moment I don’t need a driver.”

“You enjoy navigating the roads by yourself?” Leo asked. “You seem to have made it back to King’s Road without any trouble from wherever you’d been stranded.”

Carmella shook her head. “No, it wasn’t me, Leo. As I said, I don’t need a driver right now because one recently found
me
in the wilderness.”

Megan and the others glanced around the campsite. “Really? I don’t see anyone.”

“He’s out gathering firewood,” she said, when suddenly they heard a branch snap nearby as if someone had stepped on a fallen tree branch. “Oh wait, here he comes now.” Carmella pointed to the edge of the maple trees just beyond her wagon as a short, burly figure in a floppy brown hat and an ill-fitting coat emerged from around the corner, an armload of firewood hiding its face. “There you are,” she said, urging him forward. “Come here, Jagga. I have guests I want you to meet.”

The Enâr suddenly stopped, lowing his arms just enough so that his dark, suspicious eyes could see over the wood and study the new arrivals. Convinced that they weren’t going to attack him, Jagga grunted before setting the pile down near the remaining kindling he had gathered earlier. He sat on the ground several yards away from the crackling flames.

“Why are you sitting way over there?” Carmella asked, signaling him to join her and the others. “Come here where it’s warm. These are my friends, Jagga. Nothing to be worried about.”

“I am fine here, Carmella,” he said with a sharp nod, still eyeing Nicholas, Megan and Leo with lingering trepidation.

Nicholas gazed at him, fascinated by Jagga’s roughly hewn shape and tangled strands of hair peeking out beneath the silly looking hat upon his head. Though he had never seen one of his kind before, after all the stories he had heard growing up in Kanesbury, he knew at once that he was looking at a member of the Enâri race that had attacked his village twenty years ago. He stared dumbfounded at Carmella, wondering how she had met and bonded with such a creature out here in the wild.

Minutes after Arthur Weeks had been murdered during the Harvest Festival, Jagga raced through the woods in Kanesbury along the Pine River, his fingers clutching the key he had stolen from Dooley Kramer’s house. The Enâr quickly fled the village and the large crowds, heading west. Even though it was his first night awake after a forced twenty-year sleep, Jagga had no desire to celebrate, neither with men nor wizards nor even his own kind. They were all responsible to some extent for killing his freedom, but now he possessed the very key to preserving that freedom forever.

Jagga walked for several hours through the countryside until he felt safe enough to rest beneath some trees in a field. He drank greedily from a stream and then collapsed on the ground and gazed up at the stars, a sight he hadn’t seen in twenty years. A large crescent Fox Moon was setting in the west, casting faint silvery light upon the tips of the tall grass and weeds. He held up the stolen key and examined it in the gloom, knowing he must get rid of it or destroy it, though reluctant to part with the object for fear that someone else might discover it. If the key was ever used to open the Spirit Box, his life would be over. The formidable entity growing inside for the last twenty years would consume him with the power of a raging fire and turn him into the rock and soil from which he had been created by Vellan so many years ago.

Jagga couldn’t decide his next step. Returning to Vellan was out of the question. He feared that the mighty wizard would condemn him for running away from Caldurian and disobeying the orders he had communicated through the blue fog inside the caves. Yet even if Vellan did accept him back, he knew his loyalty would always be in question. Though the other Enâri may have had their doubts about serving Caldurian because of his past mistakes, they did so out of devotion to Vellan. But Jagga’s allegiance had diminished while in hibernation, affording him an awareness of his personal freedom that the others lacked. He wondered if he hadn’t been fully asleep during those twenty years which perhaps allowed resentment at being a slave to build up inside him. Or had Vellan created him differently, making a minor mistake he had overlooked? Regardless of the answer, he decided to run until he felt safe.

After a short rest, Jagga continued his westward trek, staying off the main roads whenever possible. He continually thought about the key, wondering what to do with the cold piece of metal. He somberly recalled how he had obtained the item, plunging a knife into the chest of Arthur Weeks. His mind had been on fire then. Now in the cool autumn night, he reconsidered the act he had rashly committed, a seed of regret growing inside him. He wondered if he deserved his freedom now and considered throwing the key into a nearby pond. But Jagga was unwilling to depart with his treasure just yet in case someone else should find it. He walked the next several days and nights with only the key and his muddled thoughts to keep him company.

One evening as the grays and purples of twilight cloaked the surrounding fields and hills, Jagga heard a sharp, metallic clank echo across the landscape. He noted the silhouette of a distant farmhouse, its windows awakening with the soft glow of yellow light. A sagging barn stood nearby next to a few smaller buildings, a flicker of firelight visible through the wide open doorway of one of them. He recognized the repeated striking of hammer upon anvil and was suddenly inspired. He hurried across a small tract of land and cautiously approached the building, peering into the doorway from one side as another hammer blow fell.

Inside, a tall man worked a red hot piece of metal with a hammer, shaping it across a large anvil next to a glowing brick forge. The heat inside the wooden building flowed out into the cool autumn night like a puff of dragon’s breath. Jagga, seeing no one else around, took a wary step inside and stared at the man framed by a backdrop of fiery red and orange light. The man glanced up, staring at Jagga in perplexed silence, never having seen an individual so unusual looking. He raised the hot piece of metal with a pair of tongs, causing Jagga to flinch before he plunged it into a barrel of cold rainwater, raising a cloud of hissing steam as the metal cooled.

“Hello, stranger,” the man said, lifting the metal out of the water and setting it down upon a wooden workbench. “Something I can help you with?”

Jagga rubbed his brow, wondering how he should handle the situation. He felt apprehensive about being here and wondered if he had made a mistake, yet the man didn’t make him fearful in the least as he silently gazed back with curiosity.

“I need help.” Jagga held up the key. “I need this thing not to exist.”

“
Hmmm
, is that so,” the man said as he ambled over to Jagga, holding out his hand. “Let me see it, please.” Jagga looked up into the man’s eyes and slowly handed him the key which he accepted and briefly examined. “It’ll be no trouble melting it down or forming it into something else. What do you want me to do exactly?”

“I want it gone,” Jagga said with a shrug, as if his first instructions should have been plain enough.

“Well, I can melt it down and mix it with other metal the next time I make a horseshoe.”

“No, no!” he nervously insisted. “I need it gone
now
! Pound it out. Pound it flat. Shape it into something else.” He emitted a gravelly sigh. “I want it not a key, but I still want to keep the metal with me. Understand?”

“Perfectly,” the man replied, noting Jagga’s unease yet deciding for some unknown reason that he needn’t fear the creature, whatever it was. He signaled for Jagga to follow him to the forge. “I think I can help you, mister,” he said as he secured the tip of the key with a pair of metal tongs and shoved it into the glowing embers. A few minutes later it glowed red and the man lifted it up for Jagga to observe. “Now I will make it
not
a key.”

“Good!” he replied with a toothy grin. “Good.”

Grabbing a small hammer, the man slowly formed the heated metal into a compact mass, placing it into the embers a few times to reheat and keep it malleable. Soon the former key was shaped into a blob of hot metal which the man pounded flat into a disk, carefully working the edges until it looked like a large coin. After heating it a final time, he grabbed a metal punch and tapped a single hole near the edge as Jagga watched in fascination. The man plunged the object into a water barrel with the tongs for several moments. Rising steam sizzled off the surface as the metal cooled. When it was cold to the touch, he examined it before handing the object to Jagga.

“What do you think?”

“Nice,” Jagga said, looking up with a smile. “It is definitely not a key anymore.”

“It is not,” the man replied. “Given time, I would’ve been more meticulous and imprinted some designs onto the metal, but I sense you’re in a hurry.”

Jagga nodded, still looking at the round piece of metal, its edges quite smooth considering the rush job the man had performed under his scrutinous gaze. “Why did you put a hole in it?”

“You said you wanted to keep it, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he muttered.

“Well, then, that’ll help keep it safe,” the man replied as he searched through a messy pile of scrap items on one corner of the bench. Soon he fished out a piece of thin leather cord and cut off an appropriate length before taking back the piece of metal from Jagga. He threaded the cord through the hole and tied the two ends into a tight knot, holding it up. “Now you have yourself a proper medallion to wear around your neck. You won’t lose it that way.”

Jagga nodded as an appreciative smile spread across his face. He took the medallion from the man and placed the cord over his head, pleased with the effect when he looked down at his chest and saw it gleam in the fiery light from the forge.

“This is good,” he said, proudly holding up the man’s handiwork.

“You’re welcome,” the man replied, assuming that that was the closest to a
thank
you
he would receive from the stranger. “What do you plan to do with it?”

Jagga shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now, but I’ll keep it for a while,” he said. Now that the item was destroyed and couldn’t open the Spirit Box, he felt that he had achieved a victory over Vellan and Caldurian, deciding to wear the medallion as a trophy of sorts to celebrate his triumph.

“What did that key go to?” the man asked, leaning against the workbench. But when Jagga furrowed his brow with a hint of annoyance, he decided to change the subject. “Well, it’s none of my business. I suppose you want to get on your way and not answer a bunch of questions.”

“That is best,” Jagga said, slipping the medallion underneath his ragged shirt.

“Hold on a moment,” the man said, walking toward the entrance and grabbing a weather-stained coat and a floppy brown hat from a row of pegs on the wall. He handed them to Jagga. “It’s cold out tonight and these spare clothes are collecting cobwebs. You can have them. The hat will keep the morning sun out of your eyes.” Jagga graciously accepted the items and slipped them on. “Perfect fit,” the man said. “More or less.”

“This is good, too,” Jagga replied, smoothing out the material with his hands. “But I have to go.”

The farm owner escorted his peculiar visitor out of the forge to the main road underneath a blanket of emerging stars, wondering if he were dreaming this strange sequence of events. He scratched his head as Jagga disappeared down the road under the first quarter Fox Moon, contemplating what to tell his wife when he went inside for dinner, though unsure that she would even believe his story.

For six more days, Jagga kept to the back roads, fields and woods, living off the land and contemplating where in Laparia to go. He even considered wandering to another part of the world altogether, though knowing wherever he went, he would be alone. The only others of his kind were in Kargoth with Vellan or conquering Montavia under Caldurian’s command. In neither location would he be free to live his life, a slave always to the political ambitions of others. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he had made a mistake destroying the key. Perhaps only if it were used would he truly gain his freedom, but now that was too late.