The Green Wizard

Ladomas Triumphant?

The sun was setting in an orange sky by the time Ladomas hurried down the dusty road to town. He passed small farms, the farmers putting away their implements and bringing in the animals for the evening, and drew near Northgate. Two square towers soared above him as he approached. He waved to the crossbowmen lazing between the crenellations overhead, and bade the grim-looking gate guard a cheerful hello, ignoring the man's scowl.

Ladomas passed through the prodigious gate, along a low passage peppered with murder holes, and onto cobbled Main Street. He strode along with his precious harvest in hand, waving at shopkeepers like a conquering hero. He saw the herbalist and raised the leafy bag, tittering gleefully at her shocked surprise. He supposed he was an adventurer after all.

The baker was about to shut his door, and Ladomas's stomach grumbled. The thought of day-old sweets, pies, and breads was too much to bear. "Ho there, Bakerman. Spare a roll for a starving apprentice?"

"Old Neyhün running you ragged, Ladomas?" the baker said.

Ladomas smiled. "He knows no other way!"

The baker tossed a bread roll out the door. "I'll add it to his bill."

Ladomas caught the roll. "A thousand, thousand thank-yous, kindest of bakers!" He stuffed the roll into his mouth, noisily chewing a massive hunk as he walked into Market Square. "Uh kinly feesht fur Lahdumash!" he said, spitting crumbs.

He passed the massive keep looming over town, went between two shops, and took a series of narrow, unpaved streets and alleys toward home. The workday done, the ways were filled with folk drinking away weariness and woe. Turning into the alley behind the Guild, he strode to the basement door.

Ladomas took a deep breath and focused on its magical lock. He drew the barest amount of energy to his core and reached into a space between worlds with his mind. He drew a shimmering rune over the lock with a finger. The mechanism responded by unlatching with a satisfying click, and Ladomas passed inside.

With a belly full of bread and the terror of the Lakewood behind him, all vigour suddenly drained from Ladomas's body. He ascended the back staircase wearily, his shoulder dragging against the curving outer wall of the tower's corkscrewing stair. Slouching down the hall to the door of his master's chamber, he breathed a heavy sigh, knocked, and entered.

Neyhün was sitting comfortably in his favourite chair, sipping hypocras from a small silver chalice and resting his slippered feet on a colourful ottoman near a crackling fire. "Where have you been, and why are you so filthy?"

Ladomas held up, and gestured weakly to, the muddy, leaf-covered burlap bag. "Your components, Master. From the Lakewood."

Neyhün sat forward. "The Lakewood? Are you telling me you traipsed into the forest to harvest trollsbreath and barbican root?"

"The shop was sold ou—" Ladomas stared blankly at his master. "Trollsbreath and—"

"Barbican root, yes. You could have been killed!"

"I got trollstooth and barbican flower," Ladomas said.

"No, no, that will not do," Neyhün grumbled.

"I will go . . . no, the shop's closed." Ladomas beat his temple with his filthy knuckles. Ladomas the Boob, the Incompetent: that was all he was. No, he had tried his best, braved the Lakewood and returned. That had to be worth something. He stumbled into the room, bag outstretched. "I found other things: goblin berry and hazel fl—" He fell face-first onto the hard floor.

His nemesis, in the form of a flagstone, had struck again.

Ladomas groaned but did not rise.

"Ladomas?" Neyhün said, rising with a wince and hobbling, drink in hand, to the prone apprentice. He nudged Ladomas with his toe. "Oh dear."