Richard Byers - The Colors of Magic Anthology

I turned back to regard the beast. I'd put some distance between us, and the creature hadn't moved from the spot where it struck me. It didn't need to. Its long neck extended. The huge jaws descended, and I could feel the creature's hot breath.

One of the townsfolk hurled a short length of firewood at Rhindle, striking it on the nose. The beast instantly closed its mouth and recoiled with a look of incredulity. The log could not possibly have done any damage to such a massive creature, but the beast was stunned that tiny prey such as this would dare to fight back.

Taking advantage of the creature's hesitation, the villagers surrounded the wurm. With each passing moment more people rushed to the scene to help. Town guardsmen fired arrows into the wurm's thick hide. One woman tried to throw salt into its eyes. Children threw stones from a distance.

The creature was confused. Like a spider being swarmed by a thousand ants, there was nothing it could do. It advanced a few yards in one direction, stopped and changed course. The villagers fought more bravely than any well-trained army-they fought like a people defending their home.

The wurm thrashed about, spending more time defending itself than it did advancing on the town. The makeshift battalion continued its frenzied assault until the wurm finally gave up. The creature turned and tore off into the woods, knocking down trees and turning over large rocks in its path.

The brave citizens looked at one another in quiet disbelief. None would have dared believe they could defeat a creature so dangerous. Yet by standing together they'd accomplished what none could do individually.

Some were overcome by relief and awe. Others moved quickly to tend to the injured, who-along with myself-were taken to the healer. Miraculously, no one was killed.

That night a celebration began that lasted five days. Wine flowed freely, and songs were sung to the glory of Kjeldor. Poets composed epic poems commemorating the event. Artisans carved statues and painted life sized frescoes.

The people of Jornstad marveled at the wisdom of Lord Rothchild, who, through confrontation with the wurm, had taught them how to trust in themselves. He was hailed as the hero of the day.

Green is the balance between extremes. Those who favor green are solid people with easy manners. They aren't impulsive, as are those who favor red, or withdrawn like those who favor blue. Those associated with green are socially well-adjusted and organic. They are conventional, yet constantly on the go, and have a taste for the good things in life. Green has, on occasion, been associated with jealousy or inexperience, but those who have a broader understanding know that green is natural, fresh, wise, and comforting, and those characterized by it show a sensitivity to social customs and etiquette. Green provides abundance and resources. It is passive and combative at the same time, and calls to those who want to be grounded in their natural surroundings.

(Circa 4000AR)

Steel rang on steel in the crisp twilight. After a brief struggle, two men flew apart, one making futile slashes at the other. The desperate man was soaked to the skin with sweat. A long, shallow cut, more painful than dangerous, crossed his chest from left shoulder to right ribcage. Blood stained his homespun shirt.

His opponent was unharmed. Elegantly dressed and with not a hair out of place, young Joren stood out of reach, casually resting his blade on his shoulder.

"Had enough, Edgur?" he asked.

The wounded man pressed a hand to his bleeding chest. The sight of his own blood inflamed his anger past the point of sanity. With a howl of rage, Edgur charged Joren, sword outthrust. Joren turned aside on one heel, sending his foe plunging headlong into the tall grass outside the clearing. Edgur stumbled, losing his sword when the tip dug into the earth and tore from his grasp. He outran his own feet and fell facedown in the weeds.

No one laughed. Edgur's seconds hurried to their friend's side. Joren's cronies brought him a cup of wine.

"Are you satisfied?" Joren called out as Edgur was hoisted to his feet.

The latter's response was to begin searching the high grass for his lost sword. When his friends stood idly by watching him, Edgur snarled, "Don't just stand there- help me find it!"

His guild friend Artulle folded his arms and said, "No, Edgur. You've had enough. There's no point in going on."

"I'll decide when I've had enough!"

"He's right, you know." Joren tossed his slim rapier to his manservant. "There's no reason to fight on."

"I am the injured party!"

Joren strode over and seized Edgur by his bloody shirt-front. "And I'm the better man," he said coldly. "I should think that would be painfully obvious by now, even to a blockhead like you. Stay away from me Edgur, and stay away from Riliana. If you don't, next time you won't just need a new shirt-you'll need a shroud!"

Joren, his friends, and his servants returned to their waiting carriages. As they whirled away amid the crack of whips and rumble of hooves, Edgur slowly sank to his knees. Defeated. Disgraced. His life was over.

Artulle and Meckie waited for him join them. The hired wagon was costing them a half-korl an hour, money they couldn't spare.

At last Meckie said, "We're leaving, Edgur. Are you coming?"

Slumped on his knees in the grass, Edgur said nothing. Meckie frowned and started to admonish his friend, but Artulle took him by the arm and steered him to the waiting wagon.

"Let him be," Artulle said. "He can walk back to town. Argivia isn't far."

The hired draymaster snapped his reins, and the wagon lurched away. Edgur slid sideways off his haunches and wept bitter tears, not only for losing the duel so ignominiously but for losing Riliana, the love of his life.

The last red rays of the sun died a silent death behind the western hills. A light breeze kicked up, scattering the pale clouds and revealing the night's first wash of stars.

Sword thrust through his belt (he'd lost the scabbard somewhere in the meadow where the duel was fought), Edgur trudged dolefully along the dusty road to Argivia. He had no idea how long he'd lingered alone in the field, weeping quietly over the injustices of his life. At length he mastered his melancholia and found his lost sword. He'd paid good money to Embric the ironmonger for the sword, and he wasn't about to leave it behind.

It was a windy night, and the grass on either side of the road sighed continuously as the wind moved through it. There was no light except the stars, but the sandy road was white enough for him to follow easily. Edgur's sweaty clothes soon chilled him, so he slung on his journeyman's jacket and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The cut on his chest stung like a shirtful of bees.

Ahead the road forked, one lane curving off to the right, which was south, another lane curving to the left through a copse of trees, to the east. Edgur slowed. Which way would take him back to Argivia? He didn't remember passing a fork like this on his way out, but then he was preoccupied on the outbound journey with visions of his hated rival impaled on his blade.

He paused at the junction and tried to figure out which way led back to town. Edgur was born in Epityr and had come to Argivia as a lad to apprentice to the Guild of Coppersmiths. His family had long ago been among the first citizens of Epityr, before Urza and Mishra fought the ruinous Brothers' War. In the upheaval that followed the catastrophic conflict, Edgur's ancestors found themselves reduced to trade. Coppersmithing was Edgur's chance to better himself. Now twenty, he was a third-degree journeyman, but he seldom traveled much outside the city and never at night. He stood staring at the fork, chilled by the night wind. His chest ached. Which way?