Brian Murphy - The Search For Magic

Putting one hand on the kender’s chin and wrapping the other around Finderkeeper’s tangled topknot, Hasterck gave a sudden twist. Finderkeeper’s last thought was that the sound of splintering bone, combined with a sudden subsiding of all pain, was really quite interesting. Then, the kender thought no more.

Before Finderkeeper’s limp body once again hit the smooth stones he would never finger, Hasterck sprinted onto the mudflats to retrieve the scroll case.

The mud was soft and sucked at his legs during his rapid strides, but his momentum carried him out to the scrollcase. He stopped to pick it up. Immediately he sank in the soft saltwater mud to mid-thigh, the mud releasing a flood of water as he sank. It was only then he realized that as the mud released water, it gripped his legs in a viselike hold. He did not sink further, but he could not free himself. As if held by stone, his legs would not move-not an inch, not at all. He grabbed his dagger and cut at the bindings to his leg armor, feeling certain that cutting away the inflexible and weighty material would allow him to move. It was to no avail.

He tried not to panic. Grab the scrollcase so the magic does not flow away when the tidal bore hits, he thought. Remove the armor, so when the water comes, you can just float away to safety.

It was a plan. It should work. He grabbed the scroll-case, his prize, as the tidal bore broke over his waist with the stabbing feel of a thousand icy, vengeful knives. He waited as the shock subsided. Certainly the mud, infused now with water, would loosen around his legs. It would be unpleasant, even dangerous, but he could still float away.

But the mud did not loosen. It gripped him tighter. Soon he could not feel his legs, whether from the death grip of the accursed mud or the numbing coldness of the water of Ice Mountain Bay he did not know. The tide was quickly moving up his body. The cold was so great that he was unsure if his chest would refuse to take breath even before his head was covered by the water.

Perhaps the magic could save him. It was insane to think so, but he had to try. He opened up the scrollcase and found it empty. That bastard had tricked him! The magic was probably in one of the kender’s accursed pockets. The swearing that had occurred earlier on the face of the cliff while the Dragon roared was tame in comparison to what spewed forth from the Commander’s blue lips now.

The water crept higher. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. His body was numb. His lips quivered in the cold. His thoughts slowed and became confused. He had to do something, but what? He wanted to rest, to give in, but his training permeated through his murky thinking.

Perhaps, he thought, he could use his dagger to cut off his legs and somehow struggle to shore. The numbing effect of the water could be a blessing in disguise. He vaguely realized that there was some problem or danger or difficulty in this, but couldn’t fathom what it might be. It was a plan. It should work.

He mustered all his waning strength to the effort, to the plan, but his numbed fingers fumbled with the blade. At the last, he realized that he could not even tell if he held the knife any longer, if he might even be cutting into his own flesh.

The bard finished his tale as the tribe of Ice Nomads glanced at one another. The weeping of Thrak’s widow pierced the quiet of the night upon the ice fields. A small boy, however, tugged at the brightly colored tunic of the traveling bard. “But how,” he asked, “do you know the tale is true, if none survived?”

“Sometimes,” whispered the bard, fingering an oddly shaped, pinkish stone, “they say, the truth is not the noblest thing about a tale.”