Anthology - The Search For Magic

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.”