Brian Thomsen - Realms of Magic

Maeve goggled. Two brownies! By the gods. She'd summoned two brownies!

Shank suddenly eyed the door and the window, trying to decide which he could get out first. It was time for young Shank to get scarce.

Fiddlenose found himself compelled to serve, his mind suddenly filled with strange thoughts that went against his very nature. What was he doing here, and why did he say that?

As she looked from Shank to Fiddlenose and Fiddlenose to Shank, it slowly dawned on Maeve through the drink and the length of the day. She hadn't summoned two familiars, two brownies to serve her. One was a fake, and one was real.

She pointed at the newcomer. "You, Fiddlenose. You say you're here to serve me?"

"Yes, mistress," the brownie grunted.

Shank eased out of his chair.

"No cheese, no wine, no fine clothes?"

Shank tiptoed across the uncarpeted floor, hoping to reach the open window.

"Only if it pleases you," was the dutifully miserable reply.

"And you-" Maeve turned to Shank's now empty chair.

That was the imposter's cue. He broke into a run, hoping to scramble over the towering sill before she could catch him. It had been fun, but now it was time to go.

The words were uttered, and the ray crackled from Maeve's fingertips before Shank had loped two paces.

The magical beam struck him full in the back and spread like ticklish fire down every nerve of his limbs. For a moment, he plunged forward, his body flailing like that of a decapitated hen, and then he fell to the floor in a loose puddle-the impossible way a dead man falls when all his muscles surrender life and control.

He hadn't, at least, surrendered life, but control…? Paralyzed. Through a sideways-canted view, he saw Maeve smiling with hard satisfaction. Perhaps still having life was not a good thing after all. If he could've closed his eyes, he'd have closed them and prayed to every god and goddess he knew for mercy.

Sure that Shank wasn't faking, Maeve turned back to her true familiar. She did feel keener and sharper, there was no doubt. A little of the wooziness was gone from her mind. She liked it; it was good. What other mage in Ankhapur could boast a brownie as her familiar?

A sniffled, "Mistress?" brought her attention back to the woodland sprite in front of her. She looked at Fid-dlenose-her brownie-and saw how sad and angry he was. "Mistress, what do you want of me?"

"You're my familiar?"

"Yes… mistress." Again the words were forced.

"Where do you come from?"

"Goodman Uesto's farm, near Woodrock." The question brightened the little face, but the joy quickly passed as the brownie thought of the sights he would never see again. "Will you let me go now?"

Maeve wasn't sure what to say. "Did you… want to be a familiar. I mean, how did I get you?"

Fiddlenose looked uncomfortably at the strange surroundings. He had never been in a human place like this before. Old Uesto's farm was just a cabin on the edge of the woods, nothing like this. "I wasn't asked. There was just a big buzz and-pop!-I was here."

The implication of it made Maeve weak, so unsettled that she took a chair, looked at the empty wine bottle, and wished she had some right now. She really wanted a familiar, a special, wonderful familiar, but this was like kidnapping-and worse. She'd snatched this poor brownie from its home and friends and was forcing it to serve against its will. It wasn't like getting a rat or frog at all.

She really wanted a familiar, and now look what had happened. What could she do?

On the floor, Shank was making gurgly noises not too different from those of a beached fish. The paralysis made it hard for him to do more than slobber and sputter for rescue. The sound reminded Maeve of her victim, and a wicked look passed across her face. Suddenly Shank wished he could have been very, very still.

All at once clear-headed and firmly resolute, Maeve rose from her seat. "Fiddlenose," she announced with heartfelt relief, "I release you. Go home, brownie. I can't send you home the way you came, so it'll be an adventure or two getting back to your farm. Woodrock's a good week west of here, but if you follow the shore, you should make it all right. That's the best I can do."

The little wood sprite gaped in astonishment. "But what about you? I'm your familiar. Didn't you want one?"

Maeve shook her head, tossing her brown-gray hair. "You go. I'll find a solution to my problem. Go now, before I change my mind!"

The brownie was already making for the door. "Thank you, mistress," he said with heartfelt glee just before he ducked through the door.

With one gone, Maeve turned to the other. "Now, what should be done with you?" The question was pointless, and not just because Shank couldn't answer. The wizard already had plans.

"Perhaps, you don't know, but I'm the royal court wizard," Maeve continued, clearly relishing the look of panic in Shank's eyes. "That means my lord, King Pinch, could have you put away for a very, very long time. Or maybe just execute you as an example, dearie. Does that sound fair?"

The pupils grew wider.

"Or"-and for this she knelt down beside him-"you could be my familiar. Serve me, play the part, and you could have almost as much wine, cheese, and fine clothes as you'd like. Stick your tongue out if you think you'd like that instead."

Sweat matted Shank's hair, but he managed to poke his tongue through his parted teeth.

"Good." Maeve smiled, and then her face went hard. All the fine court manners she'd learned in a year dropped away as she spoke to him in her element. "Understand this, Will o' Horse-Shank. Change your mind, scupper out on me, or play me for the coney again, and I'll see to it that Pinch scrags your scrawny neck from the leafless tree and leaves your bones for the dogs. Hide from me, and every sorcerer in the kingdom'll be scrying for you, every foin and cutpurse will be out to collect the bounty on your hide. You know I can do it, and you know I will. Understand?"

The tongue poked out again.

Maeve smiled and waved a hand over the paralyzed brownie. Sensation and order began to flow back into his limbs. "Then we have an understanding."

She picked up the empty wineglass and raised it in a mock toast while Shank stumbled to his feet. "Here's to getting me a very special familiar!"

Jean Rabe

Szass Tarn eased himself into a massive chair behind an ornate table covered with curled sheets of vellum and crystal vials filled with dark liquid. A thick candle stood in the middle of the clutter, its flame dancing in the musty air and casting a soft light across his grotesque features.

His pale, parchment-thin skin stretched taut across his high cheekbones, and his wispy hair, the color of cobwebs, spread unevenly atop his age-spotted scalp. His lower lip hung loose, as if there were no muscles to control it, and the fleshy part of his nose was gone, revealing twin cavities. The scarlet robes he wore fell in folds about his skeletal frame and spread like a pool of blood on the floor about his chair.

He absently swirled his index finger in a puddle of wax gathering on the table, letting the warm, oily liquid collect on his skin. He rolled the cooling blob between his thumb and middle finger until it hardened into a ball. Then he released the wax and watched it roll across the rosewood finish and come to rest near a decades-old scroll. The piercing points of white light that served as Szass Tarn's eyes stared at the parchment. It contained the last enchantment needed to turn his cherished apprentice into a creature like himself-an undead sorcerer… a lich. Of course, his apprentice would have to die before the spell could be invoked. Killing her would be no great matter, he decided. Bony fingers grasped the parchment and brought it close to his still heart.