Wizard's Mistake (eBook)

Chapter One: Is this really necessary?

Yoder Hals wasn’t well liked in his hometown. His father had been a great man who passed when he was only seven season cycles old, so Yoder had grown up under the tender, loving care of his mother: Doreen. Doreen doted on her only son all the way up to now, his seventeenth seasonal cycle and this made Yoder, according to the villagers, a spoiled, fat, little shit.

The truth was that Yoder Hals, an overweight, young man with short, sandy blonde hair and gentle blue eyes, lacked any confidence and what the villagers of Mater’s Range in the sprawling countryside of Halziyon thought was arrogance was, in fact, a crippling fear of everything. Yoder had no one to teach him to brawl or drink or farm or even shave his face, which is why his mother did it for him once he began to sprout the first scruff of puberty on his round chin and jowls last cycle.

She even chose his clothing for him, always dressing the chubby lad in wine red or berry blue tunics and dark pants just like his father. He even wore his father’s old belt and boots, which Doreen lovingly repaired over and over again until the leathers were marred in criss-crossing stitchwork that seemed almost fashionable.

In fact, Yoder could have learned from any of the other men in Mater’s Range had he not been so afraid of failing miserably that he hid from them altogether in the open fields surrounding the sleepy little hamlet so named for its founder, Mater Molovi, some fifty cycles passed. While the quiet, comfortable town with its quiet comfortable houses with their thatched roofs and quiet, comfortable hearths billowed smoke gently into the sky, the men tended fields and livestock, or fished and turned to crafting while the women laundered and gathered and cooked in quiet, comfortable peace. It was all really quiet and really comfortable….until one bright, sunny morning.

Before that bright, sunny morning, there was a dark and silent evening that preceded a long and gentle night-time as these things tend to go. Yoder Hals sat down at the plain wooden table in the common room of his little thatched house where he and his mother lived their quiet, comfortable lives. Upon the table was a spread of sliced and salted ham, mashed potatoes (which were his favorites), a bowl of boiled beans, and a nice, wildberry pie. Yoder licked his lips eagerly as he began to pile onto his plate generous helpings of each, save for the pie; that would be for after. With two slices of Ham, a heaping spoonful of potatoes and beans filling his wooden plate, Doreen filled a tankard of sweet wine she’d traded with Narys next door for another pie and brought it to sit before him.

“Here you go, my love. A nice drink to wash it all down with. Eat up, poppet.” She said cheerily, ruffling Yoder’s nice, clean, trimmed sandy hair with her worn fingers. Doreen worked hard all day, washing and gathering and baking to trade with her neighbors all so she could provide anything her son would ever need while Yoder ran about the fields playing and daydreaming about adventures he’ll never have the courage to face. Slaying dragons and rescuing fair maidens who will do all manner of lewd things in gratitude.

“Thank you, Mum.” Yoder replied, slicing a bite of ham to shove into his mouth a mere moment afterwards. He devoured his dinner in relative silence while Doreen regaled him with the tales of her day, baking pies and breads for the neighbors and gossiping about Narys’ mother’s rickety cough or Hanstel’s courtship of Ola Yorg’s daughter Eliza whom apparently had a queer eye that made her appear to be looking in two directions at once. Yoder tended to tune her out by then, relishing in his feast before announcing he was going to bed and leaving her behind to clean up whilst he trotted off to his room.

Where Doreen slept in a cot by the hearth below in the common room, Yoder was given the loft for according to his mother; a young man needs his own space. The loft had been where she and Yoder’s father slept before he passed away but soon after, it was given to the boy. Yoder climbed the ladder with great effort, pausing at the top to catch his breath before he stumbled three steps on the rug covered wood. One foot kicked off a boot, then helped the other free and both were left there as he padded over to the window and lit the little candle in its little bronze base.

The yellow light flickered, illuminating the straw bed covered in linens that desperately needed a wash. A pile of blankets was shoved against the far wall where the bed lay as if he had pushed it aside when he woke then wandered off without bothering to flatten them out. A wooden chest of drawers was set beside the bed, the drawers hanging slightly open with garments stuffed here and there haphazardly. A faint buzzing sound became clear and Yoder frowned at the noise before pattering about to locate the source.

Under the bed was a trunk left by his late father, his father’s heirloom sword in its wooden scabbard and a plate with the rotted, festering meat and bone of a bird gathering flies. Yoder huffed, annoyed by its presence and so he picked it up then tossed it and the plate out the window into the back herb garden. He’d forgotten it was there. With the offensive platter dealt with, the young man rubbed his blonde head then unbuckled his stitchwork belt. He dropped it upon the floor, wriggled out of his trousers then flopped onto the bed which creaked in protest.

Resting his head on his feather-filled pillow, Yoder watched the flickering flame-light dance on the ceiling. He imagined mythical monsters and he, a glorious hero with long, golden hair and gleaming plated armor with a beautiful, pale skinned, midnight haired girl in virginal white caught in his shield arm. Her body pressed close so he could smell the scent of her long, silky hair. He sighed softly, adjusting his under-linens and…..well, we’ll not go into what he did next.

The night passed, crickets played their violin-legs in the brush and owls hooted their night-song between swooping dives onto unsuspecting small beasts in the grass. Wolves howled in the forests far, far away and a man in a very fine short brim hat of blackened felt tripped on a root. He stumbled forward, flailing his arms and whacking himself in the knee with the ironwood cane in his left hand. At its top rested a white crystal, cut and fixed with silvered brackets in a five-point pattern.

“Ow! Blast you, flora.” The man in the felt hat remarked, his expressive face of long, pointed chin and high cheekbones scowling as he turned with a flutter of his woolen, darkened blue longcoat tails. “You scuffed my boots!” The man exclaimed, then lifted a gloved hand and raised his index finger to shush the ground. “Quiet!” He whispered pointedly, the same hand brushing off brown road-weary trousers a moment later. “I know I’m a stranger, but it’s very rude to trip strangers.” He said softly, straightening himself up and adjusting both his vest of black and his shirt of white.

“There’s a young man in this region with a very serious destiny, an important one and I intend to find him. No shrubbery roots are going to stop me, thank you very much.” The man in the hat explained to the night air, which didn’t seem all that concerned about it. This was fine to the man in the hat, whom, with a twirl of his cane, turned about and began to stroll onward toward the sleepy hamlet of Mater’s Range once more.

And so, that bright sunny morning began. Yoder Hals rose from his bed and scratched himself forwards then backwards with a yawn, trudging blearily to his chest of drawers to pick out yet another blue tunic and dark trousers to wear from the messy clumps within while his nose was treated to the scent of fresh baking bread and sizzling pork. He wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth, stuck his thumbs in his eyes to clean those little flecks of sleep grit from them then pulled each item on to replace those soiled by yesterday.

Yesterday’s garments were tossed down to the common room floor, as was his tradition, then he put on his belt and sat himself down on his creaky bed to pull on his boots. “Come on down, dear. Breakfast is ready.” called his mother to which Yoder eagerly descended but found himself distracted by a rap-tap-tapping upon the front door. He stared at the wooden rectangle, blonde brows furrowing as if his sleepy mind could not comprehend who might come to call at such an hour. “Who could that be? Interrupting breakfast.” Doreen asked rhetorically.

Yoder looked at his mother, then the table where his hearty, hot breakfast of eggs and sizzled Ham with leftover boiled beans awaited. He licked his lips, looked back at the front door and decided that the visitor didn’t matter. His mother, however, decided the opposite and the two passed each other by in favor of the other. “Leave it, mum.” Yoder said, rounding the table and sitting down in his spot in front of his plate to take up his knife and fork.

Doreen answered the door though, ignoring her son. She pulled it wide, brushed a hand through her stringy, unkempt, blonde hair and fixed her gentle blue eyes on the man in the black felt hat and dark blue longcoat. He smiled, full of pearly teeth. “Hello! Do you have a moment to talk about the savior of all mankind?” The man in the hat said, his sharp, aristocratic features bright and cheery even at this early hour. He swapped his cane from left hand to right hand, holding the left hand out to the woman in the doorway.

“What’s this then? Bit early for a Genovan Witness, isn’t it?” Doreen replied with thinly veiled disgust showing in a curled sneer. “Serves me right to answer the door at this bloody...