If someone were to stop by and ask Magnus if he liked goats, he would have responded with a resounding ‘No.’

  No one ever stopped by. That did not change Magnus’s opinion. If anything, it only reinforced it. No one in their right mind would stop and stay around goats.

  T’laanga chose to live around goats on purpose, but Magnus considered the man to be insane. Since he had been left at the man’s hut, the goat herder had hardly said anything. What little he did speak of pertained to the care of goats, or to scold Magnus.

  The young boy had seen the man perform a feat of magic only talked about in legends. T’laanga had faced down a dragon and lived to tell the tale. But after that, there hadn’t been the slightest hint of magic. For someone to possess that much power and ignore it, they had to be insane.

  Magnus had believed Edith when she said that T’laanga would look after him and teach him to use his new powers. Why would he not? She had stayed by his side and looked after him even after his own family had abandoned him. The potion that had saved his life had been her creation.

  But now Magnus was living in a dirty hut that smelled of goats. The only thing T’laanga seemed interested in teaching him was how to do chores and herd goats. He’d made Magnus carve his own shepherd’s crook out of a sapling. When the first two had snapped or been eaten by the goats, Magnus had been forced to make another.

  His third crook was still rough, but at least the goats weren’t able to destroy it. It was slowly becoming a familiar weight in his hand. Magnus was currently using it to help pull a particularly ornery goat out of a thorn bush.

  With magic, it would have been nothing more than a snap of his fingers to get the goat free. Instead, Magnus was covered in thorn scratches and up to his ankles in fresh springtime mud. Every time he nearly got the goat free, it would jump deeper into the thorns.

  Magnus knew deep in his gut that he had magic. He’d known it from the moment he woke up after almost dying. Whatever had been in Edith’s potion had changed him. It was like a small fire was burning in his belly, quietly warming his insides. It would flare hotter when he was angry and simmer down when he felt sad.

  He could remember being able to light a small fire, when he was still with Edith, Cassia, and the dragon. It had been a particularly cold and wet day on the road. Cassia was trying her best, but she’d not had any dry kindling. Magnus had been feeling particularly miserable. The only thing he’d wanted at the moment, was for the fire to be lit so he could warm up and dry off. After he blinked, there it had been.

  Magnus also remembered being inexplicably tired afterwards.

  The one and only time that he’d tried to do the same at T’laanga’s hut, the goat herder had punished him harshly. He’d immediately doused the fire and dragged Magnus down to the nearest stream. Magnus had been made to select a willow switch to be struck with. He’d made an uninformed error in choosing one of the thinnest switches available.

  Bruises from those whistling strikes still ached on Magnus’s hands. T’laanga had bandaged them with an ointment afterwards which did not dull the pain. He’d then given Magnus a biting lecture about being irresponsible and playing with powers that he didn’t understand. It was the most the man had said in all their time together.

  At last, Magnus managed to free the goat from the thorn bush. He looped his crook around its neck to keep it from jumping right back into the bush.

  Goats were stubborn creatures. If they set their mind on something, they would pursue it to the bitter end. You couldn’t force them to do something if they didn’t want to. Magnus pulled out a hard bread cracker that was supposed to be his lunch. The goat sniffed the air and fixed its slitted eyes on the cracker.

  Slowly and carefully, Magnus started the long process of luring the goat back towards the herd.

  Sir Kenneth and Sir Raban rode their horses as far apart from each other as they could manage while still technically being on the same road.

  Raban was in a particularly foul mood. He was practically seething in the saddle. If someone listened closely, they would probably have been able to hear him muttering a colorful array of curses under his breath. His horse had picked up on its rider’s temperament and was developing a nasty habit of kicking or biting anyone that came too close.

  Several soldiers in the wagon trailing behind the knights had fallen prey to the stallion’s new favorite pastime. All present, even those who had avoided the horse’s ire, looked worse for wear. Those not engaged in horse riding or driving the wagon were slumped in their seats in sullen silence.

  Ever since they had left Greenreimse, the search party had been cursed with continual misfortune. Normally, the locals would have been all too happy to talk with one of the Baron’s knights. Something had them spooked. Rumors abounded of a monster that was terrorizing the countryside, but no one had seen it in person.

  People were going missing. That much was hard to deny. This had sent the knights on several wild goose chases. They had utterly failed to find any trace of the missing people. All that they’d found were strange patches of earth devoid of life. Each trail ended with the same conclusion.

  The soldiers were thoroughly spooked by now. Each night, they told more and more imaginative stories of what kind of monster could be stalking the night. Someone had suggested that the monster was a demon that had been summoned by the witch they were meant to be hunting.

  No one had slept well after that.

  Beyond time wasted for no good outcome and sleepless nights, a series of small inconveniences had piled together to make everyone present miserable. A wagon wheel that broke during a rain storm, supplies that were eaten by vermin, and taking a turn down the wrong road for two days were just a few examples.

  The two knights had had multiple flaming rows with each other over increasingly insignificant disagreements in the past few days. In the estimation of the sergeant-at-arms, it was only a matter of time before one of the pair drew a sword and tried to kill the other. No matter how that ended, everyone involved would be worse off for it.

  “Err… your lordships,” the sergeant spoke up from his position at the wagon’s driver seat. “Perhaps we should have a mind to where we might wish to set up camp?” The sergeant did not want a repeat of a previous disaster where they’d tried to set camp in the dark and almost set a tent on fire.

  “I suppose we must,” Sir Kenneth called back with a weary sigh. He pulled on the reins of his steed and slowed down to draw level with the wagon. “Where ought we set camp? It’s open fields for the most part. Hardly good cover.”

  “There’s that hut up yonder,” Sir Raban growled as he wheeled his own horse around. The foul tempered creature refused to follow direction by anything but firmly planting his heels in its flanks. “Probably a shepherd or goatherd. Least he can do is offer the Baron’s men his hospitality.”

  “We are NOT pilfering from the common folk again Raban,” Sir Kenneth hissed. “It brings shame on the Reimse crest and makes us look like brigands.” The sergeant was pretty sure he heard Raban mutter something about ‘showing what a real brigand looks like’ but held his tongue. The last thing anyone needed was to start another fight.

  “I’m sure the kindly fellow will be happy to host us,” Raban growled back. “After all. There’s monsters about. We’ll help protect his flock, aye? Like ‘noble knights’.” Before Sir Kenneth could object, Raban savagely planted his feet in his steed’s sides and set off at a canter.

  The sergeant-at-arms dearly wished he could have been placed on guard duty at the Baron’s castle. Surely those lucky souls were having a better time of it than he was.

  Howard the Bard was beginning to believe that he had died and gone to one of the Hells.

  No other explanation made sense for what he was going through. Ever since he’d met Mortimer the Wizard, each waking moment felt like the world was making jokes at his expense. If it wasn’t an angry badger mauling him when he’d slept on top of its burrow, it was a flock of magpies attacking him for his colorful garb.

  That was nothing to say about Mortimer himself. Half the time the crazy old coot forgot who Howard was and tried to set him on fire for looking too much like a clown. It had gotten to the point where Howard had stolen a set of clothes that were little better than rags from a washing line. Abandoning his silk garments was a painful loss, but death my immolation was still the worst possible outcome.

  For now. Howard thought he should keep his options open.

  The pair had left the river and started heading up a road away from the mountain several days ago. Walking wasn’t Howard’s strong suit. He’d always preferred a handsome steed or a cushioned seat in the back of a coach. At least his boots were comfortable. They were the only bit of his original garb that didn’t trigger Mortimer’s clown-based delusions.

  Despite being an old man, Mortimer seemed to have an endless well of energy that kept him going across hill and dale. He seemed to consider their journey a ‘brisk walk’, like they were heading out to a shop for afternoon tea. Nothing Howard said had any effect on Mortimer’s outlook or decision making.

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  In fact, Howard had become convinced that Mortimer was deaf. He certainly didn’t fully listen to what other people were saying. Most of the time the wizard seemed to make up what he expected people to say in his own head and reacted accordingly. Half the time he talked to the bird perched on his staff like it was a real person!

  Howard was not ready to accept that birds could talk. That would be admitting he’d gone fully mad.

  The region that they were currently walking through was populated by sheep and goats. Every once in a while they’d see another human, but the locals were keeping their distance. A crazy man talking to a bird and a beggar wearing two swords did not make for enticing company.

  As the afternoon drew closer to sunset, Howard tried to get Mortimer’s attention.

  “My ah… exalted scholar of the arcane arts, perhaps we should prevail on one of the locals for their hospitality?” Howard asked, enunciating his words slowly and carefully just in case Mortimer really was deaf. “There’s a hut over that way that looks… friendly enough.”

  Mortimer turned his head to look at the hut that Howard was indicating. It currently had a goat eating part of its roof, along with a small curl of smoke rising from a thin chimney.

  “Yes I suppose these old bones could do with a rest.” The wizard cocked his head to ‘listen’ to the white raven. “Capital idea Archibald. The locals in these parts are sure to have some tea to warm my cockles." Without further hesitation, the wizard turned his course and started striking out across the field towards the hut in question.

  Howard stood still for a moment, baffled by his own success. Maybe things were finally looking up? He shook himself out of his daze and followed after the madman at a trot.

  Magnus had just got the evening’s fire going with a flint and steel when a loud banging came from the hut’s door. It didn’t sound like one of the goats butting its head against the frame. The boy looked over at T’laanga, who was occupied trying to feed a baby goat a herbal concoction. The goatherd jerked his head at the door, indicating that Magnus should go answer it.

  When Magnus walked over and opened the hut’s simple door, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Maybe one of the other local goatherds had a problem that they needed T’laanga’s help with. Or possibly a lost traveller needed directions. A small part of Magnus’s heart bitterly wished it would be Edith, come to take him away from this smelly hovel.

  What he could not have guessed was that a Wizard would be standing on the other side of the door. He looked like a ‘proper’ Wizard as well, with a beard that hung to his waist, a staff, and a raven perched on his shoulder the color of fresh snow. The Wizard even had the broad-brimmed pointy hat, which was rumored to be a requirement for a Wizard’s magic to work.

  It was like a scene out of a story, or one of the fairy tales Cassia had liked to talk about. Maybe this would be the moment Magnus’s luck would turn? A real Wizard had come to teach him how to use magic, rather than spend his days worrying about stupid goats!

  Magnus was so transfixed that he wasn’t paying attention to how the Wizard was looking at him. In his childlike wonder, he didn’t notice the sudden greedy glint that appeared in the Wizard’s eyes. Without warning a shepherd’s crook dropped over Magnus’s shoulder and hauled him bodily backwards, deeper into the hut. It was just in time to pull him away from the wrinkled hand which closed on empty air where he’d been standing.

  “Oh would you look at this Archibald?!” cried Mortimer as he raised his own staff. A ball of flame appeared at the end of it, illuminating the dark interior of the hut. “They had a Sorcerer hiding out in the boonies! A pretty young one too. He’ll make an excellent set of reagents.”

  When Mortimer tried to cross the threshold, a shimmering barrier snapped into place in front of him. A flick of his wrist sent the conjured fireball into the barrier, which only flickered for a moment before the flames dissipated. T’laanga stood up inside of the hut, aiming his crook at Mortimer. He uttered a single word. “Begone.”

  A wave of force slammed into Mortimer and sent him sprawling backwards onto the ground. Archibald took to the air, squawking furiously. Howard had only just caught up with the Wizard and was sent flying as well.

  “Stay inside, it is not safe,” T’laanga hissed to Magnus as he set the boy down. His body flashed from the inside of the hut to the yard in a single step. The multi-colored scarf around his neck billowed up from his shoulders, twisting through the air like a viper. His shepherd’s crook struck out, knocking aside Mortimer’s staff as the old man swung another ball of fire towards the hut.

  “I was wrong Archibald,” the old man cackled. “Anat’haak!” The Wizard vanished into thin air from where he’d been lying on the ground. The word he’d yelled echoed loudly across the yard. T’laanga’s scarf twisted around, warning him to duck as a razor sharp blade of wind sailed overhead. “There’s two Sorcerers! And this is a big’un!”

  T’laanga dove to the side as two more blades of wind sliced the ground where he’d been standing. Nearby, Howard squealed in pain as one of the stray blades caught him on the leg with a glancing blow. They were just as dangerous as any sword.

  “Your parlor tricks are useless, vulture,” T’laanga growled as he rolled to his feet. “You will find only death here.” Mortimer was standing twenty feet in the air, his robe flapping around him as small gusts of wind kept him aloft. T’laanga swept his crook through the air, passing the hook over Mortimer’s position from his point of view.

  Mortimer gave a yelp as a glimmering after image resembling a massive crook slammed into him from the sky. The old man was thrown at high speed into the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. Howard barely dodged out of the way in time to avoid being flattened by the centenarian projectile. When the dust settled, Mortimer was half embedded in the dirt. A glowing shield surrounded his body, which gave way alongside a crystalline ‘crack’ from inside of his robes.

  Magnus watched the duel in awe from the doorway to the hut. He couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. The barrier that had prevented the Wizard from entering now kept him from leaving. His hands pressed up against the barrier, nails clawing at its surface.

  He wanted to help!

  It may have looked like T’laanga had the upper hand, but Magnus could see the toll even this short battle was having on the man. Sweat ran down his forehead, stained with the color of the clay he used for his braids. Though he held his crook with steady hands, great heaving breaths made his chest rise and fall. The scarf around his neck had gained several small nicks and a singed edge.

  Mortimer on the other hand pulled himself up out of the dirt and dusted himself off. He looked entirely unbothered by the exchange, save for an annoyed ‘tsk’ when he pulled a shattered crystal amulet out from beneath his robes.

  “That little trinket cost me several favors to a colleague, you hedge-magic reprobate,” Mortimer said casually as he tossed the broken jewelry off to the side. It hit Howard in the face as the man tried to stand back up. “I’ll be taking it out of the kid’s hide to replace it.”

  Just as the two moved to resume their duel, a warhorse came galloping up the dirt track from the road. Sir Raban reigned in his horse at the last moment, which reared up on its hind legs and gave a shrieking whinny. Both the Wizard and the Sorcerer paused long enough to look at the armored knight, who pulled a sword from its sheath at his waist.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Raban roared as he aimed his steel at the crazed old man and goatherd. “Declare yourselves, cretins! What gives you the right to wield such magic in the Baron’s realm without license?!”

  Back down the dirt track, Sir Kenneth was putting his own horse to a gallop to catch up. He and Raban had both heard the booms and cracks of magic echoing over the hill as they’d come up the slope, but he had preferred caution over running blindly into danger. The soldiers on the cart were scrambling to catch up on foot as their superiors rushed ahead of them on horseback.

  “First a Sorcerer and now a harking knight?” Howard cried pitifully to himself. “What’s next, a dragon?”

  Overhead, an immense black shape temporarily blocked out the sun. All gathered glanced up as a great winged shape passed overhead. Raban’s horse, already stirred into a frenzy, chose that moment to buck. The knight was sent flying to the ground as the beast went into a panic and ran for its life.

  A shadow fell over the hut as booming wing flaps echoed across the hills. Third dropped from the sky, giving an incoherent roar of rage. He thought he’d sense his sibling hiding within the hut for a moment, but he’d lost track of it at the last moment. All that he could see were more weak humans shouting and screaming.

  Third was bored of eating humans. He’d gorged himself on them during his attempts to search for his cowardly sibling. Though he’d never bothered to count, the number was approaching hundreds. Instead of eating these ones, he opened his maw and let loose his Breath.

  Acid rained from the sky in a flickering torrent, a concentrated jet of destruction that sought to melt the hut and everyone standing nearby. If Third could not find his sibling here, he’d lay the place to waste to vent his rage.

  At the last moment, the barrier protecting the hut expanded. It ballooned outwards to encompass the whole yard. Sir Kenneth had just crossed the line where the barrier ended. The flood of acid smashed into the dome and deflected to the sides. Those inside the barrier could only watch in horror as cracks began to spread across its surface.

  With a great sigh, Mortimer dug another item out of his pockets. It was a small totem carved out of bone, vaguely the shape of a man. He tossed it into the center of the yard just as the first drops of acid began to penetrate through the sheer surface of the temporary dome.

  The totem shattered into pieces. Out of it grew a man taller than the hut. His shape was roughly hewn, like a child had made a figure of its father from clay. Instead of clay, its structure was the same bone material as the totem.

  Two hands with the barest imitation of fingers planted themselves into the barrier over the summoned figure’s head. It planted its feet and braced looking like it intended to hold up the sky. For a few moments, the barrier continued to crack. Then at last, the torrent of acid ended. Moments later, both the barrier and the summoned figure fell to pieces.

  Third looked down at the gathered humans as he flapped his wings. These ones were not so weak after all, it seemed. Now that he was paying attention, two of them reeked of magic. One hoarded magic like a magpie, filching from other sources. The other had a respectable amount in its own blood, for a human at least. They had turned aside Third’s dragonsbreath at full strength and saved their own lives.

  The group of humans outside the barrier had been less lucky. Not much remained of the wagon or its occupants.

  A cold pinch in Third’s mind caught his attention. It was First again, bothering him like always. Except this time, his elder sibling was furious. Something had angered him so much that he’d dropped his manipulative games. An image of where Third could find his prey appeared in his mind.

  These not-so-weak humans could wait. Third had fratricide to commit.

  He turned away from the hut and flew at speed towards the Redstone Hills. Along the way he swooped down to catch a fleeing horse for a snack. He’d need all his strength to finally put his most annoying sibling in his place.

  ○ ○ ○

  Everyone still alive at T’laanga’s hut watched the black shape of the dragon fly into the distance.

  “What the fuck was that?” whispered Sir Kenneth in horror.