A Wizard's Tale.

In the upper floor classroom of Magda’s Most Marvellous School of Magik, twelve pairs of eyes peered out nervously from behind twelve slightly singed desks. Magda picked herself up from where she had been blasted to the side of the room, glared at several small fires on her arms until they hurriedly extinguished themselves, and then turned her glare on the woebegone young man standing amongst the blackened remains of the school’s only cauldron.

“Get – out – of - my – classroom.”

Dean lurched his way between the desks, ears ringing. He heard furniture scraping as his classmates turned to stare at him. As he put his hand on the doorknob, Magda spoke again, and Dean half-turned, hopeful for a second.

“You will never be a wizard, Dean. Take my advice and stop trying. I think that alone might make us all sleep easier at night.”

Dean could not stop hot tears forming in his eyes as he stumbled his way down the staircase and out onto the street. A drunk from the Pink Dog Bar underneath Magda’s classroom leered at him and he jerked away, running clumsily down through the streets to the city wall. The guard at the gate didn’t stop the distressed-looking young man to tell him that a silver fabric star had fallen off his hat. Probably enchanted, thought the guard. Or drunk. You can never tell these days.

***

Several hours later, Dean had five scrapes across his shins, several scratches on his arms, and a nasty bruise on his forehead from an unexpectedly low-hanging branch.

The thing is, he thought, I am meant to be a wizard. I know I am. I can’t help that I get confused with spellwork sometimes. And that I have trouble getting potions to work exactly the way they’re supposed to. And with getting a pointy hat to stay on my head.
Sounds like you’re basically failing the minimum requirements for wizardry, then, doesn’t it?

And now even his thoughts were ganging up on him. He wondered if this was a sign of madness, or just a side-effect of the fumes he’d inhaled from the explosion earlier.

Not to mention the fact that you’ve been wandering around in circles for about the last hour, you clotpole -

Wait.

What in Merlin’s name was a clotpole?

You are, you dolt. That was me. Charles the Wrathful, at your service, except not really. Come and help me up, would you?

Dean looked around warily. He couldn’t see anyone, and more worryingly, the forest glade he was in did not look in the least bit familiar.

“Where – where are you?”

About five feet behind you, from the sound of your voice. Does it always squeak like that?

“No!” Dean cleared his throat. “No, it doesn’t. I can’t see anyone – “

In the bushes, idiot-features. Eyes on the ground and look for something magnificent and sparkly.

Dean advanced cautiously towards the clump of bushes bordering the glade.  He saw a broken, battered sword lying underneath them. The hilt was still attached to the blade, but only a third of the blade itself was still intact. Slivers of metal were scattered across the ground. 

Take your time, the voice thought. You’ll get there eventually, I’m sure.

It was silent for about three seconds.

On the other hand, being shattered to smithereens has put me in rather an impatient mood so I’m going to connect the dots for you right here, handler: yes, I’m a sword. Yes, I’m telepathic. No, I’m not Dark Magic, and no, I’m not at all interested in your private thoughts because, let’s face it, who would be? Now, would you pick me up so we can get out of this bloody forest?

Dean’s wet feet and bruised head picked up on the last sentence and relayed to his mouth that they would like to follow it up, if he’d be so kind.

“You know the way out of here?”

He felt the mental equivalent of the sword rolling its eyes wash over him like a dousing of dirty bathwater.

Yes, of course. I just have transport issues at the moment. Pick me up, you dolt.

Dean had been taught from a young age about Not Touching Mysterious Magical Objects. But then he’d ignored the lectures about a) Don’t Bother Becoming A Wizard, They’re All Just A Bunch Of Posing Tossers Anyway, b) Just Be More Like Your Brother, Can’t You, and later on c) Stop Bloody Wasting Your Money On That Magic Nonsense, Son. He was also pretty sure he’d ignored several principles of common sense involving Not Going Off Into The Dark Forest On Your Own and At Least Remembering Which Way You Came, You Idiot.  So it was perhaps not surprising that, presented with this particular situation, Dean shrugged to himself, bent down, and picked up the sword.
An intense pain shot through his arm, and he cried out and dropped the sword instinctively. After what seemed like an age the pain receded and he became aware that he was curled on the ground in a foetal position, one hand thrust out away from his body. He was still holding the sword.

You could at least call me by name. Charles. The Wrathful. Can we get up?

“What – in the name of Merlin’s beard - was that?” Dean uncurled himself gingerly. He still seemed to be in one piece.

I was bonding fully with your mind. I – forgot it was that painful. I apologise.

“You apologise for almost frying my brains out without asking? Well, thanks a lot.” Dean let the sword fall unceremoniously to the ground. “And also goodbye.” He turned on his heel and started walking in the opposite direction.

The sword reappeared in his hand.

Yes, the bonding means that you can’t get rid of me. Did I not mention that?

Dean whimpered, and dropped it again. He hadn’t even managed a step before it had slammed back into his palm.

“Will you leave me alone?”

Sorry, can’t now. And you don’t have to flap your mouth about every time you want to communicate, honestly.

Dean thought that this was probably one of the worst days he’d had in a while.

Cheer up. Turn left and go straight on for about a mile, and we might just make it out by sunset.

***

Dean had almost succeeded in burying himself in a daydream about his bed. He was surrounded by blankets, a stack of perpetually warm muffins, and an unlimited pile of Tony’s Terrific Trick Tips magazines.

I hate to interrupt a frankly ridiculously dull fantasy, but I thought I should probably let you know at some point that we’re not going back to the city. We’re going to Griselda the Terrible’s hideout on the other side of the woods.

What, thought Dean, and stopped walking. He’d discovered pretty quickly that there was no point actually talking to Charles, as the sword read his thoughts faster than he could speak. 

I love it when you use my name.

Dean absently noticed that he had crested a steep incline, and the slope in front of him faded away into darkness at the bottom. He felt muddy water ooze into his shoe. His foot felt numb. His whole brain felt numb. 

What? You said you wanted a way out of the forest. I’m showing you a way out.

But I’m not going back home, Dean thought. He wanted to go home, even if he had no future. He did not trust anyone who called their home a hideout.

Yes, but I’m one of Griselda’s most prized pieces. You’ll get a reward for bringing me back. Probably.  Unless she strings you up for stealing and trespassing.

At this, Dean’s legs took control of the situation, decided that enough was enough, and gave way beneath him. He threw out a hand to try to break his fall but only succeeded in sending Charles flying as he tumbled down the bracken-covered slope. A sharp, dull pain thudded through his skull, as if a tooth had just been yanked out of his mouth. He skidded to a halt and something gave an ominous crack beneath him. He felt Charles return to his hand, and the dull ache in his jaw receded. He shakily pointed the broken end of the sword at the big, white rock he had landed on, which was now cracking open with alarming speed. He scrambled to his feet and off the rock as something began to emerge from the cracks: a scaly head; large, bright eyes; and a wash of positive, loving feelings directed straight at him.

Mama?  thought the dragon.

Dean made a noise that sounded like yeeuuurgh as he passed out. The baby dragon looked at him intently and then scrambled out of the eggshell with some difficulty. It clambered up onto Dean’s chest.

Yeurgh, Mama?

Well, isn’t this just wizard, thought Charles.

He chuckled to himself for quite a long time after that. 

***
Dean woke with something heavy and sharp pressing into his chest. It coughed, and he smelt burning alarmingly nearby.

That would be your eyebrows. My, aren’t we slow in the mornings?


Dean flailed, dislodging the weight on his chest, and slapped at his head furiously until the flames went out. When he dared to open his eyes, a baby dragon was squatting in front of him looking mournful. It sent him a wave of mamahungrymama that rattled through his brain. He reeled backwards, but it just took a few steps towards him. He noticed Charles lying on the ground a few metres away. 

I wouldn’t move further away from me. It’ll just hurt both of us. And yes, you appear to have acquired a new … pet. Charles did not sound approving. He seems to think you are his –

MAMAHUNGRYMAMA

- yes, well. I think the situation is fairly self-explanatory.

Dean flinched as the baby dragon nosed at his ankles. His mind filled with visions of fresh, bloody meat.

“Leave me alone!” He flapped his hands at the dragon, but it didn’t move an inch. “Go away,” he tried, combining it with a threatening wiggle of his fingers.  A piece of eggshell next to the dragon turned into a porcupine, considered the world and her place in it, and curled up into a spiky ball. Dean barely registered that he’d just managed a Level Four Transfiguration by accident; the dragon was taking a step forward for every step he took back.

Yeurgh, it thought at him.

“Listen, I failed Dragonspeak, so I can’t -”

Yeurgh, it insisted. Dean frowned at it. 

If I may interrupt this scintillating conversation, thought Charles.  I believe that you have managed to saddle this dragon with the most unfortunate and unusual name in history, Dean.

“It’s called Yeurgh? And what do you mean, I saddled it with the name?”

Oh, come on, you gudgeon. Basic dragonlore. The first thing said to a dragon becomes its name – which is why hatchings are usually highly secret and sacred affairs. Odd that this one has been left out in the open, frankly.

Yeurgh appeared to be listening intently, and sent agreement to Dean without warning. He was getting a pounding headache to go with the stinging sensation where his eyebrows used to be. He had a feeling it had something to do with having two – for want of a better descriptor - people in his head that had no right to be there. No right to be there, he emphasised. Seriously, go away, both of you. I just want to go home.

The sword and the dragon fell silent for a blissful second - 

MAMA

Dean, run!

He thought it was morning. Why had it suddenly gone dark?

Because there’s a bloody big dragon blocking out the sun, that’s why! To your right, then straight ahead!

Dean looked up, saw scales as big as his hand and an eye as big as his head, and ran for his life. Yeurgh leapt onto his back, bringing a wash of pure panic and adrenaline that added to Dean’s own and propelled him forwards at a speed he'd never known he was capable of. Charles materialised in his hand. Trees were exploding and fireballs were whizzing past his ears. He faltered, his eyes streaming from the smoke.  He heard a roar above and somewhere behind him. Charles practically yanked his hand off and Dean followed his arm forward until he was suddenly bursting through the edge of the forest. A grey fortress wall rose up ahead of him. He sprinted for the open drawbridge and was over it and into the courtyard before the guards at the gate had time to react. They stood, dumbfounded, as a gigantic dragon rose above the treetops and dived for the castle. A furious cry of CHILDSNATCHER MY CHILD THIEF THIEF THIEF ricocheted through his mind. A fireball rolled over the courtyard, but the dragon, unable to get close enough, pulled up and circled the fortress. The guards finally snapped into action – most stood staring into the suddenly dragon-filled sky, some heaved the drawbridge shut, and the rest approached Dean slowly, pointing spears at him.

The nearest guard was about a metre away from Dean when he suddenly found himself with a baby dragon attacking his face. It had used Dean’s shoulders as a leap-pad and launched itself at him with a surge of protection-anger. The guard was on the ground. Yeurgh dropped to the flagstones in front of Dean, hissing angrily. Charles was twitching in his hand to attack, maim, kill, and his arm thrust involuntarily at the next guard, slashing at his unprotected lower legs. He could hear the mother dragon up above, circling and screaming CHILDSNATCHER THIEF: he could even faintly hear a guard thinking Merlin’s underwear, I’m going to die and there were too many voices in his head and he really just needed everybody to please SHUT UP.

Silence fell, except for the dragon’s wings beating above him.

“T-Thank you.” Dean massaged his temples. “I think there have been one or two misunderstandings.” He looked up at his biggest problem. “I didn’t mean to take your child. I just sort of...fell into it.”

HER, snarled the dragon.

Story of your life, snarked a voice at his side.

Be quiet, Charles! I am sorting this out!

Dean squinted up at the dragon.

“Fell into her, then. Sorry. About that. Would you like her back?”

Yeurgh dug her claws into his leg and clung onto him. He felt please-no-mamadontleaveme and a gust of air as the dragon shifted from wing to wing above him.

WELL, UM, SHE APPEARS QUITE ATTACHED TO YOU, she thought. AND TO TELL THE TRUTH I NEVER MUCH WANTED TO BE A MOTHER. WOULD YOU MIND, TERRIBLY, UM -

Dean took a deep breath and tried not to scream.

“Then – why were you chasing me? You know, with the roaring? And the fireballs?”

MOTHER’S INSTINCT? offered the dragon, weakly. ALSO, IT WAS QUITE FUN CHASING YOU. DID YOU KNOW THAT YOUR LEGS APPEAR TO BE GOING IN DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS WHEN YOU RUN -

“Right. Thank you. Please go away now.”

The dragon left.

The remaining guards were staring at him, mouths open. Dean walked past them into the castle. Somewhere to sleep, about now, would be lovely. A woman was standing at the entrance to the keep. He stopped in front of her and hoped that he wasn’t required to do anything. She inclined her head to him. He nodded at her, slightly bemused.

“What are your terms, my lord?” Dean looked behind him. There was no-one remotely lord-like in the courtyard. The woman’s head remained bowed, but she was watching him from underneath her lashes.

“Um,” he said. “Terms?”

The woman raised her chin and looked him in the eye. Dean tried to look somewhere else.

May I introduce Griselda the not-so-terrible-after-all? The sword sounded exceedingly smug.

Dean threw the sword down – don’t you even think about coming back to me - and looked up at Griselda.

“I want you to figure out how to get this thing unattached from me, and then I want you to take me back to the city.”

Griselda’s eyes darted to the sword on the floor. When she looked back up at Dean, it was her turn to look confused. 

“I can arrange the transport, lord – but if you’ll forgive me for asking – why do you want to disassociate from that sword? It is a highly magical object, even shattered. I thought I had destroyed it when I used it to dispose of a particularly powerful sorcerer a few weeks ago.”

Dean processed this information.

“Right. Well, it’s mostly because it never shuts up. Do you have any powerful sorcerers around that I could hit with it?”

Rude.

Griselda was making odd noises with her mouth. It took Dean a moment to realise that she was attempting to laugh.

“Very droll, my lord.”

“What?”

She immediately stopped giggling.

“What, my lord?”
“No, seriously, what is going on? Could someone please explain?”

Dean.

“NOT you, Charles.” Griselda was looking scared again.

DEAN. Listen to me. SHE can’t hear me. No-one else can. Only powerful sorcerers can hear the thoughts of magical objects of my level. And of dragons, and other people for that matter. Only you can hear us.

“But I’m not – I can’t do any spells -"

None of that matters. You can learn those things. What you’re born with, that can’t be learnt. You’re pure magic, Dean, through and through.

Magic Mama, Yeurgh confirmed.

Dean looked up at Griselda.

"I really would like to go home now, please."

***

Dean was almost asleep as he collapsed into Griselda’s most luxurious coach for the journey home. Yeurgh curled up at his feet, sending a contented-happy feeling towards him. Charles rested on the seat next to him, humming soothing songs about blood-soaked battlefields. Dean closed his eyes, and slept.