A Wizard is Born

Eran d'Kirk watched from a second floor room of the Dancing Llama as his father Filip and the other villagers fought off the advancing hordes of greels.

The children had been placed in the inn well before the attack, with two elderly men and Hal, the local drunk, set at the door as guards. Eran took a quick look at the three guards and decided that if the greels made it inside, it would be an even chance whether they slit their own throats or made a run for it.

With a grimace he turned back to the window. The battle seemed hopeless. Even though the greels were half the size of a human, there were far too many of them, and their insectile bodies were incredibly quick. As he watched the battle, Eran almost would have said that they couldn't feel pain. He watched his father mow down a small group, and he could discern no flinches or cries of agony from the enemy. It was a puzzling thing, but there was no time to think about it now. The villagers were surrounded on all sides. The greels were advancing slowly now, hissing and clicking their pincers in triumph. It would all be over very soon.

As he watched, Eran saw that it was his father, Filip d'Kirk, that stood at the head of what would obviously be the village's last stand. Eran became suddenly fearful.

"Father!", he cried out.

Eran watched as his father looked up at him. After a moment, Filip d'Kirk touched his lips with his first and second fingers, then bowed his head to his son. It was the ultimate gesture of respect, and Eran could only stand there in disbelief as his father smiled, lifted his sword, and ran headlong into the advancing greels.

"No!", Eran yelled. He turned to the door to run downstairs and help his father, but the scene unfolding before him froze him in his tracks. The old men and the drunk were handing out cups of wine. "What are you doing?", Eran said out loud.

The men looked up. One of them dropped a small pouch; a bit of blue powder spilled out, and it became clear in an instant. They weren't here to guard the children, they were here to kill them if the greels couldn't be fought off. Give us a little sleep potion so we could die peacefully, thought Eran disgustedly. He understood the logic, but the thought enraged him. "Don't drink it!" he yelled, "It's poison. They're trying to poison us before the greels get here."

The children looked in their cups; some tossed them to the floor. "Please," said one of the elders, "they will torture you and mutilate you. We can't stop them." Eran just looked at them. "We may be only children, but we are not without honor." The rest of the children threw their cups to the floor; some moved to stand next to Eran by the window. Hal grabbed the rest of the unspoilt wine and began chugging like a madman.

Eran turned back to the window. His father was fighting furiously, but he wouldn't last forever. Despite his best efforts, a greel finally pulled him to the ground. The enemy began to pile on top of him, biting and clawing.

I have to do something, Eran thought to himself. Without thinking, he gave a loud cry and launched himself out the window. He flew through the air, then landed with a brilliant flash of white. Everyone in the room above was knocked off their feet.

Down in the street, the villagers and the greels felt the shock too. Soon some of the villagers began to stir. Some of them didn't. The greels, however, were all dead.

A crowd soon began to gather cautiously around the pale boy lying in the middle of the street, but none would come too close. There were whispers of 'wizard' and 'new comings' and 'the end of times'. Everyone was thankful, yet very afraid.

A man began to make his way through the crowd. He was limping, covered in blood, and clutching his left side just below the rib. The crowd parted easily, giving him plenty of room. When Filip broke through and saw his son lying there unconscious, he knew. With a small smile and a heavy heart, Filip d'Kirk knelt by his son. He touched his first two fingers to his lips, bowed his head, and began to cry.