Land of Salvania

  Idium was not a wizard. He had found a wizard's staff in the Dreamwood a year earlier, and it did all the work. It called itself "Branch." Most recently Branch seemed to get more bossy than usual. Just this morning, it had said, "We need to be at the White River Castle before the full moon." "Why? I'd like to find a nice tavern and make some coin." "I don't need coins," Branch said. "Abusing our relationship for parlor tricks to amaze a few backward villagers is a waste of my devastating talents." "A guy's gotta eat." The thought made his empty stomach rumble. "I see free food all around. There, eat that mushroom," Branch said. A purple light glowed from the crystal at the staff's tip and reached out to caress a small white mushroom growing at the foot of a rotten stump. "Is it poisonous?" "After all we've been through, you don't trust me?" Branch seemed hurt

  The halfling cried out, "I am Wizard Zhame of the Stone Forest. Big people are not allowed in my lands!" He came at me with no warning, brandishing his glowing wand, intent on mayhem. I drew my wand just in time to defend against his savage onslaught. I remember little of the grueling encounter, just that I awoke hours later, sitting in my carriage miles away, exhausted. /// Copyright

  He was always so dramatic, saying cryptic stuff like, "Stay behind me. I feel something ahead." He reminded me of an actor playing a caricature of a wizard at the Spring Faire complete with his elaborate gestures and somber, black robes. Most of the time, when he stopped us on the trail, nothing happened. Maybe he sent some magic ahead to dispel whatever caused his "feeling." Maybe he was just full of himself. Or full of something. This time, he produced a handful of already lit candles, which was magic enough for me, and intoned, "I command you to leave this place in the name of the Eternal Light!" Nothing happened that I could see, but I drew my sword (as did my three comrades). Again, he said, "Leave this place. You are banished to the Outerland!" The candles seemed to get brighter, and I heard a rustle in the dark forest ahead. We waited a few more minutes, and he turned, the candles vanishing into his robes. How did he do that? "

As Kyllen led the last squad fleeing the Duke's burning town , he had a single moment of clarity amid the screams and roaring flames. A man in black robes was walking calmly within the chaos as unconcerned as a shopper strolling through the market looking for plums. He carried a glowing wand, and uncanny flames spread around him. Wooden structures, baskets, anything remotely flammable exploded into bright orange fire. The man was not even singed by the pulsing heat Kyllen could easily feel from a bow shot away. Kyllen grabbed an archer by the shoulder, spinning her around. "Can you hit that man in black?" He pointed into the town. She automatically raised her arm to reach for an arrow, but her quiver was empty. "Shit. I'm out." She started looking frantically for loose arrows on the ground. The heat increased, and Kyllen's squad instinctively stepped back. "The gods be damned heat is too much," the archer cried. "We cannot stay here

  The wizard unrolled the partly burned scroll, looking from it to the monument and back. The scroll was written in a flowing Elvenari script, and the wording was so old, he could barely understand. His halting interpretation was: "Seek you the south bay whereupon stands the fox flame of Pamania. One whose art is pure may sense the power of the monument and be refreshed." Many weeks of continuous travel, storms, and hardship had brought him south. Long had he sought this legend, finally to determine its power for himself. His art was strong, but it refused to show him the way. Instead, he had to endure days of weary speech with suspicious villagers. None had heard of a place, god, or man called "Pamania." None seemed interested in the least in his origin or his quest. To the wizard, they were as witless as the cattle they tended. Finally, he met an old woman at a lonely cottage on the edge of some nameless village. He sensed a spark of the art in her, though

  The giant was not stupid. The man was not weak. Each was convinced they knew one important thing about the other. But "knowing" is tricky. They met in the forest on the first day of winter as agreed by their royalty. The giant's king wrote a royal edict saying "Go forth and smite the enemy's champion or come not back to these lands." The man's queen said, "Go forth with our blessing for your courage and success." The giant was not stupid. An unarmed man facing him calmly was not a powerless man. May it be that he was a sorcerer. The man was not weak. He had faced challenges more daunting than a large man with a shiny sword. He knew how this would go. The small would overcome the large, and the bards would wrap it in a lesson for children. The giant charged. The man called out "Stop!" using the Power in his voice. The giant was not knocked down.  He was not stopped. He took a mighty swing at the wizard.  The wizard scampered

  "A wizard's power of Changing and Summoning can shake the balance of the world. It is dangerous, that power...It must follow knowledge, and serve need." ― Ursula K. Le Guin, " A Wizard of Earthsea " Artwork (c)2022 Mickey Kulp

  I was traveling through an unfamiliar part of Salvania, north and east of the White River Castle, seeking new herbs for my apothecary. Storm clouds were gathering, and distant thunder echoed over the swaying wheat stalks. I stabled my horse at a tavern and settled in for a night with the regulars. I sipped a leather jack of frothy ale, and listened to the chatter nearby. A group of obvious adventurers was drinking heavily near the fireplace. "I tell ya, I seen it myself," a scarred Dwarven man-at-arms said as he ran his dagger over a whetstone, his voice raised as if launching into a well-worn debate. "I was part of the Duke's timber crew before I got started in this line of...business." "Yes, yes. And the trees attacked the timber crew," a woman in a blue robe with matching eye coloring said with acid sarcasm, her many bracelets jingling as she waved away the idea. A small Yunni laughed as he continued to stitch a leather patch over a gash in

  "All about them as they lay hung the darkness, hollow and immense, and they were oppressed by the loneliness and vastness of the dolven halls and endlessly branching stairs and passages. The wildest imaginings that dark rumour had ever suggested to the hobbits fell short of the actual dread and wonder of Moria." Text from the Lord of the Rings saga by JRR Tolkien. Art (c)Mickey Kulp, August 2022

It had taken some serious wheedling, but Handol finally agreed to hand over one of the red jewels he had "acquired" from a troll statue . Bradyn opened his spellbook, the writhing letters slowly drifting into place, forming words he could read for just a moment before scattering. "Gem of blood," he said aloud as Handol watched. "Wall of stone. Open now and take us home. Powers high and powers low, heed my words and make it so!" The stones seemed to melt and run like ink, forming a low doorway filled with light and colors. It remined Bradyn of lamp oil spilled onto a pool of water. He closed the stained leather tome and tossed the gem back to his friend. "Let's see what happened," the wizard said as he stepped into the shimmering light. As he looked into the next room, he was astounded at the vivid colors. It was as if he had stepped into a painting. Or perhaps he had found a different reality. /// Copyright

  The portal shimmered behind them, churning with disturbed light. Handol, the aging thief from the southlands pulled out his "pig skinner" and stared into the misty castle courtyard that had appeared before them. "Steady, my love," Bradyn cooed, stroking the hawk that rode on his shoulder. "All done. See, it wasn't that bad." "Speak for yourself," Handol said. "I thought I was gonna puke." His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the misty courtyard bathed in flickering red and yellow light. Although they were surrounded by swirling fog, it was daytime here on the other side of the magick. "The architecture looks correct," Bradyn said. He blew out the candle in his lamp. "And there it is." He pointed toward a fountain set into the stone wall. Handol followed as Bradyn walked slowly forward. The water from the fountain seemed to pour slowly, almost like syrup, into a stone basin. The basin drained into

  Mothers clutched their children and hustled away when Morden walked down the street. Soldiers hands unconsciously drifted toward their weapons when Morden appeared in town. The wise watched carefully when Morden stood still, eyes closed. Some days, Morden was amused at this ridiculous behavior, some days he was annoyed. Even getting a beer at the pub was a huge disruption, crowds falling silent, eyes wary. Forget about attending any town festivals or market days. Accidentally summon a red dragon just one time, and you pay for it forever. /// Copyright

  He had taken to roaming at night when the annoying clamor of the population's minds at last fell silent. It would be different if their minds were more interesting. But, alas, no. They only cared for the moment, the perceived slights to their pride, the small revenges, the petty fears. Even their nighttime dreams, now a breeze where their waking minds were a gale, were small and boring. Some wanted love, some fought faceless monsters. All typical and dull. Bovine. "Let them be sheep," Vecnan purred in his mind. He looked at the jewel glowing faintly on the end of his staff. The star stone. Vecnan was the only one who understood him. Indeed, their bond was closer than any parent or lover. The jewel seemed to pulse as the words came. "We will rule them all one day, and they will never even notice." /// Copyright

  The wizard Elzalore opened his lamp, pulled out the sputtering, feeble remnants of the tallow candle, and used it to light the last candle in his haversack. The tunnels under the Queen's castle were rumored to be so vast that entire squads of soldiers and miners (and doubtless hundreds of treasure-seekers) had vanished over the years. He believed the stories now after spending two days in the chill damp, sleeping on stones in the utter silence. But Elzalore had a map. The old herb lady at the edge of the moors had said it was a true map from her grandfather. Her grandfather had helped build a new tower on the castle as a young man a hundred years earlier. Elzalore had paid her ten gold for it, a princely sum he hoped to recoup with a single discovery. For, in addition to the map, he had a scroll that pulled him toward his destination. Soon, he hoped, he would find old Skandarnish's dusty bones and the jewel he had carried when alive. The jewel was reward enough, but the

  "Danger! Danger!" the magic staff screamed in his mind. It jumped out of his hand and clattered on the cobbled bridge, flopping like a fish out of water. Ever since he had found the staff in that abandoned lair under the mountains, he had regretted bringing it with him. Far above the castle, he heard a dragon's piercing cry from somewhere in the storm clouds. The staff screeched again in his skull and started inch-worming away from the castle. It was going to be that kind of week. /// Copyright

  The elves on the edge of Mirkwood named him "friend of birds" so long ago that he barely recalled his true name. No matter. Aiwendil was content to roam the deep woods, accepted as a citizen by the ravens and badgers. Foxes would follow him out of curiosity, for everyone knew marvelous things could happen when The Brown Man was about. On Thursday, he found some snares set by cruel orc trappers. He removed the lure - a bit of meat - and urinated all around to warn his forest friends away. Then he added a little of his own magic with a swirling purple light (rewarding a pair of watching foxes for their patience). The next orc to reset the snare would be hanging by his foot from a glowing purple rope. Unfortunately for the orc (though great entertainment for any watching creatures), the magic rope would vanish once it pulled the trapper about ten feet up. On Friday, he found a half-eaten orc with a broken neck. /// Inspired by JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings saga. Copyr

  Mithrandir took off his sword and sat in the horizontal light of sunset, savoring a bowl of Old Toby with his back against a tree. He was feeling the weight of centuries in his bones nowadays, but Autumn in the Shire had a way of settling his spirit. Nearby, he saw Balin and Bilbo at a trestle table that had been hauled out onto an open field used for parties - which were frequent. The pair were poring over a map that was held down at the corners with empty ale cups and half a wheel of cheese from their picnic. He heard snatches of conversation, "...and Bard has rebuilt Dale. You'd not recognize the place..." and "...I need to put that in my book, don't you know..." Mithrandir smiled, content to savor the bird song as he blew a small smoke-dragon to pester Bilbo. The hobbit laughed and, using his ink quill as a sword, did battle with the smoky replica. Bilbo was a small, remarkable fellow in a too-large world (though his waistcoat had expanded a bit). But

  Osran, a young wizard of the Order of the Hidden Gateway, didn't mind his incarceration too much. They fed him twice a day and kept his water jug full. He had a window to look out when he was bored. It was not much worse than university. He had his spell book which the two city guards had not tried to take. Being mostly illiterate and entirely ignorant of a wizard's - even a young one's - power, the guards only took his small dagger. Osran smiled at the memory. The two jelly heads thought they were safe. No dagger, no danger. He stepped back from the window and opened his ornate leather spellbook and began meditating. "What would be fun, today?" he asked silently. He felt a familiar cool breeze flow through his mind. The book said, "We could turn the bars into licorice twists. Or maybe turn a guard's member into a limp noodle?" Osran chuckled. "You're naughty." "You know it, babe," the spellbook echoed in his mind.

  Of those named "Wizard" But five are known: White, Grey, and Brown were named Two more, they say, were Blue. But there were more. Always, the few are seen While the masses work Without accolades or hope. Toiling away in silence, Tending and healing, Their ripples gently moving the Water so even the mighty Must clutch for purchase When the wave finally crests. And here we find the Green one. Clothed like an old beggar, Roaming without seeming purpose, Arriving when the Spring comes. Kindly and wise, they say, Knowing the ways of vegetables, Speaking with the trees, Helping bring in the new lambs. Some called him "druid" And he did not correct them. Some called him trouble And he sang them a song About old days coming again. Some called him a fool And he laughed like a drunkard With a flower in his beard. Excerpt from "The Green Wizard" translated from the Elvenari scrolls at the White River scriptorium. Set here by my hand, Bard Galen in the fifth year of

  The villagers were sure the Beltane fire had been "pixied." No matter what they tried, they could not get the annual bonfire to stay lit. It didn't stop the celebrants from eating and drinking their fill, but it was getting dark, and Beltane without a bonfire just would not do. Even the best huntsman who boasted he could start a fire in a rainstorm had no luck. "What about old Ulias?" the cobbler asked, slurring his words a little and taking another pull off a wineskin. "He ain't done any wizarding in a while." Ulias, the old village wizard, had never been known as a great conjurer. His advice mostly involved herbs, mushrooms, and the peculiarities of the weather. But desperate measures were required, and someone dispatched several dirty, barefoot boys into the walled city to round up the wizard. He arrived a few minutes later, buttoning his ceremonial robe. "We need a fire," someone said. "Pixies have gotten into the wood," a