Honor Bound Page 12

  "A long, and I mean long, time ago, I spent a year with a very special, very scary man in Africa, in the middle of the desert. He taught me how to become a wizard." I waited for the girls to give me grief, that I was being silly and making it up, but they just stared at me, rapt.

  Vicky and George exchanged confused glances, clearly expecting the same reaction.

  "Um, you don't seem shocked. I just said I was a wizard."

  "We know that, silly," said one.

  "You do?"

  "Sure. How else could you do magic?" said the other.

  "Fair point."

  "But... but we've never talked about what Uncle Arthur does," said Vicky.

  "Oh, we know all about it. Uncle Arthur is a wizard, Aunty George is a witch, and a faery, and Mummy is their helper. Like elves help Father Christmas."

  "So you believe in Father Christmas?" I asked. Vicky looked out of her depth already, which I guess is the norm when dealing with young children.

  "Don't be silly, he's just made up, a kids' story, but that's what Mummy's like. An elf."

  "She is, isn't she? A tiny elf with a silly nose who never stops talking." I agreed.

  "Mummy does like to talk," agreed a perfect miniature person, then they both laughed.

  "I am not like an elf," moaned Vicky, pouting. "But how do you know about Arthur and George?"

  "Because we hear you talking, silly. You're always talking about magic and portals and Sasha the faery godmother, and Cerberus, and Hounds and vampires. All kinds of stuff."

  The grown-ups exchanged worried glances. Hell, we'd always been so careful, but I guess kids are good at being quiet when they want to be.

  "I think we need to start watching what we say," I offered.

  "I think you're right," agreed Vicky.

  "And I'm not an Aunty, am I?" asked George.

  "If I'm Uncle Arthur, and you're my daughter, that should make you an... What does that make you?"

  "Dunno," said George.

  "Aunty George," said one rather impatient looking child. "Can you get on with the story now? We have to go to school soon."

  "Good idea." I held up the length of wood, about two palms long, still rough, with lots of work to do, and said, "This is the beginning of a new wand. I lost my other one when someone dropped a bomb on it, so I have to make a new one. It will take me all day, but once finished it will allow me to harness my magic, use special symbols I'll carve, called sigils, that make my magic more focused and powerful."

  "It's just a stick."

  "No, it's not. It's a symbol of my power. Plus, this is no ordinary wood. It's horn of unicorn."

  The girls were fascinated; Vicky and George rolled their eyes. "Don't tell them fibs, Arthur," chastised Vicky.

  "I'm not. Oh, sorry, I don't mean an actual unicorn. It's the name of a very special tree. One only found in the land of fae. George, Sasha should have told you all about it."

  "Never heard of it. What, do tiny unicorns grow on it?"

  "Do they?" asked both children at the same time.

  "No, it has never flowered, never borne fruit. There are several of these trees in the land of the fae, but they are immensely rare and very well protected, and you are never, ever, allowed to cut a branch from such a tree. Now, the trees get their name because they are a single trunk in a spiral, like a unicorn's horn, with only a few branches up high. But it really looks like a horn, so that's how it got its name. Plus, it's white, as white as your shiny teeth."

  "Mummy makes us clean them twice a day," said menace one with a frown.

  "But when a branch falls from the tree, which is awfully rare, it loses some of its magic, some of its essence, and it turns black like this piece here. But that magic is still waiting to be released inside it, or, um, this is hard to explain, there isn't magic inside it, but it is waiting to have some from a wizard whose own magic will activate it and bring it back to life."

  "That makes no sense," said Vicky.

  "I know. It's hard to explain. Okay, think of it like this. This piece of wood was once magical, now it isn't. But when I turn it into a wand, make it mine, to channel magic, then it wakes up, and it is happy again."

  "A happy stick," said George with a smile.

  "Don't be cheeky. Yes, a happy stick. Now, where was I?"

  "You were gonna have a break because this chapter has gone on long enough," said George as she stood and wandered off. She turned and said, "Just gotta pee. Don't say another word without me."

  Fair enough. Chapter break it is.

  Wand of a Unicorn

  "That's better," said George as she returned and sat back down.

  The girls giggled. Peeing is funny.

  "Now, once I became a wizard, I knew there was something missing. I'd used a rudimentary wand when training, and still had one, had carved it and everything, but I didn't feel a deep connection, not like I did with my real wand, the one I just lost. In fact, it feels terrible, like losing a limb, so I have to do this, and today, or I'm gonna be real grumpy." I poked out my tongue at the girls and they tittered.

  "You're always grumpy, Uncle Arthur. Or your face is, anyway."

  "I wandered the deserts, I wandered the tropics, I went up rivers and into the deepest, darkest depths of remote mountains where I met many strange people, and even stranger creatures. And they all had something in common. A staff, a wand, a talisman of some sort. Something they had a true, deep affinity with. All I had was a nice looking stick to help me focus where I was pointing my magic."

  "Did you meet a faery?" asked one of the girls.

  "No, not then, that would come many years later. Better than that."

  "What?" they both squealed.

  "I met a genuine, real life gnome."

  "Arthur, stop telling fibs. I warned you," scolded Vicky.

  "Cross my heart and hope to die. I was touring the country, getting up to all kinds of naughty stuff, and I had a reputation by then for being a bit of a handful, and then I met a gnome. Tiny fella he was, even smaller than your mum, so you can imagine how minute he was."

  "Mummy is tiny. She buys her clothes in the same shops as us."

  "I know, but that's just because she's tight and doesn't like to spend money."

  "Hey, why pay more when you don't have to?" asked Vicky, affronted.

  "So, this gnome was sitting underneath a tree and he was crying. I was, er, kind of in hiding, just for a week or two, as some very bad men were after me, so I was sleeping rough. Er, I mean, camping out in the countryside because it was summer. Anyway, I stumbled across this gnome."

  George and Vicky rolled their eyes but the girls were loving it, leaning forward in their chairs, hands cupping their faces. Nothing like an appreciative audience to keep you telling your story.

  "So, I sat down, not really thinking much of it, as I'd seen so many peculiar things by now. This gnome was all sad, crying, and I just sat down and asked if he was all right. He looked up at me, tears in his eyes, and asked if I could see him."

  "What did you say?" asked Vicky, getting into my tale at last.

  "I said, of course I could. Everyone knew that when a gnome cried they were visible to wizards. It was the magic leaking. The gnome said it was news to him, but we got chatting. I cheered him up, told him a joke or two, and then he checked his little gnome watch and said he had to go. He was late for something."

  "Why was he crying, Uncle Arthur?"

  "You know, I never found out. Sometimes it's best not to ask, and I was just trying to cheer him up, not remind him of why he was upset. So, he jumped up, but when he did, he slipped, and he broke his staff in half. He asked me if I wanted it. And I said, feeling a bit affronted actually, why would I want a broken stick? He explained that it was a rare branch from a horn of unicorn tree, that it had special powers and that my wand was rubbish, so I should carve a new one out of this rarest of woods, and it would work loads better. I said thank you, to be polite, but thought he just wanted to give me something for cheering
him up so thought he'd make it up about the broken staff. And off he skipped."

  "Wow," said one.

  "That's so cool," said the other.

  "I know, right? And since that day I've had my wand, but it got destroyed, so I'm using the spare piece to make another one."

  "Right, that's enough stories for one day. Come on you two," said Vicky, hurrying the girls. "Time for school."

  I put my arms out and got a fantastic hug from each girl, and then they were skipping off, just like the gnome, with Vicky scowling at me and shaking her head.

  "That was a nice story, Dad. It cheered them up and stopped them fixating on the dangerous side of magic."

  "I thought it might help. Plus I like to tell you a bit about myself. I'm trying to open up."

  George stared at me for a while, then opened and closed her mouth a few times, before finally finding her words. "Um, I thought it was a story? I thought you were making it up."

  "As if I'd do such a thing." I went back to whittling the wood to make my wand.

  George stood and stared at me a while longer, but I just focused on my work. This had to be done.

  I was never certain if the gnome was winding me up about it being from a fae tree, or if it was just a stick, but sometimes you have to believe, right? It makes the world a nicer place.

  Plans

  George left me to it. We'd have breakfast in an hour or so when Vicky returned after taking the girls to school, so I kept my mind empty and focused on my wand.

  The rhythmic motions of scraping then sanding the wood until it was as smooth as silk were hypnotic, the best kind of therapy, and although it saddened me to think of my old wand, and my old house, I refused to be beaten down by the loss. It was just stuff. Wands and houses and furniture and possessions, transient items of no real importance. I was alive, my daughter was safe, and that was what counted.

  Maybe it was all for the best. We could buy a new place, somewhere George and I chose together. A true home, as important to her as me. Yeah, Cerberus did me a favor, and although I wasn't quite in the mood to thank them for it, it wasn't so bad. Money wasn't an issue, and I could probably get a payout on the insurance, as the farm had been insured to the hilt, what with the unexpected always a possibility.

  I chuckled as I pictured some world-weary insurance guy, an inspector who was more used to checking out property damage like cracked walls or broken roofs, coming to the farm and seeing the craters, me explaining that somebody had orchestrated a drone strike and there had been actual bombs. How would that work? What type of investigation would happen? Maybe I should keep quiet about that, just say the place blew up and leave them to figure it out? Yeah, probably be more sensible.

  It felt odd to be thinking of mundane stuff like insurance and house buying when a fanatical secret organization dedicated to collecting magical artifacts were baying for my blood, but sometimes it's the only way to cope with the sheer madness, and this was definitely right up there with the craziest it had ever got.

  I made a mental list of the things to be done this morning, then returned to my work, putting such distractions aside, focusing on what was important. And that was ensuring I was as powerful a wizard as possible so I could go to war.

  That's what this was now.

  War.

  Perfection

  Maybe an hour later, with my legs seized up from squatting, I blew on the wand and the last specks of dust flew away. I held up the length of wood no thicker than my thumb and stared at it, tipped it, revolved it, checked it from every possible angle.

  You'd think making an unimpressive looking piece of branch into a wand would be a straightforward process, the result of so much work was just a short, straight stick with a slightly rounded end, after all, but it's a tough operation to perfect. And it had to be perfect. For it to function properly, be a conduit for my magic, it had to be flawless, perfectly aligned and balanced just so, to allow my will to flow without interruption, to gather energy and focus before I dealt with the baddies. I'd done a damn good job of it.

  The wood was warm to the touch, smooth and comforting, and the sigils I'd carved were like brands from God. This was an upgrade, no doubt about it. With what I'd learned over the intervening years, this new wand had better, more powerful sigils, modifications to the originals I should have done long ago, but I liked the familiar, and couldn't bring myself to get rid of the old one. Wand 2.0 was a thing of true beauty and power, a genuine artifact in its own right.

  Magic I'd learned, other aspects I'd perfected over decades of hardship and practice, their essence was instilled in the symbols I carved, forged not just with a blade but with my will. A complete, but pared down version of what I knew to be magic. Each mark held deep significance and immense potency, enough to make the wand an almost sentient thing.

  It was almost perfect, it just needed a finishing touch. A little flourish on the tail of one sigil.

  I felt the potential as I finished the last carving, felt something click as my blade nicked a tiny piece of wood and I was done. It was as though a spark of life had been ignited, making this something unique and very, very special. This wasn't just a talisman, a symbol, a way to focus, it was true power. I know it sounds silly, but at that moment I felt like a miracle had happened here, maybe because of the focus and will I used to forge it, maybe some anger and frustration too, but mostly it was because I put so much of myself into it, the essence of magic itself.

  There were stories from the old timers about wands and staffs being almost equals in the far, distant past. Wizards spoke with awe and in hushed voices of the days when such items were like familiars, companions that took them to a whole other level of power. Some believed, others didn't, but I understood what they meant as I held my wand, like all my magic condensed down to its rawest nature. I'd always thought of it as only stories though, not the truth, but I felt it as I held this symbol of my wizard nature, the potential it contained.

  Could they have been telling the truth? That once upon a time, in the days when magic was more vibrant and life was simpler, that wizards truly had sentient wands and staffs? I'd never known anyone who had one, the art seemingly lost, but there were the tales, and sometimes stories come from truth, other times not.

  "Let's find out, shall we?" With the utmost care, never taking my eyes off the wand, or my focus wavering for even a moment, I checked it over one more time. The wood was not quite bone white, not cream either, more the color of aged bone. A warm white is the best I can do to describe it. But it made my heart sing, as the whiter it got, the more magic it would be able to channel, maybe even create.

  The sigils were of a pale umber, darkened as they were etched into the wood and their potential readied, as if merely being a symbol of what I could do was enough to burn them into the wood. Where I held the wand was devoid of marks, then as we moved toward the end the sigils increased in number and complexity, until the tip was almost brown with a complex knot of marks.

  I held the wand at arm's length, checked there was nobody about, then channeled my will, gently and cautiously—as you never use too much power when you're breaking in a new wand—down my arm, into my palm, and then into the wood itself.

  It was like a gun going off. Freaky, spasming energy surged into the wand, burning my palm. My whole arm vibrated with the recoil of the wand being given its first taste of magic.

  "You took your bloody time," came a cheery, almost childish voice.

  I almost dropped the wand, but instead gripped it tighter and stared at it as I lifted it again warily, like it could explode in my hand if I wasn't careful.

  My hand throbbed, almost pulsed as if I had an extra limb and the blood was surging into it for the first time, life flowing, energy circulating as though it was a part of me now.

  "Well, aren't you going to say anything?" asked, er, no, it couldn't be, could it?

  "Hello?" I said nervously, watching the sigils pulse from dull umber to a fiery orange as if beating to the rhythm o
f my heart. But it wasn't, as my heart was beating way faster.

  "Wotcha, Arthur. Or should I call you The Hat?"

  "Is that really you talking? The wand?"

  "Who else could it be?" asked the slightly squeaky, yet somehow wise-sounding voice.

  "Could be anyone," I mused. "Someone playing a trick on me, or I've lost my marbles. How the fuck are you talking?"

  "Hey, watch the language. Were you raised in a gutter?"

  "Damn, now a wand is telling me off."

  "Then don't swear. What, you short of words or something? Forgotten all the beautiful words in this fine language. Although, I have to say, it's a bit limiting. But it'll do." The wand shifted in my hand, slid away from my grip a little then settled. Weirdly it felt better like this, as if it were the perfect spot, and I felt the connection between us intensify.

  "Aah, that's better. Nothing like being comfortable to let the juices flow."

  "What are you talking about? You're a piece of wood, you don't get comfortable. Or have juices. Um, and how are you talking? Are you alive?"

  "Ah, the great philosophical debate that has perplexed the most sage of wizards for millennia. Just what is life, and how do we define it?"

  "No idea. Just asking."

  "Then I guess I am alive. I am, therefore I exist. Gotta say, it's confusing. One minute there I was, or wasn't, being nothing, and now here I am, a powerful stick. Kind of messes with your head. Er, you know what I mean."

  I honestly didn't. So it was true, you really could have a sentient wand. But how, and why? Was this real? I squatted, much to the protest of my knees, but this needed serious consideration, and I wasn't sure how to handle it.

  "Okay, let's start at the beginning. How are you alive? If you are."

  "BY THE POWER OF GRAYSKULL!" boomed the wand, vibrating madly in my hand as white light fizzed from its tip.