Fantastical Tales: A Fantasy Short Story Collection

Fantastical Tales

by Mark P. Kolba

Copyright 2013 Mark P. Kolba

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved

Table of Contents

Dragon’s Draught

The Power to Heal

Lady of the Woods

The Star of Amalore

Snowbound

Afterword

Dragon’s Draught

Darminor gritted his teeth at the jagged pain slicing through his leg like a woodsman’s saw. The leg dragged along behind him like a great lump of oak, a dead limb amidst the swirl of health and vigor that walked the market road up ahead. A velvet-swathed merchant passed him with a sidelong glance, and a farmer at one of the stands took sudden notice of a blemish on a tomato. Curse them for their health. Darminor’s fingers tightened around his staff and he forced himself to limp on. He would not show weakness.

He caught the sound of rapid footfalls scattering pebbles on the road behind him. One of the city urchins come to mock him? He turned, ready to swing his staff. But it was no child—a bedraggled peasant charged down the road towards him, waving his arms over his head like a potionmaker fleeing the magister’s inquisition. Darminor glared at him. He used to be able to run so much faster than that. He could have left that poor slob choking on a cloud of dust.

The man stopped directly in front of him, gasping for breath in whistling heaves. The king is dying, he wheezed.

Ah, said Darminor. So that was what the ruckus was about.

The man looked up, urgency etched in his bloodshot eyes. The king is dying!

Darminor snorted. Dying, eh? So was everyone else—some a little faster than others. How unfortunate, he sneered, and he turned away.

But the man persisted. He needs help. He needs it now. Are you a potionmaker?

Darminor froze. Who dared to ask him such a question on an open road? Was this a trap? He couldn’t risk it, didn’t dare answer. I have an appointment with my physician shortly, he said, his voice wooden. Send the king my condolences. He limped past the man, leaning heavily on his staff.

The man followed. He bent towards Darminor and whispered, in the softest of voices, Can you make the dragonclaw elixir?

Darminor stopped, ears now finely attuned to even the faintest rustle of insects in the grass. Had he heard that correctly? He turned and stared at the man. What did you say?

The man gave a half-smile. You heard me. Dragonclaw.

His mind recoiled under the sudden bombardment of a host of disconnected thoughts. He tried to push the thoughts away but they refused to go. He stumbled to find words. Why are . . . am I . . . who are you?

I am the king’s messenger, he said. He held out a grimy hand with a pin bearing the royal coat of arms.

Darminor blinked at it. Right, the coat of arms. His mind struggled to assimilate the news. Dragonclaw. But wait, the king’s messenger? That couldn’t be. This man wore peasant’s clothes. He had neither the bearing nor the lilting noble speech of a courtier. Why are you here?

Because the king is dying of the miner’s plague, said the man.

Miner’s plague, Darminor repeated. How easy would it be to get a pin like that? It couldn’t be hard. He had to be careful; this man could be a thief or even a constable working undercover. The investigators had come after him last year and been dangerously close to catching him. The elixir may not save him.

What affliction is there that the elixir hasn’t cured?

Deceitfulness.

The man wrinkled his nose. His nose was hooked, dirt was ground into creases all over his face. He looked seedy.

But he was right, Darminor knew. The elixir had cured over a dozen of the most lethal diseases. It should be able to cure miner’s plague. The plague atrophied the body as it killed. Was there a chance then that it would work on a broken body as well? A vision flashed through his mind. He was running, running like he had at the duke’s tournament fifteen years ago. He had won again, was holding aloft the victor’s gold plate . . .

The man cut into his thoughts. Will you help your king or not?

Darminor set his jaw. Caution be damned. The risk was worth it. Yes.

Thank you, the man breathed. His body sagged in visible relief. The king’s man will be meeting you tonight, at the Tinrathy Arms. He will have the dragonclaw with him.

When will he be there?

He should arrive by the end of the first watch. He has a long way to travel.

Very well. Darminor started walking again.

The man bowed and headed away in the opposite direction, though rather more calmly than he had come. Darminor forced himself to continue towards the physician’s. An effervescent anticipation had descended on him and there was a lightness in his limp that he had not felt since he first fell ill soon after the duke’s tourney. An opportunity like this might never come again; he had been a potionmaker his whole life and never once laid eyes on dragonclaw. Bless the king—whoever he was—for falling ill. The king just might bring him life.

***

A single drop of deep purple liquid clung to the end of the pipet. It quivered, as if in momentary fear, and then reluctantly gave up its hold, dropping towards the bubbling sea in the flask below. The contents of the flask immediately ceased their gurgling. Thin bands of color dispersed and tinged the liquid an even, pale red. Darminor leaned towards the potion despite himself, grinning in triumph.

Perfection.

Now everything was ready. All that remained was to add the dragonclaw. He had brewed twice the required amount. If there were enough dragonclaw, there would be one dose for him and one dose for the king. If there were only enough for one . . . Darminor chuckled. He wasn’t going to wait another fifteen years.

An abrupt movement in the liquid arrested his attention. That was wrong; the potion was supposed to remain static until he added the dragonclaw. He leaned even closer to examine the bright red dot that had materialized at the center of the mixture. Suddenly a hundred blood-red lines shot through the liquid like it were fracturing glass. Darminor drew back but couldn’t turn his head fast enough. The flask exploded, pelting both Darminor’s face and the wall with scalding liquid and shards of glass.

Darminor stood perfectly still for a moment, until the first sharp pain of the burns subsided. Then he ran his hand along his face, pulling out the bits of glass as he found them, ignoring the blood that trickled along in their wake. It took several minutes. He at last lowered his hand and rested it on a beaker. The center of the table, where the flask had stood, was innocently dry and void of debris.

Perfection, eh?

He whirled towards the wall and threw the beaker with a savage strength. I’ll show you perfection!

The roughly hewn stone stared back at him impassively.

The muscles clenching in Darminor’s face caused more blood to leak out. He ignored the blood and the throbbing that encompassed half of his face. He shifted his eyes back to the table and the potionmaker’s tools resting haphazardly across it. They glistened with the sheen of his latest failure. Darminor drew in a deep breath, full of the acrid smell of burnt potion. He needed to concentrate. He relaxed his jaw and edged back towards his seat. A row of beakers and his stirrer stood near the table’s edge. He swept them away with his arm and listened with satisfaction to them shatter on the floor. This time his voice was soft and menacing. I’ll show you perfection.

Darminor reached for the fourth flask-holder at the back of the table. He was getting closer. The first two had merely split in half with a pathetic splutter. Given enough time, he had no doubt he could brew the elixir perfectly. But that was just the problem. The swirling greens of the clock on the shelf meant that the first watch was two thirds over. He had precisely one hour, which meant that it had to be perfect this time.

Darminor spat on the table and reached for the jar of potion base. "I’ll . . . show . . . you . . . perfection."

***

Fifty minutes later Darminor limped up the stairs, shutting the heavy wooden door to his laboratory behind him. He turned the key, then slipped it into a pouch hidden in the folds of his robe. He sagged against the wall. That triumphant smile was sneaking back, but he quickly suppressed it. Just because the potion hadn’t detonated yet didn’t mean it wouldn’t.

Darminor found himself squinting in the warm yellow glow of the lanterns in his room. The lanterns were brighter than he’d left them. He scowled. Had Rosetta been in the room to clean? The room looked less dusty than it had that afternoon. His scowl deepened. By the holy moon, he had told that girl a dozen times to stay out of his private chamber. If she didn’t mind her cleaning, then he would. . . . He sighed. Then he would live in a great mound of filth. The room did look nice again.

Darminor began the journey towards the front door of his estate. He always called it a journey—his withered leg made such out of even trivial distances, and his house was large enough to accommodate the bulk of a royal entourage. The laboratory was carefully concealed at the rear, through the door in his private chamber that to all outward appearances looked like a closet. He even had a mock closet full of clothes built into the ceiling that he could lower down whenever he was investigated for potionmaking.

A hacking cough shook his body as he approached the sitting room.

Master Darminor? The voice was Rosetta’s.

You expecting someone else?

Well . . . I . . . no—

Darminor shuffled into the room.

Rosetta’s eyes shot open and she dropped the gold plate that she was polishing.

By Luna’s sword, woman, keep an eye to your cleaning, he spat. That’s been in my family for a hundred and fifteen years. It had actually been in his family for exactly fifteen years since the duke’s tourney, and he didn’t really care if it broke in half or were thrown into the fire.

Rosetta’s eyes went still wider and her lip began trembling. M-m-master . . .

Darminor was halfway across the room, heading for the door. He stopped. What? It came out colder than he meant.

She lifted her hand to the side of her face and ran it along her cheek.

Speak, woman!

Your face, she whispered.

Darminor stared at her, uncomprehending.

Rosetta moved her hand across her cheek again.

Darminor raised his hand and did the same. His fingers traced over a melange of caked blood, scabs, and open wounds. Oh . . . the accident. It’s nothing, he said, turning back towards the door.

What happened?

He snorted. I was practicing black magic and nearly blasted my face off. Lucky for me, I saw it coming. Which actually wasn’t all that far from the truth. He was nearly at the door.

Rosetta scampered up behind him. Master, let me wash your face before you go out. He felt her hand on his shoulder.

"Don’t touch me, Darminor hissed, drawing away from her hand. I have said it is nothing." He threw open the door and hobbled across the threshold.

At least let me wipe the blood off.

He stopped and looked back at Rosetta. She was too kind to him. He said again, more gently, It is nothing.

She sighed and held out his walking staff and lantern. Yes, Master, of course. Where are you going?

I’m meeting an old friend. Or a new friend. But a friend all the same. He pulled the door shut and