The Familiars: Circle of Heroes

He flung his hand out towards Gilbert, who was about to give it a shake when he realised his webbed fingers were covered in dirt from the planters. The butter newt gripped them anyway, shaking vigorously.

“I didn’t even know if you were real,” continued the butter newt. “But here you are. In the flesh.” The newt hardly took a breath. “You’re going to save Vastia, aren’t you?”

“So it has been foretold by the stars,” said Skylar.

Just because it is written in the stars does not make it so. Aldwyn almost said it out loud. Yet here this butter newt stood, like so many other Vastians, believing that these familiars – the chosen ones – would rid the land of evil, counting on them because of a prophecy that might not even be true.

“Our caravan was in Bridgetower when the wall crumbled,” said the butter newt. “But I fear it’s just the first of many cities the zombie hordes will overtake. Even before the glyphstone there fell, many had split off, diving into the Ebs and walking across its bottom until they emerged on the other side.”

“They must be heading towards the second glyphstone,” said Skylar. “The one among the ruins of the lost city of Jabal Tur.”

“Well, I just feel better knowing that the three of you are out here protecting us,” said the butter newt. “Do you think I could ask you a favour? I hope it’s not too much of an imposition, but would you mind giving me your autographs?” He spun around and whipped his tail directly before the trio. “You can sign right there on my tail. Make it out to Nigel.”

“Scribius,” called Skylar. “A little help here.”

Scribius popped out from Skylar’s satchel and glided over to inscribe the three familiars’ names on Nigel’s tail.

“So, where are you headed?” asked Nigel. “Or is it top secret?”

“Split River,” replied Gilbert, who seemed eager to impress his first fan.

“We’re going to visit a wizard,” added Skylar. “His name is Galleon. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He graduated with high wizard ranking and has gone on to be something of a town hero. He vanquished a river dragon with a single strangle spell and dispatched a pack of werewasps with a ring of silver arrows.”

“Never heard of him,” said Nigel.

“He’s staying as a distinguished guest at the Inn of the Golden Chalice,” continued Skylar.

“Sounds fancy,” said the butter newt.

“Yes, well, for someone of Galleon’s esteem, no luxury is too great.”

“In that case, the three of you should be staying there, too,” said Nigel. “Crowned with jewels and bathed in dewdrops.”

Aldwyn just didn’t feel right giving this innocent drifter false hope. He politely excused himself and curled up in a comfortable spot on a stack of rugs. The last thing Aldwyn heard before he fell asleep was Nigel saying to Skylar and Gilbert, “Vastia is in good hands. The stars are never wrong about these things.”

Aldwyn’s eyes opened to find Gilbert’s webbed fingers poking him.

“We’re here,” said the tree frog.

The caravan had pulled to a stop and Aldwyn glanced around to get his bearings. Up ahead a swinging sign read Split River Harbour with an arrow pointing towards a small bridge. Beyond the bridge stood a town blanketed in thick fog.

“Farewell, destined ones,” said Nigel, who remained perched on the bed of fungus.

Aldwyn and Gilbert said their goodbyes and hopped off the wagon. Skylar was already flying over the small footbridge leading to the stone-and-mortar walkways of the riverside town.

The familiars headed in the direction of the harbour, taking in their new surroundings. Through the fog, it appeared to Aldwyn that all of Split River was as grimy and dirty as the rat’s alley in Bridgetower.

“Clearly the Inn of the Golden Chalice is nowhere around here.” Skylar made no effort to hide her disgust at the unappealing streets. “The inn must be in the wealthy part of town.”

As they got further into the heart of the town, it became evident that Split River didn’t get any better. In fact, it looked like the whole harbour had been destroyed. A large sailing vessel was half submerged, its bow buried in the water and its aft sticking up into the sky. The gold paint of the ship’s name was flaking off from rot.

“For a ship called The Happiness, it doesn’t look very happy,” observed Gilbert.

“Looks like Paksahara’s Dead Army has already been here,” said Aldwyn.

A dinghy slid up to the muddy banks and a posse of men stepped ashore. That is, they would have been men but for the fact that they were only three feet tall. Barefoot, scarred, and dressed in dried sharkskin trousers and shirts, they looked threatening despite their size.

“Elvin pirates,” said Skylar. “Waist-high plunderers of the sea. What they lack in stature they make up for in temper. Forbidden to serve in the Vastian Army due to their inability to meet the height requirement, they took to the open waters, cutting all ties to country, queen, and even each other. Now they’ll sink a ship just to see the bubbles.”

The disreputable swashbucklers marched from the river’s edge, across the street, and into a ramshackle tavern. Above the door dangled a rusty goblet with the words ‘Inn of the Golden Chalice’ carved on to it.

“There must be some mistake,” said Skylar once she had read the sign. “Galleon wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place.”

“I don’t think it’s a mistake,” replied Aldwyn.

As he took his first steps into the Inn of the Golden Chalice, he immediately felt his paws sticking to the cider-stained floor. Aldwyn moved between muddy boots and dirty bare feet and over peanut shells and shards of broken clay. As he glanced up he could see concealed daggers shoved into the undersides of tabletops and playing cards hidden up the sleeves of gambling patrons. With its lunchtime crowd of drunkards, pirates, and otherwise bad folk, this was no place for a wizard, let alone a town hero. And save for a ferret curled up on the bar top and the mice collecting scraps from the floor, it wasn’t a place for animals, either.

“I don’t see Galleon,” said Skylar, flying above the crowd for a look around. “Maybe this isn’t the only Inn of the Golden Chalice in Split River. Maybe there’s another one.”

Aldwyn didn’t have time to respond, because the inn’s most unladylike barkeeper was bashing a fork against a glass. She shouted in a husky voice, “Paksahara may win, and our days may be numbered, but if this is indeed the end, there’s no reason not to have a little entertainment first. Please give a warm welcome to our house magician, celebrating three years performing here on the Golden Chalice stage. Galleon the Magnificent!”

“We found him!” exclaimed Gilbert, relief in his voice.

But Aldwyn was wondering why a wizard as skilled and powerful as Galleon was supposed to be would be performing in an establishment as seedy as this one.

Then the purple velvet curtain opened and a young man emerged. Unshaven and with shoulder-length hair, he was wearing a rainbow-coloured robe and comically crooked hat. He held a wooden stick with pine needles in the shape of a star glued to the top. Aldwyn thought he looked more like a befuddled court jester than a heroic wizard. He stole a glance at Skylar. Her crushed expression made it clear that this was indeed Kalstaff’s former apprentice standing before them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Galleon the Magnificent, conjurer of things unknown.” The so-called magician pulled a bouquet of paper flowers from his sleeve. It was a poor sleight of hand even for this drunken crowd. The pirates let out a chorus of boos.

“He must be undercover, posing as the village idiot,” said Gilbert to the others. “He’s probably trying to root out some vagabonds.”

Aldwyn didn’t have the heart to tell Gilbert the truth.

“Now, friends,” continued Galleon, his voice barely audible above the din of the tavern, “let me introduce you to my wondrous familiar, whose talent will leave you in awe. The faint of heart should sit down. Presenting Edgar, the mind-reading chipmunk!”

An overweight chipmunk emerged from behind the purple curtain, dressed in a robe that matched Galleon’s.

“Chipmunk?” Gilbert’s bulging eyes grew even wider. “Where’s Banshee?”

Galleon leaned down towards Edgar, as if listening to something being whispered in his ear. Then he turned to a burly man sitting in the front row.

“According to Edgar, you, sir, are hungry for another bowl of peanuts.”

“It doesn’t take a mind reader to tell me that!” bellowed the angry patron.

“On to my next trick,” said Galleon. “Who would like to feast their eyes on the floating balls of Astraloch? And if you like what you see, please drop a coin in the mug. Remember, your money won’t do you any good once Paksahara has laid waste to all of Vastia.” Galleon pulled two crudely painted wooden spheres, one with stars and one with moons, out from beneath his robe. “Edgar, make the balls dance in the air.”

Edgar stared at the two spheres, concentrating, and suddenly they began to rise into the air. But it was obvious to everyone in the tavern that they were both dangling from clear strings tied to Galleon’s wrists.