Wand: A Fantasy of Witches, Wizards, and Wands
Chapter Forty

Bailey stood up, shook dust from his jerkin. “Jim, Stephen, if you would, please help take anyone who is hurt down to the witch doctors on the third floor.” He stared at Nick while waiting for the injured to be led away. When they’d gone, Bailey approached Nick with the careful wariness of a cat investigating a king cobra; it senses danger but its overwhelming curiosity makes it unable to turn aside and avoid the danger.

There was a murmur, a hushed reverential palaver jiving through the room. Nick sensed that it bordered on applause.

“How do you feel?” Bailey asked.

Nick nodded his okay. “I’m kind of pumped on adrenaline right now, so that’s probably hiding my fatigue.”

Bailey held out a gnarled hand. “Give me the wand, son.”

“What?” Nick wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. “Why?”

“We need to perform some tests on it and make a few adjustments to make more if this specific device proves ineffectual for anyone other than you.” His hand remained waiting.

Instinctually Nick drew the wand in tight to his chest. He had the distinctive feeling that if he handed it over now, he would never get it back. And he desperately needed it.

“Nicholas Lovecraft Hammond, you hand that weapon over right now. Need I remind—”

“I can use it against the horde,” Nick offered. His eyes were misting up. His jaw ached. “I can stop them. I have the power now. It . . . it won’t work for anyone else.”

“We can attempt the same blood ritual and blessing,” Bailey said, stepping closer still.

“No,” Nick snapped, a bit louder and more defensively than he’d intended to. “It won’t matter. The wand is tuned to me. I felt it vibrating at my own specific frequency. It’ll be useless to anyone else. I’m going to go use it against the horde now.” He moved to leave.

Bailey and two other warlocks blocked his path to the doorway.

“Whoa,” Duchaine rushed in between the two parties. “There’s a tremor in the aura of this room. So let’s everyone just calm down, take a few nice easy breaths—”

“Stand aside, Agabus,” Bailey’s voice had taken on a low sibilant hiss.

“I’m sure Nick will be happy to hand the device over after he uses it against the horde.”

I’m not so sure about that, Nick thought.

“You are not getting a second warning,” Bailey said to Nick, ignoring Duchaine. “Hand it over or we will take it. This was always the way it was going to happen. We solve the issues, then we craft more wands based on the successful design of the first.”

Though he was young and inexperienced in the subtler arts of oculomancy and body language divination, Nick could tell Bailey was fast approaching a state of violence. The man would not back down. He would take the wand, probably fire Nick, and perhaps even mesmerize him until all memory of his work on the Project was wiped from his mind. Nick would have no way of forcing the Mythmage into revealing the answers he so desperately craved.

There was only one option, and it made Nick sick to even contemplate it. It was something Agravaine might do under similar circumstances. With his image and name in the Unmentionable Accords, this act would cement Nick’s infamy as a black-hearted sorcerer, though he didn’t want to do it and hoped he could avoid inflicting any permanent damage.

Everyone was silent as Bailey stared Duchaine down. The big warlock finally caved; Duchaine lowered his head and shuffled aside.

Nick held his head bowed, chin to chest, contemplating his options.

“Give me the wand,” Bailey held his arm out one final time. He waited, eyes big as saucers. “Give me the wand, boy!”

Nick raised his head. “My name is Nick.” He aimed the wand at the old man and triggered the magnetic response, both from within and without. Energies coalesced. Power surged. There was a sharp CRACK as magnetic energy bolted through the air. Tendrils of light stretched out, jolting the recoiling warlock in the chest. Bailey trembled violently for five seconds before dropping like a bag of concrete.

Nick raised the wand over his head and flourished it, directing the crackling energy at the other members of his order who were attempting to stop him. Focused energy struck them, one after the other, and they dropped, trembling, in stunned heaps.

Nicks eyes began to water. Through the misty haze he aimed, controlling the various coruscating lines of force with instinctual skill. Images of horrific legendary battles during the Wand Wars filled his Third Eye. He didn’t know if they were true or imaginary. It didn’t matter. He was becoming part of the Story, setting himself apart from his fellow warlocks.

Arthur Penrose, in a surprisingly reactive move, whipped a wardstone at Nick.

Catching sight of it at the last instant, Nick lashed the wand around and visualized an auric shield wrapping around the wardstone; a field of pure electromagnetic energy encapsulated the black object. When it exploded, the field contained the noxious gas. Nick made a slashing gesture, not unlike a batter swinging for the fences. As the field and gas cloud within zipped towards Arthur, the young warlock cried, “Why?”

Arthur crumpled as the cloud exploded in his face.

Tears flowed freely as Nick tried to banish the memory of Arthur’s confused, hurt plea.

A flash of gray steel hissed at the edge of Nick’s vision, to the right. He flinched and turned and deflected Duchaine’s swing of the stang with a blast from the wand. A jabbing gesture with the wand thrust the big warlock backwards with such vigor that Duchaine slammed into a lab table and crumpled to the floor in a mess of limbs and lab instruments, tinkling glass echoing throughout the lab.

On pausing to catch his breath, Nick observed the devastation he had wrought. All the plants had wilted and died. Colors had faded from the painted walls; sections of light blue drywall had dulled to a pasty gray. Same went for the men and women lying on the floor; their flesh had become pale white. Once rosy cheeks now resembled sheets of typing paper.

Nick wiped the moisture from his face. The wand felt hot in his left hand, and he couldn’t seem to uncoil his fingers, which were white-knuckled around the Blackwood handle.

His head bowed. There on the floor drops of blood began to pool. The small puddle was almost cartoonishly red compared to the rest of the place. He put a finger to the right side of his face; it came away wet with blood. Duchaine had not missed after all.

Amid the groans and the carnage, Nick turned to leave. A numbing coldness had settled into his bones and he did not want to see any more.

“Don’t leave,” a weak voice said. On the floor Duchaine lay clutching a battered knee.

Nick faced him from a few feet away. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

“They’ll catch you,” Duchaine said. “They’ll make more wands and you won’t stand a chance. They’ll hunt you down and kill you. No one ever talks about it, but when we hunt sorcerer’s,” he cleared his throat, spat a gob of blood, “accidents happen. Stay. I’ll help you. We can explain this.”

Perhaps he was gaining perspective, or maybe he was just paranoid, but Nick could’ve sworn he was reading lies in Duchaine’s dark blue eyes.

He raised the wand and, hesitating briefly, proceeded to blast the filing cabinets, chalkboards, and every other article of knowledge concerning the successful creation of the W.A.N.D. until every jot of wandlore was destroyed or aflame.

Mage officers would be up soon to douse the fires.

“They’ll never craft another wand,” Nick said, and the voice that left his mouth was unfamiliar. “There’s something no one realizes—except maybe for the Elder, and you. The wand cannot be used without sorcery.”

Nick turned and walked out.

On his way he snatched up a vial of Mrs. Wilson’s perfume from her desk.

With foresight Nick concealed the wand in his pants and then made for the basement. In the hall of mist he splashed a liberal dose of the perfume over his body and cleaned the wound on his face, dabbing at it with a rag and directing prana (his vital force) from his body into the wound. He’d slacked off in Lamborghini’s class, wasn’t terribly good at this, but he did manage to staunch the bleeding for the moment.

Mage officers sped by; someone upstairs had alerted them.

He felt like another person, a million miles away from the boy who had woken up earlier that day, (fairly) innocent and filled with hope for tomorrow. This man, Hammond, could do anything, would—apparently—do anything necessary to get what he wanted. In this regard, Nick realized, he was no different than any sorcerer who had ever walked the earth.

But unlike those infamous men and women, he would use his power to choose to right a few wrongs during his sojourn in this world. And the first wrong stood waiting for him on the other side of a beefy cell door in the dungeons.

“I suppose you know what’s happened,” Nick said five minutes later.

A voice, slippery as an eel, crept through the bars of the door. “Of course. And you are here to hold up your end of our bargain.” The vampire inhaled. “That’s a lovely perfume, boy.”

In silence Nick used the keys he’d stolen from the warden to open the door. He’d thought about trying Hermione’s ‘alohamora’ spell with the wand, but couldn’t muster the appropriate mood to indulge his lighter side.

The great door—which had probably not been opened in over fourteen years—creaked. And then Nick was face to face with the world’s only vampire.

Surprisingly short and unattractive, Francis Ragoczy didn’t look like any vampire Nick had ever read about. Under the torchlight, however, he did appear quite pale.

Francis looked off into the distance for a moment. “Your Atticus Finch pal Duchaine just sent out an emergency call on his speaking stone. Time to vamoose, little Benedict Arnold.”

“Wait,” Nick put a hand to the vampire’s chest; it was cold and unyielding. “Remember our deal; you can’t kill anyone for their blood.”

“On my word as a warlock,” Francis vowed.

Not at all reassured, Nick and the vampire fled down the damp passageways, passing cells that reeked of piss and worse things until they reached a dead end. “Why did you lead us this way?” Nick shrieked hysterically.

But the vampire pressed his ear to the wall, which was comprised of stone blocks in this section. Grimy and wet, Nick sneered at the sight. “The sewer line is directly on the other side of this wall,” Francis said.

“Okay.”

Francis sighed. “We can use it to climb to the surface.” Without further explanation, the vampire shoved on the huge block; it made a shivering sound as it slid outwards. A bit more effort and the vampire shoved it all the way out; they could hear the block tumble down and splash.

“After you,” the vampire said.

Nick bent over warily and peered through the hole. An unholy stench pummeled him.

Nick covered his nose with his shirt and then climbed through to step into the slop. Francis followed. Eventually they found a rusty old ladder and climbed it; at the top Francis shoved aside the heavy metal grate as if it were made of plastic.

They exited at the northern face of the Department, from a storm drain leading out to the North River. A barge sat bobbing in the water. Torches flickered up and down the length of the building, their light shimmering off the waters’ sloshing surface.

Nick realized it had begun to rain, drops plinking against the water.

“That is a fine sight,” Francis inhaled deeply. “Come Hammond, we don’t have much time.”

“No.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t actually a question,” Francis said.

“We have to destroy the horde.”

Francis zipped over to Nick so quickly that he hardly seemed to move at all. “That would be suicide, Hammond. There are hundreds of trolls out there surrounding this place. We’re lucky they haven’t reached the bay yet. But they will soon enough, I promise you that. I can smell them. We take the barge. Trolls hate water almost as much as bargs do.”

“We have the power to destroy them,” Nick said. “Those warlocks have bows and arrows and stangs. They might kill a couple dozen, at best. They need us.”

“Oh, I understand,” the vampire grinned, showing his elongated canines. “You wish to ease your conscience.”

Nick turned and huffed away, heading towards the northeastern corner of the building. A few dozen trolls were already rounding this corner. He whipped the wand out from where he’d stowed it and prepared his mind. By the time the trolls had sniffed him out and begun to charge, Nick’s hand was numb and he was in perfect harmony with the earth beneath their feet. It was if he had become the ground they walked on, so attuned was he to their surroundings. As they bore down on him, Nick swished the wand in an upward arc; a spray of wet dirt flung itself into the air between them, acting as a barrier. The trolls pulled up to a stop, reigning in their bargs.

The effort of holding the dirt in mid air was draining. Nick released his hold. When the barrier dropped back to the earth in quiet little clinking sounds, Nick uttered a Command to the barking bargs, who had sprung the instant the barrier dropped. They continued their charge for about three seconds, just long enough to reach Nick, at which point they halted and sat.

Nick pointed at the trolls, warily coming his way, and ordered the bargs to “Attack!”

He might’ve tried to Command the trolls, but he’d made a similar attempt on the troll king while being held captive by the sorcerer and that effort had not worked out well.

The bargs turns and attacked their masters.

Vicious though these mythics were, they proved no match for trolls armed to the teeth with khopesh’s and hungry for the taste of man flesh. They managed to take a few chomps before the trolls diced them to death, leaving nothing but bloody smears on the ground.

As the trolls turned their attention onto Nick, he whipped his wand around, slashing at the air. A particle stream cut through legs and torsos. This tremendous act came with a price: Nick’s hand was now completely numb, and his reserves of energy were nearly depleted. He needed to think of something clever, and fast too. His spell had cut down five trolls. Fifteen or more remained, and they did not know the meaning of hesitation. Seeing their dead comrades didn’t so much as faze them.

Nick turned tail and ran, lashing out behind with the wand, casting spells blindly as he fled.

Guttural screams and harsh troll cusses of ‘klanger’ and bildrig’ filled the air. He reached the dock. Francis was nowhere to be seen. A second horde rounded the northwestern corner, sighted Nick, and picked up speed. Alone, caught between two troll hordes, Nick stood contemplating the decisions that had led him here.

He considered doing nothing, just let them have me. But he had a rendezvous with his maker, and there was no way he was going to miss it.

Nick raised his wand, aimed it at one of the torches and, summoning the fire, directed a long breath of flame at the encroaching group. As the flame drew closer, he called forth the fire elemental. Harmonized through the tuning of the wizarding anti-nemesis device, the elemental responded instantly and attacked. It struck the horde, sounding like a freight train as it burst into a conflagration, consuming every last troll in the group. It took two minutes for the screams to die down.

Weary by several degrees beyond fatigue, Nick whipped around, using the wand to direct a tendril of the flame at the other group. He was a mite too slow.

Though his maneuver ignited numerous trolls, they were too close; Nick felt the heat of the ensuing explosion. Stink of burnt troll flesh filled his nostrils. He gasped for air. Something blasted into him, knocking him off his feet. Head pounding, Nick scrambled in search of his wand. He couldn’t lose it, not before he’d had the chance to use it against the Mythmage.

Despite the heat of the inferno roiling all around him, Nick felt the cold fingers of panic creeping up from the base of his spine.

“Where is it where is it!”

Ah, there it was, lying in a divot. Nick reached for the device. A huge grotesque foot, four hairy toes and unkempt nail growth, stomped over the divot directly in front of Nick’s hand. Nick drew his new athame and stabbed at the foot. The blade bit into troll flesh. The huge foot recoiled as a bellowing howl filled the air night.

Nick lurched forward, grabbed the wand with his right hand and scrambled backwards.

After shoving the device into the numb curled fingers of his left hand, he pointed the wand and looked up. Aggerwon the troll king stood looming over him, his shadow enveloping Nick. The behemoth bent down, yanked the blade out of his foot. It looked tiny in the trolls’ hand.

“We had a deal!” Nick shouted. “I release you and you don’t ever come after me.”

“I’m here for the spellslinger called Agravaine,” Aggerwon growled, brandishing the athame in one hand, the four foot long khopesh bloodied and dinged up, in his other hand. “Heard he got himself captured.”

“Fine, then leave me alone.” Nick wondered why Aggerwon had sent a horde to Agravaine’s place if he thought the sorcerer was imprisoned here. Was he just covering his bases? The martial intellect didn’t sit well with him.

Aggerwon bent over again. Drool oozed out over his fat lips and dribbled to the ground. “Yer in my way.” The troll king flicked an arm.

As fast as he could blink Nick felt pressure in his right shoulder. He looked at it. The ivory handle of his athame was protruding there. He’d been stabbed. Pain had not yet set in, only shock. Nick let his gaze shift over to the troll king. Energies coalesced within his body, colluded with the earth, fire, and air elementals surrounding them, and burst from the tip of his wand in one crackling bolt of blistering power.

His aim was slightly off, but he still managed to clip the troll king and send him spinning; a giant gash in its left arm rendered the limb all but useless.

Bleeding from his head wound and beginning to experience a deep throbbing in his shoulder, Nick struggled to rise.

On seeing their king wounded, the surviving trolls, some with burnt faces and scorched leather armor, turned their attention to Nick. They circled him and closed in, brandishing their chipped, notched, and serrated weapons. Some spat gobs of phlegm. Others cussed in their harsh tongue.

This was it. Nick could not summon the energy for another spell. His hand and half his arm felt numb; he needed time to recover. And it looked like his time was just about up.

A blur of shredded clothing. Something unnaturally fast and powerful pummeled two trolls, sending them sprawling yards away. The others whipped around in search of this new interloper. All was quiet for several seconds—then another troll shot into the air on the contrail of something small and sleek.

Trolls cussed and growled, drooled and spat, brandished weapons, swung at empty air.

As the vampire took out the trolls one by one, Nick used the distraction to make his escape, at first crawling, then scrambling, and finally running flat out. He raced for the apparent safety of the trees at the edge of the property, wheezing. On reaching the line of pines by the ward, Nick paused and looked back. Francis Ragoczy had his mouth to the neck of a dying troll, guzzling its blood.

“What have I unleashed?” Nick trembled, turned, and fled into the forest. Behind him the sounds of death continued, along with the battle cry of arriving warlocks.