Realms of Magic

THE WILD BUNCH

The robe shimmered seductively as the young apprentice held it up to the candlelight. Its color was a brilliant royal blue, and it was fashioned from a shiny, silky, luxurious fabric that the student had never seen before. It was soft and cool to the touch, but bespoke great elegance and power.

It was commandingly beautiful, but the fascination was not in its color or texture. The apprentice could not tear his eyes away from the symbols that were inscribed on the robe, either sewn in or painted on the fabric, he couldn't tell which. There were signs and sigils emblazoned everywhere-hundreds of them. Intricate handwork covered every bit of free space on the garment's surface: calligraphy, runes, drawings, letters, shapes, and forms whose mysteries were far beyond the young man's understanding.

He was entranced.

He lifted the robe closer to get a better look.

"Put that down, lad. And sit yourself down." The voice was calm, controlled, but it came from right next to the boy's ear-almost from inside it-and made him flinch in startlement. How did he do that? How did the master move so quietly? The boy turned to face his wizened tutor, the man whose esoteric knowledge had drawn him here. With a reluctance that surprised him, the young man handed the robe to his master and sat.

"The most important thing I will ever teach you comes here, now, on your first day. It is simply this: you have a great deal to learn. The magical art may appear effortless to the uninitiated; a bit of waving, a bit of mumbling, and POOF! — whatever one's heart desires. But each conjuration, each illusory spectacle, requires agonizing hours of study and concentration. There is no shortcut, no easy way to make yourself the wizard you want to be. Your art will demand work, my lad. If you cannot pledge to accept this sacrifice, then leave me now. A mage should be regarded with awe, not mirth.

"That robe is remarkable, isn't it? The last time I saw it worn, another young student of the conjurative arts had recently arrived in this village. He appeared at the door of the Ale amp; Hearty tavern one rainy afternoon, dripping wet. He strode to the bar and announced that he was a magic-user, in search of fame and fortune."

New mages are a fairly rare sight in Schamedar, and the aforementioned one did not go unnoticed, not even in this undistinguished tavern. He was of tall, if slim, human build, with an overly erect bearing that was hardly required by either the venue or the company. His clothing was less than modest, and drenched, at that. He carried nothing except for a small pack and a walking staff, which he set at his feet. Never mind fame; this was a person in severe need of fortune.

"Why, Mystra be praised!" growled a swarthy little cut-purse with a wide, gap-toothed grin, who was sitting at a table with two other morally impaired citizens. "A mage! If you aren't the answer to a prayer! Come and wet your throat with us!"

The stranger ambled over.

"Sit, sit," implored the thief, gesturing obsequiously at the empty chair beside him. "I am Tuka Phardeen, great admirer of the fraternity of magic-users. And I have the blessed good fortune to be addressing my Lord-"

"Evertongue, friend Phardeen. Wiglaf Evertongue." This last as if he were introducing Mystra herself.

"Hmmm," from one of Tuka's companions, a muscular, tanned goddess whose brilliant blonde hair cascaded past a necklace made of animal fangs to reach the hilt of a well-nicked broadsword. "Evertongue. I seem to remember such a family over in Calimport. But these Evertongues were bakers."

"Sasha," chided Tuka.

Wiglaf sat and returned the magnificent warrior's gaze. "Maybe I'm the first member of my family to raise my hands out of the dough," he said. "But what's past is best left past, and my past can stay in that oven. I'm tired of spellbooks and teachers and studying. I don't want to ruin my eyesight. At this rate, 111 be old and gray before I even get close to my potential. There's got to be a better way. A quicker way. I want to use magic out there in the real world. I want to live. I want to learn."

"I want to vomit," said Sasha. The Evertongues earned their family name honestly. Is that flour on your fingers?"

As Wiglaf jerked his hands up to check, Tuka glared at his companion, and spoke. "Sir Evertongue, fortune has brought us together today. You wish to rise in power like, mm, the mighty loaf. We count our accomplishments in other ways. We are humble traders, businesspeople. Importers/exporters, you might say. Working together to bring back a better life for those loved ones we have left behind."

The filthily dressed human to his left belched wetly.

"Our consortium embraces all kinds of artisans, including mages such as yourself. In fact, it was only yesterday that we lost the very talented conjurer who was our traveling colleague in a bizarre… accident. We are here in this tavern tonight to mourn his loss." The belching ruffian at the table removed his cap and bowed his head. An unkempt cloud of hair matched his clothing for foulness.

"Accident?"

"He stood between us and a horrible creature best left undescribed. Bravely threw himself in harm's way. Walked right in front of us, he did."

"Or did we shtep back?" slurred the third as Sasha looked a dagger into his brain.

"Gosh, I don't know if I could help you in a situation like that. I'm new to all this, you see; just starting out."

Tuka poked his colleague in the ribs. "What did I tell you, Fenzig? Ha! The moment you walked in the door, my lord, I said, now here is a man who can use friends like us. Here is a man who wants to be somebody, to go someplace in life, but he doesn't have time to wait around for the carriage, eh?"

"Right!" Wiglaf beamed. Somebody understood.

"Well, fortune has smiled on you today. We have a friend and associate, a very experienced wizard. He has been called away for a short while, some kind of a special teaching assignment. But he has many items of great power that I'm sure he would be willing to let you borrow."

"Well, I don't know…"

"One sorcerer to another? He always makes it a point to get youngsters like you off to a fine start. Don't even need to ask him. Come. Well take you there tonight."

"I don't know…"

"Big bad magic man," teased Sasha. "What's stopping you? That pan of rolls for tomorrow morning?"

"Nothing's stopping me. Nothing at all. Let's go."

The moon was bright that evening as the four new comrades arrived at the door of a modest dwelling, the only structure in a dark clearing surrounded by forest. Tuka rapped loudly on an ancient door knocker, but there was no answer.

"Isn't that just like him? Didn't even leave us a key. He's so preoccupied, all he thinks of are his spells. Fenzig, why don't you give us a hand?" The belching thief approached the door lock, did some expert twisting and jamming, and it sprung free. Tuka extended his hand. "See? It's perfectly all right. You first, Sir Evertongue, in case there are any trap-any magic items of which we should be aware."

Wiglaf swallowed hard and entered the doorway. He walked for a few feet in utter darkness, then thought he could make out a warm glow ahead of him. Heart pounding in his head, he cautiously followed the light down a corridor for what seemed like minutes. Finally the light grew brighter, and he stepped through into a large open space. Then he stopped short in amazement.

A soft, welcoming, dark-orange light issued from the walls as he entered, to reveal an interior that was, incredibly, much larger than it should have been. The ceiling of the vast studio appeared to be at least thirty feet high- many times taller than the outside of the house. He looked back, and was shocked to see an open door just a few steps away, with Tuka peering in. He shook off his confusion and whirled back around. What was behind him was not important. Before him, his good fortune was boundless.

For the room was full of magic.

Wiglaf s jaw was slack as he slowly turned in a circle. He had come to the right place. His eyes simply couldn't take in all the fabulous magical arcana. Here, on a mammoth rack of ironwork, hung row after row of staves and weapons, several of which seemed to glow faintly. On this mantel of gorgeous dark wood stood dozens of vials containing a dizzying array of potions that glittered and smoked in their confinements. Above him and ringing the room, handsome shelves bulged with spellbooks of all shapes and sizes. Most curious, there was the finest collection of material components Wiglaf had ever seen, an oddball flea market seemingly stored at random, the mundane joining the thrilling. Carefully arranged locks of hair were set next to a box brimming with jewels, lumps of coal were stored beside ornate wax sculptures, vials of brightly multicolored sand rested next to cupfuls of soot.

There was a curious painting, a forest glade, that poly-morphed slowly through all four seasons as Wiglaf watched in stupefaction. He picked up a small hand mirror and was astonished to see a wizened, ancient face staring back at him-much older, but still recognizably his own. A wand swirled and roiled with colored mist down its length, and softly pulsated as he turned it with his fin gers. More and more, on and on, everywhere he turned, the marvels continued. This was a lifetime's worth of collecting-and the potential beginning of Wiglafs accelerated studies program. He was overcome with the immensity of the opportunity. The fraternity of magic was so incredibly generous: what a grand gesture by the old mage, to lend a helping hand like this.

Then he saw it. Hanging regally from a very tall coat-rack was the most marvelous robe there could possibly be. Wiglaf motioned the others inside, but absently: he could not take his eyes off the garment. It was surely the old man's own, like the rest of the wonders in this room, but still it called to Wiglaf. He took the robe into his hands. It flowed through his fingers like fine-grained sand, an immensely pleasurable sensation. It was surprisingly light, considering that it appeared to be several sizes too large for him, and wonderfully soft. He lifted it closer to his face to inspect the signs and sigils that covered its surface. Some were simple, childlike scrawls; others, intricate forms that may have had meaning in some exotic language. One he even recognized: the seven stars in a crescent around a wisp of mist, familiar even to a beginner, the symbol of Mystra herself. This was truly powerful magic.

Wiglaf noticed a full-length mirror and saw himself with the robe. He could resist no longer. They were a perfect match. He swallowed once and wriggled into the garment.

Of a sudden, he felt a tingling: not unpleasant, but definitely unusual. The robe that had seemed much too long for Wiglaf now felt as if it were stirring around him, clinging and conforming to his size and shape. He looked at the mirror and saw that it was true: the robe was alive, pouring itself around him, fitting to his contours like a sleepy cat in his lap. The hem slowly rode off the floor as he watched. The symbols themselves were now moving: crawling across the robe's surface and giving off a warm glow that reached inside Wiglaf, soothing and comforting him. It was glorious. He felt his senses heightened somehow: his sight seemed to be sharper, his hearing more acute. And just now he heard Tuka and Sasha appraising the collection.

"Delightful," said Tuka. "Now how selfish can one be to hoard all these lovely baubles oneself?"

"You're not suggesting we take them?" asked Wiglaf.

"Theft? From a friend? Don't insult us. But why don't you borrvw a few things and use them to get some practical experience? Bring them back when you're through- maybe with a little something extra for interest?"

"Do you think he would mind?"

"My lord, didn't I say he was a teacher? His mission in life is to educate young mages like yourself," said Tuka. "You'll be making him a happy man-and making him happy is the least you can do to repay his immense magnanimity."

"The way you explain it, it makes sense."

"It would," said Sasha.

"Well, take what you need, and let's get out of here," Tuka said.

Wiglaf paused to think. A few spellbooks, some components-what harm could it do? It wasn't as if anyone else was using them. And he wouldn't disturb the very rarest items. He scooped up his choices, stuffed them into his pack, and stepped out into the night. The robe had become such a comfortable part of him that he didn't realize he was still wearing it.

As the others came out of the magician's studio, fiddling with their pockets, a soft growling sound made the hairs on the back of Wiglaf s head rise. "Wh-What was that?" he whimpered.

"Wild dog," said Sasha. "They're everywhere at night. Hell taste steel if he gets closer."

"Just so long as he doesn't taste as," said Tuka.

The growl was punctuated by a piercing basso bark, and then the single sound became a din. Two, three, a whole pack of feral hounds rushed into the clearing and faced the adventurers, showing teeth, drooling with famished anticipation. There were more than ten of the huge, menacing beasts, and although Sasha and the others quickly had weapons drawn, they were clearly outnumbered. The largest of the pack, the leader, pawed its way slowly toward Wiglaf, snarling louder as it came, never taking its eyes off him, until it was only an arm's length away.

Wiglaf had never been in such a situation. He was frozen to the spot. It would be only a matter of time until they were overrun, and he would be the first one to go.

"Okay, Mister Magic," Sasha shouted, "here's your chance. Do something." The others laughed grimly and prepared for carnage.

Wiglaf was terrified, but he forced himself to move. He reached into his battered pack and felt for his well-thumbed spellbook. There wasn't much of value written down, since study had always been difficult for him. Mostly drawings and doodles. Wiglaf had "studied" spells of alteration-the most impressive kind of magic, he'd always felt-and collected the requisite components, but the only spell he'd ever managed to memorize and use with any slight authority was one for burning hands, and it had never really worked properly; on his most successful practice run, he had only singed his fingers. But with no time to think about it, this was his best shot. If he didn't try now, he would become not a magician but an entree.

Wiglaf pulled back the sleeves of the robe, held his hands palms down, thumbs together, spread his fingers into a fan shape, and mumbled both an incantation and a quick prayer for good measure, just as the salivating hound tensed its legs and leaned back to spring.

FOOM! A jet of superheated flame shot out from his fingertips and roared toward the dog. The startled animal leapt backward away from the magical fire, yelping and howling, spots of fur smoking as it retreated. The other dogs matched their leader's howls, eyes wide with panic and confusion. Wiglaf turned at the sound, his arms still extended, but the flame remained, pouring in an arc toward the other dogs. The area was lit as brightly as if it were noon. The lead dog was already darting away, tail between its legs, and the others did not hesitate to follow. In a few seconds, they were gone.

Wiglaf curled his fingers into fists, and the flame stopped* instantaneously. It was dead quiet, except for the whining of the dog pack receding in the distance. He looked stupidly at his hands. He felt heat on his cheeks.

Transfixed, Sasha dropped her sword and panted at the others. "By a gullyful of goblins! Did you see that? He bloody did it!"

Tuka whirled to face Wiglaf. "My lord! I had no idea!"

But Wiglaf didn't hear. He slumped to the ground like an emptied sack.

His hands had been hot, but he was out cold.

A while later, back in the Ale amp; Hearty, most of the regular patrons were wide-eyed over Wiglaf s story-which was becoming more and more colorful with each tankard that members of his star-struck audience provided. "This lad has a definite talent," boasted Tuka.

"Dogs. Snarling. RrrrrOW OW OW," barked Wiglaf, and took another sip.

By now Wiglaf was the toast of most, but still there were dissidents. "I don't know much about magic," growled a customer, "but I do know this: no young whelp shows up out of nowhere and starts mumbo-jumboing like an almighty sage. Impossible." A few emboldened others clanked their agreement on the tabletop.

"He's a natural," said Tuka. "Innate ability."

"Show us, then."

"Whatever it is, I got it," said Wiglaf. "Step aside." He tried to stand but failed, and sat back down hard.

"He's in no shape to cast spells right now, good people," Tuka said. "He has just had an exhausting experience, the likes of which would fell an ordinary man, and he deserves a chance to rest. But hear me. You shall have your proof. Tomorrow, you will judge this amazing spellcaster for yourself. Because the mighty Wiglaf is going to favor us all with a demonstration of his power, before your very eyes, tomorrow at sunrise. Right, Wiglaf?"

"Sure," giggled the new center of attention.

"Just one thing," Tuka went on. "If you want a demonstration, you'll have to pay."

"Magic is serious. Magicians aren't entertainers," said one Ale amp; Hearty regular.

"This one is unique," said Tuka. "One gold piece per cus tomer. Tickets go on sale as soon as we can make them."

The dawn came misty and gray, but Tuka had managed to gather more than a hundred villagers in a glade near the town, and Sasha had dutifully collected the admission fee from each without once having to touch her weapon. The business had gone so well because even though there were skeptics in the crowd, nobody wanted to be the one to miss the big show and have to hear of it secondhand if he was wrong. This was the greatest thing to hit town in

"Ladies and gentlemen," intoned Tuka, clapping his hands for quiet. "You've heard about his exploits. Now meet him in person. Would you welcome a prestidigitatious prodigy… that lord of legerdemain… the mighty mage… Wiglaf… EVERTONGUE!"

The applause was muted but present as the berobed Wiglaf appeared. He was steady on his feet, but moving with much greater deliberation today. The crowd arranged itself in a circle around him.

Wiglaf still wasn't sure what had happened the night before, but he knew in his heart that the robe had helped him. He had felt it from the first moment he put it on. Somehow, it had brought forth his innate magic abilities and multiplied them manyfold. He had never heard of a more impressive display of burning hands… and there were plenty more spells where that came from! Even his powers of memorization had improved, as a quick look at the old mage's private stock of spells had shown this morning. Most importantly, Wiglaf felt confidence for the first time in his magical career. He had been vindicated. It was easy. Only a fool would waste his time with endless conjugation when he could be out there speaking the language. And Wiglaf was about to talk the talk.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I'd like to begin by showing you one of the most beautiful of magical sights," he said. "If you will all look up at the sky…" He produced some phosphorous from his pocket and made the motions to bring forth a harmless display of dancing lights.

Later, many would swear that they saw the intricate signs on Wiglaf s robe begin to dance and shift. They would say that one large sigil in particular, just above Wiglaf s heart, took on a crimson sheen and softly pulsated. But in truth, nearly everyone had followed the young mage's advice and was instead searching the sky, waiting for the magic to begin, ready to ooo and ahh. What they actually saw would be the spark for hearty ale-soaked conversation for years to come.

There was a rapid series of dull popping sounds, like fireworks heard from a great distance. Then into the sky rushed a torrent of vegetables.

Shooting upward at rapid speed were heads of lettuce, ears of corn, stalks of celery, hundreds upon hundreds of cabbages, kumquats, beets, okra, eggplant, radishes, cauliflower, tomatoes, artichokes, carrots, parsley, spinach, kale, peas, basil, cucumbers, turnips, rutabagas, squash, broccoli, peppers, beans, asparagus, sprouts, green onions, white onions, red onions, yellow onions-all manner of produce, some varieties quite new to the region. A cornucopia of sensible dining was streaking heavenward in a thick stream and finally disappearing well beyond tree level with inverted POP sounds.

A yelp of shock caused them to turn away from the ludicrous sight and look back at Wiglaf. The spellcaster was as entranced as they were, still extending his fingers in a heroic conjuror's pose, but now ruining the effect by gaping with slack-jawed disbelief as the perishables poured into the sky before him.

"Quick, get the baskets and a ladder!" howled an onlooker, and the crowd erupted in laughter. Wiglaf dropped his hands in confusion, and the edibles vanished as quickly as they had come. His forehead began to glisten with sweat.

"A little comedy to start the show!" Tuka said forcefully. A few audience members applauded weakly. "Go on!" he stage-whispered to Wiglaf.

"Uh, well, yes," said the shaken wizard. "Er, okay. Magic-using is more than just, uh, dazzling beauty." A stifled laugh in the crowd became a snort and then a hacking cough. "It's also essential in a tight situation. If a magician knows what he's doing, he can outleap the strongest fighter." Sasha blanched at the reference. "Stand back, folks, and 111 show you."

In his mind, Wiglaf went over the incantation for the spell that would allow him to jump thirty feet in the air. Then he'd softly feather fall back to the ground and shut them up for good. He bent his knees and crouched, ready to spring. "Watch closely. Here… we… go!"

He mumbled and uncoiled.

A five-foot pit irised open beneath his feet.

For an instant, he hung suspended. Then he shrieked and disappeared into it with a clump.

They saw his hands first. With an effort, he clambered out.

"We'll try another one," he snarled.

People were clapping each other on the back, doubled over with laughter. Others were losing interest and starting to heckle.

He tried to conjure a magical light and found himself staggering out of a cone of darkness, unable to see or hear. He tried to generate a blinding spray of colors and levitated a poor woman into the air; she was saved from a nasty fall only because her husband held onto her legs for dear life as they rose past his head. He tried to raise an acorn to ten times its size and nothing happened-but later that afternoon, the owner of the adjacent farm was surprised to discover his prize hen proudly strutting around an egg two feet long. He tried to erase some writing from a scroll and gave himself a hotfoot. He tried to enlarge the fire from a torch and teleported a cow up a tree.

With each grandiose failure, both the laughter and the grumbling grew louder. But it wasn't until he tried to mend a volunteer's hem through the force of his will, and the force of his will pulled down thirty people's pants, that the Amazing Wiglaf Show finally turned ugly.

Wiglaf was devastated. He had never been so miserable. Last night he had been the most important man in town.

But today people only pointed and laughed-or pointed and cursed, depending on their degree of participation in his ultimate, showstopping feat. He felt ridiculous. The sight of Tuka, Sasha, and Fenzig returning all the money had been bad enough, but many people in the long refund line had also shaken their hands and thanked them for a wonderful time. Wiglaf was the town clown, and as he sat alone at the Ale amp; Hearty, he had plenty of time to think about it.

Maybe the robe had helped focus his magical power. So what? What good did that do when he didn't know enough about magic to wield it in the first place? He should have stayed in Calimport. He should have stayed a baker. He should have stayed in his mother's womb, where it was nice and safe.

"Buy a girl a drink, magic man?" It was Sasha.

"I'm broke, remember? Not even the bartender wants to be seen with me."

"Tough day, huh? Oh, well, I'm not the kind of girl who gets drinks bought for her, anyway." She smiled grimly and sat. "Listen, Wiglaf, I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time. I just didn't believe you were really a magician."

"I'm not. Just a student who didn't even have the sense to keep on studying."

"Maybe you're finally learning something."

"This robe. It… changed me. But whatever it did was an illusion. A fake. It's like… I took something that wasn't mine. I took a reputation I didn't deserve. An ability I hadn't developed. I called myself a magician and insulted everybody who really is one." Wiglaf s eyes became animated again, and his voice rose. "And I know what I'm going to do about it right now. I'm taking this robe back, if I have to fight ten packs of dogs to do it."

Sasha's smile revealed a perfect set of teeth. "I'm very glad to hear you say that, Wigla-"

"WIGLAF!"

It was Tuka, rushing in from outside, opening the door on a piercingly loud animal roar. The air rushing into the tavern felt like a hot summer day, and the sky they could see through the door had turned from morning's overcast to a bright yellow.

Sky… yellow?

"Wiglaf! Sasha! If you've got weapons, get out here now!"

They tore out of the tavern, and Wiglaf s confusion instantly dissipated. In this day full of unwanted sights, this was by far the worst. A mammoth red dragon was just pulling out of an aerial attack run into the town square, yellow flames pouring from its gigantic maw. Twenty or thirty villagers brandished weapons against the beast; some threw spears or loosed arrows, but those who knew how to fight were few, and the monster was large. One building was already on fire. Wiglaf was nearly bowled over by the heated backwash from the dragon's flight. It snorted as it climbed for another pass, and a tree caught fire like a matchstick. Silhouetted against the gray sky, the dragon flew up in a wide arc to launch another attack.

"Find someplace to hide! Take cover! Take cover!" Tuka screamed.

A woman ran to Wiglaf and clenched his robe, shrieking with terror. "Magic-user! Do something! Help us! I have children! DO SOMETHING!" Maybe she hadn't seen the demonstration this morning. Maybe she was so afraid that she was willing to believe anything. But she was trying to grasp at the only thing she could see: Wiglaf s magic. She really thought he could help.

"Wiglaf, let's go!" Sasha shouted. She pulled the woman off him. "Go now!" She tugged at his robe.

The dragon turned in the sky, straightened, and headed back.

"No!" Wiglaf pulled himself free. "Get away, Sasha. I have to try."

"With what? This is no dog! It'll kill you!"

"I have to try."

"You idiot!" Sasha pulled the still-screaming woman out of the square, leaving Wiglaf alone to face the monster, which was picking up speed and dropping altitude to find the perfect flamethrowing angle.

Wiglaf could trust only one spell: burning hands, the one he'd used against the dogs. The way it had roared out of his fingertips last night, the flame had almost matched a dragon's intensity. Maybe if he fought fire with fire, the beast would act like most animals and retreat.

He took a deep breath, planted his feet, spread his fingers, and joined his thumbs. The dragon noticed the lone unmoving figure as it continued to accelerate. It adjusted its approach angle. Now it was coming straight for' Wiglaf-and inhaling.

His knees felt like pudding as he watched the monster approach, and his voice was shaking as he began the incantation, but Wiglaf did not move. He stood his ground and faced the beast as it screamed forward. He managed to get the words out-and sighed with relief when magical force crackled toward his fingertips, and he stood with teeth clenched and eyes flashing as adrenalin pumped through him.

He aimed his burning hands at the dragon, and from them poured a spray of vegetables.

The first few bushels that struck the dragon actually did some physical damage before vanishing on impact, such was the speed of its attack run. They smacked painfully at its scaly hide and, as Wiglaf adjusted his aim before he could register what he was dispensing, worried its eyes and nose. The confusion was the important thing. The dragon spit flamelessly and blinked its eyes again and again. Still the veggies came, slowing its forward motion until it was almost hovering.

Wiglaf finally regained his senses enough to understand, but realized his outrageous spell was the only thing holding the creature at bay.

He held his arms firmly forward.

On and on, the dragon was pelted with representatives of every single member of a major food group, until it shook its head and finally took a breath to eradicate this problem once and for all.

Wiglaf knew he couldn't hold out for long now that the great creature had drawn a bead on him, but there was no other choice. He was a dead man, yes. But if he stopped casting, there would be nothing standing in the dragon's way. He would not run. At least he would give some people the chance to take cover, to save themselves. At least he would end his life in dignity and service. Wiglaf let a deep sigh escape him, then closed his eyes in determination and waited for the end to come.

He heard some mumbling behind him. An instant later, the stream of vegetables was joined by a stream of flame.

Now the dragon was faced with a gargantuan gout of fire aimed at its head, not to mention that the foodstuffs tasking its eyes and nose were now roasting hot-and, Wiglaf noticed, smelling delicious on the way up. There comes a time when every creature, no matter how large or small, meek or fierce, wise or wanton, has finally reached its limit of pain, tolerance, and plain exasperation. At the business end of a torrent of steaming, stinging vegetables, the miserable dragon finally gave up, and swiftly flew away.

A shaken Wiglaf dropped his hands and turned to meet his benefactor.

The belcher. The lockpicker.

Fenzig was a magic-user.

Fenzig balled his hands into fists, and the fire disappeared instantly and utterly. He extended his fingers again, blew on them as if to cool them off, and winked. Then he smacked his hands sharply together. Then again. And again.

Tuka and Sasha ran toward them, making the same hand motions, and before long everyone in the square was applauding as well.

"You!" Wiglaf recoiled in shock. This is your robe. You let me take it away."

"We've been expecting you," said the man the others had called Fenzig, drawing close to Wiglaf for privacy, "ever since your teacher told me you had resigned."

"M-My teach…"

"Magicians who form friendships are a close fraternity, boy. Your former instructor thinks you have great potential, despite your laziness, and one day you might convince me of that as well. He thought you needed a sterner taskmaster-but first I had to get your attention. I trust I have it now."

"You were wonderful, magic man," said Sasha as she arrived.

"So this was all an act? You three together?"

"Nobody told the dragon about it," panted Tuka. "I thought we were gone. I really did."

"You stopped it, Wiglaf," Sasha said. "Your magic. Your courage."

"I couldn't have done it without-" He looked up into a face that had grown infinitely wiser in the last few moments; a face that would impart great knowledge in the coming years, now that he was ready to receive it. "-my master?"

"I'll take my robe back now," said the mage. "And in exchange, I'll show you how to do that little stunt whenever you want. Invent a spell yourself. Well call it… cast vegetables."

Wiglaf s new life began when he slipped off… this robe.

"This very one?" asked the young apprentice. "You're telling me this is the robe that undid Wiglaf?"

"It's a robe of wild magic," the old man said. "As you could easily tell if you recognized this sigil. See? A warning. To anyone experienced in reading it, it says, 'wild magic, dum-dum. Makes spellcasting completely unpredictable. Only one of its kind. Tends to favor the caster if he really needs help, but that is Mystra's munificence, at least that's how the story goes. I have no idea who actually fashioned this thing, and I would never try to make one. This robe is completely useless except for one purpose: reminding younglings like you that there is no quick substitute for listening to ancient ones like me, and learning what we assign."

"That's a terrific story," said the lad.

"Be thankful that you learned this lesson by hearing a story, and not the way Wiglaf had to. But keep it learned, all the same. Now let's begin by working with components. A simple alteration. Fetch me some vegetables and chop them up, boy."

The apprentice looked up in wonder. The truth had struck him. "For cast vegetables, sir?"

The master's stern expression was still in place, but his eyes were twinkling.

Of course-how else could the old man have known what Wiglafwas thinking?

"Later, my lad, later. These are for a stew. To go with whatever Sasha's managed to hunt for us today."