It took Tannol a moment to realize that the staircase which had suddenly appeared would be a perfect defense against enemies with wheel barrows.
“No!” For the third time since crawling into the ancient burial mound, he slapped the wand against his palm. The thin wooden rod creaked but of course could not break. Tucking the recalcitrant rod into his collar, the sorcerer unrolled the rope ladder. He would climb down the well shaft in the old barrow without the help of the wand. Maybe it had been thrown off by the eldritch mirror at the entrance; once he was at the bottom, he would be out of reach and the wand would be back to its normal power.
He hoped so. His pack held a minimum of amulets and powders. If Trunruh appeared, speed would be the only solution, and the wand was quicker. A mental command, a reminder to the wand of the spell he wanted, and his learning and skill would confound the ancient archmage.
He counted the rungs carefully. At the proper distance, his toes extended down to touch the floor. The stones were damp but he could feel the pattern carved into them to guide a knowing visitor on the only safe way to the inner chamber.
Now he counted the stones as he passed over them, his path lit only by his birthstone belt buckle, which glowed in the presence of evil. It was bright enough now to show him some of the traps he was avoiding, and what remained of less learned intruders. He preferred to keep his eyes on the stones, muttering, “Step on a crack, break….”
In moments the door stood before him. A parchment roll was pinned open on it, lettered in the alphabet Trunruh favored. The words were large and commanding, but he had no idea what they said beyond a general feeling that it would not be, “Welcome.”
He drew his wand and pointed it at the letters. A red squirrel appeared at the end of the magic rod, regarding the words with widening eyes. Releasing a squeak, it leapt down and disappeared into the darkness toward the rope ladder.
“No!” growled Tannol. “Read Scroll! Not Read Squirrel!” He shoved through the doorway. Probably just a basic “Go away or die!” message, anyhow: the sort of thing dead mages put on their tombs.
He wished he’d read it all the same when, after three steps inside, the puddles underfoot froze. His buckle shone the brighter, and sparks began to dance before his eyes in the suddenly frigid air. These multiplied, rising into the tall, unlikely figure of the long-dead Trunruh, with icicles as a beard and spinning silver discs for eyes
“Have you come to consult me on the spells of Creeping Darkness?” An echoing voice mocked him, knowing the answer. “Are you here to inquire after the facts of my career?” Also the wrong answer. The voice hardened. “Or have you braved the dangers of the path merely to steal the instrument with which I summoned my howling demons, the Terror Tambour?”
That tambourine of unicorn hide was exactly what Tannol had come for, and he knew from his reading lying about this would do no good. “That instrument is a danger as long as it lies here unclaimed. It must be destroyed! I have powerful defenses against you and your sorcerous ilk!” He swung the wand.
Both he and Trunruh stared at the kitten. Tannol snarled, “No, not against a saucer of milk!”.
This had quite the wrong effect on the dead archmage, who laughed and shouted, “Come to me, Steed of Darkness!”
The birthstone belt buckle was up to the challenge. As the pool of shadow in the air formed itself into a vague horse shape, Tannol put a hand to his buckle. A bolt of light shot out to dispel the threat.
“Ha!: he cried. Raising his wand, he added, with a confidence he did not feel. “I know spells to command the elements!”
A rumble shook the cold, dank room. “No! No!” he shouted, shaking the wand. “Not elephants!”
“What?” Trunruh had, at least, not been expecting elephants. The silver eyes spun right and left. Seizing this chance, Tannol swung the wand again, commanding it to bring the tambourine from its hiding place.
For his part, he had not expected Trunruh to have that many tangerines.
“Pah!” Trunruh bellowed. “You are not worthy of my time!”
This was worse than being mocked by his spellcasting professor. Tannol raised his wand again to reply. But now water was gushing from the walls.
“Just die,” said the archmage. “This is ice water. If you fancy yourself a swimmer, you will succumb to the cold before you can do anything else.”
Trunruh vanished. So did Tannol’s interest in the tambourine. The time to fight had ended and the exit was his only hope. The water was cold, and rising fast. Perhaps, he thought, raising the wand as he turned to run, a miniature dam….
“I am the Minotaur, damned for eternity,” roared a voice from the expanding darkness. “Why have you summoned me from Hades?”
At length, Tannol crawled from the barrow, which vanished behind him. Four years he had taken ferreting out the spells and powders that would render it visible. At least a year would be required to fetch ingredients, most of it another trip up the slopes of Mount Sorrow for the gray roses, if he wanted to try it again.
However, having drowned a minotaur, climbed a rope ladder with freezing fingers, and smacked down a squirrel and kitten looking for their elephant friends, he had no thought of the barrow and the Terror Tambour. He had his life, his wand, and a new mission: to get home and get answers.
Karrow was waiting for him at the door. “Hey!” called his fellow sorcerer. “How’d the wand work after I installed Spell-Check?”
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