Magician Interrupted Read Free

He couldn’t just whip up a spell
while he was with the marines. More likely they’d boot him out or
make him their magician “female dog”. His feet were hurting now too
because Gareth had tiny feet which probably meant he had a small
willy, not a big one. Smirking helped him walk for a few more
minutes.
    Paris heard a commotion, along with some
swearing, to his right. It was along a rugged road stretching
deeper in to the forest. He squinted a little finally spotting a
strange creature kicking his wagon. Paris looked towards the
village, heard his tummy rumble, and headed for the wagon. There
might be food there. It was just his luck a farmer had lost a wheel
on his wagon.
    Paris arrived and saw the man trying to pick
up a large wheel. The flesh on his arms wobbled even though there
was little fat. The skin was just mottled and saggy.
    “Well don’t just stand tha ya dronga. Gimme a
hand!”
    Dronga? What was that?
    Paris nodded though not knowing if he should
be insulted or happy to be called a dronga and helped lift the
wooden wheel. His stomach rumbled so loudly the farmer burst out
laughing. “Help me and I’ll give ya some food.”
    “Thanks!”
    The farmer kept throwing him odd looks as
they worked. He had a long, grey beard, that looked unkempt. Paris
was sure there were bits of things in the beard but chose not to
stare too hard. Whenever the farmer’s head was down Paris noted the
bald patch and red skin where the sun had burned it. Also, whenever
the farmer bent over his dungarees gaped at the front and Paris was
treated to the fact he wore the pair of old, blue overalls with
nothing else.
    They moved off the side of the road where the
farmer dug around in his bags and brought out some wrapped parcels
of what Paris hoped was food. His stomach rumbled. He felt useless
as the farmer hobbled around in his gnarly, bare feet clearing a
small area with a branch of leaves.
    “Gatha some wood, lad?”
    He nodded and headed into the brush. Wood.
Hmmm. The best idea would be to gather a variety of sizes so he
picked everything from sticks to some rather large logs. As he
staggered back and burst out from some bushes he startled the old
farmer.
    “Is this too much?” He dropped the pile to
the ground.
    The farmer chuckled and lifted a small body
that dangled lifelessly. “We’ll have us a grand feast!” The farmer
threw the rabbit over and it slapped him in the chest before
falling at Paris’s feet. “Pick it up for crap’s sake, lad. Brush
off the dirt.”
    He bent down thinking he was supposed to have
caught it. What next? Did the farmer want him to throw it back? Was
this some kind of technique to prepare the rabbit? As the farmer
was bending down again, Paris averted his eyes. The farmer lifted a
stick from the selection and stepped away, studying it. The rabbit
still felt warm and the skin moved around as he brushed the dirt
off the grey fur. When the rabbit twitched he yelled, chucked it
back at the farmer who yelped and raised his arm. The rabbit was
pierced but almost knocked the old fella off his feet.
    “Hahahaha hahahaha hahahaha, rabbit on a
stick! Hahahaha hahahaah. But we hafta skin it and gets its guts
out first. Not much blood in it but what’s wrong with a bit of
color!”
    Paris tried to process that information,
after thinking the situation wasn’t that funny, but his eyes
were glued to a strange new sight. How he wished it was the
evening. Thankfully the farmer lowered his arms hiding armpits that
were sporting hideous bushels of hair. As Paris watched the farmer
skin and gut the holey rabbit he was almost put off food
altogether. But as it sizzled on the fire he decided he might be
able to eat some after all. They sat quietly very close to the fire
and Paris noted that the farmer had placed stones in a circle. Some
kind of ritual maybe? Homage to some fire god?
    As if reading his thoughts, the farmer tapped
on a rock with a stick he’d been holding. “Contains tha