The Spires of Fribog by Madeline Mertz

It is often that it is ordinary men of no particular ill intention who may grow to be the greatest villains of their times. The wizard of Fribog was one such man. Long ago, before he became what he is today, he was quite simple, and his story is a curious one.  

In Fribog in the year 1833, there lived a young man who worked as an assistant in an apothecary. He had to walk very far to reach his job in the apothecary, over a field, through the woods, and upon the banks of a river, beside but never crossing. One day, during his long journey to work, he happened past a dying tree in the forest.  

The young man found this strange. The tree was charred as though it had been burned, but lightning storms did not often come through the area, and if it was a fire, why had it not spread to the other trees.  

The young man had little time to dally so he turned away from the tree, and when he did, a bird called out from behind him. He turned back to the tree to find a large black hawk sitting on one of the broken branches. It was very strange indeed, as there had been no hawk when he had first glanced at the tree. 

It was well known that any animal of such inky, ebony color as this hawk would be up to no good. Ill fated creatures such as these were servants of witch doctors and evil sorcerers. 

He turned away from the hawk for a second time. This time, when he heard the hawk call out again, he did not turn back, he continued on his merry way. 

When he arrived at the apothecary, and began his daily chores of tidying the shop for his master, he heard the call of the hawk for a third time, and he looked out the window of his shop to find the creature sitting upon the window box.  

Later in the day, his master came to find him, and announced that the young man was dismissed. 

He asked the master what he was to do. He would have no money to feed or house himself. The master replied that there was nothing he could do, the shop had no money to support an assistant any longer. 

The young man was dejected and afraid as he walked home, and as he did, the hawk flew overhead, calling out to him a fourth time. 

Late in the night, when the fire was burning low, and ash covered the floor, the young man heard shouting outside. 

He opened his door to the sight of raiders from the east running about the town. They held swords and torches, and were burning as they went. The young man had no knowledge of such things as fighting, so he ran. He stopped on a hill, turning to watch as the flames from his little house stretched up into the sky. 

The young man began to walk through the field that led him to the apothecary. He picked up a reed as he went, and stuck it into his mouth. He continued on towards the forest, and there he found the dying tree again, its trunk and branches charred and black. From it, he pulled a little black twig and twisted it between his fingers. He placed it in his pocket and continued on, towards the river, where he picked up a smooth stone, warm, though there was no sun to be had. He placed this too, in his pocket, and when he grew tired of the reed, he added it as well. 

As he continued on, his pocket began to grow heavier and heavier, and finally, when he grew suspicious of its weight, he reached inside, and his hand closed around something quite cold and smooth. He pulled out the thin object, far too long to have fit naturally in his pocket. 

It was a wand. Black as ebony, the same color as the hawk's feathers.  

He looked down at his shoes, full of holes, and his worn coat. He looked in the direction of the apothecary, where he could no longer go, and towards the home that sat in a pile of ash and logs. 

Large wings flapped overhead as the hawk landed primly upon his shoulder. Its talons squeezed his shoulder, as though in a manner of greeting.  

The young man decided upon his path, and continued on towards the apothecary, where he knocked on the door five times while the hawk wheeled overhead. 

When the master opened the door, the young man asked if he could have a bit of money to get by, perhaps the coins from his last day of work. The master grew angry and replied that he had sent the young man off already, and therefore he would not be paying him.  

The young man raised his wand and tapped it to the top of his head.  

His worn clothes melted into feathery robes of ebony black, shadows fell to the ground all around him, and the very air in which he breathed changed. The hawk settled on his shoulder once more. 

The master fell back into the shop out of fear, scrambling towards the cabinet where he kept his coin. 

It was too late though, black spires were rising out of the ground, making the dirt boil as they rose towards the ceiling, spearing the master on the uppermost point. All of the people in the master's town began to flee as the mud beneath their feet began to flex and give way for the wizard’s palace rising out of the ground, shattering houses and trees alike. It loomed against the sky, dark and menacing, blocking out the sun. Those in Fribog today say that they can still hear the master when the wind blows hard, screaming from his place skewered amongst the wizard’s towers. 

Madeline Mertz is FTM's editorial intern and is a Truman State University student with literary journal experience.