The Twilight of the Guards, or, the Plowshare Conundrum
by Arlan Andrews
Illustration by Kelly Freas
Sneel was so full of anxious energy that his tall, conical sorcerer’s hat floated several inches above his head as he paced the palace waiting room. As First Wizard of the Kingdom, Personal Advisor to Emperor Cradar the Conqueror, and Cabinet Secretary of the Imperial Department of Magick, he had never been kept waiting before, not in all his decades of service. “Especially not during the recent Ice War,” he muttered aloud, shaking his head. The pointed hat bounced to and fro, just slightly out of phase from the movement of the wizard’s intensified cranial magick field. He glanced nervously at the Emperor’s closed door, flanked on each side by four big, ugly trolls. Redundant description, he thought.
Sneel calmed himself down a bit and tried to generate interest in touring the Great Hall while he waited the Emperor’s pleasure. Since he had never waited here before, he actually had never paid much attention to the Hall Of Magickal Fame, to other of the Empire’s notable magickians, wizards, advisors, thaumaturgists, and sorcerers. Yet here they were, represented in heroic-sized statuary for all the world to pay homage to. First in line was the legendary Trinity of Magickians—Laneel, Opp, and T’ller—They Who conjured primal Magick from mushrooms to triumph in the First War of the Pearl. Sneel himself, then barely an apprentice, had played a significant part in that conflict, but his accomplishments were overshadowed by the fame of those giants of sorcery.
Killing time, the First Wizard gazed over the lesser statues and plaques honoring other wizards, both great and small, in the Empire’s Magickal history: BrokVen, SavNah, OkRig, LarBer, L’vMur, all gone now, either dispatched by enemies or retired to the Western Isles. Sneel tired quickly of these old memories, and he tired of waiting. Actually, after fifty years of defensive spells, offensive enchantments, magickal battles with enemy wizards and the unrelenting discipline and constant study required by the Craft, he was also too tired for the next assignment. With the Ice Men frozen forever in glaciers at the Roof of the World after a monumental battle of Magickal spells, the Empire of Cradar was the acknowledged supreme nation of the known Earthe. Who was left to fight next?
Before Sneel could formulate an answer to his own question, brazen trumpets blared and the gigantic oaken door creaked open with the noises of ancient joints screechily resisting movement. The wizard lay down his thaumaturgical staff with its glowing cap of spinning fire-fairies orbiting a tiny central orb, in full view of the glares of the troll guards, and, thus unarmed, strode down the hundred yards to prostrate himself before Cradar the Conqueror. The Emperor was a swarthy little man with piercing black eyes that revealed a fiery intelligence. That intelligence had helped him seize the throne from his father fifty years ago when that unfortunate man had tarried too long abroad after his last battlefield victory. At the Emperor’s command to rise, Sneel allowed himself a penetrating glance into Cradar’s eyes. The little man winked briefly at his Magick Advisor, acknowledging his old debt to Sneel’s use of unorthodox spells. Cradar, the magician knew, kept his sullen father—for fifty years now, all of two inches tall, by virtue of Sneel’s creative spells—in a small glass box at his bedside. No parricide for this boy!
Cradar stood and waved his throne guards away. “Come, Sneel, my old friend, and let us relive our glory days!” As the two retired to the adjacent feast room, a bevy of silken wine girls and golden beer boys brought out platinum and gold goblets brimming with spiced liquids, and muscular servers hoisted up roast meats and trays of sweets. “We have much to discuss, my friend,” the Emperor said. “Very much, indeed.”
Though by law, Sneel had sworn to dispractice any psychic talents while in the palace grounds, his premonitive sense jolted him with a sudden sharp pain—of warning.
Up until the last course, the repast was fit for an emperor. But while Sneel was swirling the sweetest of sweets around in his crystal cup, Cradar grew grim. “My old, dear friend, I’m afraid I must break sorrowful news to you.” As Sneel set his cup down, Cradar urged him to finish his dessert drink. “No. Go on, old friend, drink up. This is nectar of the gods.”
Warily, the magician sipped at the liquid in his glass while Cradar continued. “It’s this way. With the Ice Men defeated, with the whole world at peace, I—” The Emperor paused, swallowed hard. Sneel was shocked: the Conqueror hesitating? Never! “I—that is, the Empire—my counting servants have finally tallied up what your sorcerer’s services are costing us.” The royal brow furrowed. “The Department of Magick is very, very expensive.
“Sneel,” he nodded at the wizard, “across the Empire, your Department of Magick complex employs nine hundred assistants, thousands of acres of special cropland, extensive exotic animal preserves, and requires the output of a plethora of mines and ships.”
Puzzled, Sneel shrugged. “Sire, two plethora, at a minimum. But, Sire, no one ever said Magick was cheap. Let me explain. The assistant wizards are specialists, each doing very important preparations, testing out new spells. The special croplands are for the herbs and incenses needed for the incantations. And I cannot simply grab any random toad or any species of newt or bat for my concoctions, you know; there are very selective breeding criteria, very detailed specifications. As for the mines—why, from those we obtain the essence of the Earth Mother, minerals and chemicals that produce the great weapons and spells that have brought you victory after victory. The ships search out amulets and parchments from which I learn how my brother sorcerers are progressing around the edges of the world.”
The Emperor’s countenance grew firm, but Sneel gulped and continued, “You have asked much of us who make up the Magick Complex, and we have always delivered—whatever you needed, and on schedule. I have to agree that our needs are expensive, but,” his voice tried to sound more confident than he actually felt, “the needs of the Empire have always been met. I never considered the cost, not when the orders came down from the palace—er, from you, Sire.”
Cradar twisted his neck, trying to work out the tension there. After a satisfying series of cracks and pops, he opened his arms, hands out, in a gesture of apology. “Yes, you did, and for that the Empire is eternally grateful. However, with the need to feed the unfortunate populations once led, however poorly, by the recently-defeated Ice Men, and with all the other extraordinary expenses that peace has brought, the Empire can no longer afford your services.” He let out a long breath. “I’m afraid that Magick is just too expensive for anything but war. The Department of Magick has to be downsized.” The Emperor shook his head. “Eliminated, actually. I’m letting you go.”
The wizard nearly fell back on his pillow in shock. “Surely, Lord Cradar—” he said with a suddenly weak voice. But Cradar rose and dismissed him with the wave of a hand. As the ex-guest made his way to unsteady feet, the Emperor said, “I’m truly sorry, old friend, but the Council of Barons and the Merchanter’s Guilds are demanding that the war taxes now be used for new bridges, new port facilities.” Giving a royal arm for Sneel to steady himself on, he continued, almost apologetically, “Of course, I shall maintain your estates for other Empire uses, and will use many of your assistant wizards to clean up some of the residual spells at Magick sites here at home and in the land of the Ice Men.
“You shall receive a pension in recognition of many years of loyal service to the Empire. And you may keep a modest castle.” The royal throat coughed, embarrassed. “Of course, upkeep and servants will be your own affair.”