Copyright © 2005 by Blake Charlton. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, reposting, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission of the author.
Home Samples Prolog Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
It was a simple janitorial spell, made for scrubbing floors, so it shouldn't have been trying to tear Nicodemus' arm from its socket.
Filled with embarrassment and panic, he ran from the bustling kitchen and into the night-covered courtyard. He didn't want anyone to see the misspell; its central argument had entangled his right elbow, its concluding sentences his spine.
He was spellbound.
Worse, the magical text was contracting, pulling his arm behind his back. Another inch and the thing would disjoint his shoulder.
He must have held the spell for too long after peeling it from the page. Foolish, stupid thing to do. He should have known better.
The misspell tightened again. Gasping, Nicodemus collapsed to his knees and threw his left hand behind his back. But the text hung just above his range of motion. The thought of what he must look like--on his knees, chest out, both arms lurching spastically--flooded his heart with shame.
From the kitchen came the clank-clank of apprentices cleaning pots: a strangely distant sound. Falling onto his side, Nicodemus used his weight to push his left hand farther up his back. Blessedly, his index finger caught a taut sentence. A violent jerk snapped the sentences and cast the misspell away.
No longer spellbound, he rolled over and sucked in long gulps of air. In the grass beside him, the misspell's glowing lines sprawled into an inter-coiled chaos. Now critically damaged, the text deconstructed into individual sentences and words.
Slowly Nicodemus tottered to his feet and watched the luminescent runes melt into airy nothing. A dull pain sprouted behind his eyes. He dared not extemporize a new astringent spell and so would have to transcribe one from an acolyte eight years his junior.
When he looked up, thin tears blurred the light slipping through the windows' foliate stonework. He thumbed the moisture from his eyes and made for the kitchen, all the while silently cursing his retardation.
Home Samples Prolog Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five