To be a Wizard

A fist flashed, and another, and:

‘Oof!’ Spike Zandarrsson doubled over with a groan and plonked to his bottom on the sawdusty floor.

‘Zandarrsson,’ came a resigned voice ‘are you even watching him? Watch his eyes, they’ll indicate where the next attack is coming.’ Spike forced a breath

‘I’m sorry sir, I keep getting distracted by the knuckly bits.’

‘Well get up and try again.’ As Spike unfolded he gave a glare at his opponent, an industrious fellow student and expert fighter by the name of Danbury who was bouncing from toe to toe shaking his arms out in a show-offy sort of way. Danbury and Spike were students at The Academy a new-ish school where parents sent their nearly grown offspring to the capital city to learn skills and knowledge useful to the modern feudal family. The students were schooled alongside the existing Magi Academy using some of the same instructors and filling unused dormitories. Master Drann the bare-hand fighting coach and Spike were having similar thoughts. It wasn’t that Spike was bad at his studies, in fact he was pretty good, he just didn’t seem to be trying. Master Drann didn’t know why this was but Spike did. Spike didn’t want to be a warrior, or a soldier, or indeed anything so mundane. Spike wanted to be a wizard.

Spike had wanted to be a wizard for a very long time. His father had been a wizard of some renown and had died of a sudden illness when Spike was seven, and until his death the whole family had assumed Spike would also become a mage, hopefully a great one. Sadly however the illness that had taken his father also took his older sister, Theia and so, Spike was informed that the running of the lands and wealth acquired by his father would one day be his responsibility and a magical training was out of the question. Spike had been sorry at the time, and as time passed, slightly more than ten years by now, he found his thoughts dwelling on the magical more and more often. To see students older, better trained, and less apt than he seemed a waste and unfair. Spike however, was a practical and phlegmatic sort and, much as he may dream of wielding the power of the arcane, there was a serious need for someone to wield the power of bean planting, leadership and protection at home. So Spike feinted left, grabbed Danbury by the hair and expelled all the breath from Danbury with his knee, which seemed only fair considering.

Many people would say that to hit a swinging target four times out of five with a two hundred pound draw recurve bow was good going for a Monday morning and that it was definitely time for lunch now and perhaps a cup of tea. Apricot Fallon wouldn’t. She was a determined sort of girl with an ironclad set of principles and to her, admitting you couldn’t do something two times out of any given ten tries was the same as saying you couldn’t do it at all. So she set her target swinging once more with a hefty shove and walked back to her bow, alone now in the cavernous archery hall. She drew her bow, visualised the flight of the arrow and tried to stop her mind overanalysing the process. Her left arm gave a tired wobble. Hmmph. She released her breath and as the target began a downward swing she loosed her arrow and it thunked satisfyingly into the centre of the target.