(Page 1 of 3) Better Lucky Than Good - uncut by Todd BankerSUMMARY: March Flash Fiction, theme Luck. This is the whole version before cutting to 1000 words for the contest.Laren opened the envelope nervously with Marcoli looking over his shoulder. On the thick parchment was a single word scrawled in a hurried hand : Fireball. Laren groaned and his Master Marcoli sniffed derisively behind him.
"Fat chance you have now," the elder mage commented, drifting away.
Anger flared at his master's unconfidence, but he cut off his own retort. He needed the old man at the moment, and it would not do to ignite the man's vindictive ire.
"I can do this," he insisted instead, the hint of offense on his tongue.
"Tell me," the skinny balding master demanded.
Laren bit back his first instinctual - angry - reply. Concentrate, he thought to himself. Don't argue. Soon you will be free of him. "Ingredients," he recited calmly - from memory, since no books were allowed during these novice trials – "red dragon blood, red oak dust, wax, the tip of a candle wick, brimstone, the abdomen of a lightning bug." He paused to think on the proper order and method of mixing the components, but Marcoli's harsh voice jumped into the opening.
"What else, man?" the master mage growled from the corner of their tent. When Laren did not respond immediately, the elder's voice rose. "What else?"
"I... I..." Laren was puzzled.
"Salepetre, man! Saltpetre!" Marcoli exploded, certainly loud enough to reach the ears of those beyond the tent; the novices, journeymen and full mages gathered to watch, judge and participate in the mage trials. "Saltpetre, saltpetre, saltpetre!" The master strode to his apprentice, derision and anger hammering at Laren's ego. "It's the main ingredient, for Korrigan's sake. It's the only one that matters. All the others are secondary, tertiary even. They are glue and ignition for the saltpetre! Saltpetre is the reason it fires in the first place!" Disgusted, he turned dramatically on his heel, arms flying up. "Why did I ever allow you to become my apprentice in the first place?"
It was not the first time Laren had heard those words. Sometimes it was mumbled, sometimes it was directly at Laren. Now, however, it was loud enough for all Laren's novice peers to hear. If Laren had been a dog, he would have curled up under the table, tail between his legs, teeth bared; a mixture of embarrassment, shame, and hatred. But he was merely human. He stood staring at the ground, face flushed red-hot, waiting silently for the rant to mercifully end. It did not, but Marcoli did take it outside. Laren was left alone to throw silent curses at his "mentor's" back.
But anger needed to wait. Laren needed to start mixing the ingredients now if he wanted to finish on time. Passing the novice field tests was the only way for him become accepted by a greater mage; his only hope to escape Marcoli's tutelage.
The bulk of their tent was taken up by a massive oaken table. It had been empty and neat when they had first arrived, but now, after five days of tests in which a spell of any type could be asked for by the mage council inquisitors, it a was chaotic mess, covered with dozens of potion and spell ingredient.
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