free his arm from the big man’s grip. “Get it off me!”
“Shhhhh,” Simple John pleaded. He patted Nicodemus’s arm. “No cry, Nico. Man will fix brokenpeople. Typhon said bad men and monsters will try to get to us. But Simple John protect. Typhon teach John spell for throwing.” In his right hand John held a leadshot spell. It was a simple attack spell-a dense ball of common language that weighed no more than a cork when cast, but once free of the caster’s body it took on the mass of a large lead shot. “Nico not cry,” John cooed, and squeezed his arm.
Suddenly the creaking of door hinges filled the room.
John jumped up and cast the leadshot with a powerful overhand throw and a cry of “Bad men!”
Somewhere something heavy smacked into flesh. A body collapsed and John yelled triumphantly.
With his free arm Nicodemus pulled at the censorship spell, but the construct strengthened its grip around his neck.
Frantically looking for anything that could help him, he caught sight of his bed-sheet satchel lying open on the floor. On the white cloth sat the wooden sphere with the root growing around it, Deirdre’s Seed of Finding! He stretched out his hand, but the artifact lay just an inch beyond his reach. He threw his arm back and forth to swing the cocoon.
A few steps away, John lumbered out of Nicodemus’s view while making confused “ah… ah…” sounds. When the cocoon swung toward his satchel, Nicodemus managed to touch the Seed of Finding with the tip of his middle finger. But he could not grasp it and swung away.
As if sensing danger, the censorship tightened its grip on his scalp.
When the cocoon swung back, Nicodemus put his every effort into reaching for the druidic artifact; he would have willed his arm to disjoint from his shoulder if it meant he could reach the artifact.
But there was no need: he caught the wooden sphere between his index and middle fingers. Careful not to drop it, he maneuvered the ball so that his thumb and index finger pressed on either side of the artifact. By pinching hard, he broke the root.
The wooden sphere fell onto the bed sheet and began to change shape. Part of the artifact melted into a puddle of liquefied wood.
Simple John made a monotone wail. “Uh’Aaaaa… Uh’Aaaaa!” It was a cry that sounded out not only his great suffering and humanity but also his retardation. “Uh’Aaaaa!”
Nicodemus was so intent upon retrieving the Seed that he barely heard the cries. The magical artifact now lay on the bed sheet even farther away than it had been. He flung his arm back and forth to swing the cocoon, but the Seed was too far away.
Simple John’s wail subsided to a moan. When Nicodemus swung in the right direction, he grabbed a corner of the bed sheet. As the cocoon swung away, he dragged the sheet with him. Judging from the footfalls, Simple John was walking toward him. The cocoon swung back, and just as John grabbed his arm, Nicodemus snatched the Seed.
The instant Nicodemus’s fingers touched the artifact, the puddle of what seemed to be liquid wood leaped up to cover the back of his hand with a barklike skin.
The large man was still moaning, but between breaths he muttered to himself. Nicodemus made out snatches of lucid speech: “Typhon said bad men and monsters… stop bad men… wrong, wrong… Simple John was stupid and got it wrong… but not again… until red-eyes-man comes to fix… Fellwroth… Fellwroth of the red eyes… and monsters.” He squatted next to Nicodemus.
“John,” Nicodemus croaked, “you need to remove this censorship. It will censor magic out of my mind forever.”
But Simple John was not listening. He was rocking back and forth, repeating the words “bad men and monsters.” Nicodemus tried twice more to get the big man’s attention, but it was no use.
Worse, Nicodemus was having difficulty thinking clearly with the censorship spell locked around his mind. His eyelids became heavy. He fought to stay awake. His life depended on holding on to the Seed of Finding. Time passed; Nicodemus couldn’t tell how much.
Then a door crashed open. Light spilled in from the stairwell. “Bad men and monsters!” John yelled, and hurled a leadshot spell toward the door. In doing so, his thigh hit the cocoon and sent Nicodemus swinging.
A shrill voice rang out. For a moment, everything was spinning blackness. Then Nicodemus glimpsed Deirdre brandishing a greatsword above her head. Bellowing, Simple John charged at her. But then the cocoon swung away and Nicodemus saw only darkness.
When he swung back, Nicodemus beheld something that made him think he was hallucinating. A brown bear with glowing white claws and green eyes stood before Deirdre. John lunged at the animal. But the bear swatted the man aside with a paw swipe.
Nicodemus’s view swung up to the ceiling. He cried out.
The aracknus spell was descending like a nightmare.
Nicodemus turned away into darkness. The bear bellowed as the bloodspell’s razor legs rasped across the stone.
Nicodemus swung back and saw the bear slashing its claws at the bloodspell’s legs. There was a flash. Something unseen knocked the aracknus into a shadow.
There came a sickening crunch and then endless seconds with only heavy footsteps sounding in the dark. Abruptly, Nicodemus’s world stopped swinging. The bear’s tremendous muzzle probed his face, periodically sucking in voluminous sniffs.
Something about the animal was wrong, but Nicodemus couldn’t tell what it was for long, confusing moments. Then he realized that the bear’s face was made not of flesh and fur, but of wood.
Its black nose was a carved nub of jet; its snout, oak panels engraved with shifting runes. Its glowing eyes were lacquered green buttons, and its spiky brown fur was a thick coat of splinters.
“Will disspelling the construct on your head harm you?” The gruff male voice seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Nicodemus croaked, “No.”
The bear’s gleaming claws flashed before his face, and the censorship spell fell to the floor with a gurgling scream.
Nicodemus gasped. It was as if someone had opened the top of his head and poured in a bucket of ice water. His mind could breathe again.
Suddenly Nicodemus was on his back, looking up at Deirdre and her companion, Kyran.
The male druid had unbuttoned his white sleeves, but Deirdre had not. The cocoon and bear had disappeared.
“Are you all right?” Kyran asked.
Nicodemus tried to speak but everything hurt.
Kyran spoke. “Did the construct poison you?”
When he could not answer, Kyran reached down and laid a hand on his throat. Heat flushed across Nicodemus’s body. Suddenly his every inch sang with vitality.
Kyran removed his hand and the warmth subsided. “He’ll be fine.” He pulled Nicodemus to his feet. Deirdre grabbed his arm to hold him steady. An ancient greatsword, nearly as tall as she, was strapped to her back.
Dazed, Nicodemus looked around. “I can’t… I don’t understand…” He tried to take a step toward his bedroom but the floorboards felt pliable, as if his boots were sinking into them.
Deirdre tightened her grip on his arm. “Nicodemus, forgive us,” she whispered. “We thought the sentinels were guarding you. So we slept. We came as fast as we could.”
“So the giant was a conspirator?” Kyran said from behind them. “I didn’t expect that.”
The words hit Nicodemus like a hammer. John! With a few lurching steps, he turned around to see Kyran looking down on his friend’s body. “Dead?” was all he could say.
“No,” Kyran said. “I’ve a stun spell around his head. It’s a dangerous text, might damage his ability to spellwrite. And it’s odd; some kind of spell was already around the man’s mind. It was written in a strange language. Now my stun spell seems to have removed it.”
Nicodemus exhaled in relief. “Someone took advantage of him. Someone he kept calling Typhon or Fellwroth. The spell you dislodged must have been cast by Typhon or Fellwroth. John wasn’t a conspirator. He didn’t mean to endanger me.”
