Page 42 of Wizards & Weavers
The sheaf of notes and recipes in his head shuffled like a never-ending deck of cards as he searched for the right spell. Surely there was some bit of grandmotherly wisdom he could once again repurpose for the dungeon. The words and numbers overlapped and merged in his mind’s eye, Granny Bethilda’s handwriting now as unintelligible as arcane runes and glyphs.
But what could he possibly do? Their attacker was far too close for comfort. Any spell he cast would catch one of his friends, too. Augustin had backed away from the clash and clack of weaponry. He’d arrived at the same conclusion. If he engaged one of his wind spells, he’d blow both Elyssandra and the attacker away.
Braiden crawled closer, watching as the stranger’s weapon whirled and wavered, too quick to be real. It was a staff, wasn’t it? Wielded with expert hands, though perhaps it was some small comfort that it wasn’t an explicitly lethal weapon.
Elyssandra was giving as good as she was getting, but had she been carrying that spear on her person this whole time? Made of the same golden material as her dagger that resembled a thorn, except — were the weapons one and the same? The dungeon was full of surprises, but so was the elf.
The thing in black dodged nimbly away from the tip of Elyssandra’s spear, avoiding a bloody death by skewering. She spun in a wide circle, bringing the haft of her spear crashing against the creature’s head.
She grunted, tugging at the spear — it had gotten caught in the spikes on her assailant’s head. No, it was a spiked helmet. It seemed so familiar. What did it remind Braiden of?
Another swift strike from the creature’s staff knocked Elyssandra’s spear away, and the two began dueling again. Augustin shouted a warning at Elyssandra’s back, the air around his fingers rippling in waves as he called on his magic.She turned her head slightly, anticipating his intent to cast a powerful spell.
Unfortunately, the thing in black had heard the warning, too. It reached for something at its hip, then threw it straight at Augustin’s torso.
Twin spheres connected by a length of rope whizzed through the air, each ball covered in those same familiar spikes. That was it. The helmet, this throwing weapon, the huge pendulum trap in the trees — this was the perpetrator.
Augustin shouted something, but his words didn’t trigger his spell in time. He cried out as the balls and rope wrapped around his body. The spiked balls caught on his shirt, the rope entangling his arms. Whatever this thing in black was, it knew that wizards still needed gestures and words to cast their spells. It knew how to fight against wielders of magic.
“This isn’t over, foul creature,” Augustin said. He ran headlong toward it and Elyssandra — to what end, Braiden couldn’t guess — but it didn’t matter. A second pair of balls zinged through the air, this time aimed for Augustin’s legs. He let out a winded, “Oof” as his legs tangled underneath him. He went toppling to the ground.
Spear and staff clashed and cracked again as elf and intruder resumed their battle. Braiden’s heart was threatening to punch through his chest. This wouldn’t have gone so badly if he could only contribute something to the fight. Even seasoned adventurers like the Wizard of Weathervale only rose to heroic acclaim because they fought alongside competent, experienced party members.
The only party Braiden was remotely useful for, he knew, was a tea party. At least he’d be able to supply a few attractive cozies for the teapots. Gods, he really was in over his head on this one. Maybe Dudley had been right all along. Braiden should havelistened to his warnings the way he’d listened to his past as an adventurer. All the dangers, the traps, the weapons —
Wait.
That was it. The spheres on a rope. Bolas, weren’t they called? Dudley had mentioned it once, a chance encounter with ravenous goblins, crafty and cunning on their own, dangerous in greater numbers. This particular annoyance of goblins had improvised their weapons, much like the thing in black.
Spears carved to wicked points out of sturdy branches, bark and animal hide for armor, and woven rope to use as nets. Even against such crude armaments, Dudley and his party had barely escaped with their lives. All the entrapping and entanglement had done so well at hindering and slowing his party down.
Entrapment. The bolas, the nets. Wasn’t a net basically the same as a weave of fabric, only with tighter knots, with a looser knit? The right tightness here, enough looseness there — it just might work. Braiden sprang to his feet, magic already sparking at his fingertips as he rushed toward Elyssandra and their assailant.
Her ears pricked up at the sound of his approach. Braiden knew better than to warn her out loud and alert their enemy, relying on the sensitivity of her hearing to time this just right.
Spinning the sturdiest, heaviest thread he could muster out of the ether, he dragged one arm down, then the other across, warp and weft, a loose and frankly amateur variation of Card No. 3.
Granny Bethilda might have chuckled at the sight of the thing he’d conjured, closer to a large web of macrame than a sheet of cloth. He grasped its edge and spun as he heaved it across the grass.
“Now!” Braiden cried.
Elyssandra slammed the butt of her spear into the thing in black’s stomach, staggering it long enough to force it to standin place. She broke away from the melee exactly as the net fell over the creature, the loops and gaps catching on the spikes of its thorny helmet, the webbing catching on its staff, its arms, its legs.
The creature struggled and squirmed, but Braiden’s improvised net held fast. He could hardly believe it himself. Elyssandra kicked the creature’s staff away, then stomped her foot close to its spiky head. She aimed her golden spear at its chest.
“I don’t mean you harm,” she said coolly, “but make one false move and I’ll gladly change my mind.”
The thing in black kicked at the grass one final time in defiance, its elongated foot thumping against the earth. Braiden narrowed his eyes now that he was getting a better look at their attacker. Something about its legs seemed different, how they were bent in an odd direction. The way it kicked and pedaled at the air reminded him of a cat.
“Could someone help me up, please?”
Braiden snapped out of it, somehow having forgotten that his party’s great and powerful wizard was still neatly tied up in a bundle on the ground. At least the grass was nice and soft. Elyssandra clearly had the situation handled, her spear held with a terrifying stillness, her expression icy.
“Here,” Braiden said, assessing his approach as he studied the spiked ball still hooked into Augustin’s shirt.
The sphere was surprisingly light, its multitude of spikes naturally formed instead of being crafted that way. It reminded him of a very large burr, or even a sea urchin, with all the lightness and durability of wood. It wouldn’t have done much against someone wearing any form of armor, but against Augustin and his finely tailored clothes —
“Careful, you’re ripping the fabric! This was made for me by — ”
