Chosen?

A knight calls upon peasant Valman to face a dastardly wizard.

The knight in his shining armor seemed like every good thing I had ever heard of. Like in a way that real heroes never are. Good knights don't need the silvered armor of the false god Phosphor. I knew all that, but then came Mollard, with his confident grin, and his writ of charm. "Valman, you are chosen."

Chosen to be the hero? I had long ago accepted that I could never be a hero, not even to my wife and children. This way they would be better off, the family of a fallen hero.

Mollard offered me a dagger, holding the point to my throat.

I took the blade of it in my hands, wondering why he didn't handle it by the blade. "Thank you, My lord Mollard."

"I'm sorry to ask this of you. Surely you're not strong enough to do this."

Fear rose up in my throat and choked me. "No, my lord, I will strike down this vile blackguard." To think that I had been chosen over the great warrior Mollard to face the vile sorcerer. That the king had written a writ of charm to prove my value, to help me understand my place.

"We will be here when you need us." Mollard placed his silvery warrior's pitchfork into the ground, and stepped back.

The painting of this vile Oliver didn't look so frightening. Little more than a boy in a blue scholar's suit. I swallowed and approached.

The young man had the look of Mollard, with fine yellow hair and a plump, pleasing face. I would feel safe letting him watch my daughter, to be honest. It was a good thing the king's enchanted writ set me straight.

Oliver walked along the woodland path, playing with a largish penny. He would toss it in the air and it would return to him by the strand of spiderweb.

The blackguard didn't notice me. I stepped behind the tree to watch.

Gently he walked, such that the little black rabbit didn't stop its grazing as he stepped past.

But of course, the evil mages can turn minds against their owners. If a man can be turned, why not a rabbit?

And he walked to a ledge, and looked each way. With a long, rough sigh, he raised his left hand and pointed to a formation of rocks. A stink of vinegar rose in the air, and a spray hit the stones.

with a hissing I beheld as the man needlessly destroyed a helpless boulder. It hissed and bubbled and melted into the ground.

I remembered to shift my dagger so that I held it by the handle–evil people are not likely so afraid of the pommel, despite the damage it can do–and stepped confidently forward. "Hold there and accept judgment, foul serpent!"

The blackguard Oliver didn't draw his weapon, but held his hands up.

Steeling up my courage, I gave a thought to the divine—praying to the true High King above Mollard's proud devil—and charged.

Oliver yelled, "Catch!"

The coin stuck to my weapon hand as the dagger flew off to the right.

Oliver spoke the acid word and pointed his left hand at me.

"I am sorry Lord Phosphor I have failed," I said, and prepared to dissolve like the boulder.

My eyes burned and watered as though he had cut an enormous onion, and the glue from my hand stitched my eyes.

"Sometimes I think the enchanters are worse than the necromancers." Oliver stepped closer, as I struggled to free my eyes from the web.

"You may need your dagger, I'll leave it here." He stood over me, and laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Especially when my brother Mollard finds you. But until then, your eyes will be fine as soon as I am away."

"But you must answer for your crimes!" I howled.

"I shall, as everyone does."

I fell to my knees, groping in the grass for the dagger. If I couldn't slay an evil wizard, perhaps–just, perhaps–I could find a band of highwaymen. A bit of gold, raucous tale. Not the heroic legacy I had hoped for. But Mollard's writ had opened my mind to the winds of fortune.