Granvort, the Discount Wizard by R. E. Mendel

The King of Thysland was distraught. This would normally not be a major calamity as the King was often distraught and had a tendency to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. He had summoned his Prime Minister and his Minister of Finance for an emergency consultation.

As they entered the King’s private chambers, they could not help but notice—but made every effort to appear otherwise—that he was still in his pajamas, even though it was well after noon.

Rolled up in the King’s fist was the latest edition of The Royal Payne, Thysland’s leading newspaper, which he violently shook at them. “Have you seen this morning’s paper?”

“Yes, Your Highness, I read it this morning before I started work,” responded the Prime Minister, realizing that he had just pointed out to his king and master that most of the Kingdom had been working all morning rather than sitting around in their pajamas reading the newspaper.

Luckily the King’s ire and general obliviousness shielded him from the implications of the remark. “It says here that the Monarch of Thaghtland has recently brought a wizard into his court. This is an outrage! How can it be that a second … no … third rate kingdom like Thaghtland has a court wizard, while a superpower like Thysland no longer does?”

The Kingdoms of Thaghtland and Thysland were arch-rivals who competed directly against each other in the enchanted commodities market. While Thysland’s riches were derived from its monopoly of the magic bean harvest, the mines of Thaghtland were the only source of pixie-dust. The competition was fierce and the two opposing kings loathed each other.

The Prime Minister rubbed his temples as inconspicuously as he could. “Your Majesty, we have been through this on many occasions, though it is certainly your right to raise it as often as you please. The cost of having a wizard in the employ of the royal court is quite prohibitive. Demand for their services are high while there are fewer and fewer qualified wizards graduating these days.”

The Finance Minister was a vain man who sincerely—and perhaps correctly—believed that he was much more intelligent and accomplished than the King. While many agreed with his assessment, they also repeatedly warned him that the future of his career—and for that matter his head—rested entirely on the good graces of the King. Nonetheless, as Finance Minister, he had worked quite hard to ensure that the profits from the magic bean harvest were not needlessly squandered.

“Your Highness,” the Finance Minister began in a tone of voice that implied that he felt the King was a moron, “the royal budget has been finely balanced. The Royal Court is already over-staffed as it is, I cannot countenance any further expansion, especially with such an expensive position.”

The King was fully aware of the Finance Minister’s lowly opinion of him and had wanted for a long time to remove him—and his head. Nonetheless, he was widely regarded as a competent minister and any move against him would be interpreted as a petty and vindictive act. The King, however, prided himself on being a petty and vindictive man and was not prepared to remain patient indefinitely.

“Need I remind you, gentlemen, that the role of the cabinet is to provide counsel to the Royal Family. It is my opinion, and thus the opinion of the Court, that your counsel is garbage and I have no interest in wasting any more time listening to your protestations. All that interests me is how quickly you can bring a wizard on staff. Good day.”

With that the King threw out his Prime Minister and Finance Minister. Exhausted from that display of decisiveness, he went to take a nap. Luckily he was still in his pajamas.

A special meeting of the Cabinet was called, for the King’s instructions could not have been more clear. The ministers had been called in at the last minute, unaware of the King’s latest project. The Minister of Finance sat moping in the corner, as his perfectly balanced budget was about to be torn to shreds.

“Colleagues,” began the Prime Minister to quiet down the gathered assembly, “the King, whose wise and benevolent reign has brought peace and prosperity to our beloved Kingdom of Thysland [Note: it was the procedure to introduce the King’s ideas in this fashion—a procedure introduced by the King, mind you] has decreed that a wizard will be found to serve in the Royal Court. The decision has been made emphatically, there will be no debate on the matter. We are only here to discuss how we will finance this new position.”

The Prime Minister was aware that there would be a multitude of opinions around the cabinet table. There were those ministers who had no question in their mind that the King was a certifiable dolt, but remained at their post to ensure that he did not bring ruin to the Kingdom. There were others who remained steadfastly loyal to the King, if only to ensure their stature and power remained undiminished. And there were those who shared the King’s outrage that their arch-rival Thaghtland would enjoy the status and prestige as a wizard-equipped nation.

“I happen to concur with the King’s assessment of the situation,” sniffed the Foreign Minister. “We cannot allow a wizard-gap with Thaghtland. This imbalance must be addressed immediately.”

“And how are we to pay for this?” demanded the Finance Minister angrily, suddenly awoken from his funk. “Thysland is the wealthiest nation in the known world, but our riches are continuously being squandered with these silly and extravagant projects. Did we really require a third moat-monster for the palace? Could we not have used yellow paint for the Yellow Brick Road instead of gold-leaf?”

“Thysland is a great and powerful nation,” bellowed the Industry Minister, slamming his fist on the table. “I have no time for these small-minded, penny-pinching arguments. What good are riches if they cannot be spent … richly?”

The Prime Minister sighed, betraying his general sense of fatigue and frustration. “I did not call this meeting for endless discussions. Finance Minister, what are the options for paying for this initiative?”

The Finance Minister, realizing that the battle was lost but perhaps the damage could be limited, unveiled an impressive-looking document filled with graphs and charts. “Colleagues, my staff has come up with a number of options: first, we could dramatically slash your departmental budgets; second, we could raise taxes; and third we could consider a magician, rather than a wizard, as they tend to be cheaper.”

Many moments of awkward silence hung over the cabinet room. The Agriculture Minister was the first to speak. “The population will simply not tolerate any further reduction of services or an increase in tax burdens. I think we all remember the unfortunate instance of the Cheese Tax.”

The ministers all nodded their heads in agreement as they recalled the ugly riots that had ensued. For two days, angry citizens pelted the Royal Palace with cheese. The palace gargoyles turned out to be lactose intolerant, which created an even uglier mess. More importantly, no minister was prepared to sacrifice any of their precious departmental budgets.

The Attorney General, rubbing his chin in an attempt to affect an intellectual air, interjected, “Did His Majesty say anything about a competent wizard?”

“Pardon me?” the Prime Minister inquired with some suspicion, though also admittedly some curiosity.

“It would seem to me,” the Attorney General continued in a tone of voice that suggested he was speaking off the top of his head and should not be held accountable if the idea was completely asinine, “that the King is more interested in the position of a wizard rather than the wizard itself. An incompetent wizard would fill the job, not cost very much and would not undermine any of our positions in the Royal Court.”

While some feigned indignation at this cynical ploy, all quietly concurred that the Attorney General was on to something. The Prime Minister, while wishing to avoid the appearance of complicity, nonetheless instructed the Labour Minister to do a feasibility study.

The Prime Minister received the confidential report of the Labour Department a few days later. The wizard market was very tight with very few qualified wizards to meet the demand. A job posting, the Department suggested—but by no means advocated—which included a very poor pay package with little or no benefits would not attract the interest of any wizards of note.

While no one was prepared to endorse the plan publicly and certainly not to the King, an advertisement was quietly prepared. According to procedure, a copy of the posting was placed inside a hollowed-out stump which was then set alight. Interested applicants were invited to send their resumes by incantation to the Personnel Department of the Royal Court.

Weeks passed with—to no one’s surprise—not a single response. The King became increasingly impatient, demanding to know the status of the wizard search. His aides assured him that this was a process that could not be rushed as wizards did not like to be pressured.

Then one sunny autumn day the Prime Minister received, to his astonishment, a most unusual message from the head of the personnel department of the Royal Court. It appeared that, despite everyone’s expectations—and intentions—an application had arrived in response to the advertisement. Rushing back to his office, the Prime Minister was presented with a battered and charred envelope by the head of the Personnel Department.

The Prime Minister took the envelope apprehensively. “What happened to this envelope?”

“Actually, sir, it arrived in this condition,” began the head of the Personnel Department, still baffled by the recent chain of events. “I was at my desk last night catching up on some paper work when there was an explosion over my IN basket. This appeared in flames and almost set my whole desk on fire. My ears are still ringing.”

The Prime Minister feigned concern and cautiously opened the envelope. Inside were the charred remains of a resume that appeared to be written on the back of a cocktail napkin. All that remained legible was the letterhead: GRANVORT THE WIZARD: FOR ALL YOUR CONJURING NEEDS.

The Prime Minister, while not convinced that the wizard crisis had abated, at least could demonstrate to the King that the file was moving. He went immediately to the Throne Room where the King was holding court. Rather than entering through the Grand Hall that led to the Grand Doorway that led into the Grand Anteroom that eventually led to the Even Grander Doorway that led to the Throne Room—which in itself was quite grand—the Prime Minister used the private entrance reserved only for the King’s most senior advisors.

Pulling the King from a no doubt vital conversation with the Court Jester, the Prime Minister informed him that there was an interesting development in the wizard file.

“Well, it is about time,” sniffed the King loudly. “So what news do you have for me?”

“We have received our first application, Highness,” the Prime Minister announced while both staring down the jester, who was not happy at the interruption of his meeting, and handing the King the charred envelope.

“Granvort the Wizard…” The King began reading the remains of the resume out loud, but before he could finish, a loud explosion rocked the Throne Room, knocking everyone off their feet and filling the room with smoke.

As the smoke cleared the royal guards rushed into the room, looking for the cause of the blast. In the quiet aftermath a small voice could be heard coming from the ceiling. “Umm, a little help please.”

All looked up in astonishment to see clinging precariously from the chandelier a thin elderly man with a long white beard, flowing robes and a pointy hat. The captain of the guard used a spear to knock the old man to the ground as six of his men pounced.

“Wait, wait,” cried out the old man desperately clutching his pointy hat, “I am the Wizard Granvort. I’ve come about the ad.”

The King called off the guards and, brushing the soot from his royal robes and straightening his crown, approached the old wizard suspiciously. “So you wish the title of Wizard of the Royal Court of Thysland. Prove yourself.”

“Oh, I’d be delighted,” exclaimed the wizard, rolling up his sleeves and eagerly pulling a rabbit out of his pointy hat.

The King was outraged. “I did not bring a wizard into this court for tricks not even worthy of a children’s party.”

Granvort was nonplused. “I can certainly understand that. Here, pick a card…”

Sensing that the King was about to get violent, the Prime Minister intervened. “What his Royal Highness means is that a Royal Wizard is expected to do more than simple parlour tricks…”

“I fully understand,” declared Granvort cheerily. He rolled up his sleeves again and blasted lightning-like bolts from his fingertips. The Finance Minister was hit and transformed into a hamster.

The King looked impressed. “Well, that is more like it. Now turn him back.”

“Turn him back into what?” asked Granvort, not fully following the King’s logic.

“Into my Minister of Finance!” yelled the King.

The Prime Minister had to physically place himself between the King and the wizard. The full implications of hiring an incompetent wizard were quickly becoming apparent to him.

The Prime Minister was able to convince the King to allow Granvort a probationary contract. The King agreed only on condition that the old wizard provide something spectacular in honour of the Queen’s upcoming birthday. With this agreement concluded, some nice crisp lettuce was found for the Minister of Finance.

Deep underneath the Royal Palace were the Forbidden Catacombs, the ancient and long-unused home of the former wizards of Thysland. Granvort made his way down the precariously steep and creaky staircases. At the bottom of the seemingly endless staircase was an old and moldy wooden door. Carved in the middle of the door was an awful and fearsome gargoyle head. Granvort fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the set of keys provided to him by the Palace’s Lock Master. Finding the key marked Gargoyle Head: Front Door, Granvort gingerly placed it into the Gargoyle’s open mouth.

The Gargoyle’s eyes glowed a terrible red and a deafening screech rang out as the door flew open, revealing the inner sanctum of the wizard’s chamber.

“I must remember to oil those hinges,” mumbled Granvort, admiring the lovely floral couch in the middle of the newly revealed room.

Placing his meager belongings onto the charming coffee table and stretching out on the lovely floral couch, Granvort began to ponder what he could do to win the King’s favour. The Queen’s birthday was fast approaching, and he would have to do something special for her—but what?

Surveying the surprisingly spacious interior of the chamber, Granvort noticed a pile of musty and long-discarded books piled in a corner. Flipping through the pile, Granvort found his answer. Translating the ancient text written in a long-dead language, Granvort said to no one in particular, “How to Create a Dragon: A Handy Do-It-Yourself Manual. That’s it! I’ll create a dragon and present it to the Queen for her birthday.”

For a full week Granvort remained in his chambers, poring over the ancient manuscript. He did not sleep or eat, only taking short breaks to comment to himself how tired and hungry he was. Taking careful notes, Granvort prepared a list of the magical ingredients that he would require. There was only one place where he could obtain the ingredients: he would have to seek out the Enchanted Florist of the Enchanted Forest.

The Enchanted Florist, as his title indicated, lived in hermetic isolation deep within the treacherous woods of the Enchanted Forest. He was the sole supplier of many of the elements required to practice the black arts of magic and sorcery. His home was difficult to find and he was reputed to be quite unpleasant.

Musing out loud, Granvort assembled his plan. “I will simply transform myself into a graceful bird and fly quickly to the Enchanted Forest. Once there, I will use my trusty Hiker’s Guide to the Enchanted Forest to find the Enchanted Florist and get what I require.”

A spectacular blast of light lit up the catacombs as Granvort transformed himself into a slug. Several brilliant and spectacular blasts of light later a cow … with wings … and a beard … and a pointy hat emerged from the wizard’s chamber.

“Close enough,” Granvort declared merrily.

Many necks were craned in Thysland that evening as a flying winged cow was spotted flying east … then west … then northeast … then south. Some were astonished to hear a faint voice through the clouds say, “I have no idea where I’m going.”

Eventually Granvort made his way to the edge of the Enchanted Forest and after many, many attempts, returned to his normal state. Blocking access to the forest was a rapidly flowing brook quaintly known as the Bone Crushing and Drowning Brook. Across the brook was a flimsy wooden bridge, missing several crucial planks. On this side of the bridge was a gnarled and faded sign: The Enchanted Forest: Beware All Who Enter—Dangers Beyond Imagination Exist Here—No Camping.

Granvort peered nervously over the precarious bridge at the dark tangled woods on the other side. He had anticipated something a lot cheerier. Gulping, Granvort gingerly began to cross the bridge.

“Who dares to enter the Enchanted Forest?” a deep and thunderous disembodied voice bellowed from amidst the trees.

“Tis I,” squeaked Granvort in a high-pitched voice that contrasted unfavourably with the deep voice emerging from the forest, “Granvort, Wizard of the Royal Court of Thysland—at least the probationary wizard, but I’m very confident that my contract will be renewed—”

Granvort was cut off by the deep and thunderous voice. “I am the Gatekeeper of the Enchanted Forest. What business have you here?”

“I seek the counsel of the Enchanted Florist,” Granvort replied, feigning bravado unconvincingly. “I wish only to meet with him briefly and I’ll be on my way … sir.”

“Silence!” demanded the Gatekeeper. “Only the most worthy are permitted entrance to the Enchanted Forest. Be gone with you!”

Seconds of absolute silence were broken by a horrific shriek. Emerging from the woods was giant monster with six yellow eyes, four arms and a ferocious mouth filled with dagger-like teeth. The creature charged at Granvort who stood his ground and did not flinch. Just as the four arms were about to strike, the monster vanished in thin air.

“Magnificent!” exclaimed the Gatekeeper. “No one has ever passed my test so definitively. You are truly worthy.”

Granvort barely heard what the Gatekeeper had said to him as he was desperately trying to dislodge his foot from a cracked bridge plank so that he could run away. He froze as he saw rustling in the woods on the other side of the bridge and out emerged … a chipmunk.

The chipmunk looked at Granvort with its big bright eyes, its button nose twitching affectionately, its chubby cheeks glowing with glee. “You are most welcome, my dear Wizard Granvort,” the chipmunk bellowed in its deep thunderous voice.

“Well, the pleasure is all mine,” responded Granvort meekly, covertly removing his foot from the broken plank.

The Gatekeeper, so impressed by Granvort’s show of courage, offered to personally escort him to the home of the Enchanted Florist. Rapidly skipping through the forest, the Gatekeeper wove effortlessly through the twisted and turning trails. Granvort was having difficulty keeping up, but his skipping and prancing was surprisingly passable.

At the end of an overgrown pass was a small cottage covered in vines and moss. A small sign stood in front reading: The Enchanted Florist of the Enchanted Forest—No Soliciting.

The Gatekeeper merrily skipped to the front door, knocking with great force. They waited for many minutes, but there was no response. The Gatekeeper enunciated in his deepest and most authoritative voice, “Oh, Enchanted Florist, tis I the Gatekeeper. I bring the brave and noble Wizard Granvort of the Royal Court of Thysland—”

“Probationary,” Granvort added helpfully.

The Gatekeeper continued, “You know that I am not one for frivolity. I would not disturb you if I did not find merit in this mighty wizard’s quest.”

Granvort could hear the pitter-pattering of feet on the other side of the wall. A tiny eye hole swung open in the middle of the door.

“Well, well, the Mighty Wizard Granvort,” a disembodied voice laden with a palpable dollop of sarcasm pronounced through the eye hole, “and how is the Minister of Finance?”

“I hear he is adjusting well,” responded Granvort, not picking up on the contempt oozing through the eyehole.

“Are you not the same Wizard Granvort who brought the Fughtstul Empire to its knees by a terrible plague?” The voice clearly knew the answer.

“A most remarkable feat, is it not?” demanded the Gatekeeper.

“True, but I believe that he was actually in the employ of the Fughtstul Emperor and was charged with adding vitamins to the water supply”—the voice of the eyehole was clearly enjoying this—”I believe that you are also the same Wizard Granvort who, in the service of the Potentate of Naughwayr, blew up his castle in the midst of his daughter’s wedding?”

“In fairness,” said Granvort, “the marriage didn’t last.”

“Enough!” insisted the Gatekeeper. “I unleashed upon this wizard my most terrifying apparition and he did not even flinch. The test of bravery has never been mistaken. By refusing entry to the Wizard Granvort you are insulting both myself and the office of the Gatekeeper.”

“Oh, very well,” sighed the voice, which of course was that of the Enchanted Florist. The little door creaked open, unveiling an impossibly large room for such a tiny cottage. As far as the eye could see was shelf upon shelf of the most exotic flora and fauna.

The Enchanted Florist was a short, angry looking man whose age was impossible to guess. He made no secret of his irritation at this unwelcome interruption, but who could resist the authority, power and chubby cheeks of the Gatekeeper?

Granvort and the Gatekeeper sat in the undersized lounge chairs in the middle of the cavernous room. Granvort squirmed uncomfortably as the Florist brought him a cup of bitter smelling tea and the Gatekeeper a bowl of nuts.

“So, Mighty Wizard Granvort,” the Florist began without conviction, “what brings you to my modest home?”

Beginning to wonder how such a small man could produce so much sarcasm, Granvort proceeded, “Have you heard of the term dragon?”

Somehow the Florist managed to audibly roll his eyes. “I have been practicing the Black Arts since the days when the moon itself was young. Yes, Wizard Granvort, I have come across the term dragon.”

“Excellent,” exclaimed Granvort obliviously, “I intend to create one to honour the celebration of the birthday of the Queen of Thysland.”

The Florist looked at him mouth ajar before crying out, “Are you out of your mind? Am I to understand that you intend to unleash a ferocious dragon into the middle of this poor woman’s birthday party? Is it not enough that she is married to the King of Thysland?”

Granvort was unfazed by the Florist’s histrionics (he was actually quite used to other people’s histrionics in response to his work). “I am not a complete idiot, I did buy a leash.”

“Get out!” shrieked the Florist.

“Now one moment,” asserted the Gatekeeper, his cheeks filled with nuts, “you will not treat my guest with such indignity. The Wizard Granvort will prove his powers by replicating my apparition in the middle of this room. I have every confidence that his powers match my own.”

Granvort, buoyed by this uncommon show of confidence rolled up his sleeves, lifted his arms and … blew out the far wall of the Florist’s cottage, setting on fire many of the shelves with their rare and valuable stock.

The Florist was apoplectic. He stood petrified with shock and furor as his home began to burn out of control. The Gatekeeper was buried under a collapsed shelving unit and knocked unconscious.

Granvort backed out of the severely damaged front door. “Well, I guess I should go now. Thanks for the tea.”

The Florist, regaining his composure, ran after Granvort only to watch helplessly as a flying cow with a pointy hat and long white beard flew off in the distance.

The Florist would have been even more incensed to have discovered that Granvort also whisked off with a small box marked in an ancient tongue: Home Dragon Kit—Fun For the Whole Family—In Case of Eye Contact Rinse Thoroughly.

Granvort poured the contents into his cauldron, stirred gently, let it sit off the flame for a half hour, then zapped it repeatedly with a lightning bolt from his finger.

Exhausted by his efforts, Granvort gingerly approached the smoking cauldron. He peered inside, but could see nothing through the smoke.

“I give up,” cried Granvort collapsing beside the cauldron. “I’m a failure as a wizard. I can’t do anything right…”

But his self-pitying was interrupted by a violent scratching from within the cauldron. Granvort eagerly reached inside and found, to his surprise and amazement, a dragon … a very small dragon. It was the size of a small lap dog and blew a soothing steam through its nostrils.

“Well, this is pretty close to what I was shooting for,” conceded Granvort, scratching his head but then realizing what day it was. “Oh no. I have no time left to lose.”

Scooping up the tiny dragon in his arms, Granvort raced upstairs.

The King was not having a good day. The Queen was not the least impressed by the party he had thrown for her. He had neglected to invite any of her friends and she hated his gift of a blender. He was desperate for something to salvage the party and furious that his new wizard was nowhere to be found.

At that moment Granvort rushed into the ball room … and then tripped over the step.

“Where have you been?” shouted the King. “And why do you smell like a cow?”

“Wonderful news, Your Majesty,” Granvort announced. “In honour of the birthday of our lovely and gracious queen I have created a dragon.”

“Are you out of your mind?” shrieked the King as he shielded himself with the Queen.

“Why does everyone always say that?” thought Granvort to himself. But before he could say anything in his defence the Queen noticed the little dragon napping in Granvort’s cradled arms.

“Well, what do we have here?” cooed the Queen, approaching Granvort and petting the little dragon on its head. “Why this is the most darling thing I have ever seen.”

The Queen was delighted by the little dragon and effusively thanked the initially puzzled King for the wonderful gift. The Queen would take the tiny dragon everywhere, carrying it in her purse with its head sticking out. Soon owning a Lap Dragon was all the rage amongst fashionable circles and breeding them became quite an industry. Once again, Thysland had a monopoly on a hot product and profited handsomely.

The King was, of course, thrilled. The office of Court Wizard had more than paid for itself. And the Finance Minister with the help of both Granvort and a plastic surgeon eventually was back to his old self.

R. E. Mendel is a Canadian writer of science fiction and fantasy. After allowing his stories to stagnate for years on his computer’s hard drive, he has finally gotten around to submitting them for publication. As such, he is in constant search for sources of inspiration, be it creative or motivational. The sequel to “Granvort, the Discount Wizard” will be appearing in Challenging Destiny Number 20.