Corlomonderon the Bold stared down the length of the combat field at his rival, Ferdimenderin the Swift. The two wizards had been locked in their magical duel for thirty-seven days, neither having yet triumphed over the other. Corlo, as he was known amongst his friends, knew he needed to change up his game.
He stretched forth his left hand, which held the Blue Staff of Valiant Wisdom (passed down to him from his father and his father’s father etc.) , and intoned the sacred name of Pook, the 49th Moon of Carkaros. A murmur of surprise, and no little confusion, ran through the crowd, and even Ferdy the Swift’s bushy white eyebrows bristled. Corlo could well understand why. Few these days even knew of the Carkaros system, let alone all of its forty-nine moons. Hardly anyone had heard of little Pook, and certainly no one had ever called upon it. Most wizards liked to draw upon the more popular and larger moons, such as Arro, Tyrk, or Baroona. Carlo had called upon Baroona five times alone during this particular contest. Baroona lent strength and raw power, good for a solid blast shot if that was what one wanted.
His staff glowed. The crowd collectively held its breath in anticipation. Ferdy the Swift held his own weapon, the Blue Staff of Cunning Deception, in a defensive stance to ward off any oncoming blow. Poor old fool, Carlo thought. He had no idea.
Carlo felt the heat of his staff in his hand. The staff twitched, just a bit, as the power of Pook, the 49th moon of Carkaros, was released. Then its light went out. Carlo winced as if in pain, and dropped to one knee.
Ferdy smiled. “You’ve burned through,” he said. “I’ve never heard of that moon, but whatever it was, it obviously did you no good. Now for my turn! I summon the wrath of Baroona!”
He raised his staff and red lightning crackled down from the heavens, flowing into his staff and into him. Any moment now he would lower his staff and take aim at Carlo, and the blast would shoot across the field and strike the wizard, and Ferdimenderin the Swift would claim the title of Grandmaster of all Wizards. The crowd began to rise to its feet to cheer his name.
They never quite got there, for Ferdy never lowered his staff. He tried: you could see him if you peered hard, see his arm muscles working as he struggled to pull the staff away from the red stream of power pouring down into it from the sky. It didn’t move. Instead it glowed brighter and brighter as it absorbed more and more power, until, inevitably, it could no longer take the strain. Ferdy fought it almost to the last, convinced something had gone wrong, but then he glanced at Carlo in a frantic last-moment plea for help. Carlo looked steadily back at him, and a look of horror passed over the old wizard’s face.
“You did this!” he screamed. “You-”
The staff shattered. The red power of Baroona went right through the wizard and slammed a hole in the ground. Corlo and the referee wizards threw up wards as fast as they could to contain the blast, and even then many in the crowd were knocked over. The award ceremony was rather perfunctory after that; the presiding wizard looked shell-shocked as he passed over the Grandmaster’s Staff, and he forgot the speech he was supposed to make entirely. Corlo didn’t really care. He’d won, after all.
Late that night, he staggered into the high altar chamber, trying to remember exactly how many times he’d called on Baroona. “Shouldn’t have drunk so much,” he mumbled as he made the appropriate ritual movements with the Grandmaster’s Staff. He had indeed drunk a lot at the after-combat party, and he hadn’t been alone. Had he thought about it, he might have wondered how many others were trying to forget the last look on Ferd- well, never mind him. “I won, anyway,” Corlo said. “I won!”
Party or not, drunk or not, one still had to make appropriate recitations of thanks to the moons one called upon. With the aid of a memory charm Corlo finally realized he’d learned about just last month, he began. “For the strength of Baroona,” he said, and bowed. “I-”
“You should probably hurry,” a thin voice said.
Corlo jumped. That had sounded like Ferdy. But that was impossible. Ferdy was, well, he wasn’t thinking about that. He might try the Un-Memory Charm later, to be honest, so he wouldn’t have to think about it.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” the voice said. “You’ll be busy with other matters.”
“Who said that?” Corlo demanded, staring wildly around the altar chamber.
“I did, obviously.” A ghostly shape floated up through the opulent floor coverings. Corlo gaped. He wouldn’t believe it was Ferdy. It was some other ghost pretending to be him, obviously.
“You could try and banish me, I suppose,” the ghost said, “But you really won’t have the time. Pook is coming.”
“What?” Corlo gasped.
The ghost shook its head. “It’s my own fault, really. I taught you that all moons require recitations of thanks within a certain time after their powers are drawn upon, especially if you want to call upon them again. You took my lesson to heart, too much so it seems. What I should have said was that nearly all moons require gratitude. Some few, a very few, ask for a little bit extra. They are the Cursed Moons, those of which we do not speak, do not teach, do not study. Evidently we should have.”
Everything began to grow dark. Then the darkness began to burn. Corlo screamed.
The last thing he heard as the burning dark closed in on him was the ghost’s melancholy query, “Did you ever wonder why no one else in a thousand years has ever called upon the power of Pook?”
This story was written for the Lunar Awards, Season 10, prompt 1. For other, hopefully more cheerful stories, subscribe below!
I enjoyed this - it was short and succinct enough for the twist to work without overstaying its welcome! 😄