Mortal Enemies
by Margaret C Speaker Yuan
Frydthorn waved her wand. The last drunken shrimp from her cocktail flew into her mouth.
"Nice trick," said the knight in chainmail next to her. "Scooping up your shrimp with your chopstick."
The dog on the barstool beside the knight coughed, a dog's cough, but somehow it sounded like the word 'Magic.'
Frydthorn sighed. The well-known idea, that women couldn't do magic, made people unable to see that she was a fully-trained magician with a powerful wand.
In the past, she had tried wearing a false beard and shoulder pads. She'd bespelled her voice down to a baritone. People saw her perform magic when she cross-dressed but her disguise made the ladies want to cuddle up. Not to her, only to her magic. Some of them were very cute but would they be interested in her when they found out she wasn't a guy?
The knight nudged his barstool closer to hers. She sighed. The call of magic was acting on his blood.
Frydthorn waved her wand again. The alcohol in the knight's drink ignited and singed his beard.
"Wow. Spontaneous combustion." He beat the sparks in his beard out. "I thought that was a myth."
The dog rolled his eyes. He barked, 'Blind.'
Frydthorn sighed. All she wanted was to be seen as she really was. Magician and female plus her last, most important secret. She had never even dreamed of revealing it.
She stretched, sliding her hands out as far as they would go. Her butt should have gone up in the air at the same time. Nope. She wasn't going to give herself away. Her backside stayed firmly planted on the barstool.
The dog snorted. Cute little pooch, thought Frydthorn. Short-haired, maybe 15 pounds, he sat up with his front paws on the bar, for all the world like a small person. He lapped his beer from a saucer and coughed, "Ah."
The knight edged his barstool another few inches toward Frydthorn. "So," he said, "what's your sign?"
"Cliche," coughed the dog.
"Shut up," said the knight.
Frydthorn, about to reply, closed her mouth and looked at him askance.
"Not you, miss. My poodle. Actually, he's a mix. Shitzu-poodle. A shitpoo. Thinks he can talk. Name's Gynrick. The dog's name, that is. Call him Rick. I'm Marrapanoth. Noth for short."
"Noth, I'm Frydthorn." He's going to ask me to dinner, she thought.
"Frydthorn," said Noth in a knightly tone, "would you accompany me to a local fine dining establishment?"
"No," barked Rick.
Behind Noth, a barbarian, tatts all over his bare chest, muscles bulging, loomed as only a barbarian could loom.
"No, thank you," said Frydthorn. "I need to wax my wand."
"What?" said Noth. A smile played at the corners of his mouth, as if he thought she might be making an innuendo.
"Oh, nothing," said Frydthorn. Rick bared his teeth in a dog's grin. He had an adorable little underbite. She glanced at the barbarian, gulped the rest of her drunken shrimp cocktail, and stood up. Rick jumped down off of his barstool.
Frydthorn heard a bottle break. She thought, Ah, the evening's entertainment is about to start.
The barbarian slammed Noth's head down onto the bar. Noth swung around with a knife in his hand. "Why'd you do that?" he yelled.
The barbarian grinned. Rick ran between his feet. Noth lunged. The barbarian's bellow "Waauugh!" morphed into "Woopsie!" as he tripped over the dog.
Unable to stop himself, Noth stumbled over the man and dog on the floor. With a jangle of chainmail, he slammed into the back wall of the barroom.
