Disclaimer: I own the original characters and the plot of this story. Anything that falls under someone else's copyright isn't mine.
Beware Jack the Mad
Chapter 1: The Phoenix
It started, as many tales do, with a card game.
Samella watched her master out of the corner of her eye as she sipped her tea. An older man, well into his thirties, her master was still an avid gambler, as evidenced by the piles of gold sovereigns and silver denarii next to him at the gambling table, the night's winnings from the minor lords and lord's sons and merchants who sat around the table with him. A sorcerer of some renown, he was as well known for his love of gambling, money, and women as he was for his magical skills.
She sighed as she watched him eye some of the serving wenches, wondering if he would try to entice one (or worse, several) to his bed tonight. At fourteen summers, and far prettier than most would expect a sorcerer's apprentice to be, she had endured many lascivious jests in her time about whether she too had shared her master's bed.
He, mercifully, was always quick to defend her honor, but more often than not she wished the ribald jokes had been true. He was handsome enough, tall (and if he was thin he was still unusually strong for a sorcerer), with wits sharp enough to shear a dragon's scales and wealth to match many nobles.
Money. That was the reason her master had left the magic academy more than twenty years ago. It was the reason they were spending the evening in this gambling hall. He had plenty; she'd seen some of his hoard, mostly in the form of merchantry investments. Why he wanted more, she didn't know, but more he did want. Whether it was dicing with travelers in seedy wharf taverns, as they had done last night, or playing at blackjack with wealthier men as they were tonight, most of the evenings they spent in civilized areas were spent gambling.
To be fair, he was just as likely to make money as a guard for merchants, or as a soldier-for-hire for some noble's war, or any other job whose pay he felt worthy of the work it required, but his general good fortune at the gambling tables always called him back.
Some regarded the love of money as a flaw (as had she, initially), but her master at least had never thieved so much as a haypenny. Never robbed nor pickpocketed nor burgled, no matter how poor or desperate he was. He loved money, but he never liked having money he hadn't taken fairly. Not so the nobles he played against, who were regularly exposed as card cheats when they weren't cheating their serfs out of the fruits of their labors.
*CRASH!*
She sighed again as the main doors of the gambling establishment were thrown inwards, bouncing off the inner walls. One of her master's flaws was his penchant for acquiring enemies. Worse, they tended to be wealthy enough to hire mercenaries, and vengeful enough to actually send those mercenaries.
She turned, absently checking the clasp on her caster's gloves; a habit he'd ingrained in her over the last 8 years. She fingered one of the small charms, a silver cock with a full crest and tail feathers, which hung from her bracelet as she glanced at the swords-for-hire that had been sent this time.
The five men could not have looked more mercenarial had they been characters in a storybook. Muscular, heavily scarred and missing teeth, they looked menacing enough that several of the aristocrats at the card table had already fainted. Even from where she sat, nearly a dozen paces away, they gave off a powerful odor of sweat, dirt, dried blood, and ale (clearly, they'd had more than a few to drink if they tried to take her master in this fashion).
The lead man held a long broadsword in his right hand. The blade was poorly kept, noticeably chipped in several places, and scored heavily; to the untrained eye it might have been menacing, but it was clear that these men made their money more on intimidation than actual fighting skill.
His teeth, what few remained, were darkly stained, and several small sores were visible on his lips. The whole lower half of his face was covered in hair so thick she thought it might be better called fur, and his dark eyes held a curious combination of emotions, one she had seen many times before: arrogance, greed, the artificial courage of alcohol, and finally, almost but not quite hidden beneath the rest, the abject terror that most inexperienced swordsmen felt when attacking a sorcerer.
"Where's that damn sorcerer?!"
Even his voice was as roughhewn as a tree felled by a spoon, with a noticeable ale-induced slur. He shouted his query again, but the general fear of the other patrons meant that he got no response. It took several moments, but eventually he noticed the thin man sitting at the gambling table, as calm and nonchalant as if no one had interrupted his card game, paying him no mind; indeed, not even turning around to glance at the… err… fearsome warriors who had so brazenly entered the gambling house.
"You!" called the mercenary leader, gesturing at her master with his left arm. "Lord Cavalier put a price on your head, sorcerer, and we aim to collect!" He guffawed, and his men echoed his laughter.
Finally, her master stirred. He turned his chair, not so much as rising out of it, to greet the sell-swords; not a flicker of emotion beyond simple boredom appearing on his face. "Welcome, gentlemen. What was that about a price?"
"Lord Cavalier put a price on you, sorcerer. Fifty sovereigns! We'll live good this season, won't we lads?" the mercenary boasted to his comrades. They grunted a sort of savagely amused agreement.
Her master glanced back at the pile of his winnings. "Fifty, you say? That's three more than I've won gambling these last few hours."
All five heads turned, greed shining in their eyes, towards his pile of winnings. One of the nameless men grinned widely before sneering, "Then when we take your head, we'll take that too! And we'll live well for two seasons!" None of them noticed the faint gesture her master had made with his own caster's glove.
"Oh, well, I'm afraid that won't be happening, gentlemen." The five faces snapped back to his. "You seem I have some need of these funds, not to mention my head. But I can't allow you to go away empty-handed – I have my reputation to think of – so I will allow you to play with my newest pet."
All of the bravado vanished in an instant. While her master was something of a spellcaster, his real talent lay in commanding minions. Whether golems, summoned creatures or real beasts, her master could make any of them into his loyal soldiers. All of the rumors and stories about her master carried with them tales of his armies of minions. What they didn't carry, however, was the sort of creatures her master was willing to call minion.
So it was understandable when the fear on the bandits' faces melted into abject confusion when, just after her master snapped his fingers, a small cock appeared on the table. A lone, red-green-and-gold Bantam rooster. Her master gestured to the bird, declaring, "My phoenix will be more than enough retribution for your troubles."
Everyone in the gambling house simply stared at his boast. So absurd was the proclamation that one of the bandits, instead of attacking, retorted, "That ain't no phoenix! That's just a little cock, all by his lonesome! What the hell good do you think that's gonna do ya?"
The corners of her master's mouth tugged, giving way to a wide, mischievous grin. It always fascinated her, the way his chiseled features and near-black hair could look so boyish when he smiled. He shot back, still grinning, "Let me enlighten you!"
Later, when she asked him about it, he would tell her that the harsh words he spoke just before snapping his fingers, and casting a spell, for the second time translated roughly into "We immolate ourselves for victory". But for now, the Bantam cock crowed, and leapt at the bandits, spurs and talons and beak all ready for battle. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the cock flew through the air, crowing a second time just as her master snapped his fingers for the second time, casting his second spell.
Specifically, a spell to set the rooster alight, wreathed in a bright yellow flame.
The fowl seemed to take no notice of its immolation, but wasted no time assaulting the bandits with a fury that few war beasts have ever matched. It leapt to and fro, scratching with his talons, pecking with his beak, gouging with his spurs, and of course burning with his apparently supernatural fire, leaving bloody trails behind as he went.
The bandits initially seemed to be content with a bout of confused and chaotic swatting, sometimes with weapons.