(1 of 1. Originally posted on June 16, 2023 for the prompt “Hedgerow.”)
Benjamin observed the enemy army camped on the other side of the field. They had real wizards. Wizards who shot fire and lightning and poisonous smoke from their fingertips. Wizards trained in Battle School to decimate armies, from a safe distance, behind magic shields.
“Do you really think we can stop them?” John stood at awkward attention, shifting his weight back and forth as his eyes darted between Benjamin and the opposing army.
Benjamin licked his lips and cleared his throat. “Tell your men to spread out. They’ll be harder to hit if they don’t stand in little clumps like that.”
The burly farmer nodded, then ran toward his ragtag peasant army, shouting at them to spread out. He’d only been elected ‘commander’ two days ago, and still didn’t quite grasp the concept of delegation. Not that it mattered, considering what they faced. Villagers armed with scythes and hatchets and hunting bows wouldn’t slow down an army of mercenary Battle Mages any more than a blade of grass would slow down a flood. You need magic to fight magic. Unfortunately, they didn’t have magic. They had Benjamin.
Benjamin was a hedge wizard. Literally, he only knew one spell, and it grew hedges. He grew the best hedges. Custom shapes. As big or small as you like. Hedges that thrived in any soil, however barren, drawing sustenance from sunlight or air. Nice for a rural village. Not much use on a battlefield. Unless he could grow a wall of hedges fast enough to slow them down, make them burn up their energy getting through. Then…maybe. They might take out one or two of the enemy before getting annihilated.
Sweat beaded on his upper lip. A trumpet sounded. The enemy line advanced. Benjamin poured all his magic into the ground, focused in a straight line between the armies. Tiny shoots sprouted. Feeding on his magic, they stretched up several inches in moments. Branches spread. Leaves burst out. Benjamin exhausted his magic before the hedgerow grew more than six inches high. He’d never grown so many at once. One man could only do so much.
A wall of magic fire rolled ahead of the enemy army, scorching the field. The flames hit the flimsy wall of shrubbery, and drained into it like water into a hole in the ground. Benjamin’s hedgerow, grown to feed on magic, fed on the enemy magic with voracious appetite. It sucked up fire, drew in lightning, consumed poison smoke. And with every bit of magic it ate, it grew.
Before the enemy reached the hedgerow, it had exploded to a hundred feet in height. Benjamin couldn’t see how thick it became, but he estimated it must have reached fifty feet across. And it extended as far as he could see in both directions. A perfect wall of defense against hostile magic, grown using the enemy’s own spells against them.
Benjamin the Hedge Wizard lived out the rest of his life in a peaceful, secure village, and he never had to pay for his own drinks again.
