Here follows the full version of The Continuing Adventures of Dalamar and the Brooms, unedited version. Due to my darn brother being so lazy!
Setting: Just after the short story The Wizard’s Apprentice, in the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas.
My brother and I just couldn’t help continuing the story of the Wizard’s Apprentice, and, well, it just had to be done…thanks to the original writers of The Wizard’s Apprentice.
Dalamar has finally finished cleaning up the devastation that he caused by stealing the Staff of Magius, tracked down the Live Ones, and is finishing an extremely sincere letter of apology to the Clerics of Paladine for drowning the Lady Crysania when she came to bring Raistlin a fruitcake. Now he sits in Raistlin’s study, looking over the letter, when the spectre he sent to find out when the funeral was brings him news…
“Apprentice, there will not be a funeral. Lady Crysania is not dead.” The spectre’s cold voice intoned.
“WHAT?!”
“She did not drown. She is, however, blind, as she apparently scratched herself on one of the Shoiken Oaks as she was swept past in the flood.”
Dalamar hesitated, then nodded. The spectre drifted through the door as Dalamar held his surprised and thoughtful face, then dropped it as he gleefully ripped up the letter of apology.
“She doesn’t need to know it was me!” he said happily as he dropped the pieces into a handy wastebasket.
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Raistlin sighed to himself, shutting the blue-bound spellbook, yawning and stretching. He remembered the last time he had done this and scowled. He still could not believe his apprentice’s temerity. Raistlin glanced at the staff, making sure he was carrying it before he went to bed. He had threatened Dalamar with becoming one of Santa’s elves, but it was always a good idea to make sure…
Raistlin began chanting the spell to take him to bed, then he noticed something odd. A few parchment scraps were littered in the wastebasket. He didn’t remember putting those there. In fact, he’d almost forgotten that that basket existed. Raistlin creased his brow in thought, puzzled. Who… of course, it had to be Dalamar. Sloppy elf… he never actually disintegrates these things, he thought in irritation. Raistlin started casting the disintegration spell, then paused. One of the scraps had a few words that were not ripped up. Dear Clerics of Paladine, it read.
Wait a minute… didn’t he tell Dalamar to send a note of apology to those people?
Raistlin was just about to yell for his apprentice, when he got a very amusing idea…
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Dalamar heard his Shalafi call “Apprentice! I have a treat for you!” in a very sweet sounding voice. Dalamar eagerly started reciting the spell, then stopped. This was a little fishy. After all, he had stolen the Staff of Magius just a short while ago. Then he remembered the torn letter… Uh oh. I forgot that Raistlin always disintegrates his trash! Dalamar froze in horror, then wondered if his Shalafi had found it, or maybe was just happy about the efficiency of his cleanup. Maybe I should send a Magic Eye… Dalamar quickly made one and sent it to the study. He looked around with it, carefully making sure that it couldn’t be seen. His Shalafi was talking to someone. Someone with a red suit, a white beard, and a jolly demeanor… Dalamar definitely was not going to go in there, not with HIM! “I have to get out of here!” he thought frantically, wondering where he should go. His first thought was, of course, his home, Silvanesti. Dalamar, without thinking of any consequences, hurriedly chanted the Transportation spell.
He arrived in Silvanesti, panting with fear. There weren’t many things that could make him afraid, but two of them had been in that study! He looked around and froze again. Oh no! Dalamar had teleported right in the middle of a market! Cries of “the dark elf!” and “the exile!” filled the air, and hateful visages filled his sight. Weapons came to hands swiftly, snarls twisted his people’s faces. Dalamar panicked, and wooshed himself to the first place that he thought of.
Dalamar remembered the rest of those days of pain with a shudder. Being chased by minotaur in Mithas, and the trip to Kendermore…! How tired and beaten he was now that he finally got out of there! Kender accidentally giving instructions to a bugbear’s cave instead of the way out, stealing his spell components, chattering on and on and on! He considered going to Istar or maybe the Knights of Solamnia. NO! Dalamar thought, horrified. Istar was the home of the sea elves, and they were still elves. The Knights were positioned in Palanthas, and that was the last place he wanted to go!
The Forest of Wayreth. Of course. I’ll be safe there. Santa won’t be able to find me there! I hope… Dalamar was very, very relieved to see the magical trees. Finally safe! Sighing with relief, the elf entered the forest. He walked two paces or so when WHACK! Dalamar smashed aquiline-nose first into the ground, then twisted to see what had hit him. It was one of the trees, and it was preparing to hit him again! Dalamar threw a Lightning Bolt at it, splintering the entire tree.
Oh NO! NOT AGAIN! Dalamar screamed, then ran farther in the forest. Brooms! More brooms! EACH SPLINTER WAS BECOMING A MAGICAL BROOM! He screamed again, and chose to go back to Raistlin. Even the Workshop was better than this!
There he was: Santa Claus. Dalamar shuddered. “Come here, apprentice. You are to "study" with the man until your contract wears out. You are lucky that I do not punish you.” Raistlin’s golden eyes glittered as he handed a contract to the contrite young elf. “Yes, Shalafi,” Dalamar said meekly.
“All you have to do is sign here, and you get to go to my Workshop in the North Pole! Believe me, toy-making is great!” The jolly man laughed, and Dalamar – with a sharp glance from his Shalafi – gave a sickly smile in return, dreading the days that would come as he signed the contract for a full year’s worth of work.
Dalamar was first tried out as a house maker, but after each one turned out giving the person looking at it a feeling of dread, he was transferred to the train-technicians. A few weeks later, Dalamar was fiddling with one of them, dwelling on his misery for just a few seconds, and BZZZAPP! Those that came to find out what happened found an elf on his back, arms still in the position they were in when he was working, hands and face soot-covered and long hair standing on end. The train had fared worse: all that was left was a charred spot. Dalamar spent his next trial in the demolition crew, destroying messed-up toys and (what else) trash. Much of which consisted of letters, continually reminding the elf what a bad boy he had been. In those exact words, too, when Santa came around to talk.
When he accidentally blew up Santa’s sled, he was transferred yet again to a building department… where he almost went insane. He was told to make…. BROOMS. When Dalamar started frantically to protest, Santa got the contract that Dalamar had signed. “I almost forgot about this,” he said apologetically. “Your teacher said to be certain to have you make brooms. I don’t know why that would be, but he said you’d enjoy it. Oh, and if you don’t want to do that, he said that you would be very happy to have the contract extended for five more years! That master of yours certainly has your best wishes at heart, boy! You’re lucky to have him. Of course, we can extend it anyway if you want…”
“NO! Dalamar cried, stricken. I… I think can make the brooms. Th-thank you, anyway.”
Yes, a very good Shalafi, Dalamar thought in absolute misery. And he probably knows what he’ll do if I complain, too. Moaning, the dark elf went back to the workshop, and began building the brooms. Every time he finished a step, the current broom hit him in the face. When he tried to stop for a few minutes the entire pile began to move… Dalamar hurriedly went back to work. Cut. WHACK! Sand. WHACK! Polish. WHACK! Tie. WHACK! Then the next one, and the next one…
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Dalamar was finally released from his prison filled with jolly fat men, happy toy-making elves, and cruel brooms after nine more months of excruciating pain, thankfully going back to Raistlin. As he was dropped off, Santa and the Workshop elves said a cheerful but sad farewell, suggesting that Dalamar come and work again the factory. “After all, I can always use a few good elves!” Santa boomed. Dalamar almost retched when he heard those words, but managed to smile weakly in return, knowing what would happen if he didn’t. The elf quickly entered the Tower, remembering to never, ever disobey his Shalafi again.
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(An uncommonly known fact: Dalamar actually became Head of the Black Robes and later Head of the Conclave because he threatened to hide from the brooms behind the wizards on the Conclave if they didn’t agree. After one was knocked out and the another severely injured, the vote was unanimous.)
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A few decades later, during the War of Souls…
Dalamar was impaled on the multicolored spear, writhing in pain. Then the pain ended, and he saw his body lying on the wall, pinned by the force of the blow. His soul sighed, thinking that at least he was now free of the brooms! They could harm him no more! A hissing voice that was really five voices said “The brooms were controlled by me, mortal. And they still are!” A far more beautiful voice summoned him back into his body, while the hissing voice laughed. Dalamar screamed, but no one could hear him, living or dead, for he was neither. The brooms surrounded him, trapped him, and the voice laughed as he screamed, and screamed….