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I had
completed my evening toilet and was about to return to my shelter when I
realised I’d lost my ring into the stream. After a few moments of disquiet I
managed to compose myself, despite unaccustomed feelings of sudden nakedness.
The fact that I actually was naked
was secondary – I’d lost my treasured ring!
Ten minutes of
splashing around in the gathering dusk made me appreciate that I’d have to wait
until it was at least light enough to see what I was doing. The ring was heavy
and the stream, though some three feet deep in the middle, wasn’t flowing with
sufficient force to move such a weighty item out of the slight depression in
which I’d been bathing. I told myself that it would still be there in the
morning, when I would resume my search among the pebbles.
Nonetheless,
the loss, albeit temporary, filled me with foreboding. I hadn’t felt this
vulnerable since I’d left home with the ugly old thing wedged tightly onto my
right forefinger. Over the last few months of travelling I’d put on quite a bit
of lean and plainly lost some fat as well; the ring had become noticeably
looser and I now regretted not having taken precautions against parting with it
in such a clumsy fashion.
The ring
wasn’t intrinsically valuable – it was what it could do that made it indispensable. Mark you, as magic rings go, I
freely concede that mine wasn’t overly magnificent. It couldn’t produce gold
copies of itself or conjure an all-powerful spirit; in fact, I wasn’t at all
sure just what it could do. Right at
that moment, with the evening mists starting to form in the shadows, I was
going to miss its ability to set protective wards around my modest encampment.
As comforting and friendly as the forest was in the daytime, at night it became
a dark, sinister place, each murky depth doubtless containing some creature
bent on making a meal of me – or so my fervid imagination was wont to convince
me.
I gathered my
clothing and hastened back to the rough lean-to I’d constructed just two days
hence, dressing hurriedly before leaving to inspect the snares ere it got too
dark. Two were empty, the tasty greenery I’d carefully positioned as yet
uneaten while the third contained a rather scrawny-looking rabbit. As meagre as
it was, my eyes lit as my stomach reminded me it hadn’t been full for some
days. I despatched my future meal as quickly as possible, remembering to reset
the trap before bearing the limp form back to my fire to skin and gut. With no
utensils among my scanty belongings, I would supplement spit-roasted rabbit
with the edible herbs, berries and roots I’d gathered during the morning.
While I secured
my catch over the embers, I couldn’t help a wry smile at the accustomed ease of
my recent actions. It hadn’t always been so; killing my first rabbit had been
the hardest thing I’d yet had to do and the skinning and cleaning which I now
accomplished in barely three minutes had taken fully an hour and fairly covered
me in gore. Far from easy learning for a king’s son, one might think, for so I
was; though lamentably, not my esteemed father’s first but his third. I would
perhaps have fared somewhat better had I been numbered among my many royal
sisters, but my fate as a junior scion had been set at the moment of my
conception.
With father
approaching his dotage, my eldest brother and the heir apparent, Olivar, had
already connived the death of our only other male sibling – or so I’d been led
to believe by my mother and Gertrand, firstborn of my sisters. It was they who
had that same night bade me depart the court at the earliest opportunity. At
the outset, I found it hard to credit that Olivar could have murdered Friedel,
but when the royal magician assured me that signs of evil were upon the body, I
began to take the womenfolk’s entreaties more seriously.
Come the
daylight, and Olivar appeared to weep his copious tears with the rest of us at
the graveside, though having lately been advised of the true circumstances, it
was not difficult for me to detect that his rue at our brother’s departure was
insincere, his dry, darting eyes at odds with the cries issuing from his mouth.
The sanctioned cause of poor Friedel’s death was consumptive wasting and
indeed, he had not looked at all hale for fully six months prior to his demise.
Trevian’s explanation for my brother’s declined health and eventual expiry was
more sinister however, the old mage actually trembling as he whispered the word
‘poison’ into my right ear. Bony fingers gripped my shoulder as his cape swept
along the cloister cobbles behind us, the metal ferrule of his ivory cane
rattling hollowly on the uneven stones. He pressed me into his somewhat
cluttered quarters with the sounds of mourning still hard upon our heels,
bolting the door behind us with a haste that bespoke his fear.
‘Come, David;
sit with me,’ he urged, hurrying through the tortuous paths between stacks of
musty papers and tottering piles of books until we reached the battered old
chairs by the fire. The stick joined two others and a tarnished old sword in
the metal stand beneath the mantle as my friend and mentor sank into his
cushions with a sigh. ‘Stibium, I’ll warrant,’ he said, leaning towards me and
barely breathing the words as though he thought unseen ears among the jumble
might overhear. ‘The little nubs on his skin and the wheezing cough … did you
not remark his constant odour of allium?’
I had indeed.
My ailing brother’s garlic breath had regularly assaulted the entire household.
‘And we all believed it was a treatment for his condition …’ I trailed off as
Trevian interrupted me, his flowing grey beard wagging decisively.
‘No, my boy. A
far more devilish cause was evident to those who had the senses for it.’ A
frown creased his wrinkled features. ‘As a matter of fact …’ He rose unsteadily
to his feet, accepting my hand on his elbow as I quickly stood to aid him in
his progress towards a huge, wooden bureau, strewn with vials, paper twists and
cobweb-strung bottles. ‘Somewhere here,’ he muttered, peering at the fuddle
before him, occasionally flapping the spiders aside to lift and scrutinise a
faded old label. ‘Ah-ha!’ he crowed eventually, waving a long, green container,
corked and sealed with crumbling red wax and encrusted with dust.
I took it from
him and squinted at the scripted lettering. The label was badly foxed and torn
in places but the words ‘Wine of Antimony’ were easily discernible, the
exhortation below taking more time to decipher.
‘For treatment
of the Snail’s Itch?’ I couldn’t help a smile, Trevian answering with his own
as he sank back into his chair.
‘Ay … and
still unopened, you’ll remark,’ he added, taking the bottle from me and closely
observing the contents over the top of his eyeglasses. ‘Carefully dosed, it is
an excellent remedy for the condition …’ His gaze darkened, eyes engaging mine
with solemnity as the bottle disappeared into his cloak, ‘… but rendered down
and clandestinely administered over perhaps a year or more …’
‘A year?’ I nearly rose from my own chair
with the shock, Trevian’s slow, sad nodding penetrating my disbelief as I now
realised what my poor brother must have endured at his elder’s hands.
‘Fully that,
I’ll wager.’ His lips trembled as he reached out to me, imploringly. ‘Heed your
mother’s counsel and leave, David … before Olivar rids himself of the only
other possible claimant to your father’s throne.’
‘But why?’ My
head reeled with disbelief. ‘Surely he can have nought to fear from me.’ I struggled to make sense of it. ‘I
am younger than he and clearly without pretension.’
‘As was
Friedel,’ came the dry reply, ‘but it did not stay your brother’s hand for one
moment.’ Trevian’s old shoulders shrugged beneath the robe’s folds. ‘He plainly
fears any possible contest to his imminent accession.’ The mage sighed and
gestured toward the ceiling. ‘I count myself lucky that I shall predecease your
father …’ He waved away my dissensions. ‘… It is written, my son. At the least,
I shall not be forced to endure your brother’s doubtless stormy and troubled
reign.’ His hand stilled in mid-gesture, a long, leathery forefinger stabbing
at me with almost palpable force. ‘Take this urgent advice, boy, and place
yourself beyond his reach … before you too succumb to your elder’s foul
ministrations.’
‘But … how do
you know it was he?’ My altered
circumstances were slowly asserting themselves through my doubts. ‘Can there be
no question?’
‘None
whatever, I’m afraid. I am distraught that my suspicions took so long to be transformed
into fact, for though I long suspected the genuine reason for Friedel’s
infirmity, I only recently learned of your brother’s malign interest in arcane
physiks and cathartics.’ He beckoned me closer, lowering his voice to a raspy
whisper. ‘It was but a sennight past that my manservant observed him taking
delivery of phials such as these.’ A baggy sleeve waved towards the bureau with
its collection of lethal oddities. ‘He took pains to be secretive, naturally,
but Rollo is well-versed in … furtive arts, so to say, and followed Olivar to a
long-disused dungeon, where he found all manner of strange apparatus and
devices. He could not guess at what they were, but his descriptions of copper
vessels and glass evaporators left me certain your brother was up to no good.’
‘I’m sorry,
Trevian, but still I cannot see how you can be so sure …’
‘Patience,
lad; it was not so much what he had
that finally betrayed his actions, but that of which he disposed and the manner
of its disposition.’ The old mage sighed, interrupting his dissertation to take
up the old sword from the fireside stand, using the ancient weapon to stir the
coals into more vigorous flames. I obeyed his tremulous gesture towards the
untidy pile of wood on the hearth, adding four logs before he waved me back to
my seat. ‘Rollo kept watch long into the night, his vigilance finally rewarded
just before dawn when Olivar emerged from his hiding place bearing two sacks.
These he transported well beyond the castle walls, into a small, wooded ravine,
where he doubtless fancied them safe from detection. After he left, Rollo
investigated and as well as finding discarded phials and sundry broken wares,
he came upon the bodies of two cats, one of which he brought here, to me.’
‘Poor things.
More of my brother’s victims?’
‘So it proved.
The stink of allium was all through the animal’s innards, simple analysis
demonstrating the presence of stibium sufficient to have killed both beasts ten
times over.’ Again he beckoned with a gnarled finger, whispering conspiratorially.
‘I sent Rollo back for some of the apparatus, which evidence I gave to your
mother for concealment.’
He settled back into his chair, folding his
hands into his capacious sleeves so as to vanish them entirely, though some
wriggling beneath the material showed they were not still. ‘Here, my boy … take
this …’
The right hand
re-emerged bearing the dull, metal ring I’d frequently observed upon my
mentor’s left forefinger. The head was strangely fashioned in a geometric form
one might first have thought to be a hexagon or even octagonal, but which on
closer examination showed itself to have seven sides, all unequal in length. It
clearly was not made of gold, nor silver; nor in fact of any metal I
recognised. The flat surface was unadorned by stones or gems of any sort, with
no script to betray an allegiance and not for the first time, I found myself
judging it to be the ugliest piece of jewellery I had yet encountered.
Moreover, I was reluctant to relieve Trevian of what he asserted to be a
talisman and indeed, to have other uses besides the setting of protective
wards, in which he had already begun to instruct me. He stated he had no time
to divulge them, however, claiming that I would discover them in due course.
‘Leave this
very night, David. Take little with you and choose that wisely. A sturdy knife,
stout clothing, flint and striker …’
‘But … that
would reduce me to a mere itinerant! Can I not at least take a good horse; some
gold, or jewels for trade?’
‘My boy …’ His
wrinkled old hand took mine, his thumb rubbing the surface of the ring now
firmly engaged upon my own first finger, ‘… do you think he will not search for
you?’ My skin grew goosebumps as the sense of his words penetrated. ‘Frippery
and a fine steed would mark you as one of consequence, merely aiding his
pursuit. I believe your brother to be mad, David; he will not stop until you
are within his grasp … and then, he will kill you. No …’ He brushed tears from
his eyes, ‘… take nothing. Do not give him any excuse to veil his wickedness as
reason. If he brands you a thief, his cause will gain legitimacy.’
‘But how will
I survive …?’
‘You must take
to the woods.’ His eyes twinkled as he smiled, albeit somewhat contritely.
‘Perhaps now you realise the value of our many walks therein …’
Now, I too had
to smile as I recalled the lessons he had drummed into me. They were not those
of the usual sort, dry lettering and numeracy, but more useful knowledge, like
the telling of edible Cup or
He was right;
I would not starve, save perhaps of human company … but where would I go? The
forest did not stretch forever, nor could I live there in winter, when little
moved and nothing grew.
‘Make for
Palenta; the autarch is an old acquaintance. Show him your ring and he will aid
you.’
‘At my last
reckoning, Palenta was a full fifty leagues hence! It will take at least a
season, if not two!’
My
protestations had not swayed the old man, and I duly left my home of sixteen
years that very night, telling only mother and Gertrand of my plans. Our
parting was sad and heartfelt, but strangely, not overly tearful. Given that
our courtly lives had ever been essentially separated, it was pain at leaving
my mentor and only real friend that caused me the most grief, while my dam and
sister merely kissed me fondly and urged me hurry away.
Rollo had
provided me with rude but appropriate clothing, including knee-breeches,
leather boots, a spare blouse and a short, rather worn vesture. I was thankful
that spring was but lately upon us, for without a proper coat or other warm
raiment, I was going to find it a smidgeon cold come wintertime. Other than
what the manservant gave me, I had few items in my leather sack save those
which might commonly be found upon a man of the road, for such I would needs
become. With but a few silver coins hidden in the linings of my boots, a bodkin
and thread, two stout blades, flint, striker and simple snares formed the
majority of my few possessions as I slipped out into the moonlit fields by the
chapel lych-gate. Gaining the advantage of a nearby hill, I took some moments
to turn and gaze for one last time upon my birthplace. Would I ever see it and
my family again?
Ah, but now it
was high summer, and I a different man from that soft prince. Certainly, nights
in the forest sometimes alarmed me a little, but it was not without cause.
Wolves were plentiful, while boar and bear, though scarce, still roamed the
deeper parts. I had often heard them around my camp, but their howls and
snufflings no longer disturbed my sleep, thanks to the wards I erected. There
were also tales of other things lurking in the shadows; hobgoblins, sprites and
fays, and once, when young, I’d been near mesmerised by an old man who claimed
he’d encountered a beldame, who had removed all his teeth. I remember being
well convinced when he opened wide his gummy mouth and showed that indeed, he
had none!
But tonight,
there would be no wards. I paused, the half-eaten rabbit-flank stopped on its
passage to my mouth as I recollected my predicament. I had only once before
attempted to roost in a tree and nearly brained myself toppling from it while
fully asleep. I was not about to essay it again, but was equally under no
illusion that the lean-to would afford me any protection. Unfortunately, it
appeared that I must needs remain awake the whole night, to keep the fire
tended.
As was my
habit, I burnt the rabbit’s offal and skin in the flames. Certainly, they took
some time to fully ignite and the smell was not pleasant, but I had learned
from bitter experience that leaving them lying about, or even burying them, was
unwise. On the last occasion upon which I had been lax in disposing of some
remains, my morning toilet had been disrupted by a marbled polecat, bent on
making off with the fresh intestines. Our mutual surprise had resulted in a hissing
retreat by the animal, accompanied by the well-aimed liberation of a stench so
noxious, it took me fully an hour to rid my skin of the smell. I counted myself
blessed that I hadn’t been clothed at the time and never again left such tasty
morsels to attract the local fauna.
I was intent
on completing my meal when one of the sounds I least wished to hear set the
hairs raising on my neck. The forest was never truly silent, but I knew most of
its voices to be benign and happily discounted them. Not so this noise, for it
was the rumbling growl of a wolf, and closeby, moreover. I moved as stealthily
as I was able to clutch a lighted brand and lift it higher, my mouth and throat
suddenly dry as I peered fearfully into the gloom. My only hope was that the wolf
was solitary, but the odds on that were low; if it was one of a pack and they
were sufficiently hungry, then even my fire would not save me.
Then I saw it;
first its eyes, gleaming blue in the torchlight, then its fangs, glistened with
saliva. My heart near stilled from fright; it was huge, of a size that rivalled
my own. I rose slowly to my feet, holding the firebrand before me and clutching
the larger of my two knives in a sweat-drenched grip. I would not easily be
taken by this monster, though as I braced myself for its rush, it began to seem
to me that the wolf was as reluctant to attack as I was to have it do so.
~
Wolfmagic - available in book or download format. What
… or who … was this strange creature? Buy Wolfmagic, and follow David’s
adventures as he tries to release his beloved Geran from the evil magician’s
curse, while working to avenge himself upon his wicked brother.