Chapter 2
Close call
Anson left the cottage and walked toward the village center, his smile fading over the foolishness of Drexel’s injury. While doing fieldwork the man cut himself from the ungainliness of bearing a rusty old sword. It was a shame farmers had to bear arms while they worked their fields.
These days Huxley residents were constantly vigilant for an attack or marauding of some kind. Although this village was several leagues from the border with the kingdom of Gilsum, lately there were rumors that Gilsum troops were looting towns and killing civilians instead of clashing directly with the Antrim army, a tactic much different from how wars were traditionally fought. Anson preferred to ignore the activities of war, but he knew that soldiers tended toward ritualized skirmishes where relatively few combatants were actually killed. Apparently, war was not so civilized any more. The armies of Antrim and Gilsum now fought more aggressively, seeking advantage by inflicting harm on civilians through sneak attacks. Farmers around Huxley start carrying weapons and posting lookouts, all of which distracted them from farming and reduced their productivity.
Tired from the lateness of the hour, he ambled slowly toward his small dwellinghouse at the far edge of town. An evening shower left the streets puddled, producing the dual effect of cleansing the land and charging the night air with the stimulating odors of early spring that soothed his thoughts. Spring was the freshest of the seasons, especially in this southwestern region of Antrim. Anson loved this time of year for the aromatic flora growing everywhere in surrounding fields and brakes; even cracks and niches around the village had blooming growth as well. Flowers, herbs and grasses produced a blend of fragrances invigorating to his senses. Even the most rundown of houses had flower boxes in windows and yard spaces where decorative perennial plants reliably returned. The rich, black dirt of the fields, recently tilled, inspired a feeling of renewal. Anson paused and breathed deeply to enjoy these sensations, but it was not enough to settle his mind.
This year the attractions of the spring season were not enough to ward off anxieties spawned by the accumulating ravages of war and portent of worse to come. War’s insidious affects on the people of Huxley and other villages in Antrim were far from subtle. Mounting loss of life and property negated the hardiness and industry of its people. Rising fear and anxiety made people prone to impulsive acts and irrational thinking. Many of the local men and women had become sullen and peevish, like Drexel. Unfriendliness toward outsiders was fast developing into alienation as families kept more to themselves, jealously hoarding their staples and straining bonds of friendship that had existed over generations. Petty thievery started happening, something that seldom occurred except for the occasional impetuous youth.
Other changes unsettled the people of Antrim. Nearly every household had lost someone to the war. Marriage age turned younger with unhappy results for adolescents too immature for the responsibilities. Widows were numerous and many were very young, too young to have enjoyed the bliss of a mature marital partnership. In their desperation for a family life, some widows, like Lona’s daughter, were considering polygamy. If that started happening, it would create a rift between the generations that would further disrupt their community. Older folks were already uneasy about the low birthrate and some even lamented to Anson about it, seeking a potion or magic talisman that would somehow increase or prolong their own fertility. When he tried to explain that such devices were unreliable and only proffered by charlatans who took advantage of gullible patrons, Anson could expect to be chided for not using his skills for the good of the villagers. Life was changing and out of control. Dwindling numbers of noisy children made the eldest villagers fear the loss of their family lines; some of the eldest became melancholy, anticipating their own deaths without the comfort of progeny. Even more disturbing than the outbreak of thievery was the news that bands of brigands had appeared in some towns. For the first time in anyone’s memory, brigands preyed upon members of their own communities for subsistence.
Anson walked the quiet, darkened streets of Huxley feeling discouraged at his own rising anxiety, so he tried again to change his thoughts to more pleasant things. He needed to replenish his supplies of herbs and powders, so in another week or so he should make an excursion to one of the deep forests rife with new plant growth. This year he should venture a bit farther to the north, perhaps even go as far as the northwestern woodlands supposedly inhabited by elves and never visited by common folks. Though he had never actually met any elves, the prospect of meeting one was a pleasant thought.
A lack of breeze made for a quiet interlude this night. Natural sounds included the usual night birds and a soughing breeze rustling new leaves. The only unnatural sound at this late hour was the padding of Anson’s footsteps as his soft leather boots scuffed through shallow puddles. There were no lights in any houses or buildings and the absence of moonlight made it so dark that strangers would have trouble finding their way through the narrow village streets. Anson passed close to many huts and cottages but as usual, it failed to excite any of the village dogs. It always surprised him that none ever barked when he made his way through the streets at night. All his life animals usually responded politely to him, but he was never curious about it. A mentor once told him he had an unusual “close touch” with all things living.
As he passed the halfway point home, Anson recollected his decision to live openly and not in secret quarters like other mages. It had been two years since he took up residence in Huxley. Prior to that, he had spent most of his life serving apprenticeships with older mages, all in isolated locations throughout the southern half of the kingdom of Antrim. Despite his youth, he was properly skilled in magery. There were at least twenty spells he could reliably cast, most of them with a single iteration. He was also beginning to teach himself some reversals, a tricky alteration causing spells to have their opposite effects; none of his mentors would, or possibly could, teach him to do reversals so more practice might help him advance that art. Few mages twice his age could claim all these accomplishments, or at least claim them truthfully as mages tended to exaggerate the effects of magic. Often what passed for magic was only sleight of hand or showy evocations that incited superstition.
Anson had developed his skill in magery from years of diligent work at memorizing the words and the subtle, rhythmic movements and gestures required for spellcasting. At first, the gestures gave him difficulty and for a long time he thought that spellcasting was mostly acting because the wrong body postures or facial expressions could dilute the effect of a spell. Once he had mastered the “delivery,” as one old master called it, Anson became especially adept as focusing the mental energy that a mage emitted when drawing spells. He had a gift for sensing this energy, or “force of mind,” whether generated by himself or another. Some called it mindpower. With practice, he became very efficient at directing this energy toward the object of the spell.
Several small buildings were crowded quite close together on both sides of the main street. Some were shops but most were combinations with a trade room on the street level and a living area overhead. There were no lights visible in any of the buildings. Anson passed a tailor’s shop no bigger than a booth, then a potter’s place and eventually stopped in front of Malmo’s Apothecary. Malmo’s cat lay curled up on the doorstep, recuperating from a successful night’s mousing. Anson made frequent visits to this shop because Malmo had the necessary equipment to test the properties of various reagents and thaumaturgic powders. Malmo was also one who saw that a resident mage in Huxley was a benefit to them all, and had let Anson sleep in the shop until he found better housing for himself.
Anson approached the cat and it stretched placidly, purring in response to the gentle strokes from his hand. As he moved to scratch it behind the ears, the cat suddenly crouched and froze in position. Its gaze shifted quickly from right to left as if tracking some indistinct sound or movement. Anson sensed the creature was alerting on something more serious t
han a dog or another cat. Before looking around himself, Anson quickly cast a spell of indifference. The spell took effect immediately as he slowly backed into the shadows in the narrow lane between the Apothecary and the potter’s place. He stood still and quiet, as sounds of movement came from the other side of the street, shuffling sounds punctuated by audible rasps. The cat ran off.
In the darkness, he made out two shadowy figures crossing the street, both men stepping quickly, breathing heavily. Eventually they stopped right in front of the Apothecary. Their clothing was seedy and tattered. One man had rags wrapped around shabby boots; the other had only rags protecting his feet. The first one whispered, “Where in damnation did that gaffer go? Did you see him go in one of these doors?”
“No,” the other muttered, peering around. He carried a short, stout stick. “I would have heard a door open. The way people around here lock their doors it would have taken too long to open any.”
“How could he just disappear, blast it!”
“I don’t know. But he is the only mark we will find tonight. I know he had a good pair of boots, too. We must have lost the fool!”
The two men stalked around for another minute, confused about Anson’s disappearance even though the mage was merely several feet away in the narrow space between the two buildings. A dog’s bark could be heard a few buildings away. A second dog started up, then a third, causing the two men to curse their luck at the ruckus and run back across the street and out of sight. From the corner of an eye, Anson saw another shadow rumble from cover behind them. There must have been one more accomplice.
Anson was halfway amused at foiling the two men who clearly intended to accost him, but it was alarming that such men roamed the streets. With the danger past, he broke his concentration on the indifference spell and returned to his route home. He wondered if those men were outsiders. In a way, he felt relieved that he did not recognize them; it would be a sad thing indeed to discover they were men he knew. He had developed a genuine affection for Huxley’s villagers, despite their exaggerated expectations of what he could do for them. He did not wish a more solitary life because Huxley ideally suited his needs. With his knowledge and skills, he could ease pain and sometimes save lives. All he wanted in return was the opportunity to provide service with acceptance of his limitations, and, of course, safe housing.
Safety was a primary concern for any mage. It was widely known that Meire, the King of Gilsum, greatly feared spellcasters. King Meire lavishly rewarded the assassination of any mage, witch, conjuror, thaumaturgist—spellcasters of any kind—whether found in Gilsum or Antrim or any location for that matter; hence, this was a prime incentive for mages to have reclusive ways. Anson experienced this enmity firsthand when Meire’s mercenaries killed Old Burack a while back, ending his last apprenticeship.
Given Meire’s murderous fear of magery, there were surprising rumors that the Gilsum king had accepted some type of mage as a counselor. No one could guess who this might be, but at the Grange alehouse a few months past Anson heard a sotted traveler swear that Meire had a counselor who was some kind of High Mage come to Gilsum by way of Huxley, of all places. That brought a sniff of incredulity since Anson was the only known mage seen in Huxley for many years, although some children talked about spotting a mysterious stranger a time or two before Anson arrived.
Anson cut across the town square, trying again to ponder less dire thoughts. His musing drifted to his time spent apprenticing with Burack. That old carp of a mage was ruthless in his dislike of common people and outright abusive in the treatment of apprentices, but Burack was no threat to Gilsum’s King and did not deserve the ignoble death he suffered from the Meire’s mercenaries. Anson remembered with some guilt how he had fled the day Burack was attacked. From a nearby hiding place, he heard the awful struggle as the old man tried to invoke a death spell on his attackers. He did manage to kill two of the mercenaries before falling to the swords of their cohorts. Ironically, it turned deadly for Burack because a death spell is slow developing and limited to a single object, otherwise he might have survived the onslaught. Anson once thought that Burack himself might have been a High Mage, but the old graybeard’s vulnerability denied that thought.
Anson knew the words and gestures for the death spell that Burack used to defend himself; any apprentice would have to learn it for self-defense, but Anson doubted he could ever take a life. Besides, it is difficult to generate sufficient force of mind to evoke such powerful spells. Once he actually started a spell of decession, which is more peaceful and used to extract a creature’s life force as a form of euthanasia. The one time he tried a decession he was gathering lobelia leaves in an isolated meadow when he came upon a mortally injured creature, a crossbreed of a dwarf and troll. Reviled by common folk as abominations, these creatures were rarely ever seen. Out of cruel mockery, locals called them “drolls.” This particular creature was beaten and seriously injured by a crossbow bolt, but evidently escaped pursuit only to lie near death. Lying exhausted in the lobelia patch, the droll’s dark skin was ashen from the loss of blood. Thinking that this pariah was so badly injured it should be put out of its misery, Anson was halfway through the decession spell when the droll suddenly opened his eyes. Despite grievous pain and fear, this was obviously a sentient creature whose eyes conveyed such depth of feeling that Anson abruptly ended the spell. Immediately the mage removed the bolt, staunched the wound, and provided whatever physical comfort he could. Using poppy seeds from a pouch of medicinals, Anson crushed them for a highly potent extract that would dull the pain and give a long quiet sleep. There seemed little else he could do, so he sadly left the droll to recover or die alone. These memories of a year ago gave way as Anson finally neared the edge of town, but he sighed a bit from remorse that he had abandoned that creature.
A stone dwellinghouse loomed ahead in the dark, moonless night. It was the welcome sight of home for the tired young man. Ideally located, this fire-safe stone structure had a deep well of untainted water. Nearby woods and adjacent meadowlands provided herbs and seasonal plants; most other needed substances were available from local merchants or occasional traveling vendors. Especially important was the secluded meditation hut located a short distance from this dwellinghouse he shared with a few other tenants.
Most towns had some type of meditation hut, though smaller hamlets might only set aside a simple shelter. These structures met various needs for the community. For many it was a place of solitude and contemplation. Some used it as a place for worship of preferred deities. Written works in any form were often stored in these places—books, scrolls, palimpsests, chronicles—all of which were highly prized and made accessible as encouragement for any citizen to learn to read. For those who could read, like Anson, its inventory of written works was a community treasure; he called it their library. Huxley’s hut had a store of thirty or so items, including an old palimpsest Anson discovered with many overwritten pages that included an almanac of information and obscure items. Remarkably, disguised among various entries in this palimpsest were a few spells only detectable by someone familiar with magery. One of these was apparently a spell of deliverance intended as an arcane route for escape in an emergency. Anson eventually uncovered the entire text of the spell disguised among the pages, then started memorizing the combination of the words needed to invoke a supposed deliverance to a safe haven.
Anson passed through the five-foot high hedgerow that surrounded the dwellinghouse. So as not to disturb any other residents who shared the place, he carefully opened the front door and quietly padded up the narrow stairs to his room. He bolted his door, went directly to his cot and fell asleep without removing his clothes or boots. He had been asleep about an hour when a faint wisp of yellowish vapor wafted through a partially opened window.
Alliance for Antrim Page 2
