The Brand of the Warlock

by Robert Kroese

  The sorcerer had slipped free of my grasp. I clutched feebly at him, managing to get a hold of the hem of his cloak. I twisted my hand into the fabric, securing an unbreakable grip. After a moment’s resistance, the cloak came free; the sorcerer had discarded it. With some effort, I managed to sit up in time to see the man staggering down the alley after Beata. She disappeared around a corner, and a moment later he did as well. The door burst open, and the acolyte’s men were on me. Something struck my temple and I lost consciousness.

  Chapter Seven

  That night I was jostled awake several times; upon each occasion intense pain in my arm overwhelmed me, sending me back into unconsciousness. My hands had been tied behind my back and I was gagged and blindfolded. I was aware of movement and cold air, but little else. At last I awoke long enough for my head to clear somewhat. On the previous occasions I had awakened, I had immediately begun to struggle, but realizing this had gained me nothing, this time I lay still and attempted to assess my predicament.

  I was lying on my side with my wounded arm beneath me. The wound had not been stitched or even bandaged; probably only the pressure of my own weight on my arm had kept me from bleeding to death. Shifting my weight, I let the blood flow into my arm and nearly blacked out again as sensation returned. The immediate danger had passed, though: the laceration had clotted during the night. From the jostling movement, I judged that I was in a cart, and the minimal investigation I was able to conduct with my fingers soon revealed the cause of the intense pain I’d experienced upon each previous waking: I was lying on a bed of salt.

  At first I assumed this was an accident. Presumably my captors, unprepared to take a prisoner, had appropriated the cart of some poor salt merchant. As my thoughts grew more coherent, though, I realized with dread that this unusual mode of transport had been quite intentional. The acolytes of Turelem, charged with apprehending sorcerers, were said to use salt to hinder the flow of magical energies. If they thought me a sorcerer, then there was only one place the cart could be headed: the notorious dungeon below the abandoned salt mine of Nincs Varazslat.

  Although I was in great discomfort, I did not at that moment fear for the possibility of an extended imprisonment. Why would I? Clearly I had been taken by the acolytes, who are concerned only with the crime of sorcery. I was no sorcerer, and in the light of day could not possibly be mistaken for the man they had been pursuing at the tavern. In the fading light they had assumed I was he, and, fearing that I would conjure some demon to assail them, had hastened to bind me and throw me into a waiting salt cart. Once we reached Nincs Varazslat, the matter would be cleared up.

  My concern was for Beata, whom I had last seen being pursued down the alley by the true sorcerer. He had been badly wounded, but he might well have caught up to her in the maze of alleys of the Hidden Quarter. I could only hope that he had seized her only to dissuade pursuit, and that she was now safe and sound at the Lazy Crow. In any case, I told myself, the sorcerer could not have survived on the streets much longer in his condition. He’d likely either bled to death or been apprehended by the local gendarmes. Either way, Beata was safe, and the acolytes would soon realize their mistake. I would be freed to find Beata again, and we would leave this unfortunate incident behind us.

  For three weeks I waited in a cell for my trial. Sorcery is a serious crime, generally handled with great alacrity, but the trial has to be held at Nincs Varazslat, and it takes some time to convince a judge to come to that miserable place. I had been untied and my blindfold and gag had been removed, but only the faintest light reached my cell, and in any case there was nothing to see. I protested my innocence at every opportunity, but it availed me nothing, and at last I desisted when threatened with a gag. The food was bland but sufficient. I passed the days imagining my life with Beata on General Janos’s estate.

  At last I was summoned for my trial, which was held in a vast chamber whose ceiling was supported by ornately carved pillars of salt. Torches burned in sconces around the periphery of the chamber, and a great chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. I was directed to sit in a wooden chair near the center of the room. The judge, a pale, white-haired man with a pockmarked face, sat on the other side of a massive stone table from me, and on either side of us were benches where witnesses and advocates could sit.

  By this time I was exceedingly anxious to clear up the misunderstanding that had landed me in this dismal place, partly on my own account, but primarily because I had begun to fear anew for Beata. The fact that I was still here indicated that the sorcerer had not been apprehended, and that portended ill for Beata. Still, I waited patiently as the prosecutor, a man whose name I learned was Istvan, stood and gave a detailed summary of my supposed crimes.

  While he spoke, an unsettling feeling came over me. It was not the words themselves, to which I paid little attention, as his speech was a dull catalog of various acts of divination and conjuration; what troubled me was the judge’s reaction. One might have expected him to at least glance at the man whose fate he intended to determine, but he would not meet my eyes for even a moment. As I looked over the spectators—the prosecutor’s assistant, the acolyte and her henchmen, a couple of gendarmes and a few other men of whose role I was ignorant—I saw the same lack of interest. At last the acolyte herself, a tall, severe-looking woman, looked at my face for a moment before returning her eyes to the prosecutor. That’s when I realized what was causing those assembled to avert their gaze was not uninterest, but rather fear. That was the moment that I began to fear as well.

  I was given the opportunity to respond to the charges, but the judge reprimanded me for my attempt at explaining the mistake that had been made. Still averting his eyes, he demanded that I respond only with a plea of guilty or not guilty. I pled not guilty.

  The trial seemed to proceed as if my condemnation were predetermined; the plump, well-manicured man charged with my defense, who had not even bothered to consult with me prior to the trial, gave a bizarre and sometimes contradictory oration in which he claimed that it was very unlikely I was a sorcerer, and that if I were, I was not a particularly dangerous one, and in any case weren’t sorcerers known to have done some good in the past? I was referred to by all parties by the name “Eben,” which I had never heard before that day.

  When I was finally given the opportunity to speak, everyone present seemed puzzled at my claim to be a soldier named Konrad rather than a sorcerer named Eben. It was as if I had claimed innocence by way of being a hippopotamus; they simply didn’t know what to do with my claim.

  Frustrated at the farce the trial seemed to be, I at last exclaimed, “Surely I do not resemble this Eben so closely that it is impossible even to consider that we are two different men? Even the twin brother of a murderer is given a chance to prove his innocence, and I hardly bear as much resemblance to the sorcerer as that.” I turned to the acolyte. “Sister, did you not see the hideous disfiguration of the man’s face?”

  Confused murmurs followed, after which someone produced a small mirror. The prosecutor handed this to me, bidding me to look at it. I did so.

  And I saw the sorcerer’s face looking back at me.

  That is, I saw the hideous black labyrinth that had hid his face, now by some evil magic transferred to my own. Just as I had been unable to discern the features beneath the mask when I saw it on the sorcerer, I was now unable to recognize my own face. If the judge had been able to look at me, he might have seen the horror that gripped me at that moment.

  “Sorcery,” I murmured, unwittingly confirming the prejudices of those assembled. “It’s a mistake. He… somehow he gave me this mark….”

  “You claim,” the prosecutor said, “that you, a soldier by the name of Konrad, were somehow given this brand by Eben the Warlock?”

  “Yes,” I said, grateful that he had understood me.

  “For what purpose?”

  I shook my head. “I cannot say.”

  “Are you familiar with brands such as the one that
disfigures the accused’s face, Sister?”

  The acolyte stood. “I am.”

  “You have seen brands like it?”

  “I have not seen one personally. They are quite rare, being the mark of a powerful warlock—a warlock being a particular sort of sorcerer, who summons his power from the shadow world, the realm called Veszedelem. My guild has recorded several instances of such brands in the past, always occurring on the face of a powerful warlock.”

  “What is the purpose of the brand?” the prosecutor asked.

  “There are two theories on the matter. The first is that the brand is the consequence of the use of dark energies. Like a poison that discolors the skin, dark magic marks its vessel.”

  “And the second theory?” the prosecutor asked.

  “The second theory is that the brand is intentionally formed by the sorcerer as a means of increasing and focusing his power.”

  “Do you know of any cases of a brand being transferred from one person to another?”

  “None.”

  “Do you know of any reason why a sorcerer might wish to transfer his brand, were it possible?”

  “Well, if the first theory holds, then the brand is merely an undesirable byproduct of the use of dark energy. But if it were possible to rid oneself of it in this way, we would likely never have encountered such a brand on the face of a warlock in the first place. If the second theory holds, then a warlock would be loath to rid himself of it.”

  “Aha!” cried my defender, who seemed determined after all not to be entirely worthless. “But might not a sorcerer on the verge of being apprehended by an acolyte be willing to give up this augmentation of his power in exchange for his freedom? If it is true what the accused says, then Eben the Sorcerer is free while we concern ourselves with a decoy!”

  “There remains the impossibility of transferring such a brand,” the prosecutor said.

  “The Reverend Sister did not testify that it was impossible, but only that it has never been observed.”

  “One might as well say it is possible that the sun will rise in the west, because the only evidence we have that this is impossible is that it never has. Some things stand to reason. Examine the brand, if you can stomach it. I myself examined it when the accused first arrived at this prison. It goes deeper than any ink.”

  I did not remember being examined by the prosecutor; if he was not lying, it had happened while I was unconscious.

  “You only bolster my hypothesis,” said the defender. “If the brand is unnatural, it is foolish to describe it within the bounds of natural philosophy.”

  “As the prosecutor says,” said the judge tiredly, “there is no end to fanciful conjectures. Unless you intend to introduce evidence that such a brand can be transferred, you are to terminate this line of argument.”

  Deflated, the defender sat down. I don’t believe he ever intended to get me released; his role in this drama was to create a credible illusion that a defense had been provided. The purpose of trials at Nincs Varazslat was not to establish guilt or innocence on an individual basis, but rather to rid Orszag of sorcerers as efficiently as possible. If innocents are not routinely imprisoned, it is because the acolytes are, generally speaking, conscientious and exacting in their work. They have no interest in imprisoning innocent men, and the judges, knowing this, provide only a perfunctory check on their efforts. The role of the prosecutor is to facilitate conviction; the role of the defender (generally a failed candidate for the office of prosecutor) is to make the prosecutor look heroic in comparison.

  Seeing that the defender was going to be of no help, I spoke up. “Your Honor,” I said, “might I be permitted to speak a few words in my defense?” The judge gave a slight nod, and I continued. “Not being a sorcerer or warlock, I know nothing of arcane brands, and in fact did not know I had been disfigured until looking into the mirror just now. I can only assume, as my esteemed champion has suggested, that it is a sort of ruse executed by this Eben, whom you seek.” Seeing that the judge was about to censure me for pursuing a line of defense he’d forbidden, I hurriedly went on: “If I may, there is a simple way of establishing that I am who I claim. Were there found on my person a set of discharge papers from the infantry of the janissaries?”

  The defender appeared puzzled. The prosecutor sheepishly stood, producing the papers from a folio. “We did find a set of papers purporting to be discharge orders for one Captain Konrad.”

  “Surely the defense should have been provided an opportunity to peruse these documents?” the defender asked uncertainly, as if concerned he were overstepping his bounds.

  Istvan shrugged. “It was assumed they were forged. Such a trick would be a small matter for a warlock.”

  Even my defender could spot the fallacy in this line of reasoning. “Your Honor, if any possible defense is to be dismissed as the machinations of a warlock….”

  The judge held up his hand, indicating he was already bored with this line of argumentation. “Bailiff, bring me the papers.”

  The bailiff trotted to Istvan, took the papers, and delivered them into the hands of the judge. The judge perused them and said, “These appear to be genuine.”

  “Your Honor,” Istvan said, “although it’s true that any defense could be dismissed as the result of sorcery, by the same token no sorcerer would ever be convicted if we were to use the same standard of evidence that obtains in an ordinarily criminal trial. Sorcerers are by their nature capable of deceptions which are beyond the abilities of most men.”

  The judge nodded. “As I say, the papers appear to be genuine. However, a body such as this would be foolish to accept them as evidence without corroboration.”

  “Your Honor,” I said, “corroboration is easily obtained. Send word to the commanding officer at the Fourth Division encampment at Tabor Nev. He will confirm that a captain by the name of Konrad was honorably discharged on the date specified in the papers.”

  “This would prove nothing,” Istvan said. “The papers could have been stolen.”

  Anticipating this argument, I said, “Further, request to be informed at whose request the discharge was granted. The officer will inform you that I was honorably discharged at the request of General Janos.”

  This had the effect I’d anticipated: the general’s name was nearly as well-known in the environs of Nagyvaros as it was at the front. The judge rubbed his chin thoughtfully while murmurs sounded throughout the chamber. I knew what the judge was thinking: either I was telling the truth or I was a truly audacious liar.

  One might wonder why I did not suggest that a letter be sent to the general himself. The truth is that I still feared, despite the general’s offer of employment, that he held some grudge against me. It isn’t that I thought his offer to be disingenuous, but rather that I suspected it to have been made in the spirit of a loving father who was willing, against his better judgment, to give an errant son a chance to redeem himself. If a letter arrived from a judge asking him for an alibi, it would only confirm his worst suspicions of me. He would have provided the alibi, for certain, but my employment would have begun under the same dark cloud that I thought had been dispelled.

  For the same reason I did not ask that the court send word to Beata’s parents. I did not know what had happened to her, but at that moment I still imagined that I would find her and marry her, and I did not want her parents to think I’d gotten mixed up in some nefarious business. No harm could come from requesting an alibi from the commanding officer at the Fourth Division; my military career was over. So it happened that, out of misguided hopes for my future, I acted as the agent of my own destruction.

  The trial was postponed for two weeks while confirmation of my alibi was sought from the commander at the Fourth Division. I waited anxiously but hopefully, certain that I would soon be released and find Beata waiting for me. Unbeknownst to me, however, the commander at the Fourth Division had been killed four days before my arraignment and the division was currently without a commanding offic
er. Knowing that particular officers were often indisposed, I had suggested the letter be sent to the “officer in charge,” rather than naming the current commander. This precaution proved my undoing, as it resulted in my request falling into the hands of the highest-ranking officer at the camp, who was at that moment one Major Bertrek.

  If Bertrek had been merely lazy or self-interested, he might have pocketed the letter, pretending never to have received it. But such was the major’s animosity against me that he sent a reply denying that any such Captain Konrad existed, and warning them to beware of anyone bearing papers claiming otherwise. He signed the letter in his own hand, in case there were any confusion as to who had betrayed me. My protests that Major Bertrek held a grudge against me were met with derisive dismissal. No one would listen to my pleas to send a letter to General Janos or Beata’s parents. In the opinion of the judge, who’d once again made the journey from Nagyvaros, I had wasted enough of the court’s time. No further evidence was to be considered, and there would be no appeal. Sorcerers are not executed, for fear that they will seek vengeance from beyond the grave, but at that moment I would have preferred a quick death. I was sentenced to spend the rest of my life in Nincs Varazslat.

  Chapter Eight

  During my first year at Nincs Varazslat, I swung daily—and sometimes hourly—between rage and vain hopes that the court’s error would be discovered and corrected. I told myself that the general, puzzled by my failure to respond to his offer, would instigate an investigation, or that Eben the Warlock would be apprehended, prompting a reopening of the case. But as the anniversary of my sentencing came and went, the rage faded, and along with it my hopes of pardon. Anger and hope are two sides of the same coin; both depend on the conceit that one’s present difficulties are not permanent and inevitable.