The Mage's Tale

by Jonathan Moeller

  THE MAGE'S TALE

  Jonathan Moeller

  Description

  When the brutal dvargir murder her parents, Morigna is raised by the Old Man, the mysterious and feared sorcerer of the hills.

  But the Old Man does nothing without a price.

  And his teachings have a purpose of their own...

  The Mage's Tale

  Copyright 2014 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover image copyright Katerina Koroleva | Dreamstime.com.

  Ebook edition published February 2014.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The Mage’s Tale

  Morigna’s first memory was helping her father to skin a deer.

  It would have been around the Year of Our Lord 1460, and Morigna could not have been more than two or three years old. Litavis and his wife Maria lived in a cottage a few days north of the town of Moraime and the monastery of St. Cassian, alone in the pine forests cloaking the rocky hills. Much later, Morigna realized that her parents were essentially poachers, hunting deer and wolves and warthogs and even the occasional fire drake, selling the pelts and scales to merchants from Coldinium.

  But Moraime was far from the boundaries of the High King’s realm, and the cottage even farther yet, so Morigna’s parents were free to do as they pleased.

  One day Morigna played alone in the cottage with a wooden doll Litavis had carved her, her mother working outside in the gardens. Morigna heard a commotion behind the cottage and went to investigate, her bare feet slapping against the flagstones.

  “Morigna!” shouted Maria as she went past the garden. “Stay here!”

  Morigna, as usual, disobeyed.

  She went around the corner and found her father spattered in blood, a heavy knife in his hand and a half-skinned deer upon a table of rough planks.

  Morigna stared at her father, shocked.

  “Morigna!” said Maria, catching up to her. She was a short, thin woman, with long black hair and black eyes, her sleeves rolled up to reveal sinewy arms. “Do not disturb your father while he is working.”

  “It is all right, Maria,” said Litavis. He was not an old man, Morigna later knew, but he was already bald, with a thick beard shading the hard line of his jaw. “You won’t trouble me, will you, dear?”

  Morigna nodded, unable to take her eyes from the dead animal.

  “The blood will frighten her,” said Maria.

  “She does not look frightened,” said Litavis.

  Morigna was not. She felt as if she ought to be…but she was not. It was only blood. It was only a dead animal. It couldn’t hurt her, though it would probably smell bad if they did not clean it up soon.

  “Why don’t you give me a hand?” said Litavis, and Morigna nodded.

  “Bah,” said Maria. “Upon your own heads be it, you wild children.” But she smiled as she said it, and went back to her garden.

  “You like venison sausage, don’t you?” said Litavis.

  Morigna nodded. “Especially when mother fries it with onions.”

  He picked up his knife. “This is where the sausage comes from, you know.”

  “I know that!” said Morigna, stamping one foot. “I am not stupid.”

  He smiled. “No, you’re not.” His smile faded a little, and he looked a little thoughtful. “In fact, you’re a very clever little girl. Too clever to live in the hills with a pair of hunters.”

  “You won’t send me away?” said Morigna, horrified.

  Litavis laughed and kissed her on the top of the head. “Of course not. You will be my little girl for all your life. Now, do you want to help me?”

  “To…skin the deer?” said Morigna, blinking at the carcass.

  “Are you frightened?” said Litavis.

  “It is just blood,” said Morigna.

  “That is the spirit,” said Litavis. “Skinning the deer, butchering the meat, and preparing the pelt is not my favorite work. But it must be done, if you and your mother are to be fed and clothed. Sometimes we must be strong to do what must be done, Morigna.”

  “I can be strong, Father,” said Morigna.

  “I know you can,” said Litavis. “Now, bring me that bucket. I’ll need it for the organs.”

  After that Morigna spent less time playing and more time working with her mother and father. Maria taught her about crops and plants, about herbs and flowers that could become useful medicines and food. Litavis took her hunting, taught her to hunt and track and use a bow. Morigna loved the woods and the hills, and sometimes felt a strange connection to them, as if power was rising up from the earth to fill her.

  Litavis also taught her to run when confronted with a predator.

  “A bear is bad enough, Morigna,” he said one day, “but there are worse things in these hills. A grown wyvern can carry away a full-grown cow, and swamp drakes breathe fire. But they’re just animals. The dark elves’ monsters are worse. I saw an urdhracos once, flying overhead, and had to run from an urvaalg. If you see those things, you don’t fight them, you run. You run as fast as you can.”

  So Morigna was prepared for the night her parents died.

  ###

  The attack came with shocking speed.

  It was the middle of the night, and Morigna lay sleeping near the hearth, not far from her parents’ own bed. Morigna’s eyes popped open as she heard the noises outside. She saw the fading glow of the fire, the red-lit gloom throwing mad shadows over the cottage’s flagstone floor and rough stone walls.

  The door exploded, and figures of darkness stormed inside.

  They stood about four and a half feet tall, broad in chest and shoulder, and wore armor fashioned from a peculiar black metal that seemed wet without reflecting any light. Their gray-skinned heads were hairless, and their eyes were black, utterly black, like pits into bottomless darkness. Shadows swirled around them, seeming to cling to their armored forms like cloaks.

  They were dvargir from the Deeps, the vast maze of caverns beneath the skin of the world. Litavis had warned Morigna about the dvargir. Sometimes they came from the Deeps in search of human slaves.

  “Though I doubt you will ever see one,” Litavis had said. “If they want slaves, they would go to Moraime. Hardly anyone lives in these hills.”

  Apparently he had been wrong.

  “Father!” screamed Morigna, but her mother and father were already moving.

  “Run!” shouted Litavis, seizing his axe. Morigna suddenly understood why he slept with it close at hand. “Go, both of you, run. Run!”

  He charged the dvargir, swinging the axe, while Morigna stood frozen with horror. Litavis struck down one dvargir and then another, their crimson blood shocking against their gray skin.

  And then two black swords plunged into Litavis’s chest. Her father screamed as he fell to his knees, and Morigna heard herself screaming with him.

  “Go!” Maria’s hands closed around her shoulders, pushing her forward. An instant later a sword blade erupted from her chest, her nightshirt turning red with blood. “Go, go, run, run…”

  A dvargir loomed behind Maria as she fell, his grim face looking down at Morigna.

  She ran through the back door, ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Behind her orange-yellow light flared in the darkness as the dvargir set fire to the cottage. Morigna ran
and ran, her lungs burning, her bare feet slipping and sliding over the ground. At last she could run no further, and she came to a stop, breathing hard.

  Then she fell to her knees, sobbing as she watched the distant fire. For a long time she remained like that, weeping as she watched her home burn.

  A boot crunched against rock.

  Four dvargir stepped out of the darkness.

  Morigna stared back at them, trembling, too exhausted to run any further. Yet through her sorrow a fierce rage burned inside her. They had killed her mother and father. They were going to kill her.

  How she hated them!

  The dvargir spoke to each other in low, grating voices. Morigna’s hands curled into fists. Some part of her mind insisted that she throw herself at them, that she hurt them for what they had done to Maria and Litavis.

  “Come,” said one of the dvargir in accented Latin. “You will come with us.”

  “No,” spat Morigna. It felt as if molten fire rose from the earth, pouring through her legs and filling her with power and wrath.

  “Come along,” said the dvargir, “or I will…”

  The fury within her overflowed, and purple fire crackled around her fingertips. It should have frightened her, but after everything she had seen, Morigna had no room left for fear. She screamed and threw out her hands.

  And the ground beneath the armored boots of the dvargir rippled and threw them down like toys. Two of the dvargir struck the ground with enough force that Morigna heard their skulls crack. The others were stunned, but climbed back to their feet, watching her warily.

  Morigna tried to rise, and found that she could not. Her limbs felt like water.

  The remaining dvargir spoke for a moment in their own language, and then walked toward her. They would take her, and they would kill her as they had killed her mother and father…

  Then she felt more of the strange power that had killed the two dvargir.

  White light exploded, and a blast of hot air washed over Morigna. When the light cleared, the dvargir had been thrown to the ground. A blanket of sizzling white mist washed over them, and the dvargir screamed as the mist ate into them, smoke rising from their burning flesh.

  The dvargir shuddered a few times and then went still.

  After a moment Morigna felt strong enough to get to her feet, and she saw the old man.

  He looked at least a century old, thin as a scarecrow and tough as old leather. Wispy white hair encircled his head and jaw and chin. He wore ragged, patchwork clothing and scuffed boots, and his right leg dragged a bit as he moved. His eyes were watery and bloodshot and blue, yet narrowed and hard as they looked at the dead dvargir.

  “Idiots,” muttered the old man.

  “Who…who are you?” said Morigna.

  The old man’s blue eyes shifted to her. He did not seem surprised. “You do not know?”

  “You’re an old man,” said Morigna. “But you killed those dvargir.”

  “How astute,” he said. “But just as well. Most of the freeholders call me just that.” He smiled behind his wispy beard. “The Old Man.”

  Morigna shivered. She had heard Litavis and Maria discuss the Old Man. They said he was a crazy wizard who lived alone in the hills, casting spells of dark magic. He kept to himself and did not meddle in the affairs of others, but no one in their right minds drew his attention. Litavis had always kept well away from the Old Man’s hill.

  Morigna responded to this news by bursting into tears.

  “Damn it,” muttered the Old Man. “That will be annoying. Still.” He looked at the dead dvargir. “I had my doubts…but you are exactly what I require. What is your name?”

  “Morigna,” she said through the tears. “My mother and father…the dvargir killed them.”

  “As I expected,” said the Old Man. “Those two dvargir you slew. Do you know how you killed them?”

  Morigna shook her head, still weeping.

  “You have magic, child,” said the Old Man. “The ability to draw upon the magic of this world and use it. It was once a rare ability among humans, but it has become more common as our kindred acclimated to this world.”

  Morigna blinked, unable to process the strange words. Too much had happened, and she could not stop weeping.

  “Would you like to learn to use magic, Morigna?” said the Old Man, smiling a cold smile.

  She kept crying.

  He sighed. “Well, I suppose this shall take some time. Still, if you want something done right, do it yourself.”

  He picked Morigna up and carried her away.

  Morigna kept crying, and finally cried herself to sleep.

  ###

  She did not speak for another three weeks.

  The Old Man lived in a cottage a few days’ journey to the south, on a hilltop with a view of the nearby marshes. Maria had always kept their cottage neat and tidy, but the Old Man lived in dusty, cluttered, malodorous disarray. He gave her a cot in the corner, and ignored her crying. Every day he put out a plate of food for her, and eventually she grew hungry enough to eat.

  She cried at night. After a few days the Old Man told her to stop. When she didn’t, he hit her across the face until she stopped. A few days later she started again, and he sighed in annoyance and cast a spell that made her fall asleep for two days. She was ravenous when she awoke.

  Slowly curiosity started to worm its way through the grief.

  “How did you do that?” she asked.

  “Do what?” the Old Man said, not looking up from a book in his lap. Morigna stared at it curiously. Her mother had spoken of books, though neither she nor Litavis had known how to read.

  “Make me stop talking,” said Morigna.

  The Old Man gave a distracted wave of his hand. “Magic. Though not even all the magic of the masters of the Magistri in Tarlion could make you shut up for long, child.”

  “How?” said Morigna.

  “With a specific spell,” said the Old Man. For the first time, he looked up from the book, and his pale eyes cut into her. “I could teach you, if you like.”

  Morigna wrinkled her nose. “Magic? What would I do with that?”

  “Why, you already know what you would do with it,” said the Old Man. “You killed those dvargir, did you not?”

  Again grief and fear shivered through Morigna. “I…I did.”

  “And do you regret it?” said the Old Man, a mocking note in his dry voice. “Will you run to the town and find a priest to hear the confession of your terrible sins?”

  “No,” said Morigna. “The dvargir killed my father and mother. They deserved it.”

  The Old Man nodded as if her answer had pleased him. “Their loss hurt you.”

  “Yes,” whispered Morigna, looking at her bare feet. “It still hurts.”

  “It will always hurt,” said the Old Man, “but in time, I think, you will learn to live with it. That is the choice, after all. You either may lie down and die…or you are strong enough to survive. Which is it?”

  Her father’s words flashed through her mind.

  “I am strong,” said Morigna, “and I can become stronger.”

  Again the Old Man smiled as if his answer had pleased him.

  “Good,” he said, looking at his book again. “Do you know how to read?”

  Morigna shook her head.

  He sighed again. “Then we have even more work to do than I thought.”

  ###

  The Old Man taught Morigna to use her magic.

  Of course, it wasn’t really her magic. It came from the earth, radiating from it like heat from a fire. The Old Man said that the high elves and dark elves and orcs and kobolds and all the other kindreds that lived upon the world could use magic naturally. Once humans had come here, fleeing from the fall of Arthur Pendragon’s kingdom on Old Earth, they had no magic at first. Later Ardrhythain of the high elves had taught men to become Magistri by drawing upon the magic of the Well at Tarlion’s heart.

  “But this is changing,” said
the Old Man in the dry, lecturing tone he used while teaching. “More and more humans are born with native magic, such as yourself. No need to rely upon the strictures of the Magistri and the church.”

  “Why not send me to Tarlion?” said Morigna. “I could become a Magistria.”

  The Old Man laughed. “You would not thank me. They would fill your head with lies.”

  “But Mother and Father always prayed to the Dominus Christus,” said Morigna.

  “They were deceived,” said the Old Man. “Oh, I do not mean to say they lied to you, for they themselves were fooled. There are no gods, child, and the church is merely a collection of lies to gull the foolhardy. Strength, and strength alone, makes law. Not the word of any god, and certainly not the word of the High King. For men only obey the High King when he is strong, and when he was weak they rebel and make war upon each other.”

  He told her many other things as well. The Old Man taught her to read in Latin, and then in the dark elven and orcish tongues. He had quite a collection of books and scrolls, in Latin and orcish and dark elven, in the cellar bellow his cottage, and Morigna worked her way through them all. He taught her the history of the realm of Andomhaim, of the High King’s long wars against the orcs and the dark elves and the urdmordar and the Frostborn. He described how the church lied and controlled the nobility and the freeholders with false promises of immortality, how the strong ruled and the weak suffered. He spoke of all these things as they wandered over the hills, hunting and talking.

  And the Old Man taught her magic.

  It was not easy, and the spells came hard. But slowly she mastered his lessons. He taught her how to sense the presence of others, how to make the earth and plants heed her will. She learned to control and manipulate air, to conjure mists that could lure a victim into sleep, or eat away at their skin and flesh and bone. She also learned how to control animals, to see through their eyes and hear their thoughts, and force them to obey her commands.

  Slowly she became stronger, and as she grew stronger she fought against the Old Man.