The Mage's Tale

by Jonathan Moeller

  For had he not taught her that the strongest ruled?

  ###

  One day, shortly after her twelfth birthday, the conflict came to a head.

  “I told you to make dinner,” snapped the Old Man. It had been raining lately, and the damp made his knees ache, which always put him in a foul mood. “Have you gone deaf? Stop lazing about with that book and go make me something to eat.”

  “When I have finished reading,” said Morigna, not looking up from the book. “I will…”

  The Old Man growled, stalked closer, and slapped her across the face.

  He did that often. After her seventh birthday, he never used magic to chastise her, only the slaps. And he rarely hit her that hard, as if he feared inflicting permanent damage upon her. But Morigna hated it nonetheless.

  And this time, something within her snapped.

  “Get away from me!” she roared, flinging out her hands. The book toppled to the floor, and earth magic came at Morigna’s call. The floor beneath the Old Man rippled, and he stumbled, his eyes wide.

  Morigna pushed away from the chair and ran out the door, ignoring the Old Man’s furious shouting. Her hunting pack, with her bow and arrows, waited near the door. She took it and ran, taking the path down the hill, leaving the Old Man’s cottage and its defensive wards behind.

  A few days later she sat near the ruins of her parents’ cottage, gazing at the empty stone shell of the walls. Weeds had conquered her mother’s garden, and only a few mossy planks remained of her father’s skinning table. In another hundred years, there would be no sign that anyone had ever lived here.

  It made the Old Man’s talk of strength seem so futile. What good was strength, when it all ended in death?

  Night fell, and Morigna made a fire in the hearth and slept in the ruins, dreaming of blood and darkness.

  The next morning, she still had no wish to return to the Old Man, so she hunted and cooked herself breakfast. The next morning she felt the same, and the next, until two months had passed.

  And still she did not want to return to him. With her skill at magic and her knowledge of the wilderness, she had no need to return.

  But in time she needed supplies she could not procure for herself, and so she went to the town of Moraime. The townsmen regarded her with suspicion, and whispered stories of the sorcerer of the hills and his mysterious apprentice, but proved willing to barter for her deer and pheasants. Soon she had good boots, a cloak she altered for camouflage, a sharp dagger, and a number of other useful things. A small cave some distance northwest of the town provided shelter, and after some work, became quite comfortable and warm.

  Morigna had everything she needed.

  Though sometimes she felt a nagging loneliness.

  Still, there was strength in solitude, and she had vowed never to be weak again. Certainly she never felt the desire to go back to the Old Man.

  Four years passed.

  ###

  Soon after her sixteenth birthday, Morigna prowled through the marshes, following the trail of a deer, hunting bow ready in her hands.

  The marshes stretched east of the town of Moraime, a vast expanse of stagnant water, grassy hillocks, and towering trees draped in cords of long, ropy moss. A causeway of broken stone and heaped earth wound its way through the swamps. The Old Man had told her that some long-dead orcish warlord of Vhaluusk had raised the causeway to speed the armies of his dark elven overlord, but the orcs of the marshes had destroyed themselves after decades of fighting, leaving only ruined fortresses, burial mounds, and the causeway in their wake.

  Morigna didn’t mind the causeway. The deer kept to it, avoiding the waters and the swamp drakes that lurked among the trees, which made the deer all the easier to stalk. Morigna moved forward at a quiet but steady pace, a spell permitting her to sense the deer’s simple thoughts. The beast was not much farther ahead. Morigna heard the noise of the marshes, the buzz of the insects, the splash of water, the calls of birds…

  Suddenly a new sensation flooded the deer’s mind.

  Pure, unreasoning terror.

  It was not the fear of a predator, or the fear of humans. This was something else. A fear so unreasoning, so overwhelming, that the deer would willingly run into a pack of wolves to escape it.

  All around Morigna the marsh went silent.

  She lowered her bow and looked around. Something, it seemed, had made the local wildlife flee in unreasoning terror or go completely motionless, hoping to evade notice. But evade notice from what? What could inspire such a reaction? A wyvern, perhaps, or a swamp drake? Yet that made no sense. Certainly a swamp drake or a wyvern inspired fear, but not this unreasoning, mindless terror.

  Morigna took another few steps forward, and saw the deer.

  It lay upon its side, its belly torn open, blood and entrails spilling upon the ground. Its head lay a few yards from the carcass, the glassy eyes staring at Morigna. A rippling blur hovered over the carcass, seeming to rip chunks from the deer.

  She stared at the blur, baffled. She had never seen anything quite like it, but it tugged at a memory, something both her father and the Old Man had mentioned…

  The blur seemed to turn, staring at her…and then it solidified into a ghastly shape. It looked like some grotesque hybrid of ape and wolf, its eyes glowing with crimson light, its black, matted fur hanging off its lean frames in ropy strings. The eyes regarded her with malevolent intent, and Morigna felt the weight of the creature’s gaze like a physical blow.

  It was an urvaalg, one of the war beasts of the dark elves, a creature fashioned of mutated flesh and dark magic. The dark elven kingdoms had been destroyed long ago, but their war beasts remained, prowling through the Wilderland. Only magic could kill an urvaalg, and while the people of Andomhaim lived beneath the protection of the magic of the Swordbearers and the Magistri, the people of the Wilderland had to fend for themselves.

  Morigna loosed an arrow. It slammed into the urvaalg’s chest, and the creature rocked back with a snarl. But the arrow seemed to do it little harm, and the urvaalg prowled forward on all fours, the muscles bunching beneath its stringy coat.

  Morigna raised a hand and summoned magic and directed her will towards the urvaalg and its mind. She had used the spell to escape from predators before, her magic compelling them to turn and leave…

  But her magic slammed against the wall of rage and hatred filling the urvaalg’s mind. The creature was much smarter than a common wolf, and unlike a common wolf, its thoughts boiled with malice. A wolf would not delight in cruelty, would not kill simply for the sake of killing.

  An urvaalg, as a reflection of its creators, would.

  The beast moved closer, its motions almost hypnotic. Morigna cursed and took a step back, her mind racing. Trying to control its thoughts had been an error. Had she fled, the urvaalg might have been content to dine upon its kill. But now it saw her as a threat, and it was going to kill her.

  Morigna cast another spell. A column of white mist appeared before her and rolled over the urvaalg. The beast reared back with an ear-splitting snarl of fury and rage, the acidic mist eating into its flesh. Unlike the arrow, the magical mist seemed to hurt it. She gritted her teeth, concentrating as she poured more power into the spell. If she could maintain the spell long enough, the mist would cripple or kill the urvaalg.

  But her concentration would not hold, and the spell ended.

  The urvaalg shook itself, smoke rising from its charred flanks and limbs. She had burned it badly, but the urvaalg did not seem distressed by its wounds.

  It did, however, appear quite angry.

  The urvaalg sprang, and Morigna cast another spell. The ground beneath the urvaalg’s claws rippled and snapped like a banner caught in the wind. The spell knocked the urvaalg over, and the beast slipped and skidded down the side of the causeway, trying to catch its balance.

  Morigna sprinted as fast as her legs could carry her.

  A moment later the urvaalg was after her, moving in eerie silen
ce. She could not possibly outrun the creature. Her eyes fixed on a nearby tree. If she could get high enough, she could get out of the urvaalg’s reach.

  Or it would simply wait until hunger and thirst exhausted her and caused her to fall from the branches.

  Or it would use its unnatural strength to climb after her.

  Morigna kept running, and felt the urvaalg close.

  She wasn’t even going to make it to the tree.

  She drew a deep breath for one last burst of speed…and then a flash of dazzling white light filled the world.

  White fire slammed into the urvaalg and flipped the creature over. The beast righted itself with a snarl, and Morigna saw a hideous burn seared across its right flank, the air heavy with the stench of charred fur and flesh. The urvaalg took a step forward and again a blast of white flame hammered into the creature.

  The urvaalg turned and fled into the marshes, soon vanishing amongst the grasses.

  Morigna turned, breathing hard, and saw a tall, gaunt figure walking toward her, clad in a long, ragged coat of gray wool. The figure’s face was lined, a wispy beard hanging from his jaw and chin, and…

  “You,” said Morigna.

  “Child,” said the Old Man.

  He stopped a few paces away, staring at her.

  “One would suppose,” said the Old Man, “that gratitude would be in order.”

  Morigna sniffed. “Why? Perhaps I would have preferred a horrible grisly death in lieu of speaking to you again.”

  But there was less venom in her words than she intended. He was smaller than she remembered, frailer, weaker. Actually, he hadn’t changed at all, but she had grown taller and stronger. The Old Man still looked tough and lean, but if he tried to lay a hand upon her, she could likely give him a thrashing.

  The Old Man scoffed. “Perhaps I should have let the urvaalg eat you.”

  Morigna swallowed. “Thank you.”

  His smirk was just as infuriating as she remembered. That, at least, had not changed.

  “What are you even doing here?” said Morigna. The Old Man had often wandered through the hills, but he had only rarely come down to the marshes.

  “Following you, of course,” said the Old Man.

  “What?” said Morigna.

  “I have kept an eye on you,” said the Old Man. “After all, one does feel a modicum of responsibility for your welfare, even after you so churlishly departed. Though in truth you needed little supervision. I was surprised at how well you took care of yourself. Perhaps even impressed. I expected you to starve after a few weeks, but not to…thrive as you have. It seems you absorbed my teachings on strength after all.”

  Despite herself, his praise pleased Morigna.

  “But,” said the Old Man, “the Wilderland is still a dangerous place, and you are not equipped to face all the foes you might encounter.”

  “I am not going to live with you again,” said Morigna. “I refuse.” Better to have been eaten by the urvaalg."

  His smile was thin. “I knew that. But your magic has grown by leaps and bounds. You, dear child, might become the most powerful human wielder of earth magic this world has ever seen.” He cackled. “That would teach those fools in the Magistri a thing or two, wouldn’t it?”

  “So what do you want?” said Morigna.

  “Let me teach you more…advanced lessons,” said the Old Man. “There is no need to live with me. Come and go as you please. But I will teach you to better control and harness your magic.”

  Morigna said nothing. The offer was tempting. She wished to become stronger…and the Old Man had power and knowledge. She could put it to good use.

  “Strength is necessary to survive in this world,” said the Old Man, “and knowledge is a form of strength. There are only two kinds of people, child.” The familiar words echoed inside her head. “The strong…and the slaves. Which will you choose to be?”

  Morigna remembered the cottage burning, remembered her mother screaming. If she had then the magic that she possessed now, she could have slowed the dvargir long enough for Litavis and Maria to escape. They could still be together.

  “Strong,” she whispered.

  “Good,” said the Old Man. “Come along. There is still daylight to use…and I have much to teach.”

  ###

  For the next two years, Morigna visited the Old Man’s cottage on a regular basis, and he taught her many things.

  He explained how to use magic to cleanse her blood of poison, to wield greater power over animals. He also taught her to command plants, to make wood and leaf bend to her will. She thought that a useless skill, until he explained how the spell could also control dead wood…such as the wood in the shafts of spears and swords. Using his teaching, she carved herself a staff and enchanted it to augment and enhance her power over plants, but he confiscated it, claiming it was too dangerous.

  Morigna doubted that.

  More and more, she knew enough to realize he was avoiding specific areas of magic, no doubt ones that would allow her to threaten him. Not that she wished to kill him. She did not like him, but why kill him? Would she kill him and rule over his filthy cottage and his rocky hill?

  Hardly.

  Did he intend her as a weapon against his enemies? Given how he complained endlessly about the Magistri, the church, and the nobles of Andomhaim, she suspected that he had many enemies, that he had been forced to flee Andomhaim into exile.

  And the Old Man had the sort of personality that won enemies.

  Still, her magic grew stronger under his instruction, strong enough that she doubted he could force her to do anything against her will. If he tried to use her as a weapon against men she had never met, she would simply vanish into the Wilderland.

  He taught her several times a week for two years, until the day she went hunting shortly after her eighteenth birthday.

  ###

  Morigna was in a mood for turkey stew, and lean, tough turkeys wandered the hills in large numbers. The townsmen captured many and raised them as livestock, but it was easy to track the birds and shoot them. The biggest danger was drawing the attention of another predator.

  She found a pack of turkeys at the bottom of a ravine, pecking at the grass. Morigna sighted upon the biggest male and raised her bow, taking time to aim. She could have used her magic to command the bird to remain still, but that took all the challenge out of it, and Morigna liked challenges.

  She took a deep breath, drew back her bow…and before she could release, another arrow blurred from the far side of the ravine slammed into the turkey. The bird dropped dead, and the rest of the turkeys scattered in all directions.

  Morigna encountered other hunters from time to time, most of them men from the town of Moraime. They knew well enough to leave the witch of the hills alone, though from time to time she bartered with a few of the bolder ones. Sometimes she met groups of pagan orcs hurrying on business of their own, or renegades from Andomhaim. A few of those wanderers had seen her as easy prey.

  They knew better, now. Those she had left alive, anyway.

  Morigna loosed a shaft, pinning one of the smaller male turkeys, and descended the rocky hillside. She wanted turkey stew, and she would not return without a kill.

  The other hunter came into sight as she reached the bottom of the ravine.

  He was about twenty-five, dressed in brown and green, a short bow in his hand, a quiver and a sheathed longsword at his belt. He was broad and strong, with wide shoulders and a thick shock of brown hair over a weathered face.

  He stopped, looked at her, and blinked several times.

  Morigna fingered her bow, wondering what he would do.

  “I am sorry,” he said at last. “Were these your turkeys?”

  “No,” said Morigna. “They were wild. You shot the largest one first, it is yours. The smaller one is mine. I do not require much food.”

  He inclined his head. “That is gracious of you, my lady.”

  Morigna laughed. “My lady? Why do you
call me that? I am no noblewoman.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said the man. “So instead of my lady, what shall I call you? A lowborn churl, perhaps? If so, I command you to clean my bird, cook it for me, and fetch me a cup of beer while you’re at it.”

  She laughed again at his audacity. His boldness amused her, and she did not laugh often. The Old Man was not one for wit. “If you do, you shall regret it sorely.”

  “Aye, I suppose I would,” said the man. “If that shot with the bow was no fluke.”

  “It was not,” said Morigna.

  “And I suppose you have other powers, aye?” said the hunter. “If I speak disrespectfully, you’ll turn me into a frog? Or use your magic to put a curse on my member and keep it forever limp?”

  “I neither possess nor desire any knowledge of your member,” said Morigna, “and how did you know I have magic?”

  She rebuked herself. Perhaps he had been guessing. If so, she had just admitted it to him, which was foolish. The Old Man had taught her many things, but how to talk to a handsome man was not one of them.

  Did she think the hunter handsome?

  “A woman traveling alone in the hills with a bow,” said the hunter. “Clearly, you must be the famed witch of the hills about whom I have heard so much. Though I did not expect someone like you.”

  “Oh,” said Morigna. “What did you expect, then?”

  “Some bent old crone with warts larger than her teeth, if she had any left,” said the hunter. “Or some great quivering fat woman, like the town’s midwife. I swear the woman has folds so deep she could lose an infant in them and not notice until the child starts wailing.”

  Despite herself, Morigna laughed at the sheer absurdity of the image. “How…colorful. Well, you know who I am, so who the devil are you?”

  The hunter sketched a courtly bow. “Sir Nathan Vorinus of Moraime, my lady witch.”

  She knew the name, or at least his family name. A knight named Sir Michael Vorinus was the praefectus of Moraime, and he was a dour, humorless man. Once or twice he had questioned Morigna when she came to the town to barter, but she never made trouble, so he had let her alone.