by Blaine Hart
“My dad has been attacked by a harpy.”
Vygarast had a hard time staying put and not running for his house as fast as he was able. As his master, Lanarast the Bold held him up and forced him to tell the whole story. The young man was no longer so sure he should have come after him. Maybe I should have gone straight to the healer.
“Let me get this straight,” he repeated, “your father was attacked by a harpy? A real harpy? Like the harpy witches of the myth?”
Vygarast quieted as he started to recite the whole story again. “I was walking Noelene to the mansion when I saw my father on the ground just outside our home. When I got to his side, he said “witch harpy” and then would ramble on incoherently about the witch cursing him and harpies in the sky. His back has two great injuries, like a wild animal had attacked him. By the time I took him inside our house, he had passed out and was barely breathing.”
The young man saw deep lines forming on Vygarast’s forehead. He was troubled, and for the first time in Vygarast’s life, he looked his age. “You can’t tell anyone about this… alright? Not Noelene, not your friends, not anyone! Harpies are creatures of myth, monsters that have the power to use magic without instruments. Even for us half-elves, that is not an easy task. Now quickly, bring me to your father!”
They could see Vygarast’s house in the distance as they quickly jogged to it. Noelene was outside, standing close to the door, waiting for them. Vygarast fell deep into his thoughts, running his hand through his black hair and trying to make sense of his master’s words. “So, is it true? My father was cursed by a witch harpy of myth? But. . .how? Why? I mean, I knew my father was also a Bard for a couple years, but he’s not so gifted in magic as we are. I don’t understand why a harpy would attack him.”
“Neither do I, Vygarast.” Lanarast replied calmly. For now we have to find out if your father is indeed cursed.” Lanarast pulled his flute from his overcoat.
Vygarast was curious now, trying to figure out why his master brought out his flute. “Is there a song that could cure him? Or let us know if he had been touched by dark magic?”
Even though they were in a great hurry, Lanarast stopped what he was doing and glared at young Vygarast with his piercing green eyes. “There is no dark, or light magic son. Magic is a unity, a great flow of things that exist. If you use the same spell to help, or do harm, then the dark one is you, not your magic. Remember that... it may save your life one day.”
Vygarast took a step back, startled by his master serious note. He had never seen him so concerned, not once in his whole life. “I’m sorry master. You’re right. It was my fault. But how can a curse be the same as a song that we cast? I still don’t get it.”
Lanarast returned to his long strides, and Vygarast was the one now trying to keep up. “A curse usually takes something out of the caster’s body, and infuses it with something from the victim’s. For example, I could use my blood to cast a spell of healing on you, and I could also add a lock of your hair, then the same spell modified a bit could suddenly harm you. It’s a complicated process, one that no one should have to know, not me, not you, not anyone. But during war, there were many times that I was called to lift curses from other Bards.”
Just a couple strides away from their house, Vygarast was suddenly hit by renewed hope. “So that means you can lift it, right?”
“We’ll see son, we’ll see.”
As they arrived at the house, Noelene had a shocked expression on her face. Vygarast urged his master to go inside so he could talk to his friend. “What is going on Vygarast? Why did you call for master Lanarast and not the healer?” asked Noelene with a concerned expression on her face.
He combed her hair with his hand, trying to calm her down. “Lanarast is a veteran of many wars and my father always warned me when I was younger that if there was ever a problem then to contact Lanarast immediately. I’m not sure what is going on, but it would be better if you left.”
Noelene grabbed Vygarast’s smooth hand and intertwined her fingers with his. “I think someone cursed him Vygarast,” she said with her voice lowered so that master Lanarast could not hear. “He kept gibbering on about harpies and witches while you were gone. I think someone used dark magic on him.” She said shivering.
She then leaned in to kiss him quickly, wished him good luck, then she left, never turning her head back even for a moment. What if she’s right, what if someone cast a terrible curse on him?
He took a deep breath and stepped inside the house. His master had already started singing The Long Tale of Etna and River; a healing spell that was said to be able to remove any traces of malicious magic. It was called long for a reason and as Vygarast walked in; his master was just completing the first verse.
It was a difficult spell, one that needed the utmost focus, steep changes to the musical rhythm, and even some vocal parts that only the best of Bards could sing. Lanarast was one of the best, that was true, but his version was a bit choppy and at some points even discordant.
Vygarast wanted to tell him that he was doing it wrong, but who was he to challenge a legend among the Bards? It was easily half an hour later that they started seeing results to the singing. During that time, Vygarast had contemplated every possible outcome of this casting. He knew that this song was strong and he hoped that it would not be enough.
Magic cast with instruments is ten times stronger than regular magic. It was like the wooden flute was putting the flows of magic through a prism. That way, instead of making one strong, dangerous flow, it was able to drain only a thread of it at a time, making it less dangerous. At least, that was what his master had told him. But creatures of the past did not use instruments in their magic. If that was true. . .
A flash of light blinded both the men inside the room. The song was suddenly over, and Ornsell was still lying on his bed, unable to move. However, his wounds had been healed and there was no apparent reason why he still couldn’t move.
“Damn it!” Lanarast said suddenly after several minutes of waiting. “This is not good boy. Your father is cursed by a creature of myth. There is no Bard in the whole kingdom that can lift his curse, not without casting solely with his hands. And for that to work, someone would have to recite the whole Etna and River bare, meaning sure death, or at the very least madness before the song would even be completed. This is bad, son, really bad.”
Vygarast could not help but think of all those nights that he and his father used to spend alone. His mother, an elf of the woods, did not age like humans and as a half-elf himself, he would be blessed with a long life if he was lucky. Eventually his mother left, unable to bear the sight of his father as he aged and leaving the two of them alone to survive out in Midvein.
He couldn’t, he wouldn’t forgive himself if his father died from magic, the same magic he wanted to use to become a legend like his master. Vygarast felt the burdens of regret weighing on his shoulder. He was always out, having fun with his friends. It was his fault that his father was cursed. He knew that somehow, he could have helped him if he was out there with him like he was supposed to be that day.
“Step outside master. If there is someone that should get hurt to lift that curse, that should be me.” Instead of Lanarast scolding him, the man started laughing, getting on young Vygarast’s nerves. “Have you gone mad as well master?”
He stood up and rested his hand on Vygarast’s shoulder. He put on a serious expression but there was a twinkle in his eyes. “There is still hope. Tell me, Vygarast, do you know the legend of the Owl Wizard?”
Chapter 3 : The Jewel of the North
Vygarast was standing on a hilltop, two spans away from a town named Crowfair. He could hear the commotion coming from the outer side of the walls as clearly as if he was standing next to it.
Probably an early Spring festival is on the way, or traders flocking in front of the gates, Vygarast thought as he took a long glance ahead of him before starting for the town. Either way, it was not his business to care
about festivals right now as was made perfectly clear by his appearance.
Wearing a heavy, dark cloak with the hood on, his face was covered so as to pass unseen by the guards. It was Lanarast’s idea to travel lightly and stealthily. Vygarast couldn’t help but feel indebted to his master after everything he had done to help him. The whole plan to chase after a legend was Lanarast’s, and it was also Vygarast’s only hope of saving his father.
A couple days before, both Vygarast and his master were standing above Ornsell’s paralyzed body. Vygarast was ready to start singing the tale of Etna and River using only his voice, when his master stopped him to tell him an old story that he knew all too well.
“The Greedy Owl-Wizard? The one who would make any wish come true for 1000 gold coins? Wasn’t that supposed to be a fairytale?” Vygarast had told his master then, his hands outstretched and ready to raise his voice.
“As you can see my boy, legends may have started walking on these grounds again. If you want to save your father, then this might be our only hope. ”
The deep-lined former hero took his place next to the hearth, in the rocking chair that Vygarast’s father used to sway for endless hours in. For some reason, the young man felt like a child once again, when he was always bothering his father to tell him another story, grinning next to him by the hearth. The one with the greedy, long-bearded wizard, who asked for golden coins to lift curses, was one of his favorites.
“I know the tale by heart, master.”
“Could you recite it for me?” Lanarast said, glaring straight at the hearth with empty eyes.
“Yes, of course.” Vygarast hummed before starting. “Deep in the forest of Streyln, there was a creature of old. A man and an animal both, with eyes wide like an owl, with a nose hooked and pointy. The Owl-Wizard he was called, and he would make any wish come true for gold. A thousand and one was his price, in coins or gems that would sparkle.”
“That’s enough. Thank you, son. So, do you get it now? If you want to help your father, then you better start with coming up with one thousand and one gold coins first, and then head south to Crowfair in the Streyln woods. It won’t be an easy task, certainly not for a Bard still in training. However, it is our only hope, and I would advise you to follow it. I will tend to your father as much as I can while you’re away, but as he is now, he does not have too long before the dark magic of the curse crushes his soul. I am the only one who will be able to keep him alive and give you enough time to return.”
Vygarast thought about it for a minute, trying to figure out if searching for an old legend was the best solution to his problem. Of course, casting a spell with bare hands was not a good idea, a foolish one in fact. But going after the legend of some greedy owl wizard could be the end of his father’s life, and his, if he was not careful.
“Master Lanarast, tell me. Do you honestly believe that monsters of legend are back in this world?”
Lanrast swung back and forth in the old, wooden rocking chair, creaking the floor boards underneath. He took his time to answer. “I don’t know for sure. There are only tales and fragments of books about the ages of old. Everything we know, we’ve learned from traditions and customs. I don’t believe there is another good reason that we still leave our leftovers outside our houses for luck if that hasn’t something to do with those creatures of the old. However, the Owl-Wizard’s tale is very detailed (too detailed I’d say) to have been spawn from one man’s vivid imagination.”
“But I can’t go away chasing shadows master. Maybe if we try together. . .”
“Listen Vygarast, your father will die if you don’t trust me. I can sustain him with my magic while you are gone, otherwise he will perish quickly. Here, take my flute and lute. They should help you and I have some spares. But you need to go. Time is of the essence. Go to Crowfair and search for signs of other creatures there. Crowfair is a bigger town than Midvein, one that traders pass through all the time. If there is a place where you would hear about old legends or chances for gold, then Crowfair is our best bet.”
Vygarast thought about it for a moment. There was no harm in taking a short trip to Crowfair, not when his master had promised to take care of his father until he returned. Lanarast was right. Everybody on the North side of the Stryqip Bluff knew that rumors and good gold only come from Crowfair in these parts. At least that was what his father had always told to him. If he had a chance of finding something out about monsters and magic, Crowfair was the place.
The young pupil lowered his head in respect and grabbed his master’s instruments from the table. They then talked a bit more about the hardships of the trip, with the path between the two towns still covered in part with heavy snow. Vygarast had taken the trip with his father many times in the past, so he knew the path well enough to travel. They finalized the plans and then Vygarast waited for his master to sing one last song of healing before he left for his home to gather some supplies. As Lanarast left, Vygarast went to sit by his father.
His father was unnaturally still all night, frightening him. What has befallen you father? I swear, I’ll find who did this to you and make them pay. He thought as he got up from beside his father’s bed.
Vygarast spent the rest of the night and the next morning getting ready until Lanarast arrived with a heavy bag of supplies. Some of them were resources for Vygarast, while others were clothes for himself. He was planning to spend his nights here until Vygarast returned. They exchanged some words for good luck and then Lanarast gave him a giant hug.
Vygarast then kissed his father on the cheek, praying that it wouldn’t be the last time he saw him alive. As Vygarast left his home, his heart raged with anger that steeled his will. I’ll be back with a cure and that witches head, father.
Two days of long walks in the frozen edges of the Howling Pass took Vygarast outside Crowfair’s tall walls. Unlike Midvein, on the other side of the Stryqip Bluff (which was mostly called that as a jest to the Southerners who dared travel so far up north), Crowfair was a popular destination for merchants and travelers alike.
‘Those who control the Crow’s Jewel, also control the far sides of the North.’ Everyone used to say that back in Midvein, but after seeing Crowfair now for the first time in five long years, Vygarast was not so sure anyone could call the town a Jewel anymore, not unless they meant the cheap ones.
Getting closer to the town, Vygarast could see many pairs of plump loafers that called themselves guards roam the outer side of the walls. Their laughter could be heard loud and clear even to Vygarast’s ears, who was still a good ways from the main gate. He turned his head in disdain, trying to avoid eye contact with all those worthless souls, as the guards where known to be vicious and thoroughly corrupt. Unfortunately, Crowfair was also known for another reason, for mischievous men and sly women.
“Hey, you, you with the black hood, don’t act like you can’t hear me!” A hoarse voice, one belonging to one of those swine on guard duty, forced him to stop. Vygarast raised his head just an inch, aiming to intimidate the man and at the same time get an eye on the boor that couldn’t even trouble himself from putting down his meal. He was holding a piece of pork’s loin in his right hand, and in his other hand was a half-empty glass of dark red wine.
“Excuse me, guard. Is something wrong?” Vygarast’s voice was sweet and rich. His bright green eyes sparkled as if tiny rays of sunlight fell upon them, the effect enhanced by the raised hood. His green eyes were always a cause of admiration everywhere he went. Likewise, the guard was drawn to their color for a moment before taking a large bite from his pork loin.
Vygarast was a good-looking young man, but certainly not one cut out for fistfights. The guard seemed to understand that all too well, so his brute behavior was magnified by his sense of superiority. Vygarast, however, was an apprentice Bard, and a good one as well. There were reasons his master asked him to travel incognito. Avoiding the King’s men was not the only one.
“If you follow my orders” the guard said with a m
outhful of food, “then we won’t have a problem. His Highness, Lord Digby the First, would feel greatly appreciated if word got to his ears that guests honored,” he put a great emphasis on that word, “the hard-working guards of Crowfair, the North’s Jewel, with a pair of gold coins.”
The man’s sly smile said more than the man intended. This was a polite way, if it could be called anything like that coming from that brood’s mouth, of asking him for a bribe them to let him in without trouble. People like that disgusted Vygarast, so he decided to give the man a good lesson.
“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t know that Lord Digby himself was so closely affiliated to his gate guards. Unfortunately, I’ve just returned from the mines and I’m with empty pockets. Could I reward you instead with an appetizing song, one that would help you enjoy your meal even more?”
The man looked the other members of his bunch only to see them nod excitedly. A good entertainer was a rare occasion in the slums outside the city. A performance, if good enough, was as valuable as a few pieces of gold to some. He knew that if he said no, then it would be like returning a very expensive gift for no good reason.
