Magic, Sorcery and Witchcraft

by Stas Borodin

  “We use a lot of foreign words now,” I added. “It is easier to travel; the world has become a safer place, and people don’t have to spend most of their lives locked behind the walls of their native towns.”

  “You’re right, my boy,” agreed the old wizard. “With the construction of the Insara track our entire culture has changed. Everything has changed.”

  The librarian placed several books on the table and nodded at me. “Take a look, please; I’m interested in your opinion.”

  I reached out and took the first book. It was very unusual for it wasn’t rectangular. It looked like a circle cut in half. The cover was made of yellow snakeskin, and the metal clasps looked like entwined human fingers.

  “Wow!” I exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

  “It is a Utrukian book,” said Master Raydun. “Utruks used to make their paper in the shape of a circle; afterwards it was bent in half to make it that shape. When the book was closed, it was called a half-moon, when it was opened, it turned into a full moon.”

  “It’s amazing!” I exclaimed, touching the cool book cover with my fingertips. “And where do these Utruks live?”

  “Nowhere, unfortunately.” The Master Librarian shook his head. “Five hundred years ago, they were completely wiped out by a nomad invasion. Their cities were razed to the ground, statues shattered, books burned. All that was left of them you hold now in your hands.”

  I felt uneasy. It was just beyond my comprehension. I held in my hands the only evidence of a once-existing civilization!

  “The Utruks were a nation of great healers and the demise of their civilization pushed the development of modern medicine back for thousands of years. It is a true miracle that this very book survived. Thanks to it, we have learned to perform complex operations, saving many lives each day.”

  Very carefully, almost reverently, I returned the book to the table. “Now I understand why you spend so much time in here.” I looked around the dark cluttered room.

  “Yes, my boy,” Master Raydun smiled. “Being a humble librarian has proved to be more fruitful than being the Supreme Wizard. Many years ago I gave that mantle to my best disciple, and I must admit that he is better suited to the job than I’ve ever been.” The Master Librarian smiled again.

  “I have heard that you help some students,” I ventured.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t spare much time. All I can do is show direction, to nudge those who are stuck, to help them to feel the solid path underfoot once again. This I can do, but the rest of the way they must tread by themselves.”

  I picked up another book. It had the usual rectangular shape and two braided cords with knots on the ends instead of metal clasps. The cover was made of smoothly polished wood planks covered with carved fish scales. This book smelled of sea and salt.

  I opened the first page and froze. It was a collection of maps. They were so painstakingly and carefully drawn that I held my breath in admiration. The craftsmanship of these mapmakers was astonishing. I remembered the white patches on the royal maps of Lieh; these were the impenetrable forests of the north, untrodden wastelands and vast steppes of the east, with no roads and no landmarks.

  “What a wonderful map!” I exclaimed, looking at the oddly shaped letters. “What lands are depicted here?”

  “Nobody knows,” the Master Librarian sighed. “No one knows where it came from and what language it is.”

  I returned the atlas to the table and wondered, “How many mysteries your workshop holds!”

  “You cannot even imagine,” Master Raydun nodded. “To solve them all, even ten human lives wouldn’t be enough.”

  I stared reverently at the treasures scattered everywhere. On the tables, benches, and just piled up on the floor.

  “I have found a few books too,” I remembered. “But they were written in languages unknown to me and I couldn’t even read the title.”

  The Master Librarian listened patiently to my story about the treasure and books hidden in the warlock’s saddlebag.

  “These books have a will of their own. They wanted to be found,” said Master Raydun, looking as if through me. For a moment he became distant, absorbed in his thoughts. I took a hold of the mysterious atlas and quietly turned the pages, trying not to distract the librarian.

  “Can you show me the Tear of Rothe?” he asked after a long pause. “The Tear of the Heart, as your Sertes friend called it.”

  “Of course I can!” I exclaimed, taking the stone from my neck and offering it to the Master Wizard.

  “Just put it on the table,” he said. “I do not want to touch it.”

  I placed the stone on the table and drew back.

  Master Raydun stared at the stone intently. His eyebrows rose from time to time, his lips twitched, whispering something inaudible, and his bony fingers dug hard into the table top.

  “The very Tear of Rothe!” he said, catching his breath. “Many have sought it and many have given their lives trying to find it. And here it is in front of me, on a greasy cord, set in golden wire!” Master Raydun looked at me. “But if the Sertes didn’t dare to take it, how could I? What do you think?”

  “Take it please, Master!” I cried. “I don’t have a clue what to do with this stone, but if you know how to put it to better use, then by all means take it!”

  “It’s not that simple.” The librarian shook his head. “This stone has chosen you, and with you it should stay. Anyone who tries to take it by force or cunning will not go unpunished.”

  “Then please tell me what’s so special about this stone,” I asked. “The Sertes didn’t want to tell me anything.”

  “The Sertes people are wise,” Master Raydun said. “If they chose to remain silent, this means that my mouth should stay sealed as well.”

  I wanted to protest, but Master Raydun stopped me with a wave of his hand. “Do not tell anyone about the stone, and ask no one about it. You will find all the answers in due course. The knowledge you seek will come to you at the appointed hour, but for now you should forget about the stone. Pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  The Master Wizard took a handful of sand from a copper bowl and poured it over the Tear of Rothe. He covered it with his palm and pressed down with such a force that the table’s legs creaked. Then he lifted his hand and blew the sand off. I saw a beautiful green stone with gold veins lying on the table.

  “I have sealed the Tear of Rothe in this pretty trinket,” said the wizard. “Now you both should be safe.”

  He took the amulet from the table, fastened the cord around my neck and stepped back admiring the results. “Good, now it looks like an ordinary ward. Not the cheapest one, but not one worth killing for.”

  “And what about my hat?” I smiled, stroking the smooth cool stone. “Is it worth killing for?”

  “You bet!” Master Raydun nodded seriously. “You should be accompanied by a dozen bodyguards when you wear it, or you risk having it stolen, along with your worthless head.”

  “Is it really made of dragon’s skin?” I couldn’t resist the question.

  “Who knows?” said Master Raydun. “It is said that beyond the Mist Ocean there is a land where dragons still dwell. They tell stories about a tribe of fearless hunters who know how to steal a baby dragon from the dragon’s lair.”

  “Is it all true?” I gasped. “That’s why it is so expensive?”

  “Who knows?” Master Raydun shook his head. “Those are the tales. One thing is certain; your hat is made from the skin of a very rare lizard.”

  I was a bit disappointed. For a brief moment the Master Librarian had opened the door into a magical world inhabited by mythical creatures, but now he shut it before my very eyes.

  “Don’t lose heart,” the wizard smiled. “Dragons do exist. I personally have had the privilege to be acquainted with one!”

  It was too much! Perhaps it was another wizard’s puzzle.

  “Don’t laugh at me!” I pleaded. “You said yourself that you don’t be
lieve in their existence, and now you claim to be acquainted with one of them.”

  “I am not joking,” the Master Wizard reassured me. “It’s a real dragon and your fates are entwined forever.”

  Then I finally realized who the dragon was.

  “Are you talking about Master Keandr?”

  “The same one known also as the Dragon of Lieh,” the magician nodded. “He spent a few days with me at the Academy before sailing south, and he seems to have a soft spot for you.”

  He gathered the books from the table and returned them to their places.

  “Master Keandr told me about your unusual Gift – to be in the right place at the right time. He was impressed.”

  I stood with my mouth open; no one had spoken about my Gift before.

  “Master Raydun,” I said, “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure that I do have a Gift. Don’t get me wrong, I’m infinitely grateful for the opportunity to be here, and especially for the opportunity to study under your wonderful teachers, but I tell you honestly, I do feel like I’m wasting my time.”

  The Master Wizard sighed. “I see. So you honestly believe that this was all just a set of circumstances?” He squinted at me slyly. “Do you think that everything that has happened to you up to now happened by chance?”

  I nodded and looked away, inspecting my boots.

  “You see, my friend, I’m a very old man, but in all my years I was blessed with less adventure than you have had in the course of just a few months,” Master Raydun said. “But that is not all. You’re not just an observer. At the most crucial moment you act and you change the very future.”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “Master Keandr calls you… the Hand of Destiny!”

  Chapter 4

  All this talk gave me a headache, and all my dreams were filled with nightmares. I woke up in the middle of the night bathed in cold sweat; through the frantic drumming of my heart came a faint scratching sound from behind the front door. I leaped out of bed barefoot, crept to the window, parted the curtains and peered out. The street was empty, only bright rectangles of light came from Ice’s windows.

  Careful not to make a noise, I pulled the latch and opened the door. There was nothing there except for a white envelope lying on my threshold. I looked around, grabbed the piece of paper and slammed the door shut.

  I went to the table and lit the lamp.

  “If you value your life, come at midnight to Orvad’s Temple,” I read. There was faint smell of perfume coming from the paper. Was it written by a woman? I examined the envelope carefully, but found nothing that could confirm my conjecture.

  I left the letter lying on the table; and once again plunged into the domain of nightmares.

  I got up early in the morning and decided not to wait for Ice, who had spent the last couple of days lounging till noon. I quickly packed my books and rushed to the dining hall. I was trying not to miss the lectures marked in my schedule, even if I couldn’t understand a thing.

  The auditorium was still half-empty and I was able to choose a good place to sit.

  Master Kaledir was a sight to behold. His dark-blue velvet jacket was embroidered with silver thread and large pearls. He wore dark red stockings, soft yellow suede shoes, and a matching beret decorated with gleaming Arro feathers.

  In hushed voices, the students began to discuss the lecturer’s outfit, watching him settle down behind the lectern and leisurely lighting his pipe.

  The hall gradually filled up with freshmen. They weren’t much interested in Master Kaledir’s lecture but were eager to heed his advice on the ever-changing Paarian fashion.

  “Look how the feather complements the yellow suede shoes,” one of the students spoke respectfully. “If not for it, the integrity of the whole composition would be lost.”

  “I don’t like such strong colour accents,” his pal retorted. “Anything but yellow! It’s kinda vulgar, you know. A red feather would be more to my liking.”

  “And red shoes,” another student snorted. “You could join the Blockheads then.”

  “My dear Goofs!” Master Kaledir released a long stream of aromatic smoke. “Yellow is by no means vulgar. Moreover, in some countries, it is considered to be a royal colour. You will see what I mean if you visit Mercuro’s more often.” The wizard examined his audience meticulously. “I must stress again and again: you shouldn’t try to keep up with fashion, you should be ahead of it!”

  Pens furiously scratched paper; the students were writing down every word, at least those related to the fine art of clothing.

  “However, our present lecture has nothing to do with fashion. We will conduct a few amusing experiments and find out which way the wind blows in the arcane world.”

  The wizard sucked on his long silver pipe. Smoke streamed from his nostrils, forming a sort of thundercloud in front of the lectern.

  “Some of you, my dear goat herders, still believe that we can teach you magic.” The cloud of smoke slowly crept across the floor, swallowing the front row of seats, making the students cough and sneeze. “Some of you still believe that it is enough to learn a few spells, to make your eyes shoot lightning bolts and your arses fart thunder. This will not happen, my friends! Keep that in your meagre little minds!”

  I was sitting at the very top of the amphitheatre, and couldn’t help laughing as I looked at the Goofs coughing and sneezing.

  “This is not funny, my friend.” The wizard shook his head, not even looking at me. “It is very sad. Sad and disappointing. It saddens me greatly when yet another student approaches me asking to teach him some ‘real’ spells. He thinks he has spent enough time sleeping through Master Kaledir’s lectures, and now he is ready to learn some hardcore stuff.” The wizard shook his fist, imitating an enraged Blockhead. “I want my Eye Lightning and Arse Thunder!”

  The audience giggled.

  “The poor bastard feels cheated; he thinks we care not about him, only about his money.”

  One of the students rose from his seat. “Teach me some spells!” he yelled menacingly. “Or else!”

  “Here we go,” Master Kaledir chuckled. “Ask me again when you start to understand fashion like our Master Grimm.”

  The students glanced at me with unconcealed hostility. They knew about my Amrus hat and Mercuro suits.

  “With your permission, I shall continue.” The magician bowed. “Let’s talk about spells. What are they? Who knows the answer?”

  “It’s just a verbal vibration of air,” said a student in a rich brocade waistcoat.

  “No, you are wrong.” The magician lifted a finger. “Spells do possess a certain power, or rather, they have power over the spell-caster. They can soothe, they can help to concentrate, or even give courage.”

  “Like a soldier’s paean, that they sing as they march into battle?” I asked.

  “A good example,” Master Kaledir nodded. “You may call it a soldier’s magic. It helps to raise the warriors’ battle spirit, helps them to be a part of something bigger, to feel the power of unity in the face of danger.”

  “Then why do warlocks use them all the time? They have heaps of books filled with spells,” another student asked. “You really don’t need different ones just to calm down or concentrate. One or two should suffice.”

  “That question remains open,” said the wizard. “In general, warlocks are pretty unfriendly folk; they don’t like talk, preferring bloodletting and gut spilling. However, dear Vasias, if you happen to run into one of them, be sure to question him personally.”

  The audience laughed. Master Kaledir took a drag of his pipe and the fragrant smoke flooded the auditorium. The smell was rather pleasant, but it tickled my throat and made my eyes water. The students started to sneeze once again.

  “Warlocks lack a proper academic education,” said Master Kaledir. “Therefore they don’t understand the true nature of witchcraft, sincerely believing in the power of their incantations. These spells may actually help them a lot; guiding them and making it easier to r
esonate with the Mana itself.”

  “Warlocks also use Mana?” asked a redheaded student in the first row. “But you taught us that wizards and warlocks draw their power from completely different sources.”

  “You got it wrong, Faris. Mana is the only source of power.” Master Kaledir raised his finger to the ceiling. “All magicians use it, but in different ways.”

  “Last week we read about the warlock who proved to be even more powerful than wizards,” said a student in a waistcoat. “How is that possible if they don’t even know how to use the Mana? How is this possible if the warlocks, as you say, are no better than a poorly trained wizard?”

  “My dear Bestos,” said Master Kaledir, “what are you doing among the Goofs? I think it’s time for you to join the ranks of Scholars!”

  Embarrassed, the student glanced sideways at his giggling pals.

  “Indeed, there were powerful warlocks in the past,” the wizard went on. “I think their Gift was so strong that they subconsciously knew what to do with it. Don’t get me wrong, it took time, a lot of time, countless experiments with the Mana, some occasional explosions here and there, but a couple of hundreds of corpses later, if he was still alive, a powerful warlock could emerge!

  “Take, for example, Khan Hazark, who ruled over the Alims three hundred years ago. He united the nomadic tribes under his supreme rule and made all the Middleland Kingdoms his grazing ground. From the borders of the Wasteland to the shores of the Inland Sea. Many wizards perished trying to defy his magic. Insana, Istra, Ilieh, Ileu and Irragu were burned down. Paara’s fate was secured only when the allied forces bested him in the last bloody battle at Annuvir’s Gates.”

  The wizard sucked his pipe once again. This time the smoke curled into a tight spiral and drifted outside through the open window.

  “It’s lucky for us he wasn’t Academy trained,” Master Kaledir chuckled, “otherwise he would have been unbeatable.”

  “He was exhausted by the witchcraft?” I asked.

  “I think so, Master Grimm,” the wizard replied. “He was on the very brink of madness, and his own generals were terrified of him. It is believed that Hazark was poisoned by one of his wives. That is why the allies managed to stop the invasion.”