Magic, Sorcery and Witchcraft: Book One of Marcus Grimm saga

by Stas Borodin

  Magic, Sorcery and Witchcraft

  by Stas Borodin

  Book One of Marcus Grimm saga

  To my Father

  Edited by Sue Browning

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  At breakfast my father was unusually quiet. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands restless. The previous night I had lain in my bed listening to heavy footsteps coming from his study. I knew something was wrong but didn’t dare ask.

  This morning he was wearing a heavy steel cuirass gilded with gold leaves instead of his usual well-worn leather armour.

  Mother got up and slowly walked over to him. Her nimble fingers quickly skimmed through the straps of the armour, checking that everything was fastened properly. “You were summoned to the palace?” she asked.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid,” Father sighed.

  I squeezed the cup, trying to act normally. I had a bad feeling about this.

  An armoured squire entered the room. In his hands he carried Father’s battle-axe and a shield adorned with the Grimms’ coat of arms – a white owl on a red field. The chain mail on his shoulders rattled gently when he moved.

  “Are you in a hurry, Korn?” Mother stopped him. “Leave it in the courtyard; don’t drag all that iron inside.”

  The squire nodded curtly and with quick steps walked out of the dining room.

  Father looked at my mother reproachfully. “Don’t be angry, Era.” He caught her arm. “He’s only doing his job.”

  “What is it, Dad?” I ventured. “Say it already!”

  Father looked past me at my brother’s portrait hanging on the wall. “We don’t know much,” he said quietly. “A few days ago we got a report about the Dragon Company. It was ambushed in the wilds and wiped out completely. There is no news about your brother, Marcus, but…”

  I held my breath. This couldn’t be true. Our mighty Dragon Company is invincible!

  “It happened twelve days ago, but it was only yesterday that a few survivors managed to get back to Lieh.” Father frowned. “Our kings will pull back the troops from the western borders in order to protect the capital.”

  “But who will protect us while the troops are on their way?” asked Mother. “Your palace guards?”

  Father looked up and smiled. “They are the best!” He gently squeezed her hand. “Remember, I trained these boys myself.”

  “You trained your son as well.” My mother snatched her hand from his fist. “It didn’t do him much good.”

  Father stood up abruptly, his face pale. He clutched the hilt of his sword and headed for the door. “All is not lost. There is still hope! Eran will be back!”

  The door slammed, and Father was gone. I could hear him going down the stairs, his golden spurs jingling on the marble floor.

  Mother sat down heavily in a chair, her hands lying limp in her lap. The butler quietly took the cup from the table, filled it with water and handed it carefully to his mistress. The old servant looked worried too, because his son was my older brother’s squire.

  The day stretched like molasses. First I went to the stables and messed around for a few hours there. Then I went up to the armoury and began to polish the old breastplates and wooden shields. My father’s and brother’s armour stood in rows, like dark silent figures. Plates for tournaments, battle armour, ceremonial vestments. Red, black, silver. The air smelled of leather, metal, and wax. This kind of work had never been a burden to me.

  I admired the skilful weaving of chain mail, the elegant embossing on the ceremonial armour, the orderly rows of tournament lances entwined with black and red ribbons, and the rows of swords standing on the shelves.

  Our ancestors’ armour was more humble, mostly brown leather, with rows of rivets and sewn-on steel plates. In those days, armourers were not as skilful as they are now, and soldiers often went into battle with their bodies covered with just war paint.

  A large two-handed sword, which had belonged to my great-grandfather, hung like giant black cross on the wall next to the other family relics. Our kingdom no longer had giants who could wield an ancient sword, so big and heavy it was.

  I remembered my brother preparing to march. As Merry, his squire, removed the armour from the shelves, checking the strength of the belt and buckles, Eran stood by me and, as I am now, stared at his reflection in the polished steel.

  “I wish I could be like our great-grandfather.” He winked at me. “Marcus was a great warrior.”

  I looked at my brother’s mighty torso, his broad scarred back, and smiled. Eran looked more like our father than I do. As tall and as powerful. And I was more like my mother, in both appearance and character. Why it was I and not my brother who was named after my great-grandfather remained a mystery to everyone.

  “Our great-grandfather was a giant.” Eran threw the ancient cape over his bare shoulders. Its heavy folds streamed across the floor. “To him this cloak was only knee-length!” Putting the relic on a peg, he turned to me, sticking out his mighty chest.

  “You’re still growing up,” I comforted him.

  “It is you who is growing up,” my brother laughed. “And I, I’m afraid, grow only in girth.”

  “Are you crazy?” protested Merry, who was himself a giant. “Where can I find suitable armour for you?”

  The warriors were strong and beautiful and I never missed a chance to watch them putting their battle gear on.

  The heavy oak shields were three fingers thick. Iron-bound, they stood against the wall. I had to strain every muscle in my body to move them about the room.

  Merry coped skilfully with the last clasps and Eran laughed, throwing his shield onto his back where it clanged dully on the armour. Then he strapped a massive spiked mace to his belt and put a battle-axe on his shoulder.

  “Everyone has their own calling, kid.” He patted me on the cheek. “You know, we’re just flesh and steel. We are but shield in your hand. We are the ones who are going to die, but you’re different, kiddo. I hope to see the day when you become a great wizard!”

  I could still hear my brother’s words ringing in my ears, although the armoury was empty. Tears gushed from my eyes. I did not want Eran to die; I did not want him to turn into a heap of dead flesh in some forgotten foreign land.

  With renewed vigour, I set to work once again, trying not to think about what the new day might bring.

  ✽✽✽

  The house was filled with music; I put down my book and went into the living room. Mother was sitting on the balcony, looking at the city walls far below. The human hive boiled with life. It seemed that nothing can ever change the usual course of things.

  “Sail away” by Horst. How long was it since I’d heard this piece!

  I walked quietly to the window, the sad sound of violins flowing in the evening air. The room was filled with shadows. In one of them I noticed the faithful Melvin, ready to appear at the first call of his mistress. Silently I went to the gramophone. The needle hovered gracefully over the rotating disc; the record had been given to Mum by Eran.

  Our house stood high on a cliff, so the whole city lay in front of me as if it was in the palm of my hand. The sun had already gone below the horizon and the street far below was plunged into darkness. Here and there, lights gradually lit up, and soon the city looked like a pile of dying embers. Threads of glowing sparks formed familiar constellations – here Moneylenders Street, there Kings Avenue, and Senate Square.

  Long flags, fluttering on top of the watchtowers, became crimson in the setting sun.

  I went to my mum and gently put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Ma
rcus”—she turned around—“what will happen to us all?”

  “Dad will protect us,” I said softly. “Our kings are the most powerful wizards. When they are together, we have nothing to fear.”

  Mother pressed my hand to her cheek. “And giants fell, and heroes no more…” She quoted the first lines of “The End of Times”.

  “We have a lot of heroes!” I exclaimed, puzzled. Mother has always been strong. The war has lasted for three hundred years, and she knew about it first-hand.

  “I grieve for our heroes.” The tears froze in her eyes. “I see a lot of grief…”

  I knew about my mother’s prophetic abilities and felt the goosebumps on my back.

  Just at that moment, from far below, out of the darkness of the city streets came a terrible howl.

  ✽✽✽

  I ran as fast as I could. As the crow flies, the distance to the city gates is no more than a mile, but following the bizarre twists of streets and alleyways it could take three times longer to get there. To shorten my way I decided to run through the maze of back alleys. Clambering over fences, scaring the chickens and setting dogs barking, diving into darkness, and risking breaking my own neck in the inky black between the houses, I slid to the very foot of the Winter Cliff.

  Shabby old huts clung tightly to each other, piling in some places six to seven stories high. The streets were lit by gas lamps, but they were so rare that gaping holes of darkness formed between them.

  Today, the city was overcrowded. It seemed that all the inhabitants of the Lower Town had poured into the streets. Their faces were all alarmed but, judging by conversations, no one knew exactly what was causing such excitement.

  I heard a woman crying. The crowd swelled like a wave in the direction of the noise and carried me along. I desperately fought back and, clinging to a lamppost, was able to dive into the narrow gap between the pharmacy and laundry. Wriggling like an eel, I squeezed deeper into the darkness. Step by step, I slowly moved forward. Soon I smelled hay and fresh horse shit and heard the excited snorts of horses and a muffled hum of voices.

  A ray of light entered the gap between the houses. The exit to Potters Street. Trying to remain unnoticed, I got out into the open. In front of me, blocking the exit, stood a wagon loaded with large barrels. Without thinking twice, I got down on all fours and crawled between the wheels. I dared not get out, because in front of me, blocking the view, stood cavalry boots with dirty iron spurs.

  “No one is allowed!” the cavalryman bellowed menacingly. “You heard the order!”

  I did not recognize the voice, perhaps one of the sergeants of the city watch. Several people ran past my hiding place. The sergeant spun sharply on his heel and followed them. Finally I could see the street.

  Potters Street runs along the ramparts. A hundred years ago, there were shopping districts, but now it housed the city watch barracks, stables, and armoury. Busy soldiers in full combat gear ran past me with burning torches. Sharp commands came from everywhere, and carts loaded with boxes and bales rattled on the pavement. A large group of soldiers stood silently by the gaping city gates. Spearmen with large square shields lined up in three ranks, blocking the street from the ramparts to house walls. The phalanx that held back the pressure of the crowd grew stronger every moment, swelled by soldiers from the nearby barracks.

  An officer on a black warhorse waved a red flag. “Order!” His strong commanding voice rolled over the waving sea of heads, drowning out the screams. “I command you to disperse immediately!”

  The crowd behind the wall of shields did not react to the officer’s order. People were screaming, trying to get closer to the gates. I could not understand why everyone was so excited and chose to stay away, at a safe distance.

  The phalanx had reached eight rows deep. The officer looked at his host and nodded. “Give them a little push! Clear the street and close the small gate!”

  “Yes, sir!” The sergeant turned around sharply and yelled, “Listen to your orders! Push slowly! Look under your feet!”

  The phalanx shuddered as one huge living creature.

  “Push with the right foot!” cried the sergeant. “Right! Right! Right!”

  The spearmen braced their huge shields, and slowly, step by step, began to push the crowd back. They moved smoothly, as one man. Pressing against their shields with both hands, they made small steps, pushing forward with their right feet. I saw no weapons in their hands; obviously, all the blades remained in the barracks. The commanders were making every effort to avoid disorder and bloodshed.

  Suddenly, the formation of soldiers caved in the middle, and the spearmen’s feet slid over the smooth pavement.

  “Straighten the ranks!” the sergeant bellowed. “Reinforce the middle!”

  The soldiers who had been standing along the wall and not participating in the fight with the crowd smoothly joined the phalanx and braced it.

  The crowd responded with a furious howl. The phalanx was showered with stones; round stones bounced off their steel helmets, but some soldiers still fell with bloodied faces.

  “Fuck!” the sergeant spat. “Throwers, forward!”

  Several dozen slingers poured out of the barracks. They took something from the cart and lined up in rows behind the phalanx. They still had to dodge the flying stones; they had no protection apart from leather jackets.

  Bouncing on the pavement, a stone thrown from the crowd even flew up to my hiding place. It hit the spokes of the wheel with a dull thud, almost cutting it in half. It seemed that someone in the crowd had used a sling. The situation escalated.

  “Throw!” the sergeant commanded.

  Black projectiles rained hail on the pushing crowd. I closed my eyes, waiting for the nasty knock of stones on unprotected bodies and the crunch of broken bones. However, instead of cries of pain and death, indignant cries sounded. The crowd drew back sharply, and the phalanx surged forward. The slingers released another volley and the frightened crowd fled.

  “Well done!” The sergeant patted one of the shooters on the back. “It’s good to see the back of them.”

  “Thank the gods it was only pepper,” said the slinger. “My friends and neighbours were among them.”

  I felt relief as I realized that the crowd had been bombarded by rounds made of salt and pepper.

  The spearmen pursuing the remaining townspeople disappeared around the corner. Behind them they left the roadway strewn with ragged clothes, utensils, waste, salt and black swirling clouds. My eyes stung and my throat ached.

  “Clean the street,” the young officer commanded the sergeant. “Now!”

  “Your honour” —the sergeant snapped to attention—“let me put the cart in the stables?”

  “Absolutely not!” The officer cut him off. “I don’t want you to frighten the horses with that awful smell. Clean the leather workshops and lock it there. Then report back to me personally. Keep the street closed, and do not remove the cordon. Get rid of the gawkers, but make sure that there are no accidents!”

  The officer jumped into the saddle, gave his horse the spur and disappeared from my line of vision. Meanwhile, the sergeant raised a storm of activity. He divided the men into two groups and took up the execution of the order.

  I was terribly curious: what was in the cart? But I did not dare get out of my hiding place. Instead, I decided to wait until it passed by and try to peek inside.

  Suddenly, I saw a soldier with a deathly pale face. He leaned with his trembling hand on the wall and vomited. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around his face, carefully covering his mouth and nose. The sergeant patted him on the back and together they returned to the gate.

  First I heard the creaking of the wheels and the sound of heavy hooves on pavement. Then I saw a huge buffalo harnessed to a cart driven by an old soldier. The animal was huge. I’d never seen such a monster. His back, covered with an embroidered blanket, towered over the soldier’s iron helm. A massive
brass ring was threaded through his wet black nostrils and large bloodshot eyes looked around nervously. It seemed that the animal was frightened by all the noise and bustle.

  “Unbelievable!” I whispered.

  With a hoarse squeak, the heavy wagon moved slowly down the street. It was the kind of six-wheeled wagon that nomads used for transporting their homes. Covered with a felt tent, it swayed from side to side when massive iron-bound wheels bounced on the cobbles.

  A heavy stench suddenly hit my nostrils. The smell was so hideous that I immediately felt sick, like the unfortunate soldier a minute earlier. With an unpleasant squelch, a steaming mountain of manure plopped down onto the pavement.

  “Vile beast!” the guide cried out, tugging on the rope threaded through the ring in the buffalo’s nose. The animal bellowed angrily and shook his head. Sharp black horns flashed, narrowly missing the soldier’s helmet.

  “Be careful!” warned the sergeant. “Damned barbarians feed their beasts on human flesh. Don’t come crying to me if it bites you in the ass.”

  The soldier grabbed the rope tightly, trying to calm the vicious animal. The buffalo roared and lurched forward, intending to crush the poor fellow. The soldier quickly jumped to the side, and a cart wheel hit the wall with a crunch. The long wooden shafts creaked. The guards rushed fearlessly to the bull, but it was too late. The inertia of the heavy wagon could not be stopped. It continued to tilt, its right row of wheels slowly rising into the air, and slowly toppled over.

  I jumped up on all fours and hit my head painfully on the bottom of the cart. My legs were shaking, and I covered my mouth with a hand, holding back a savage scream. From the overturned wagon, like a pile of cabbages, poured countless human heads. Covered with mud and black with gore, they fell to the pavement and rolled down the street, bouncing over the potholes. There were many thousands of heads, I thought. They carpeted the street from one end to the other, piling in mounds near the walls.