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

by Stas Borodin

  “How fortunate that their tribe is so small,” Mash mused. “With this kind of vigour they could conquer the whole world!”

  “Don’t you worry, old man,” Ash grinned. “It’s too boring a task for them. They would rather take a dip in the river or skin some unlucky traveller.”

  We were standing on the river bank watching them splashing in the water. However, one nomad took no part in the fun. He perched on the rump of his horse, closely studying the surrounding hills.

  “They always leave a sentry,” I said. “As if they have something to fear!”

  “I cannot blame them,” Mash chuckled. “A cautious beast always lives longer.”

  At sunset, the nomads finally parted from us. They left us a decent stock of meat and some home-made beverage called warra. I didn’t like the taste of the drink, but my companions found it excellent.

  “Warra is the drink of the gods!” Ash proclaimed. “Not the grape shit they usually sell to you in the city. No, my dear friends, warra is made from the finest mare’s milk. It’s playful and light, as the breath of the steppe wind. Gods, I feel the fire flowing through my veins and not through my guts!”

  “You forgot one thing.” Mash took a sip from the wineskin too. “After a couple of gulps, even the ugliest girls turn into real beauties!”

  “A magic potion indeed!” Ash nodded.

  The scouts laughed, stroking the wineskin lovingly.

  The chief ferryman spotted us from afar and began to wake his employees with full-hearted kicks. The sleepy workers climbed to their feet and pulled on the rope together, heading for our bank.

  “Once we went down the Aduva on a raft,” Mash said. “Here the river is wide and quiet, and the currents are pretty weak. But half a day downstream and you wouldn’t recognize her. Nothing but rapids and waterfalls.”

  “I still wonder how we stayed alive,” echoed Ash.

  The ferryman began to sing a song in a language unknown to me, the ropes creaked, and the ferry slowly moved forward.

  Our horses stood quietly at the hitching post munching on oats. Mash held silver in his calloused fist, arguing about the price. Ash removed his boots, swung his bare feet in the cool water and began to sing along with the ferrymen.

  I watched the steppe shore slowly moving farther away, a sea of bluish hills covered with long swaying grass and multicoloured scatterings of wild flowers. I’d fallen in love with the carefree life among the boundless horizons. And I’d fallen in love with the steppe dwellers and mysterious Sertes people. And here I was, bound for distant lands, ready to barter fresh steppe winds for sweltering city streets and heaps of dusty books… I felt like I was running away from my own happiness, leaving behind all that I coveted. Who could give me an answer: was it worth it?

  I thought about the words of a little warrior who walked with the spirits. What kind of power lay hidden within the Tear of Heart? Why me? I hoped that the Academy of Magic in Paara could give me the answers to my questions.

  “Why so gloomy?” Ash came up to me, leaving wet footprints on the boards. “Have the steppes got a hold on you too? You do not have to answer, kid; I can see it for myself.”

  He stood next to me, put his big strong hands on the railing, and peered at the receding shoreline. Dusk was gathering quickly and we could not see a thing.

  “What do you think,” I sighed. “They’re already gone?”

  “Who, the Sertes?” Ash shrugged. “Who knows? I bet they’re watching us still. Watching, drinking their warra and laughing.”

  I squatted down, dipped my right hand in cold water and splashed my face, so that no one would notice the tears.

  “Oh, brother,” Ash sighed. “Don’t you worry; the steppes are not going anywhere. You’ll get your share of adventure! The night watch, the poisoned arrows, the corpses bloated in the sun, they are all there for you!”

  “You don’t understand, Ash.” I shook my head.

  “I do,” Ash said quietly. “Despite all the iniquity and the horrors that await us in the steppes, despite the death lurking under every bush and in every ravine, I, too, am irresistibly drawn to it. To the place where the earth merges with the sky and only the stars show us the direction, not letting us fall into the heavens!”

  I stood open-mouthed, unable to believe my ears. It turned out that our Ash, despite his rough appearance, had the soul of a true poet.

  “He saw through you,” Mash sneered. “Once our friend was known as Anesh Amash, and he was a famous court poet. When he came to us, he was not much older than you, but the steppes bewitched him too, and they never let him go…”

  I knew that name well. Anesh Amash had often been compared to the poets of the past, and his disappearance had become the stuff of legend.

  “Well,” I smiled, “one legend less, now I know that the ladies’ favourite wasn’t snatched by a fire-breathing dragon.”

  Ash snorted and grinned. “I’d rather be eaten by a dragon than stay with these ladies of yours!”

  ✽✽✽

  Lemnark was a small neat town on the lower shore of the river Aduva. The city was surrounded by a high stockade of thick polished logs and a shallow moat overgrown with bluish grass. Bored sentries armed with bows and spears stared at us from squat turrets. There were no walls on the river side, just long rows of piers and unwieldy barges laden with timber. A little further on, I saw a huge bearded lumberjack standing on a raft. Deftly wielding his long gaff, he was throwing heavy tree trunks from the shore into the water.

  “Sometimes they even race on those damn things.” Mash shook his head, showing disapproval. “They stand on the top of the log and race down the river, through all gorges and rapids!”

  “I must admit these guys are tough,” Ash said. This was the highest praise coming from the battle-hardened scout.

  We settled in a small inn called Sharp Axe. Mash went to find out about the nearest caravan to Ismarga.

  “Don’t waste your time, boys. If the caravan is ready to depart, we are setting off immediately.”

  We quickly changed into clean clothes and went down to a dining room on the ground floor. A small crowd gathered around us right away. The lumberjacks were smiling and patting each other on the back.

  “Look how hungry the little one is,” one of the bearded men commiserated. “Poor fellow! Just skin and bones!”

  “They don’t eat human food up there on the steppes,” agreed another. “I’ve heard that they only drink horse milk, and gnaw foul cheese.”

  “Look, they liked our porridge!” nodded the third.

  “Eat, lad, eat!” The innkeeper raised the wooden spoon. “I have more if you want.”

  Ash and I looked at each other. They were funny, these woodsmen. All of them were broad-shouldered giants with fists like sledgehammers, but they had open friendly faces. I looked at the axes standing in the corner and marvelled at their size.

  One woodsman sat next to us on the bench.

  “Do you like our porridge?” he asked casually.

  “It’s not bad,” Ash grinned. “But maybe you have some mare’s milk and goat’s cheese stashed someplace?”

  The woodsman recoiled as if he had been hit. “Why spoil the porridge?” he asked resentfully. “You should try our pancakes with rabbit meat! And kvass! And sour cream! Of your food we have none…”

  We laughed, and woodsmen smiled too.

  “They are good kids, it’s clear as day,” said the old lumberjack. “They have pleasant laughter, coming from the heart!”

  “Yeah, though they talk funny, but in our own tongue, not shishli-mishli like the other steppe folk.”

  I liked these people; they were kind, humble and very cheerful. Soon they left us alone and quietly went back to their tables. I shared my thoughts with Ash, but he just grunted.

  “They are kinda nice, but you haven’t seen anything yet, brother, so don’t judge hastily.”

  Mash returned, looking grim.

  “I visited the merchants’ quarter
s,” he said. “The next caravan to Ismarga will leave in a week, right after the annual feast of Ancestors Worship. So, brothers, we have nowhere to hurry.”

  “But maybe it’s for the best?” I said. “I’d like to see the festival. I’d like to get acquainted with these wonderful people.”

  However, the scouts did not look happy.

  “We’ll die of boredom here,” groaned Ash.

  “And these wicked ungodly festivities.” Mash winced.

  I chuckled, dismissing my friends’ complaints. It was destined. Since we’d got here, I was bound to find out what was going on.

  Lemnark was a small town, and there was only one inn. However, it was quite large, and everyone got a separate room. The scouts, however, preferred to stay together.

  “It’s safer this way,” said Mash, inspecting a small room with a low ceiling and tiny windows.

  I sat on the window sill and peeked out. The cavernous street below was barely lit by the flickering torches, but I managed to see a big group of tired lumberjacks emerging from the dark. They carried their enormous axes on their shoulders as if they were weightless. Their long shirts were stained with sweat, and wood splinters and dry leaves were sticking from their wild matted hair.

  “Rest,” Mash muttered, dropping my bags on the floor. “And don’t forget to lock the door before you go to bed!”

  I nodded, continuing to stare out the window.

  Townspeople shied away from the woodsmen, but they did not seem to pay any attention. The lumberjacks walked slowly down to the river bank, threw their clothes off and began to splash in the cold black water. Their bodies were white as ivory and their scary bearded faces shape shifted, illuminated by the torchlight.

  After a while their daughters and wives came to the shore. They carried clean clothes and fresh towels. I was enchanted by the sight. These women were strikingly different from the townswomen. They were tall and slender, with long blonde hair, intricately braided and decorated with white flowers.

  The ordinary townsfolk were skinny and ungainly, for the most part, and their women were quite unattractive compared to the magnificent forest maidens. For some reason I felt that the locals disliked the woodsmen. I wasn’t at all surprised.

  I watched with delight as a huge lumberjack sat two blonde beauties on his shoulders and easily climbed up the slippery grassy slope. The girls laughed, holding on to his dishevelled hair, while the man pretended to be about to slip and fall. They seemed to be having a lot of fun.

  I went to bed in a good mood, and overslept for the first time in many days. The morning was deafeningly quiet. I did not hear the street noise of a big city; there were no shouting merchants, no rumbling carts, and no crying babies.

  I went downstairs and found my friends sitting at a table with big clay mugs in their hands. They were drinking kvass.

  “Sit down, brother!” Ash invited me. “Try the local brew! They say that it is made from stale bread.”

  For some reason I did not want a drink made from stale bread, so I asked for a glass of milk instead.

  “Why is the city so quiet?” I asked, taking a sip from the cup.

  “All the woodsmen left for work early,” said Ash. “The city is almost empty until the evening; there is nothing left to do, so the locals are used to sleeping late.”

  “Gods help us!” Mash groaned. “Such boredom and this sour piss instead of real beer to boot!”

  My friends were in a bad mood, so I left them in each other’s company at the inn and set off to explore the town.

  The streets were swept clean, and the air smelled of freshly sawn timber and wood resin. Endless warehouses began just behind the inn. Stacks of planks, sorted by species and age of wood, were stacked everywhere. Each stack had a small board with details and the address of the owner. In my opinion, Lemnark was a typical trading town. Very neat, quiet, and populated by decent and pleasant inhabitants, it made the most positive impression on me. True, it was a dull town, but that was not anyone’s fault. Working from dawn to dusk, the lumberjacks had little time for fun.

  I walked down to the river, climbed the wharf and stopped for a few minutes, admiring the rows of tree trunks, neatly bound and prepared for rafting. It was amazing how exacting the woodsmen were and how everything was thought out and carefully executed.

  “Are you going to be staying here for long?” I heard a voice behind me.

  I turned and saw a slender blonde girl balancing on one leg. She carefully examined her bare foot, occasionally wiggling dirty toes.

  “Till the festival,” I replied. “Then we’ll go with a caravan straight to Ismarga.”

  “Great,” she sighed. She tried to lower the foot on the ground and gasped.

  “Are you hurt?” I rushed to her aid.

  “It’s just a splinter,” she explained.

  I held her by the arm. She sat down, trying not to put her weight on the injured leg.

  “Let me help,” I said and, without waiting for an answer, bent over her foot.

  The girl was very beautiful. Her huge blue eyes looked at me trustingly, as if we had known each other for a hundred years. She pushed back a stray lock of hair from her forehead, and also bent down to look. Our cheeks touched, and I felt myself blushing.

  Her hair smelled nice. The wind picked up one of the strands and threw it in my face. I gasped. My heart was pounding like before battle, and her soft little foot was still in my hand.

  “Do you see anything?” she asked.

  I bent lower and saw a splinter. I tried to grasp it with my fingernails, but failed; it was stuck too deeply into her delicate skin.

  “This may hurt a little,” I warned.

  “Come on, I will not cry,” she chuckled.

  Then I bent over her foot, touched it with my tongue, feeling the splinter, and pulled it out with my teeth.

  “Oh,” she squeaked. “So fast? I didn’t even have time to get scared!”

  I did not answer; I was frightened by my own boldness.

  “Wow! You did it very cleverly!” She gently shifted her body weight to the other leg and laughed. “And I was just imagining how my mom would get it out with that huge scary needle of hers!” She spread her hands wide, showing me the dimensions of an imaginary needle.

  The girl was called Ilaah, and we sat together on the wharf until late evening.

  ✽✽✽

  The scouts were half-dead from boredom. They had already finished their warra and sampled several jugs of local beer. Now they had a terrible headache that soured their mood even further.

  Ash stood up from the bench and splashed his face with cold water.

  “I saw your girlfriend’s dad last night,” he said. “He’s been spying on you from the bushes. You should take a look at his axe. Boy, what a monstrosity! He sharpens it every morning, but today he didn’t go to work. I wonder why?”

  “Are you trying to scare me?” I laughed. I had also noticed the man; I was a scout, too, after all.

  “Why should I scare you?” Ash shrugged. “You should understand everything by yourself. A girl, a stranger, a father with an axe. What good can come out of this triangle?”

  “There was nothing between us,” I reassured him. “Even if I tried, nothing would have happened.”

  “Our Ash will advise you,” Mash sneered. “He’s an expert in this field. A real expert.”

  “You don’t understand.” I could not hold back and laughed. “I’m not a little boy, I know what to do! It’s Ilaah. She must take part in the coming festivities. She’s so sweet, and she likes me a lot.”

  The scouts’ faces became white as chalk; they stared at me, as if waiting for the continuation of the story.

  “What’s got into to you?” I stifled a laugh. “We’re just friends.”

  “Wait a second,” Mash frowned. “You mean she’s a virgin?”

  “Of course she is a virgin!” Ash interrupted. “No wonder she was chosen for this damned festival.”

  “Phew
!” Mash spat. “So that’s why her father is keeping an eye on you.”

  I couldn’t understand what was going on. They seem to have understood each other perfectly but were in no hurry to enlighten me. I didn’t like it. “What are you hiding from me, you old buggers?” I was suddenly alarmed. “I want to know right now!”

  “You see”—Mash sat down beside me on the bench—“the thing is … we have witnessed the festival once—”

  “And we didn’t like it.” Ash grimaced. “Such a disgusting and blasphemous spectacle!”

  As always, when danger was near, my heart began to beat faster. I even felt an unpleasant tingling in my fingertips.

  “Tell me!” I demanded.

  “Not so fast, laddie.” The old scout shook his head. “First of all, don’t forget that we are strangers here. These people have their own ways, and they are not going to change a thing.”

  “Yeah,” Ash nodded. “You see, even the locals have adapted. They are not happy, but there is no choice; the timber trade is feeding the whole region.”

  “And it’s not just the trade,” said Mash. “These woodsmen are wild. They are incredibly strong and very dangerous if someone dares to get in their way. Rumour has it that their ancestors worshipped a huge ancient oak tree. One day it was struck by lightning, and their god turned into a heap of ashes. Then they took off in search of a new god. They searched far, but they found none.”

  Mash stood up from the bench, opened the door and looked out into the corridor, checking whether anyone was listening.

  “It is said that they worship Mistar. Only in their language they call him Mithraa,” Mash lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “How could such nice people worship the Lord of Lies?” I could not believe my ears. “And how could Ilaah be taking part in their ceremony?”

  “She told you herself,” Ash reminded me.

  “I don’t believe it.” I shook my head. “That’s impossible!”

  “Anything is possible in this world.” Ash sat next to me with his hand on my shoulder. “You still have much to learn, my friend. And soon you will find out that this world is full of disappointments.”