He had been in the army for around six years, before the war ramped up. He hadn’t been expecting it, not really. He wasn’t in command, but his ears on the ground had been claiming things were winding down. Until, all of a sudden, they weren’t.
Brickwrath cracked open one eye, checking on the goat. She’d settled down in the corner with her legs tucked underneath her, giving her an odd, top-heavy look.
It had been a mess. Two years of utter chaos. He’d spent more time digging than drawing, and by the end of it was thoroughly sick of the whole thing.
Two years. He’d been mostly protected, not an active combatant, and even that was miserable. He tried not to think of what it must’ve been like for those at the front. By the end of it, he had been in command of a small group of soldiers, but none of them were fighters.
At one point he’d been roped into trying to control The Dragon. It hadn’t gone well. The Dragon had gotten attached to the orphan they’d tied to his back, and, unsurprisingly, was refusing to obey orders.
‘Crests the Sky on Wings of Knowledge’. No short-name for him, but the creature was something of a cross between a human and an animal. That said, the name was very formal and more than a bit of a mouthful, so between themselves, they just called him The Dragon. It wasn’t like they had more than one, anyway.
Brickwrath was an architect, not a soldier, and that thing was the size of a boat. He’d once seen it eat a cow in three bites, and no matter how gentle the reputation, he wasn’t in the habit of arguing with things that had teeth taller than he was.
So he compromised. The higher-ups wanted him to wage war on it. Go in with weapons drawn and beat the two of them into submission. He could imagine exactly how that would work out, about as well the rest of the blasted war.
He knew his parables, the Child and the Dog, stories of gods, that every kid learnt from whispers and half-heard rumours. If you kicked a dog or abused a child, they were the forces that would come for you. Things nobody could fight, things which would gently chastise you, until you learnt never to do that again.
When he looked at the Dragon, all he could see was a big ol’ dog, one he didn't want to kick. From another angle, he saw his gargoyle, a guardian spirit that deserved better than they were getting. The child they’d chained to his back was all spit and fire, not the docile messenger they’d wanted, and if they weren’t careful, she might convince him to leave and never come back.
So, he compromised. Commiserated. Conceded, and gave them everything they'd asked for. More food, more rest, and a promise of safety for the both of them, once this war was over.
The last one was a bit of a scam, to be honest. The dragon was always going to be safe, he was owned by the postal service, but the girl had no future. She’d come off the streets, and in the best-case scenario, that would be where she returned to. In the worst case, they might simply take her somewhere out of sight and remove the problem, the risk of her sharing state secrets too high.
He had wondered how Child and Dog would feel about that. They had to have an eye on things here, right? He wasn’t all that sure how gods worked, but he knew he didn’t want to get on their bad side, especially if they were watching, fully aware he could have done more.
The top brass had not been happy. They had called him into their offices and talked to him about what he had done, calm and understanding and gradually turning redder and redder. But there was nothing they could do, he’d written the contracts and sworn it under the moon, and after that, there was nothing they could do.
The war had gone on for almost another year before his side had ceded their territory to the enemy.
He had served his final years and then dropped out the first chance he got. He did not get the glowing recommendation he had been promised. No recommendation at all, in fact. Just because you lost the war doesn’t mean you lose your rank, and they had blamed him for a lot of the issues they’d faced.
Brickwrath huffed to himself, sitting up and feeding a piece of wood into the stove. The rain was coming down hard now, and despite the thick walls and battened hatches, he could hear it beating against the trees outside. Daisygreens had moved closer whilst he was daydreaming, and he reached over to give her an absentminded rub between the horns.
After his side had lost the war, things had been quiet. The Dragon had been sent back to its normal duties, and he had personally seen the girl to the gates of an orphanage, a grand but cold place, the eyes of gods and masters hot on the back of his neck.
He could have stayed on and tried to rebuild his reputation, of course. Do another ten years, draw up more plans for bridges and civic buildings, but... He was never going to be promoted again. He didn’t have the cruelty, drive or reputation required for high office, and he knew it.
Then he’d changed his name? Nah, why are you so obsessed with that? He was only 25 when his time in the army was over. He had a small pension (they couldn’t deny him that, no matter how disgraced he was), a deed of ownership for a parcel of land, wherever he could tame back the forest, and nothing else except for the clothes on his back and the bundle of drawings under his arm.
He’d gone to explore the cities of the world, first. Face to the sky, taking in all the tiny architectural details that few would ever notice. Finials and facades, buttresses and battlements. When that had failed to inspire, he’d taken to the backroads and woods. The forgotten inns half-drowned in greenery. The small farms at constant war with the jungle, an endless battle, as fierce as anything he’d ever seen during his time enlisted.
It had taken five years of wandering before he’d found the potteries. It was a whole new industry. Moving away from the small artisanal kilns staged in people's back yards, to massive, industrial things, permanent structures capable of firing hundreds of objects at a time. Add into that they taking advantage of the new canal networks to bring in clay and coal and you had Industry. How could a world need so many cups and plates!
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
But, there he’d learnt to use his hands for things other than drawing and pointing. How to mix slips and glazes, how to bring out the creatures that lived within his heart.
It hadn’t been profitable for them, they were into plates and cups, new advances every day always producing finer and thinner products. Art, pieces of form but no function, were secondary.
He’d given their fine cups a try, but they made his tea go cold awfully fast. Maybe that was the point?
Speaking of tea, he leant over and refilled the kettle from the container of fresh water he had stored by the fire. Carefully replacing the cover afterwards to prevent Daisygreens from taking her fill.
All in all, he’d had fun with it. Sneaking out at night and affixing his creations under the edges of roofs, hiding them in the sheltered hollows of trees and peeking out of storm drains. Those last ones wouldn’t live long, but he mixed up an extra thick glaze for them, and always smiled to see their faces peeking out at him from hidden places.
After a year or so he’d left the potteries, having learnt all he could and knowing he was starting to outstay his welcome.
It had been a girl, that finally did him in. A tale as old as time, and not very original, but that’s how it was.
-
He first saw her peeking over the edge of the big, three-story inn that was the centre of the village where he was currently staying. For a moment he thought she was one of his gargoyles, her face scrunched up against the sun as she peered down over the edge. But he’d realised his mistake as she disappeared back over the parapet.
He’d stuck around the village for another week, catching occasional glimpses of her. Always above and always just out of reach. When he’d tried to ask about her, the villager's faces had gone blank and cold, refusing to meet his eyes, changing the subject without shame.
Then one night, she'd caught him, a couple of days before he was due to leave. He had carved a small creature out of wood, and although the result wasn’t his best, whittling being a new hobby, he had still felt it deserved a name and a home.
She’d come upon him like a ghost, her feet silent in the evening air, as he was attempting to silently nail it to the side of a house. The surprised squawk he’d made should have given him away, but somehow, mercifully, it went unnoticed.
She was smaller than he’d thought, barely up to his waist, and wearing a long, silvery dress. Her hair was a deep red, almost black in the moonlight. Her arms and feet were bare, despite the evening chill, and her gaze wasn’t upon him, but on the carving.
With a slow, careful movement, he started to unhook it from the beam, but a shake of her head stopped him. It was happy there. She had just wanted to see it for herself.
A sweep of her dress, and she was gone. Leaving him standing alone in the street, just him and the gargoyle. In the distance a dog started barking, as if her presence there had caused time to freeze, and it was only now catching up.
He only found out her story much later and after much perseverance. A couple, entering their dotage and desperate for children had found a young wildcat orphaned in the forest. The other villagers had warned against it, cats had a fickle nature and could not be tamed, but they had loved it like a child. As it grew, it had proven itself a smart and intelligent friend, and the three of them had lived together in peace.
One day, several years before Brickwrath had arrived, at the far end of summer, a mage had passed through the village. He had taken to the cat, and despite cats being owned by nobody, had asked the couple if he could have it. They had refused, you cannot own a cat, but he was from far across the sea and didn’t know this.
He offered to grow them a beautiful home, one that would never rot or fall, but they had refused, happy with the home they had. He had offered to Change them, so that they might try for a true child of their own. He had offered them rare elixirs and potions and the cloak off his back, should they wish to travel, but they had still refused, content with the bodies they had, and knowing they were much too old and much too heartbroken by time to start again. Finally, he had turned to threats. Those had not been repeated verbatim, but Brickwrath had been told that they had also faced them down.
Discontent and defeated, the mage left town.
Two days later, Silver, the name of the cat, had disappeared. The whole village had turned out to search for her, but she was simply gone.
When the child had stumbled into town three days later, naked and bruised, there had been confusion. She had been quickly bundled up with blankets and care, and almost the whole village had gathered around her in the warmth and light of the inn.
For no matter where she had come from, they couldn’t leave a child alone in the cold. Something had to be done with her, a home found if her origin could not be determined. They had placed food and beer in front of her and tried to encourage her to speak, but she would say and eat nothing, staring into the fire with distant eyes.
Late into the night, after all the food had been eaten and most of the beer drunk, the old couple had turned up, and with that, they’d slowly managed to coax a tale from her.
Now, Brickwrath wasn’t too sure about this part, because despite everything he’d seen, he’d never heard of a Change on a living being that couldn’t easily be reversed, but this was the story he’d been told.
The mage had never been rejected before. In his entire life, this was his first failure, and so he determined to take revenge.
The couple, he decided, were so attached to their pet that they treated it like a daughter, so a daughter they would get. He had set the image in his mind and fixed it with anger and spite. Holding her down and forcing the magic into her and twisting her form from that of her nature, to that of a human.
Brickwrath shuddered, breaking up another piece of wood and feeding it into the stove. The thought of it seemed to send a chill through the room, rattling the shutters and dimming the fire. Magic was life and warmth, growth and decay. There was no evil in magic. You couldn't Change what didn't want to be changed.
Still, every child knew the story of the Child and the Dog, and every adult made sure they also knew the story of the Fool. Truth or fable, Brickwrath didn’t know, but it was the first lesson every teacher went over in school. Change yourself too far, and you might never be able to go back.
The Dog had been human once, but he had Changed himself for the Child, forgetting his name and losing his humanity, never to return. He had done it out of choice, and not regretted the decision, but all actions had consequences.
Anyway, the village had called in mages from the big city, who had tried to undo the magic, but nobody they consulted could Shift her back. She was human now, and the magic holding her there was set firm.
They had received yet more offers from those same mages, wanting her as a research project for all manner of different reasons, but we've already been over that part of the tale.
The storm was starting to pass now. The thunder heading west, towards the midlands, where it would be broken up and swallowed by the mountain and valleys. The feeling of ozone and magic in the air prickled his skin and made his hair stand on end.
He leaned back in the chair, one hand resting back on the head of the shaggy goat. There would be plenty of work to do tomorrow. He’d have to go over the roof and check for leaks before winter settled in. There were crops to plant and harvest while the ground was rich, and canning and pickling to do for the winter.
He had seen her only once more before he left. Crouched on the corner of a roof, staring into the distance. Like a gargoyle. Or a cat. Her silver dress flashing in the sun like scales.
He would never forget that image.