We find ourselves in the midst of woods spanning in every direction. Well, nearly every direction, in one there were the mountains. Except for those there were miles and miles of trees, underbrush and shrubbery, just broken up with the odd clearing here or there, filled with herbs and other smaller plants. Amid the picturesque landscape we find a lad, too old to be called a child and too young to be called a man, kneeling in-between the greenery and moving along once in a while.
Since the early morning he was busily collecting herbs5. His hands were caked in dirt, sand and earth gathered under his nails⁶. The simple, well-worn robe was a muted brown color and had seen better times, patched together here and there. Beside his well filled basket were some plants that were just used for poisons, even the smallest amount caused pain and malaise. Though the quack of a doctor who ordered them had another opinion altogether. And the old miser never paid what was promised and beat down on the money with glaringly ridiculous excuses. On the other hand he could hardly sell the stuff to somebody else.
Sighing the lad straightened, still sitting on the ground. There was a definite pinch in his back, his knees were chafed and his legs felt numb, while his hair stuck to his head where it could, sweaty as it was. It was of a coppery red color and didn’t help much that he was liked in the village in general, being the only redhead with curly, frizzy hair. His career wish probably was another reason for the strong dislike in general, even becoming a quack was viewed in a more positive light – and no one liked to go to that geezer or just him in the first place. Nonetheless, one day he would show them, one day he would be a great warlock, mark his words! Smugly grinning he nodded.
It should be noted, that not only had the youth red and curly hair, on top of that he was pale like crumbly cottage cheese and freckles sprinkled across his cheeks and nose, not dissimilar to the milky way in number and position, really. Add his knobby knees and nose, while being on the small and wispy side of growing and his voice still being in the process of breaking, well. The missing stubble or growth of a beard at all didn’t help much either, so it gets admittedly hard to imagine the lad as an impressive warlock. Or something akin to an apprentice of one. Not even an aide of the servant of such an apprentice really. There was another thing as well…
“Hey Nic, still attached to your greens?” inquired a just to familiar voice.
“Oh just shut your trap, Ivan,” snapped Nic annoyed. As if the idiot wasn’t already aware who ordered the blasted shit. Sadly said idiot was his best – and only, as in singular – friend and companion in misfortune, himself rather interested in the darker ways of life. But, Ivan being the son of the chief and not shouting his dreams and ideas from the rooftops was one of the reasons that he wasn’t being treated like a leper, just being accepted for his meager talents out of necessity. Or wanting to be an assassin might just be viewed favourable in comparison to wanting to be a warlock. Just as well, Nic wasn’t exactly able to understand small minded fools, nor did he really want to in the first place.
“Don’t be like that. Won’t be long till you can leave all this behind anyway,” guessed the sturdy guy casually. “And as soon as you’re ready I’m gonna tag along, coz you by yourself wouldn’t reach halfway to the mountain, not even considering the other way round.”
And that was just it. Sadly and as much as he did not want to, Nic had to admit that his friend was right. He was a gangly thing, could not run especially fast nor far and let’s just not think about weapons. Well read he was, had the brains and was able to summon a Flame Sprite7, but that alone would never be enough. First of all it took a few minutes until you even could call upon the small wacko and he wasn’t really helpful against, well, anything besides dry wood and other burnable objects anyway. So a guy like Ivan was a godsend in comparison.
Now that guy looked, like you would imagine a youthful, burly man who one might picture becoming a hero. Rather handsome, thick hair, but surprisingly not blond. No, rather a very light brown and when growing a beard he didn’t look like too lazy to shave, as it did look rather groomed – without him doing much grooming either. On the contrary, the bastard just ended up looking roguish, in a charming way. So, mostly like such, how many tried to look, but just ended up with rather distinct comments like “Well, what kind of hobo are you?”. And he was wickedly skillful, laying traps he caught something with every single time and able to use every common weapon after little time and without poking his own eye out. Just well, there was one thing that was a tad crucial and the reason, why Nic was the brain or nearly every operation that needed one. Ivan couldn’t plan. Not in detail, not very consistently and seemingly didn’t need it as well, as he did seem blessed with luck in a way you wouldn’t believe if you didn’t see it.
Which was about as far away from a guy who might become a successful assassin. Not really that much of a tragedy, as his father was of the opinion that everything and every craft could be learned with enough hard work and zeal. Though Nic was not exactly sure, whether that was really referring to becoming a paid murderer. No, he probably had been thinking for other, normal and more honorable crafts and jobs. Honorable in the way of blood not being a common payment requirement. Or throats, of the cut kind.
“Yeah, yeah, as if I wasn’t aware,” Nic murmured grumpily. Best friend or not, he still could react accordingly to stingy comments.
Ivan just smirked and didn’t comment further, changing the topic, “Buck up, I’m gonna check the traps.”
Nic returned to work, sighing again. If at least there wasn’t so much left to do. Nic was saving what he could, but in such a small town there wasn’t much in money to go around and not every job did end with coins in his pockets. Sometimes changing some work for food was also a necessity. And even if he just took some wares with him, he could just bring along, what he was able to carry. Which wasn’t much either way and who knew what and if it was worth anything. There weren’t many visitors who ended in this little village either, so information on economical things were rare and far between. Which brought up his biggest problem. To leave the village was nice and dandy, but he had no idea where he should travel to. And instructions like spinning yourself around with eyes closed, stop whenever and scream “That way!” or “Just turn right after passing the moon and then just follow your nose, but watch the blackhole damnit!” did not hold much appeal. And the maps that he had available were old and well, their actuality might be a tad off. Way off. Like, the youngest one was about sixty years old off. Probably.
The more he thought about it, the more depressed he got. Well, nothing to it. Nic just slid a tad further on his knees and picked up the next herbs. Today he would get the full wage, damn the old geezer!
A falling sword sounds different to one that is just being swung. When someone has a longer blade in hand and swings it, it sounds like a fast ffffft, maybe a fast sequence of fffufff fffufff, if you are cutting your way through underbrush or shrubbery. A sword falling down from a really great height sounds rather like a continuous wwssssss, if you are somewhere where it can fall past you then more like wwSSSww. In general you could say that most people know the first sounds, either having already used a sword themselves or having been on the receiving end of it. The second one mostly by persons who usually bark things like “Life or money?!” or other inane things. They are at least smart enough to know where to stick the pointy end.
Especially people who really should get to safety or hide away when danger nears tend to develop an astonishingly fine tuned sense of hearing and a sixth sense, which gives them a sense of precognition, an advanced warning if you will, just for the fraction of a second. Not helpful for staying unhurt, but for staying alive or being able to run away.
The sword is still in the process of going down, but now was suspiciously near to a rock, just to ricochet off it with an audible pling and tumbled spinning into the woods below.
And just the aforementioned reflex saved the lads head, quite literally in every sense of the word.
Fffufff fffufff FFFUFFF.
Irritated Nic raised his head, wondering why, balancing on his feet, as he leant back, but something just seemed off. Arguably, someone hacking his way somewhere through wasn’t something unusual, it was a regular sound. Well, except this time the sound was coming from above and not with the regularity of someone swinging a sword and still it drew nearer in a frighteningly fast way.
In the blink of an eye said reflex took over and the lad seemingly simply fell backward, but all of a sudden his legs reacted and just pushed. Unbelievable as it was, unhurt he was not, as the wildly spinning blade cut his face, a neat line splitting eyebrow, eyelid and well, the eyeball beneath it as well, getting sticky with blood as well as tear fluid and a few hairs. Through sheer coincidence some of the gathered herbs were added as well, as the flailing hands send them in the air. In his further way down the blade hit one of the few stones before impaling the soft ground until half of it had sank in before stopping finally.
Nic meanwhile landed on his back side and his brain finally caught on as to him being hurt and that the pain was excruciating. Naturally only logical consequences followed, being him screaming his head off. You can liken this sound to that one chalk does when using it on a board with it making that annoying high-pitched screeching that makes your toes curl. In a very loud and clearly audible way, even if you were quite a way out of sight.
That was lucky for Nic as it did alert Ivan who was generally somewhere in the vicinity. He had already been pressing his hands on the wound which throbbed and burned like you wouldn’t believe but couldn’t think of much else. That he did so with some parts of his clothing was another thing he had no mind for at the moment. Even luckier was Ivans quick-witted treatment, as he had listened often enough to the rants of his friend so he took a mostly clean cloth that he knew had solely been used for gathering medicinal herbs and made quick work in at least throwing together a bit of a paste out of them before dressing the wound. It at least should not make the whole thing worse than it was already.
Blinking he then took a quick look around. Frowning he noticed the omnious blade and got himself another piece of cloth. He used it to pull the thing out. It might be of importance, though he just wrapped the thing and put it into the basket, slinging it haphazardly on his back. After that he pulled Nic to his feet whose incoherent screams had tapered of more or less quiet whimpering he dragged him along to get back.
Each magic and each power comes at a price and evocations are typically a tricky issue. They need knowledge of exact formulas, more often than not the respective incantation and (or) the exact evocation circle, when to use them, like specific day times or dates, even planetary constellations are important. Besides that there are other things that are required as well as protection. Plus don’t forget the salt, woe if you do.
So, if you consider all this alone it is rather self-explanatory why it is so hard to become a warlock in the first place.
Though there is one very important and golden rule if you will, at least in this world, that is followed by every being that is at least rudimentary knowledgeable of magic; whoever or whatever you are evocating or asking for anything never ever use your own blood. From stranger’s, be it human or creature, go wild, but never, never, NEVER EVER your own blood.
The exact why of this strange rule has been forgotten a long time ago. But this rule is one of those strange universally applicable taboos that even the most abhorrent villains are reluctant to break, let alone even contemplate. But as an old saying goes, rules are meant to be broken and each and every one gets broken. Some sooner other later.
Another thing one should think about when aspiring to be an assassin in the long run, but still a personal flaw that Ivan just had. He was a bit naive – not desirable as a trait regarding his goal.
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Ivan knew Nic would rip his head off a bit as soon as he was fine again. Though whatever he would have to rage about would be much less important at least in the face of getting rudimentary treatment or nothing at all. Sadly, just the quack Eisenhuth was present as the druid as well as that old crone of a wet nurse were absent. Heck even the old geezer from that little library8 would have been better – and that one was nearly blind.
At least the attempted murder would be staved of for a few days. It was something everybody knew the quack’s medicine tended to rob his victims – pardon, patients, of nearly all their senses for about a week. Or of their sanity, though what it would be was arguable there.
In the end Nic received treatment, was at home and just lost a quarter of his earnings. That Ivan was dead wrong there as the pre-agreed amount had been double of what was told to him, well. As Nic had not been responsive it didn’t matter much for the moment.
If he had been able Nic would have strangled Eisenhuth as well as Ivan with his own two hands. Or at least tried his hardest or at least alternately bitten them in the hand. His hands might be weak, his kicks a weak caress but his bite was able to rival that of dangerous animals well enough. Though it might be bragging, and he just knew them from books a hyena might be a fitting comparison. Though the laughing would probably be grating if his thoughts turned out true.
His head felt like moss which started growing on a slushy moor and couldn’t quite decide whether to further grow or just slip away. His left eye was heavily bandaged and felt numb, kept weeping and stinging continuously. His depth perception was shot. The right eye though he could open it was enough thanks to that blasted quack’s medication, so he saw double anyway, deciding to keep it closed mostly. He shuddered thinking of the bruises he would be acquiring in the time to come. Now he was contemplating whether he should move from the bed at all and not just stew in his own filth, it might be more comfortable after all or if he should try getting to privy and probably break his neck in the process. Well, a bed was a bit easier to replace than a lost life.
And that was one or the rare lucid moments he had in which thoughts were just that. Then there were others in which Nic was convinced that a myriad of eyes was watching him out of formless specters and darkness, accompanied by terrifying grins of countless razor-sharp teeth of lipless mouths. And the voices, oh those voices! Whispering, screeching, murmuring, whining, talking, singing and all of it over each other at the same time. In so many voices and languages that he just could hear a gruesome cacophony of sounds. Silent horror accompanied the following gruesome images, one worse than the next. Whether that was about things happening in the past or was a dystopian vision of the future was up in the air. That these might just be hallucination didn’t even enter his mind or rather it just didn’t come to rational conclusions. It was a fact though that he was in for a few trying days while getting over the delirious state that Eisenhuth’s dubious care had put him in.
Every magic comes at a price.
That is a universal rule and it would not be changing any time soon. Especially with age old rituals long since forgotten tended to prove this in a very spectacular and severe way. The structure of those is irrelevant compared to what was used today as long as the ingredients are in place. And the intent is strong enough. Intent is a part of every kind of magic, naturally – if one wants to throw around a fire ball one has to actually want to throw it in the first place. Or at least have the desire to see something burn.
Old rituals go even deeper. They take up the slightest spark of intent follow it to the simmering core of that desire and feed on it, devouring it and dig out the deepest wish behind it. Has that been found then the real deal starts with revealing how, when and where this wish might be fullfilled.
Every magic has its price. One just has to be ready to pay it.
The following days were an ordeal for Nic. More than once he was sure to have lost his marbles and wasn’t quite sure whether he was still alive or not. What he could see turned more bizarre by the minute and at times he was sure he was seeing these strange things with both eyes closed what just couldn’t be possible.
Ivan might have visited a time or two. His friends face had seemed warped like a nightmarish caricature with more eyes than a spider could ever have or should have to be more precise. But that had to be a an illusion, that had not happened. Whether he meant him visiting in the first place or looking like that, Nic wasn’t sure and didn’t contemplate it further.
The grating sounds were getting louder the more time went by and by the third day he really wished to be a full-fledged warlock to get some peace and quiet. What brought his thought back to his eye. Despite being tightly wrapped he couldn’t shake the feeling of being able to be using it and seeing. And he wasn’t even talking about the phantasms or gruesome horrors he kept seeing. He knew he had been blinded on that eye in that thrice-damned accident.
His left eye had no sight anymore, not with being sliced apart. What should he do now? He’d be saddled with a epithet as The One-Eyed and how ridiculous would that be? No, the great names he remembered were more like Alderich, the Flame Ruler or Utrecht, the Daemonic. Or like Hathumar, the Blight. But come on, Nic alone was just not appropriate. And seriously, one-eyed Nic sounded like a pirate. Or a thief, and a bad one at that as well.
Or Nic just became so terrible and cruel that nobody even dared uttering his name. He finally got up, pacing – or badly trying to. Whenever he got so upset he just had to pace. He started pacing and loudly ranted and raved about anything that came to mind.
Often you hear that one should not stare into the abyss for too long, as it tends to stare back at some point. But that is somewhat wrong. The abyss does not start staring back, it always watches. Not one moment where it is not the case. Every second, without pause it is watching and waiting.
Normally this kind of being stared gets ignored as people tend to not think about being watched all the time or even wanting to contemplate the note of there being something that knows everything there is to your whole being. Not only the good one shows to the outside, but also the bad and the most intimate secrets that one might not even admit having oneself as they are purely egoistic and selfish in nature.
And this ultimate selfish impulse that is always there is just that one little pebble to fall first for starting the avalanche. No doubt about it, just the questions and answers varying to get to that point.
In his spiraling thoughts the youth wasn’t noticing how the chaotic chorus off voices and languages quieted down bit by bit the more passionate he was about voicing his innermost thoughts. Also the number of eyes watching diminished, one by one until just three were left. A broad grin appeared beneath the staring eyes, full of sharp teeth. Beside that there was just billowing and wafting darkness, not discernible size or form or color. Just inky blackness.
It had gotten quiet, Nics voice the sole source of sound. But he still didn’t notice that. The being giggled. Do you know the sound that metal gives of when being sawed? It sounded just like that. Like a high-frequent ssiiiiiiih just shorter and several times in a row.
That finally got him to take note. Confused he turned around but couldn’t find where the laughter was coming from. The shadowy darkness around him. No, it was rather a blackness that seemed to swallow up any light in completeness.
Again the shrill metallic laughter could be heard, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
What are you ready to do?
Ready? Whatever for? Baffled Nic just stared into the infinite blackness.
For your goal. What are you ready to give for it?
Every magic has its price.
It might be small, clearly defined or as vague as the word Well. Most people are of the opinion that a price is paid immediately when you use magic. For your common things that might even be true. But that is not universally applicable. It sometimes might rather be likened to karma, you see. Like that thing where you step on an ant that causes the start of a war and one survives said war but looses that leg.
Every little thing gets paid, sooner or later that does not change. It becomes a fitting pair of shoes when one becomes aware of this concept that the payment is just not always immediate. The price might be paid immediately but the wish becomes reality at a later point in time, that is another possibility. The principle stays the same.
And it always gets paid.
What kind of question was this supposed to be? The answer was as clear as the day. Nic did remember having been asked that as a little boy. Ivan had been the one asking but did not quite understand his answer. But Nic just knew that this voice would understand it just how he meant it, even back then.
“Everything. Absolutely everything,” he answered with utter conviction. There was not a single doubt to it.
Even if it costs your life?
Nic could only nod.
Then it is agreed.
And unfathomably blackness devoured him.
Later he would think of it as a fever dream. The other happenings as well, especially after finding out what that geezer Eisenhuth had used to treat him. There was one thing he swore on the other hand – never again did he want to end up in Eisenhuths care. And if it killed him, never again. These nightmares were going to haunt him for his entire life. And gathering herbs could the old fucker very well do alone, that thrice damned bastard had cut his pay, more than half even!
On top of it the stupid wanker had confiscated the effing sword. Normally Nic couldn’t care less. Heck, he had lost an eye to the thing. But as it all went down he was a bit miffed.
Though on the other hand, well, as he was finally rid of the bandage and wondrously he was not blind on that eye. All things considered it was impossible that the wound just healed like that and in such a short time as well. But well, even blind chickens find a corn once in a while and that might have been a purely lucky coincidence in Eisenhuths case this time.
A few things escaped his notice for the time being. The sword itself did seem worth much on the first day it had been in Eisenhuths possession. On the second day though it did look like it had turned rusty and broken so the old man threw it away disgruntled about it. The sword itself then, a day or two after that just vanished into thin air, just to reappear, hidden beneath Nics bed. As the blackness converged it seeped into the weapon, swallowing it whole. Just to deposit it beneath Nic’s bed, with no one being any wiser.
In reality the blade had been destined for someone else as a wielder, but as life happens that would be a bit impossible now. Magical weapons tended to have a mind of their own, especially those that were the last work of a blacksmith who would even call it their masterpiece. And if that blacksmith was a bit of a cranky old bastard that mind of its own was practically guaranteed.
But all of these interesting facts as a few others were something Nic would be learning about at a much later date.
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5And roots. And gras-like plants, that basically were some kinds of herbs as well, but normal people don’t identify them as such. Farmers call them weeds or something along those lines. One can make good medicine out of it.
⁶And things nobody wants to think about too intensely. There are reasons for washing most things very thoroughly before consumption. Though one should wonder as to why that is not recommended for mushrooms, and they should just be carefully brushed off.
7One of the small and practical helpers which make flints and scale obsolete. On one hand. On the other much more dangerous than a three-year-old in a firework factory after having been handed an already burning match. Why? Usually, the three-year-old will contemplate first what to ignite. The Flame Sprite just lights up anything and everything within reach, flammable or not, no long thought-process or decision making involved. Many wooden huts aren’t standing anymore because of that. Furthermore, they are small like a candle’s flame and swift like a weasel and contrary to three-year-olds they can’t stumble or fall over.
8Yes, a real one. Many years ago, this littlevillage had been an important stop of a trading route, the last before the mountains up north. Many travelers who had underestimated the route left behind what they could and for little coins as well. Besides the first librarian, he had just stayed from the start, with two wagons full of books, his wife and kid. But still travelled from time to time, as did the librarian in his youth, he hadn’t even been born in the village as well.