It is only due to the groundbreaking work of our esteemed founder, Gornatius Siti in 465 a.f., that a new form of Magic had been born: spells. Spells may be seen as certain formulas for the Arts that create the exact same result each time they are cast, both universalizing and unifying magical practice in all of Ceraviehl.
While the Drakh to the South with their treacherous manipulation of the desert sands used brutal methods to kill the defenders of Ceraviehl in 723 a.f., our forces eventually prevailed, winning the war after more than fifteen years of fighting. This fortunate victory has been largely attributed to the overwhelming magical power the spells the Guild have provided.
Excerpt from On the History of the Guild of Mages, written by Archmage Andrew Dross
Hands clasped behind his head, Silas stared at the wooden ceiling above him. He couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the lock that held the door began to rattle ominously, taunting him. He could feel Gnarly lying comfortably on his chest, his weight reassuring Silas. Without him, he never would have found the cabin with the old man. Tom seemed to know a lot about his new friend. If Gnarly had indeed come from the giant tree, why had he lead him here?
Whatever the reason, he was grateful for his company. Gnarly was the only thing Silas had left, now. He couldn’t let any harm come to it. But how would he learn the Arts if joining the Guild wasn’t an option anymore? Would they really try to take Gnarly away from him? The old man was probably just exaggerating.
Angry cussing from outside eventually shook Silas out of his thoughts.
“Thrice damned rabbits,” the speaker spit. “These are my vegetables, grow your own, for Herald’s sake!”
Silas couldn’t make out much of what was being said, but he heard something about “extermination” and “retaliating”. He chuckled. The movement woke Gnarly, who looked around in confusion. He let out a high-pitched creak after spotting Silas, awake in an instant. Enthusiastically jumping up and down on his chest, Gnarly gestured towards the sound of the swearing.
Silas sat up and offered Gnarly his usual spot on his shoulder. His friend used his thick brown hair to tie a knot around his small waist, creaking all the while.
“You ready?”
Gnarly simply tugged on his ear, urging him to go out of the cabin and meet Tom. Although he had only rested for a few hours, his legs and back already felt a lot better. More so than they should. He opened the door to the little cabin, warm sunlight greeting his face. A slight breeze brought an earthy scent with it. Silas breathed in deeply.
“What about poison though? If I cooked the meat correctly afterward, I wouldn’t even have to go hunting anymore,” a voice from behind the cabin muttered.
Shaking his head, Silas went to see Tom. The old man stood in front of what appeared to be his vegetable garden, a wooden fence around it. Silas was surprised by the size of the garden—It was almost as big as the cabin itself. Various vegetables grew inside of it, and he saw a few freshly dug holes with gnawed pieces of carrot strewn about. Tom looked to have just returned from his hunting trip. A small leather bag and two rabbits hung from his hip.
“Do you see this?” the old man ranted. “They jumped right over the fence this time! They even dug holes and ripped out my carrots, again!”
“Yeah…,” Silas began. “How was the hunting?”
“Oh, good,” Tom replied, his eyes glinting. “I got two of them this time,” he said, patting his hip from where the rabbits dangled. “I’m going to make some stew. Do you know how to skin and gut a rabbit?” Tom asked him.
“I think so. My fa—” the words got stuck in his throat. “Creak, creak” Gnarly tugged on his earlobe, and his vision cleared again. “Yes, I think so.”
Tom cocked an eyebrow. “It’s quite easy, I’ll show you. Most people use a knife for this, but then again, most people are idiots anyway.”
Unhooking a rabbit from his waist, Tom put his right hand around its neck. “Look closely,” he demanded, using his left hand to grasp the rabbit’s lower chest.
Tom then slowly went down with his left hand, keeping a tight grip as he did so, and the rabbit’s body started to bulge noticeably as Tom’s hand went farther down. Putting the rabbit over his knee, he gave it a sudden jolt while putting one elbow on the rabbit’s lower body. The rabbit’s innards landed on the ground with a soft splash.
Silas grimaced at the unsavory sight.
“If you don’t have a knife on you, you can use either your teeth or its back claw to cut into the fur,” Tom continued as he bit into the rabbit’s back and spit out the fur. The old man then put two fingers in the small gap he created and pulled the fur from its skin with a few mighty pulls.
“It may look a bit messy, but this way you don’t get your hands dirty while removing its innards. Normally you would want to use a knife to skin the rabbit to avoid getting any fur on the meat. Just remember that a knife is a tool, but not a necessity.”
Silas nodded absently.
“Did you follow?”
“I think so?”
Tom promptly unhooked the other rabbit from his waist and held it in front of Silas’ face.
“Then get to work. There are knives on the rack beside the door, and you can tie the rabbit to these bars while skinning it.” He gesturing to the overhanging bars of the cabin where two pieces of rope were dangling from it.
Sighing, Silas reluctantly took the carcass. He liked rabbits. They were cute, with their small legs and plushy fur.
“I will be in the shed, come find me when you’ve skinned it,” Tom said, walking off without waiting for an answer.
Best to get this over with. Imitating Tom’s earlier pose, Silas put his hand around the rabbit’s ribcage. Pushing the guts out of its rear was harder than it looked. Gnarly cheered him on while he worked, emitting a loud creak when the guts finally spilled out of the rabbit’s body.
Getting a knife from the cabin, Silas tied the rabbit to the two pieces of rope. The skinning by itself was not that difficult, and he managed to do it without getting any fur on the meat. “Creak!” Gnarly struck one fist into the air. The shed looked to have been built after the cabin, leaning onto the right side of it. The door to the shed stood slightly ajar. It groaned ominously when Silas opened it.
The smell of old blood assaulted his nose, and Tom wasn’t there.
Silas let out a breath of relief as he peeked inside. It seemed to be just a normal shed. A simple table stood in the middle, dark patches staining the rough wood. A small collection of tools were leaned against one side. Long shelves hung on the other side of the shed, with jars of pickled vegetables and meat occupying every spare space. A few woolen-spun sacks were strewn about.
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He wouldn’t have been surprised to find a podium with a black tome standing in the middle of it. Maybe a few candles and some crude drawings to complete the picture. Silas shook his head and went back to the front side. Tom stood by the fireplace, a large pot hanging above the fire.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked, holding the skinned rabbit up with one hand.
Walking over to the shed, Tom showed him how to cut the meat from the bones. “Get a bucket from the shed and bring me a few potatoes, peppers, onions, a bulb of garlic, a few sprigs of rosemary, thyme, and one bay leaf.”
They prepared the meal together, with Tom instructing Silas from time to time. As it turned out, the old man was pretty passionate about cooking. The aroma of the soup filled Silas’ nostrils, making his mouth water in anticipation.
Besides the old man’s occasional slurping to taste the soup, nothing disturbed the peace within the clearing. The wind softly rustled the leaves of the trees while the fire crackled beside him. Gnarly leaned its head against Silas’ ear. It was evening by now, and the sun gave the whole forest an orange tinge.
It reminded him of Bildsfell. During the summer, they had often spent a few days in the woods not far from the village, his father cooking while his mother sang. She hadn’t been a professional singer, but both his father and him had very much enjoyed it. A knot twisted its way into his throat. Mother had always put her full heart into every song.
An especially loud slurping pulled him out of his thoughts.
“Stew is ready,” Tom said, putting down the large spoon and walking to the cabin. He returned with a ladle and two wooden bowls, one of which he gave to Silas.
“By the way, I have some old clothes in a trunk under the table in the cabin. Choose what fits you best, no reason to walk around in these rags.” Tom gestured at the scraps that had once been his and breeches.
“Thank you. I don’t think I would have been allowed to enter Bryme with this,” Silas admitted while shoveling the stew into his mouth.
Tom only grunted. “I know you want to get to Bryme and join the Guild, but I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Silas frowned. “I know the Guild may try to take Gnarly away from me, but I can’t just give up.”
“There is more to it than that.” Tom shook his head. “You don’t have a single coin on you, and the appraisal by the Guild isn’t exactly cheap. Besides, you are too young to find real work. The most likely scenario is you ending up on the streets, having to hide Gnarly everywhere you go.”
But what choice did he have? He couldn’t go back to Bildsfell and leech off the pity from the other villagers. He’d much rather try his luck in Bryme with the Guild.
Silas snorted after hearing Tom’s advice. “What am I supposed to do then, stay here with you?”
“Yes, I was just about to make that suggestion,” the old man calmly responded.
“That’s a kind offer, but I can’t stay here. I need to become a Mage.”
The old man sighed. His grey eyes rested on Gnarly. The two stared at each other for a few, long heartbeats. “Creak.”
Tom put down his bowl. “Mages are only those affiliated with the Guild. Mages wield spells,” the old man spat out the word, “not knowing the price behind their presumed shortcut to power. You will never become a Mage, Silas.”
“Instead, what I would offer you is how to become an Artist, a true wielder of the thousand Arts. Someone who understands the power both within and around them, free of the Guild’s chains. Understand, Silas, that in contrast to a Mage, an Artist’s potential is near limitless. That is my offer to you.”
Silas took a moment to register the old man’s words. Any practitioner of the Arts, be they Mages or Artists, were powerful individuals. For someone like that to live in some nondescript forest, growing vegetables…Silas had heard better stories.
“You are supposed to be an Artist?”
The clearing darkened. Shadows slithered over the ground as they reached out to Silas. The flames of the campfire flickered weakly before surrendering to the oppressive darkness. Even the trees surrounding the clearing leaned towards him as if waiting for their chance to strike. Tom exuded an aura so intense Silas’ breathing felt sluggish, his lungs barely keeping up with the sudden pressure. He felt like an ant in front of the old man. The air itself seemed to thicken, and he wasn’t able to move a single muscle of his body—not from fear, but rather the sheer force the old man emitted.
Tom’s eyes shone as they pierced the darkness, his voice coming from everywhere but his mouth.
“Looks can be deceiving, boy. Don’t let your ignorance insult somebody you know nothing about.”
Gnarly raised one arm, pointing a finger at Tom accusingly. “Creak! Creak, creak!”
The pressure vanished as soon as it had appeared. The campfire came back to life as if nothing had happened and the clearing lightened up again.
“I’m sorry,” Silas blurted out as soon as he was able to breathe again. “I didn’t want to insult you.”
His heart hammered against his chest. What had that been? The display of power left no doubt that the old man was an practitioner of the Arts, and a powerful one at that. Only true masters could emit the kind of pressure like Tom had just done. At least that’s what the stories said. But if the old man was so powerful, why did he live out here all by himself, in the woods?
Tom shook his head slowly. “It is me who needs to apologize. My temper has gotten the best of me. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Silas nodded, taking a deep breath. “What would you want in return for your teachings?”
“Smart boy. But in truth, I’m just bored. A little help around the garden would be nice, I suppose.” Tom met Silas’ eyes. “And you have to do exactly as I say if I’m to teach you,” he added offhandedly.
Finding work in Bryme would be hard, but not impossible. Eventually, he’d have enough to pay for the appraisal. However, there was also the issue of tuition, which wasn’t cheap either. And he was also worried about Gnarly. He could not bear the thought of someone experimenting on him or trying to take his new friend away from him.
Besides, the old man had done nothing but help him so far. While the earlier display of power had frightened him, Tom didn’t seem to harbor any ill intentions. At first, he’d thought he would have to haul water and scrub the old man’s whole cabin clean, but until now Tom had only taught him things and even bandaged his wounds.
Silas glanced at Gnarly. His companion wasn’t frightened at all. The small sticks on top of its head bobbed as it nodded at him encouragingly.
Taking a deep breath, he met Tom’s eyes.
“I accept your offer,” Silas declared, hoping he wouldn’t regret his choice later on.
***
A cold, damp tunnel. The lock, lying on the ground defeatedly. The decrepit door, its rusty hinges wailing. A too-familiar scream came from behind it, flooding Silas with images.
The fire, its flames flickering with excitement. His father, an arrow piercing his forearm, the projectile exiting through the other side. Blood flowed down Edgar’s arm in miniature rivers, collecting on the glistening tip of steel and dropping onto the thirsty earth.
Two barbarians, weapons raised as they ran towards Silas’ family. A flash of light, followed by a loud popping sound as the archer’s head was obliterated by a rune from Edgar. His mother, rummaging through the carriage to find a weapon.
Himself, clutching her robe. Doing nothing.
One of the barbarians lay in a dark puddle of blood. A large hole tore through her abdomen, causing parts of her entrails to slip out. Silas stared with wide eyes as she futilely attempted to shove them back into her body.
Edgar crouched somewhere nearby, a long gash across his chest. Two parts of a spear lay near him, broken. Silas could hear his father’s gasping. The remaining barbarian moved towards Hannah, one ax in each hand.
Silas fell to his knees. “Do something!” he screamed at himself, still clutching his mother’s robe. Why was he so useless? The barbarian raised one ax, now a few feet away from his mother. Time momentarily froze. There was no escape, neither for himself nor his mother. The ax promised death. Edgar tried to stand up again, only to slip on the wet soil. It was all too much for Silas. He couldn’t bear it, and he couldn’t bear watching himself letting his parents die.
Again.
Fabric tore as Hannah shoved him out of harm’s way, stepping forward simultaneously—right into the descending ax. Nails clawed at the barbarian’s eyes, drawing blood. The ax lodged itself deep into her neck. Hannah’s knees buckled, yet she continued to scratch at the barbarian’s face as she collapsed.
“Mother!” Silas heard himself cry.
He crawled over to his mother’s body, cradling her head in his arms. Lifeless eyes stared back at him. How would she ever get all the blood out of her dress? She had always liked it so much.
The barbarian loomed over him, spitting out guttural sounds while pointing one ax at his fallen comrade. The woman lay a few feet away, motionless. Bits of her entrails were still clutched in her hands.
With a sudden surge of strength, Edgar hurled the sharp end of the spear at the barbarian’s back. The warrior roared in pain, turning around.
“Son, you have to flee!” Silas’ father feebly tried to lift the other end of the spear to defend himself from the approaching barbarian. Stopping right in front of Edgar, the warrior glanced over his shoulder meet Silas’ eyes before slowly raising one foot. Then, the barbarian stomped on Edgar’s head. Hard.
Crunch.
Brown eyes bulged out of their sockets.
“Run away, Si-“ The barbarian’s boot descended again. Crunch.
His father’s skull finally broke. Crunch.
“Father!” Edgar’s face was a mangled mess of blood, brains, and bits of bone, his once kind features unrecognizable. Parts of his mouth still moved, the rest of his body already still. Pulling the spear out of his back, the barbarian impaled Edgar’s deformed face. The warrior, blood flowing down his eyes, lumbered towards the sole survivor.
Darkness enveloped Silas as he fled into the forest.