After bidding farewell to his friends, Artair made the lonely walk back to the hovel that he called home. On the opposite side of the village to the McKenna’s farm was a landfill. Artair’s father had no trade and therefore could not pay rent for a proper dwelling. Artair’s ‘home’ sat slap-bang in the middle of the rotting debris. It was a precarious construct made of salvaged timber and junk.
Artair nimbly navigated his way to the back of the house, slipping through the gap in the timbers. He couldn’t risk using the front entrance. There were only two dingy rooms, with no windows to speak of. One was their sleeping and living space, with straw bedding and blankets on the floor. They had no stove for cooking or heating; the harsh winters of Trysk were always a struggle. The other room at the back, where Artair had entered, was his workshop. A wooden table and chair sat in the corner.
Artair peered around the corner. He was relieved to see his father passed out on the floor, half-covered by a blanket. There was an empty liquor bottle next to him. Determining that it was safe, Artair sat down at the table. He lit a stubby candle and reached under the desk, where a cardboard box was wedged against the wall. He opened it and pulled out a half-chewed pencil along with a dog-eared manuscript, covered in strange markings.
Artair took a moment to sift through his memories from earlier that day. The pages of Lana’s new book floated to the surface of his mind. Ordinary people looking at those pages would have seen nothing more than techniques for the cable stitch and fisherman’s rib- but Artair White was far from ordinary. There had been Seraph Marks on those pages. With shaky penmanship, Artair copied them from memory into his manuscript. They were most terrifying passages, describing the characteristics of the different Vylae tribes that dwelled in the forbidden land of Morellia.
Ever since Artair had learned his Blessed Name, he had meticulously memorised and recorded every Seraph Mark he came across. Nobody had a clue he was a warlock. Artair had kept it a secret for his own safety, even from his best friend of ten years. It wasn't an issue of trust; Osric had proven his loyalty from the very start. Artair looked back on their first meeting with great fondness: him, the dirty little thief with pockets full of stolen goods; and Osric, the respectable farmer’s son, pointing an arrow at his face. After several moment's contemplation, Osric had lowered the weapon and instead offered Artair his hand. Thus began their tenuous friendship. They spent that morning talking in the orchard, hidden from the disapproving eyes of Osric’s father. Despite being so young, Artair already had a few colourful stories to tell. His proudest accomplishment was sending anonymous love letters to two of the village boys he despised. To this day, it still gave Artair a good chuckle remembering their looks of horror when they both arrived at the old belltower at dusk with flowers in hand, expecting to meet a pretty girl.
That fateful day, Artair had met a pretty girl himself.
Little Lana had come to seek her brother's help with her chores, dragging along a pail of water that was far too heavy for a child her age. She was a delicate thing back then, bony like a sparrow, with dark eyes that were somehow different from her brother’s.
"Who are you?" she'd asked, looking him up and down. Nobody had looked at Artair quite like that before. Lana's eyes held no scorn or disgust, nor pity like her brother's. They were empty... just empty. Young Artair had gazed into those bottomless eyes and found himself falling.
"Artie. Call me Artie."
Back in the present, Artair pulled out the silver spoon from his pocket, a fond smile on his face. Meeting Lana McKenna was the best thing that had ever happened to him. As her partner in crime, his hunger in both body and mind was satiated. She was the reason he kept his silence. The McKenna's were warlocks, born and raised; if he told them about his talent, they would no doubt offer their help. Osric, well intentioned though he was, would treat him like a child. Artair was not a charity case, thank you very much. As for Lana, well... she was a Forger, the same as him. According to her, Forging magic was a woman's art; there wasn't much risk in sitting behind a desk, inscribing one's blood into objects. It was a safe area of magical study. Unimpressive. Boring. Ergo, simply copying Lana's knowledge would not do. A real man, a husband, was supposed to lead.
A creak of the floorboards put Artair on alert. He pocketed the spoon and slid the papers out of sight, before turning around. His father swayed back and forth in the doorway.
“What’re y’ doing son?” he drawled.
“Working.” Artair replied, hoping not to raise his father’s ire. The man gestured at his wary expression.
“Come on, give us a smile son. Aren’t y' pleased t' see yer old man?” Artair obediently forced his lips into a grin. The other made a noise of approval, stumbling into the room to peer at the young man.
“Did y’ make yer old man some money t’ day, son?”
Artair felt his stomach tighten, as he handed over the few coppers in his cap. The truth was that Artair hadn’t made much money on his last sale at all. A single gold earring was never going to sell for much; the six silver pieces he had given to Lana were all he had. Artair knew it was a foolish decision. Lana would certainly throw a fit if she ever found out- but she was a beautiful girl, and he was a man in love. Artair would much rather take a beating to impress his future wife, than waste a single penny on his pitiful excuse for a father.
Immediately, the man’s mood changed. He slammed his fist down onto the table, and the coins fell to the floor with a clinking noise. The redhead flinched.
“Whas’ this good for? Couldn’t even buy a loaf o’ bread with that.”
“I’m sorry. I tried.” Artair replied weakly. Enraged, his father smashed the glass bottle against the wall. The man gripped Artair by his hair and pulled him to his feet, pressing the broken bottle neck against Artair’s cheek.
“Yer useless.” Hs spat, flecks of spit landing on his son’s face. “What were the Maidens thinking, taking her away, and giving me you instead. Evil wenches. They even made you look like her.”
‘Her’, Artair knew, meant his deceased mother- but that was about all he knew. His father had given him no information about the woman. Artair could only assume, from his inherited looks, that she was not a northerner. Artair’s father was a stocky man with tanned skin and dark hair; pasty redhead Artair stuck out like a sore thumb next to him.
Praise the Maids, he thought. Artair would much rather look like an outsider than anything resembling his old man.
“Nah not the bloody Maids.” His father corrected as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You took ‘er from me, didn’ cha? You evil little creature. You ripped ‘er belly right open. Yer first act when y’ came into this world- murder.” He removed the bottle from his cheek, and for a second Artair thought it was over, until he felt the jagged points digging into his stomach. He screamed as his so-called father dragged the glass down his skin. “Maybe I should do the same t' you.” The man spat viciously. “Cut y’ open and sell y' organs. Maybe then you’ll be worth something.”
Artair didn’t know how long it lasted. Time always seemed to bend and distort when his father was in one of his rages. There was nothing he could do but endure until the man grew tired. Eventually he stumbled out of the room, muttering something hateful under his breath.
Artair slumped against the wall, eyes-half closed as he waited. He needed to tend to his wounds, but he couldn’t risk moving until the monster in the next room fell asleep. Thankfully, his old man was a snorer. On cue, Artair began to haul himself with difficulty towards the wooden table and crawled underneath, grabbing the cardboard box. Inside, underneath the manuscript, lay his secret medical stash. It had taken years to build up his collection. Some of it was bought; most was stolen.
Artair pulled out a roll of bandages and a tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol. By now, his ragged shirt was soaked with blood. He splashed the alcohol over his hands, rolled up his shirt and bit down on the filthy material to stop himself screaming as he tentatively prodded his stomach. He was relieved to discover that the injury looked worse than it really was. Artair rolled out the bandages on the floor and retrieved a small shard of glass from the shattered bottle.
With a determined grimace, he called his Blessed Name to mind.
Amity the Shrewd
Artair then ran the jagged glass down his finger to draw fresh blood, holding the shard in a crude imitation of a pen, turning to the bandages on the floor. Scarlet droplets soaked into the material, turning a brilliant white as his magic began to do its work. Traditional Forgers learned their craft by copying passages from the Seraphic Record. By splitting up the holy words into their individual characters- Seraph Marks- and rearranging them into sequences, Forgers could produce a variety of spells. Artair, however, had no interest in tradition. The Seraph Marks he was inscribing now were not found anywhere in the Seraphic Record. In fact, Artair didn’t even own a copy of the holy text. Everything he knew came from years of repetition and daring experimentation. These Marks were ugly hybrids, bastardised creations; characters that had been ripped apart and recombined at random. Any other warlock would consider such work blasphemous, but Artair had no such qualms. He loved his beautiful abominations. They had saved his life more than once.
Artair repeated the same three commands along the length of the bandage:
Cleanse > Sew > Soothe
Soon the entire strip was glowing a soft white in the gloom of the workshop. With shaking hands, Artair wrapped the material around his injured stomach. The initial shock was uncomfortable as the magic flowed into the wound, but relief soon followed. The stabbing sensation dulled to an ache, and then it was gone. He slid down onto the floor, boneless. Artist knew he couldn't go on like this. Thankfully, after ten long years of waiting, it was time to execute his escape plan. He pulled out the flyer from his pocket, casting an eye over the list of tutors. Who said that Forging magic was a woman's art? Artair was going to be a Sentinel. Once they learned of his almighty healing powers, the redhead was confident that every magic tutor in the capital city would be fighting over him. Except, he didn’t fancy making the arduous journey to the capital alone. Artair figured it was high time that he told his best friend of his intentions; Osric and he shared the same goal, after all.
Artair sat up with a groan, eying the door. The monster beyond slept soundly- for now- but only gold could appease it. He grinned, seeing the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.
What better time to put forward his proposal to Osric, than over a pint of ale?
----------------------------------------
On the other side of the village, Osric and Lana were sitting at the kitchen table with their parents, quietly sipping from their bowls of pumpkin soup. The atmosphere was tense. Morgan was looking between his children expectantly. When they failed to deliver, he cleared his throat.
“I heard there was an incident in the square today.” Osric almost dropped his wooden spoon. His father was frowning at him from across the table. “Osric, I told you to keep that dog under control. We don’t need to give anybody reason to start looking at us.”
“It wasn’t Alby’s fault.” the young man blurted. His father raised an eyebrow.
“Oh? Care to explain?”
“It wasn’t just the Royal Guard who turned up. There were two Sentinels there.” Osric replied, clenching his fists. “Things... got ugly. A fight was about to break out- something about people going missing.” Morgan’s expression flickered. “One of the Sentinels in blue, the Tamer… he did something to Alby.”
“You’re sure of this- how?” the man pressed. Osric struggled to respond. How was he supposed to explain the certainty he felt in his bones?
“I just know.”
Morgan let out a noise of discontent in his throat and sat back in his chair. Several seconds passed. All was quiet, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock- until Lana took a loud slurp of soup.
“Lana.” Caitlyn admonished. Such etiquette was unbecoming for a young lady. The girl rolled her eyes, tearing off a chunk of bread and dousing it in the juices.
“How does Taming magic work anyway?” she asked casually. Morgan shot her a sharp look.
“How does this topic concern a future Sister?”
“It doesn’t, I suppose. I just want to know.” Lana shrugged. She pointed her spoon at her brother, flecking pumpkin juice onto the white tablecloth. “But Osric plans to enter the Gauntlet. He’s going to be competing against warlocks of all classes, right? It seems like a good idea for him to know about Taming magic too.”
Osric was impressed by his sister’s nerve. Morgan considered her words, and then turned to his son.
“And do you think you’re ready for the Gauntlet, as you are now?”
The young man looked down into his bowl of soup.
“I will be.” he promised. Everybody jumped as his father slammed his fist against the table.
“Don’t be so casual.” Morgan growled. “The Gauntlet is no joke, Osric. Take it from me.”
Once again, the man’s left arm began to tremble. It was his casting arm that he used to focus his Incantations. Morgan cursed under his breath and extended the limb so that his wife could massage it, her hands making soothing circles like kneading a loaf of bread. Osric stared at his father. Morgan never spoke about his time in the Gauntlet. Caitlyn was watching her husband with sad eyes. She had lost count of the times she had awoken to an empty bed, because her husband’s nightmares would not let him rest.
“Are you saying I shouldn’t compete?” Osric asked. Morgan closed his eyes, the lines on his face deepening as he frowned.
“I’m saying that becoming a Sentinel may be a worthy goal, but it’s meaningless if you don’t come home.”
Silence fell. Osric’s cheeks flushed with humiliation. His father doubted him.
“I will come home.” He promised, fists clenching on the table as he stared at his reflection in the bowl of orange liquid. “I’m going to win.”
His father’s reprimand came quick and cutting.
“Then I suggest taking a leaf out of your sister’s book and start taking your studies more seriously.” Osric shrunk another inch in his chair. Morgan's chair scraped against the floor as he rose from the table, towering over his son. The young man dared not look his father in the eye. “You’re an Incanter. Put all other thoughts out of your mind and concentrate on mastering your own class. Now, finish your food and get changed. We’re going out on patrol.”
Osric let out a quiet sigh, remembering Artair’s parting offer. He really wanted that drink- but he wasn’t about to argue with his father. The young man retreated to his room, rifling through his neatly organised wardrobe. He retrieved a folded set of black robes- the traditional Incanter uniform. It was made in the same style that the Sentinel had worn earlier, but the material was simple cotton rather than luxurious velour. Morgan McKenna patrolled the village perimeter religiously after nightfall. It was the only time he left the familiar surroundings of the farm. The elder warlock insisted on being in uniform, out of respect for their heritage. The robes were designed to look like ordinary travelling garb to fool the Unblessed. Only the wearer would notice the tiny Incanting crest embroidered on the back.
Osric returned downstairs and slipped on his boots, slinging his customary weapon over his shoulder. Morgan carried nothing, save a couple of torches so they could see in the dark. Dusk was already setting in. They would make a full circuit of the village, sticking to the perimeter wall. It would be pitch black by the time they returned. Osric whistled for Alby, who trotted up to the front door, eager for the exercise.
“Be safe.” Caitlyn called as they left.
Their night started out entirely routine. The streets of Trysk after dark were quiet as always, interrupted only by the faint sound of music and laughter from the Seven Sins. Osric and his father blended into the shadows, sticking close to the crumbling stone wall that ran the length of the village. As they walked, Morgan let his hand trail over the stone, humming under his breath. The Seraph Marks embedded in the rock began to shine in response to his voice. Just as the White Sisters had developed hundreds of standard Forging spells from the holy text, Incanters had their own repetoir of spoken phrases. Some were only a line or two in length, like Morgan's barrier spell. Others were closer to songs, combining several holy phrases together. Right now, Morgan was reading the stones with his voice, testing the strength of their defences, and looking for any trace of evil energy that might have tried to get inside. Osric parroted his father’s words, but could sense the man’s growing frustration. Morgan expected to feel his son's magic flowing through the stone alongside his own- but as usual, there was nothing.
Osric was granted a brief reprieve by the sound of a pitiful meowing at his feet. He looked down and saw a stray kitten winding its way around his legs. He smiled and bent down to greet it, incantation forgotten. Morgan turned around, confused why his son had stopped chanting, and saw him scratching the animal behind the ears with a contented smile on his face. Alby, strangely enough, did nothing. The dog sat obediently a few feet away, eyes glazed over, as if he were not really seeing the kitten at all.
“Osric.” Morgan rumbled. Osric flinched and looked up at him. “Please, concentrate, for the love of the Seraphim.”
“Right.” The young man murmured, looking back at the kitten.
Sorry, I have to go now.
The fluffy creature stopped in its tracks and watched with sad eyes as the boy walked away. Osric’s heart went out to it. He looked hopefully at his father.
“Father, could I-”
“Absolutely not. You collect those animals like trophies. We can’t afford to keep another one.”
Morgan had lost track of how many injured animals Osric had brought home over the years. His son needed to stop trying to save every distressed creature that crossed his path and learn to take care of himself.
“They’re not trophies.” Osric denied, affronted. “I thought it was a warlock’s job to protect life.”
“You think saving a few sick animals makes you a real warlock?” Morgan shot back. Osric’s cheeks flushed.
Just then, something interesting caught Morgan’s eye- there was a piece of parchment stuck to a nearby tree. He walked over to take a closer look. It was a notice for a missing person.
“Another one.” Morgan stated grimly, gesturing for his son to come closer and look. The sketch showed the name and face of a young woman, with the date of her disappearance written underneath. Osric recognised her as one of the serving girls from the local tavern.
“She probably just left town.” He reasoned. There was a growing trend of village folk leaving their home turf behind to seek better prospects in the towns and cities.
“Perhaps.” Morgan replied. He looked up at the dilapidated perimeter wall. It had been erected during the War of Realms to protect Trysk against the invading Vylaic forces, but the enchantments in the stone were crumbling away with the passage of time. Morgan was no Forger- he couldn’t repair it himself- so he had petitioned Priestess Anna to take his concerns forward to the White Sisters. To date, he had received no response. In its current state of disrepair, it would be all-too easy for a vyla to slip through and snatch an unsuspecting soul. His son followed his gaze and could guess what he was thinking.
“Father, nobody’s seen a vyla on this side of the border for a thousand years.”
“Do you stop believing in the sun when night falls?” his father retorted. “The Great River is only a mile from here. The wards might repel the majority, but it only takes one to make it safely across. I detected recent traces of Vylaic energy in the stone."
Before Osric could reply, they were interrupted by angry shouts, coming from the nearby tavern. Father and son drew closer to the commotion, cloaked in the shadows of the perimeter wall. They observed as the door to the Seven Sins opened, and a familiar, scrawny figure was manhandled outside by a group of four, much bigger, lads.
“Cheater!” one of them accused, pointing at Artair. Osric noticed that the youth spoke with a strange dialect. Certainly, he was not a local. No local boy would dare conduct himself in such a brutish manner. In a tiny village like Trysk, word would inevitably get back to their parents; their mothers would starve them, and their fathers would give them a clip around the ear. Osric noticed that the outsiders all had shocking red hair much like Artair’s, and their clothes were just as ragged. The younger McKenna turned to Morgan.
“Father, those men, are they-”
“Nomads.” Morgan confirmed with a sour face.
The bands of roaming tribesman were scattered across every territory of the Empire. They moved from place to place, travelling by horse or by boat. Known for their loutish and deviant behaviour, they were a blight on the landed population. When a band of Nomads arrived on a town’s doorstep, shopkeepers would lock their doors and bolt their windows shut, or else risk being looted. Only the taverns and brothels welcomed them, making a quick profit as they passed through.
It seemed that on this occasion, the Nomad ferrymen had made port in Trysk, and Artair had the bright idea to invite them to gamble with him. Clearly, he was now regretting that decision. The scrawny boy retreated with his hands in the air; there was no sign of his usual grin as the larger youths squared up to him.
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“My sleeves are empty. See for yourself!” Artair protested. Osric was about to rush forward to his friend’s defence, but Morgan held him back by the shoulder. This opportunity was too good to waste.
“Try casting your magic.” Morgan encouraged his son in a low voice. “Make a barrier.” Osric’s eyes widened at his father’s suggestion. The King’s laws were clear; they weren’t allowed to use magic on their fellow Men.
“But we’re not supposed to-”
“Nomads aren’t Men.” Morgan growled. “Now show me.”
Osric held up his hand, frowning with determination. He ignored the familiar, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he spoke:
“In times of peril recall thy Name bestowed; draw forth the strength to confine the will of evil.”
Osric waited with bated breath for a few moments. Yet again, nothing happened. Bitter disappointment swirled in his stomach, and his father huffed.
“Never mind. I’ll take care of it myself.”
Meanwhile, the boys continued their petty argument, unaware that they were being watched. The disagreement was escalating. Artair was being held by two of the other lads, struggling in their grip.
“I dunno how you did it, but nobody wins eight rounds straight. Cheating bastard!” one of the boys- presumably the ringleader- accused. He was a hulking beast of boy, with a big gut, meaty hands and broad shoulders. He drew back his fist, preparing to strike Artair, who was barely half his size. The redhead braced himself for the inevitable and turned his face away. Just as the blow was about to fall, a shimmering light appeared in front of Artair, lingering only for a split second. The punch connected and ricocheted off the barrier.
In their drunken state, the group couldn’t understand what had happened. Morgan and Osric chose that moment to reveal themselves, stepping out from the safety of the shadows.
“Leave the boy alone.” Morgan demanded, striding up to the louts. Osric knocked an arrow to his bowstring and hung back with Artair.
“You know, when I said we should meet up tonight, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” The redhead commented with a weak smile, staying close to his friend’s side. “Still, I’m not complaining. Defend my honour, good sir.”
“You’re not going to defend yourself?” Osric quipped. Artair snorted.
“Save the Maids, no. Have you seen the size of them?”
The lads turned their attention to Morgan as the man in black approached them. The ringleader rounded on him with a look of thunder. His eyes were set too far apart, giving him a simple appearance. His features reminded Osric of a vegetable that somebody had carved with a blunt knife.
“You got something to say, old man?” He jeered.
Morgan glanced towards the tavern door where the patrons had gathered to watch the fight. The soft glow of candlelight flickered to life in nearby dwellings as their neighbours were roused from sleep by the commotion; curtains were pulled aside, and curious faces squinted out.
“You and your friends should leave, before you get hurt.” Morgan advised mildly. The ringleader stared at him in disbelief. A few of his posse cracked their knuckles.
“Are you threatening us, old man?”
“I’m giving you fair warning.” Morgan corrected, gesturing in the direction of the village gate. “Do the wise thing, and leave.”
“Oh yeah? Make me.” The ringleader scoffed, raising his fists.
“Father, be careful.” Osric warned in a low voice. He too had noticed the attention they were getting from their neighbours. The people of Trysk surely wouldn’t care to protect the unruly Nomads, but if Morgan was seen using magic…
“Don’t worry, son. This won’t require any special measures.” His father assured, rolling up his sleeves.
True to his word, the fight was over before it really began. The youths were so drunk that they tripped over their own feet, sloppy punches sending them off balance. Morgan easily dodged the blows, and with minimal effort, they were on the floor. Watching his father, Osric wondered where he had learned to throw a punch. He must have trained his body well for the Gauntlet, not just his magic.
At this rate, I’ll never catch up to him.
Morgan McKenna approached the injured youths; a looming specter about to swallow them up. He grabbed the ringleader by the lapel and hauled him to his feet.
“Was one blow enough to strike some sense into you?” His father was never one for displays of emotion- but now, there was a steely coldness in his gaze that Osric had never seen. “If your sort ever dare show your faces around these parts again, I promise, you’ll suffer much worse than a beating. Get out of my sight.”
Morgan’s grip loosened and he shoved the boy back into the dirt. The youths picked themselves up off the ground with difficulty and limped away, muttering curses. They were sent on their way with jeers from the other villagers. Artair cleared his throat to get Morgan’s attention.
“Aha… thanks for your help, Mr McKenna.” He laughed sheepishly. Morgan simply folded his arms and turned away from the young man without saying a word. The message to Artair was received loud and clear.
I didn’t do this to help you. You’re nothing to me. You’ll always be nothing.
Osric looked towards his friend, reading his expression, and reached out to touch his shoulder. Artair ducked his head in shame.
“McKenna!”
It was the owner of the tavern calling to them, with several other villagers in tow. They were crowding around the elder warlock, who looked rather out of his depth.
“Thank you so much for dealing with them. I thought they were going to drink me out of house and home and set the place on fire on the way out.” The innkeeper enthusiastically shook Morgan’s hand. He gestured towards the tavern door. “Drink? On the house, of course.”
“No thank you.” Morgan replied curtly. His folded arms and set stance almost disguised the tremor that racked his left side. Almost. “It’s already late. My son and I will be heading home now.”
“You’re both welcome. Just the one, to steady the nerves. I insist.” The man wheedled. No doubt he was hoping that ‘just the one’ would become several. Osric gave his father a side glance. Whilst the promise of a free drink was tempting, the thought of being stuck at the same table with his father right now did not appeal. Thankfully, the apple did not fall far from the tree.
“Forgive me, barkeep, but I am not someone who can be insisted upon.”
The villagers exchanged sidelong glances, disapproving of Morgan's rudeness. It came as no surprise to Osric that his father did not know the innkeeper’s name. Trysk itself was one giant trophy to Morgan; something to protect and polish, as proof of his duty and heritage. He saw no need to mingle with the people. After all, why would the opinions of the Unblessed matter to a warlock?
The man turned to his son and gestured with his head for him to follow.
“Come Osric. It’s late. Time for us to go home.”
Osric watched with a heavy feeling in his chest as his father turned his back. He could hear the disapproving mutterings of the villagers; they made little effort to lower their voices.
“-doesn’t deserve her-”
“-his poor wife-”
“-miserable sod-”
Osric was so embarrassed- embarrassed for his father and for himself. He spied the shimmer of the silver Incanter crest embroidered on Morgan’s back as he walked away.
You don’t even know him.
He felt compelled to speak.
“Father!” Morgan stopped in his tracks. Osric bit his lip, fists clenching at his side. He had to be careful with his words, knowing that they had an audience. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t help.”
Morgan let out a heavy sigh but did not look at his son.
“It was a long shot.” He admitted. “I thought that a situation with real stakes might spark something in you.” Osric couldn’t say anything in response. Morgan glanced back and attempted a smile, but his frustration was plain for all to see. “Take some time now to clear your head- but I expect you home by midnight. Understood?”
Osric nodded and turned to the innkeeper who was standing by, puzzled by the father and son’s exchange.
“Is your offer of a free drink still open?” Osric asked. The man’s expression brightened.
“Of course, young master!”
Osric moved to cross the tavern threshold with Artair in tow, but the innkeeper held up a hand, stopping the redhead in his tracks.
“Not him. He's caused me enough trouble." the man said, looking Artair up and down. "Not to mention he doesn’t drink a drop.”
It was true. For all of the hours that Artair had spent in the pub that night, his blue eyes remained sharp and his breath free of liquor.
“I’ll drink for both of us.” Osric assured. The barkeep wavered, torn between the promise of Osric's gold and the risk of Artair's devilry. Just as Artair always said, gold was indeed the answer. The man stood aside, and the young men headed into the tavern. As they walked, Osric noticed that the redhead was moving strangely.
“You’re limping.” he noted. For a split second, Artair’s eyes widened in alarm; but it was quickly covered by a self-deprecating smile.
“Yeah, those Nomads roughed me up pretty good!"
Osric’s expression darkened. He had known Artair long enough to spot the signs. Osric wondered what horrible new injuries were hidden underneath the redhead's baggy clothes. He swallowed down his anger, unasked questions burning on his lips. Artair’s home life was not an open topic for discussion.
A rush of warm air welcomed them as the doors to the Seven Sins swung open. The tavern was a cosy place that had been owned by the same family for generations. The ceiling was low with thick wooden beams; the chairs and tables lovingly handcrafted, along with the patterned rug on the floor. An open fire crackled in the grate.
“The usual, I presume?” the innkeeper asked as the pair approached the bar. The young McKenna was the best kind of customer- the kind that spoke little, drank a lot, and always paid his tab. True to form, Osric slid a silver piece across the counter, avoiding the man's eyes out of shyness.
“Ale. Two pints.”
“You got it. Fiona, two pints of the finest.” The man called to one of the serving girls who was weaving her way between the tables. Fiona was a new face- no doubt brought in to replace her missing predecessor. She was pretty, Osric supposed, objectively speaking. She had curly black hair and full cheeks, scarlet dress clinging to her curves. The young woman turned her head and flashed the boys a winning smile. Artair grinned back and waved. Osric nodded politely.
The boys chose a secluded spot near the window, away from the other patrons. Soon enough, Fiona approached with two flagons balanced on her serving tray.
“They’re both for him.” Artair told her, nodding towards Osric. She raised an eyebrow at the redhead.
“You’re not drinking?”
“I have other vices.” Artair grinned.
“You’re sure I can’t tempt you?”
“Depends. If it’s not liquor, I might be interested.” He winked. Fiona giggled and tapped him with her tray in admonishment as she walked away. “Alright then, how much?” Artair called to her. She paused and looked him up and down.
“For you… three silvers.”
“Three-!” Artair clutched his chest in faux pain. “Are your tits made of gold or something?”
The serving girl made a rude hand gesture and flounced off. Artair sighed loudly and turned back to face Osric who was, predictably, looking at him with disapproval.
“What?” Artair challenged, leaning across the table. “The honourable Osric McKenna refuses to dip his wick, so none of us mere mortals can?”
“You offended her.” Osric pointed out, voice quieting as he continued. “Anyway, what kind of girl wants to be bought by strange men?”
“She does, apparently, for three silvers.” Artair quipped. “There’s no shame in it. It’s the oldest profession in the world; perfectly respectable. She’s even got the uniform, see?” The redhead nodded across to Fiona, who stuck out like a beacon in the tavern thanks to her scarlet dress- a bright splash of colour on a blank canvas. Only ladies of the night would dare to wear such lustful shades.
“If it’s so ‘respectable’, maybe you should try it.” Osric countered. His friend grinned.
“Bet you’d like that.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Osric threw his head back, draining the dregs of his first pint. Artair was impressed by his friend’s stamina.
“How’s your head- feeling clear yet?” he questioned.
“Not even close. Ask me again after my fifth.”
“Shame. I was going to ask you what that was all about, with your old man.”
The redhead watched Osric’s reaction carefully as the black-haired boy’s grip tightened on the jug.
“Does it really matter?” Osric muttered. Artair nudged him under the table with his foot.
“Well, if you tell me, I might be able to help. You won’t find any answers at the bottom of a tankard.”
There was a long pause. Then slowly, in hushed tones, Osric began to speak. He explained the events leading up to their encounter in the street and how he had failed his father’s test. The redhead rolled his eyes.
“Wow. Your old man can be a real git, you know that?”
“He did just save you.” Osric reminded him. Artair’s lip quirked.
“Oh, how merciful of him.”
“Don’t be like that. You were in trouble. We had a duty to step in.”
Artair gave his friend a pointed look.
“Yeah, but he didn’t really want to, did he? He used me, to test you.”
Osric surveyed his friend from over his jug.
“Would you rather have handled it by yourself?” There was a sombre pause, as Artair shifted in his chair. Osric, as always, spoke calmly- the better for his words to sink in. “Gambling with Nomads is a new low, Artie. Sooner or later, your luck will run out.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing I know how to make my own luck.”
The wily redhead reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a bulging purse. A grin broke out on his face. Osric’s dark eyes narrowed.
“You made all that in one night? How?”
“Just a little card trick.” The redhead replied airily. He was still playing with the deck of cards; his practiced fingers executed a shuffle, making his point with a satisfying rip.
“You mean, you cheated.” Osric accused.
“Guilty as charged.” Artair admitted without missing a beat. “I’m everything your old man says: a thief, a letch, and a filthy little cheater- but hey, at least I’m honest about it.” He cocked his head in challenge. “How about you, Os?”
Osric licked his lips. His dark eyes focussed on a spot somewhere over Artair’s shoulder.
“I know what I want… I just can’t seem to get it.” he admitted with difficulty.
“Revolutionary idea, but maybe your old man isn’t the right person to be guiding you.” Artair suggested. Osric blinked. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. The redhead reached into one of his many pockets and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment; he laid it out on the table. “Did you get one of these, earlier?”
“Oh, yeah.”
It was a copy of the flyer that the Sentinels had been handing out, advertising the Gauntlet.
“There must be someone here who can help you.” Artair tapped the list of names on the page. Osric glanced at the trainers’ details without much hope.
“Check out the addresses. They’re all based in the capital- and just look at the price.” Osric pulled a face of disgust as he scanned the page. The fees were extortionate. The precise services on offer were not stated, but Osric knew the reason for the premium. These men would all be expert warlocks, specialists in training up Gauntlet hopefuls. Magic was a forbidden art, after all. The McKenna’s might not be living on a landfill, unlike Artair, but they were by no means rich.
“Well, what about this one?”
Artair drew Osric’s attention to the final name on the list. The young warlock frowned. There was no address or price listed at all. Instead, the details read 'scholarship opportunity'. Even stranger was the tutor’s name: 'Magpie' with no surname listed.
“Magpie, like the bird?”
“Guess so. Well, what do you think?”
“I think it must be a printing error.” Osric replied. “Look, there’s not even a contact address.”
“You think so?” Artair replied with a wicked smile. He grabbed one of his playing cards from the deck and pressed the sharp edge of the card against his finger, wincing as a papercut appeared. Then he pressed his bloody thumbprint in the blank space next to Magpie’s name, where the address should have been. Artair closed his eyes as he called upon his Blessed Name, imprinting his will upon the page.
>Reveal<
The parchment shimmered, and then some additional writing appeared next to Magpie’s name- five cryptic words.
Your interest has been noted.
Osric leaned back in his chair, rendered speechless with shock. The playing card that bore a smudge of Artair’s blood was also shining with magic; the face on the card had transformed from the Six of Cups to King of Hearts. Artair was smiling at him in amusement.
“Like I said, I know how to make my own luck.”
“Are you mad?” Osric hissed. He folded his beefy arms over the parchment and flipped the playing card face down. Thankfully, nobody was standing close enough to have seen. Osric leaned across the table towards Artair. “You’re joking… you’re a warlock? How is that even possible?”
The Seraph’s Blessing was inherited through family bloodlines. Artair, to Osric's knowledge, had no magical ancestry. The redhead raised an eyebrow.
“Jealous, are we?”
“No.” Osric replied, a little too quickly. He stared in accusation at the redhead. “Artie, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t need to, until now.”
Osric was offended by the implication. He looked at his friend with reproach.
“Did you think I’d betray you?”
“No.” Artair replied immediately.
“Then why keep it a secret?”
“Because I wanted to see the look on your face when I came clean." Artair grinned. Osric frowned. He suspected there was more to it, but he'd never been good at reading his friend. Artair and Lana were alike in that respect.
“You're a Forger, I'm guessing?” he asked, eying the redhead's playing cards.
“Bingo."
“Does Lana know?”
“No.” Artair shook his head. “And if it’s all the same to you, I plan to keep it that way.”
“You do know she’s joining the White Sisters soon, right?” Osric pointed out. “If you don’t tell her now, then-”
“Osric, relax. I have a plan.” the skinny lad assured, blue eyes twinkling.
“What kind of plan?”
“I’m going to win the Gauntlet, obviously.” Artair folded his arms behind his head in confidence and kicked back in his chair so it was balanced precariously on two legs. He grinned at Osric across the table. “I’ll become a Sentinel and do my time serving His Royal Highness. Once I’ve had my fun and I’m filthy rich, I’ll break Lana out of that prison of harpies and marry her.” Osric raised his eyebrow. Artair blushed, realising how he sounded. “Ah- with your blessing of course, big brother.” The redhead winked and put his hands together in a pleading gesture. Osric pursed his lips.
“You’re serious.”
“Sure, why not?”
“Artie, you don’t know anything about magic.” Osric reasoned. His best friend had never read the Seraphic Record- he probably didn’t even know about the Key Precept, let alone the intricacies of the magical classes or the Sins of the Vylae. How could he hope to win the Gauntlet? Artair's grin tightened. This condescension was the exact reason why he hadn't told Osric before.
“Which is why I’m getting myself a teacher.” Artair reasoned, gesturing to the notice on the table. “And from where I’m sitting, I’m not the only one who could use some extra help. You want to win the Gauntlet too, don’t you?”
Osric tentatively peeked at the flyer where the hidden message was written.
“Your interest has been noted- what does that mean, exactly?”
“If it’s a scholarship opportunity, I’m guessing they only want the best.” Artair hummed, scratching his chin. “That trick with the missing address is a test. You have to be able to see through the enchantment. If it's broken, it’ll send a signal back to the person that cast it.”
Osric examined the parchment in silent wonder. It looked completely ordinary to him. He considered if it could be some kind of scam, but quickly dismissed the notion. The White Sisters controlled the publication of all scholarly materials and royal communications. They would have given the notice their seal of approval before the Royal Guard was permitted to distribute it. This Magpie fellow must have friends in high places... which meant he was the real deal.
“Well then, what are you waiting for?” Artair prompted his friend. Osric blinked.
“Huh?”
“There are three places in the Sentinels up for grabs, right?” the redhead urged, his electric blue eyes sparking. “Let’s both get this Magpie man's help and win this thing together!”
Osric hesitated, and then reached into his trouser pocket. He pulled out the neatly folded page and laid it on the table. Before he could change his mind, he bit down hard on his thumb and left his mark in red. Sure enough, he received the same message in reply. Artair clapped him on the back appreciatively, but Osric’s stomach was tangled in knots.
What in the name of the Seraphim did I just do?
“In the meantime, we should try and make as much gold as possible before we leave town.” Artair continued, shaking his moneybag of ‘winnings’ at Osric. He upturned the contents on the table and began sorting the pennies into piles of ten. The redhead’s words only cut Osric deeper.
Leaving town…
If this Magpie person was willing to teach him, Osric would have to leave Trysk, his childhood home of seventeen years. Artair was ignorant of his friend’s inner conflict, too busy counting his coins. Osric watched his light fingers at work with quiet admiration and anxiety. He voiced the thought that had been brewing.
“Artie, you need to be careful.”
“Hm?” Artair murmured distractedly.
“Using magic to make money is dangerous, especially for a Forger.”
Artair paused in his counting. His friend was a serious soul at the best of times, but now his expression was particularly grave.
“What do you mean?”
Osric leaned in, his voice dropping several decibels.
“How much do you know about the White Sisters?”
“Only what Lana’s told me.” Artair shrugged. “They pass themselves off as a religious order to fool the common folk, but they’re really a magical sect, strictly girls-only. Kind of unfair if you ask me. Maybe I should try growing out my hair and put on a dress, see if they let me in.”
Artair sniggered to himself, but Osric didn’t share in his friend’s amusement.
“Not just any magical sect- they’re the most powerful order of Forgers in the Empire.”
“OK… so?”
“So, who do you think supplies the swords and shields for the King’s army?” Osric’s dark eyes were unblinking. There was a good reason why there hadn't been a single uprising across the Empire for more than two hundred years. Quiet fell between them. Osric’s latest drink sat untouched on the table, next to Artair’s rows of pennies.
“You almost make it sound like the Witches are more powerful than the King.” the scrawny boy remarked, using the derogatory term for the Sisterhood that Lana so-often liked to use.
“I dunno about that... but I know that there are stories, Artie. Bad stories.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing I don’t intend to start arms dealing anytime soon.” Artair replied lightly.
“They sell much more than weapons.” Osric reminded him. Artist thought back to the silver spoon in his pocket. “If you start undercutting them, and you get noticed-”
“Os, relax.” the redhead waved him off with his usual confidence. “I’m just one man out in the middle of nowhere, playing cheap tricks on drunken morons. They’ll never notice me.”
Osric pressed his lips together. The seed of doubt in his heart remained.
“For your sake, I hope you’re right.”
The young men parted ways shortly after. Osric made his way back along the dirt path that led to his family home, his heart heavy with the weight of this new secret. The welcoming lights from the villager’s homes gradually became fainter as he approached the outskirts of Trysk. Darkness began to encroach, like the dark thoughts that were creeping unbidden into Osric’s head. He lit one of the torches he carried, and took pause to look up at the inky sky above, where the stars were peeking through.
On the one hand, he was happy for Artair; but on the other, he couldn’t help but feel envious. Osric came from a long line of Incanters, going back generations. By all rights he should be a great warlock; but tonight, his hitherto ‘ordinary’ friend had demonstrated more talent than he ever had.
Suddenly he heard a rustling on the path ahead. Osric rationalised that it was probably a rabbit or hedgehog, but he still knocked an arrow to his bow, waiting for the creature to emerge. The rustling continued, growing louder as it headed in his direction. The hairs on the back of Osric’s neck stood up.
That’s too big to be a rabbit.
A figure emerged from the bushes and stepped directly into Osric’s path. He lowered his weapon, realising that it was a young woman. Her expression was serene as she stared at him. Her calmness was at odds with her dishevelled appearance; she was wearing the torn remnants of a red petticoat, smeared with mud and debris. Osric remembered the missing person’s poster. He had a horrible feeling this was the missing serving girl. Osric noticed that her hair had a strange silver sheen but dismissed it as a trick of the torchlight. Alby began to growl beside him, hackles rising.
“Are you alright?” Osric asked. Still, the woman said nothing. Osric was concerned that she might have been given a nefarious substance by a patron. Ignoring Alby’s continued growling, the young man stepped forward, keeping his voice as gentle as possible as he repeated the question. He was now within touching distance.
Too late, he spotted her red eyes.
Before Osric could react, she had already leapt forward and grabbed him by the throat with both hands. The woman’s face was no longer serene. Her nose and jaw distorted and lengthened into an animal snout, her grinning teeth becoming long fangs that could easily tear out his throat.
Alby was barking furiously as Osric scrabbled at the fingers- no, claws- around his throat. He was hardly weak, but she had no trouble holding him down. Only Vylae belonging to the Sin of Wrath possessed such incredible strength. As he gazed into those red eyes, he could feel the creature’s rage pushing against him, trying to swallow his soul. Unable to speak, Osric could only stare back in defiance as black crept into the edges of his vision. He had the Seraphim’s protection. She would not claim his soul so easily. Frustrated by her failure, the demon grabbed him by the lapel and slammed his head hard against the ground. Pain exploded behind Osric’s eyes. Wrath Vylae were not subtle; they scorned human speech and did not negotiate with their victims. If she could not claim his soul, she would kill him.
It was Alby who came to his rescue. The hound leapt forward in his owner's defence, sinking his canines into the vyla's leg. The demon let out a shriek, distracted by the pain- but Osric's reprieve was short-lived. She landed a sickening blow to Alby's underbelly, kicking the great hound away with the ease of batting away a moth. Alby was left sprawled in the dirt, whimpering.
Osric saw red.
He scrambled away on all fours, feeling across the ground for his weapon, which he knew must have fallen nearby. Sticky, warm liquid dripped down his forehead and into his eyes, blinding him. The relief was indescribable as his fingers closed around the wooden handle of his bow. The quiver was still strapped to his back; Osric managed to knock the arrow without looking, wiping the blood away from his face. He took a split-second to take aim from his knees, filled with fear and fury, and the overwhelming need to punish.
There was a sickening thwack, and the vyla reeled backwards, arrow sticking out of her chest. Through the red mist, Osric had a moment of clarity.
I’ve killed somebody.
Yet, it was not so. The ‘woman' swayed on the spot but quickly regained her footing. She let out a guttural chuckle, pulling the arrow from her chest and throwing it to the ground in contempt. Osric stepped back.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!
Of course, he couldn’t kill a vyla with an ordinary bow. They were entities from another realm; the weapons of Men had no effect. Only the power of the Seraphim could kill a vyla’s spirit. He needed magic.
Osric risked a glance to the side, where Alby still lay motionless. The warlock swallowed down his fear and knocked a second arrow. He shot again, this time hitting the demon directly in the knee joint. The vyla hissed as her leg gave way. It bought him precious seconds to act. Osric raised his hands, shouting the holy words with all the passion and determination he possessed.
“In times of peril recall your Sacred Name; draw forth the strength to confine the will of evil!”
To Osric’s despair, the incanting spell once again failed. A choke escaped his throat as the vyla began to laugh. She prowled towards him like a stalking tiger, raising a clawed hand. Osric realised with a calm finality that he was out of options. Death was approaching with terrifying speed. Would he die for the sake of his pride, for fear of the unknown? Osric stared into those red eyes bearing down upon him and surrendered himself to the Seraphim’s will, calling upon his sacred Name. Whatever strange magic he possessed, Osric knew he must either trust in it, or die.
This time he didn’t fight, as the sinking sensation gripped him and pulled him under.