Let’s Be Reasonable
by Jared Buck
|
Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
The masked man refused to take a seat, nor did he deign to accept the cup of wine that Orty, my assistant, had offered him. I, on the other hand, was well into my own cups, though the crown of the sun had not yet broken the horizon.
“It’s morning, Master Velmore,” said the man in the mask. By the sound of his voice I could tell he was young, not past thirty. He possessed that imperious, entitled tone which only our social betters possess. “Ought you to be drinking so early in the morning?”
I sucked in air through my teeth sharply, finished what was left, and held out my cup for Orty to refill, which he dutifully did, as usual.
“Yes, it is quite early, young man, far too early to bang on a respectable citizen’s door and demand entry.” The acid in my voice could have eaten its way through inch-thick steel with ease.
“It is urgent, Master Velmore,” he shouted. “I am in dire need of your services. Time is of the essence!”
I raised my free hand to quaff more wine and nodded to Orty to leave us.
“Now, now, young man. Calm yourself. I’m sure it’s not a matter of life and death. Is it ever in this town? Now, before we proceed any further, I insist you tell me your name.”
He heaved a sigh and hung his head. As he did Hoot, my pet owl, perched himself on my shoulder. I pulled some meat from my pocket and gave him his breakfast, which he promptly gulped down.
“Benran,” he said. “My name is Benran.”
“Benran. Hmm... That sounds familiar...” I knew most people in Xim-on-the-Orno, and quite a few Benrans. However, none of them wore fine silks or carried gold-hilted duelling swords.
The young man shifted uneasily and fidgeted with the hilt of his sword; obviously, my scrutinizing eye disquieted him.
I kept trying to think of a Benran who might match this mysterious youth before me. The answer suddenly struck me, and I was a little embarrassed that such a simple answer had taken me so long.
“Of course! Baron Collaran’s son!” I nearly spilled my wine in my excitement. He could be quite the lucrative client, which would be especially helpful now, because business had tapered off in the last few months since that fiasco with Garno the tavern-keeper.
“Yes,” he said sheepishly, “that’s me.”
Suddenly, I found it quite easy to forget having been awakened before the rooster crowed or the sun blessed the earth with its light. I stood up and poured a cup of wine for Benran and myself and insisted he sit down. “Now, Benran, tell me what it is that troubles you.”
“Well...”
Suddenly, my newly arrived good cheer evaporated. “You woke me out of a sound sleep and a rather pleasant dream, young man! Do not hem and haw about what the trouble is! And take that foolish mask off at once! No one will see you in here but myself and Hoot!”
“Hoot?”
“My owl,” I replied. I reached for his mask.
“No! No, Master Velmore. I’d rather explain everything before you—”
I was not one to be contradicted, especially with a cup and a half of wine in me and still groggy from the wine the night before.
I reached out and grasped his mask. Young Benran pulled away and clutched at it, resisting my grip. But I was quicker than one would expect for my age, and he had not expected such an action from a respectable sorcerer. The fine silk mask tore away with a single pull.
“By... by the gods!”
I dropped my wine, cracking the cup, which just so happened to be one of my favorites. However, given what was before me, I paid that no mind.
“I told you,” he said. “I tried to tell you.”
The sound of Orty’s heavy, clumsy footsteps clambering back up the stairs was now all that could be heard. The door flew open and there was Orty, eyes wide in concern.
“Master, I heard a racket,” he slobbered, his thick tongue causing him to slur his words. “Is anything the—” Orty paled. His jaw dropped when Benran turned to face him. Orty was looking into the face of a monster. It was as if someone had combined the face of a boar with the south end of a northbound bull.
“My gods,” I muttered. It had been years — decades, even — since I had seen someone transformed by a curse.
Benran took off the heavy gloves he had been wearing and revealed two furry paw-like hands.
Orty stood in the doorway, his mouth about down to his knees.
“You... may go now, Orty,” I said. “Let Master Benran and me discuss this... matter in private.”
Orty did not need to be told twice. He slammed the door in his haste to put whatever separation he could between himself and the monster.
Then Benran told me his story. “It was Krilda,” he began. “Krilda, the hedge-witch who lives in Maerkier’s Wood.”
That tidbit by itself explained quite a bit. I had heard of Krilda before, and had even seen her once or twice over the course of my thirty years living in Xim-on-the-Orno. She was a notoriously cantankerous old witch who quite liked to be left alone. She had a well-known fondness for mushrooms — the rare types especially — and anyone paying her a visit to avail themselves of her services was well-advised to bring her something to suit her mycological interests.
I had little regard for such hedge-witches. Sorcery is an art, a science, even; the witchery of Krilda’s caliber was little more than an amateur craft. But the young man who stood before me contradicted that assumption; could it be that the hedge-witch was skilled enough to perform such magic?
“Maerkier’s Wood,” I said as I paced the room. Pacing helped me think. “I wonder what a lad your age would ever be doing in such a place as that. It has quite the notoriety, you know.”
He held up his paw-hands. “Yes, Master Velmore. I know well enough now.”
Benran’s wedding was in three days’ time, he explained, and two or three days ago he and his friends had decided to “celebrate” by venturing to Maerkier’s Wood for a hunt and to see if the legends of monsters, goblins and such other nonsense were really true.
“I don’t know about goblins or fairies, Master Velmore,” he added, “but Krilda is certainly real enough.”
They had been drinking all morning as they rode with their hounds, hunting spears in hand, when they had happened upon Krilda foraging for mushrooms.
Now, one can imagine the behavior of young men well into their cups when they happen upon an old witch with a sack full of mushrooms.
“It started when Dagothorne called her an old hag,” Benran confessed. Had it not been for all the fur covering his face, I was sure I would have seen him blush. “But old Krilda really lost it when I... called her a...”
“I believe I get the picture, Benran,” I said. “Now, think very carefully. What exactly did she do to place this curse upon you? Spare no details. If I am to help you break this curse, I must know precisely how she bewitched you.”
Benran shared his folly with me in detail. He and his friends taunted the old woman, and she in turn returned their juvenile barbs with venom. Then, Benran uttered something which turned the old witch purple with rage.
“I called her... Well, it doesn’t matter much now, does it?”
It was then that Krilda rushed upon him, faster than any of them could have anticipated of a woman her age. Somehow, Krilda leapt up onto Benran’s horse, grabbed his head and yanked a clump of his hair out. Before Benran had finished yelping in pain and shock, the old woman had jumped off the horse, grabbed her bag of mushrooms, and scampered off into the woods.
“And that was the last I saw of her,” he said. “And this morning, I woke up looking like this. Can you do anything for me, Master Velmore? Anything at all?”
I set down my cup of wine and steepled my fingers under my chin. I ruminated over the situation, letting Benran linger in suspense.
It was obvious enough why the witch had taken a clump of his hair; she had presumably burnt the hair after enchanting it. I assumed she also must have uttered an incantation over it as she did so; standard enough magic.
“Yes, I should be able to,” I said. “But I caution you: magic can be a tricky thing. Without knowing the precise spell she used, I can only guess at it. The general type of spell is obvious enough, based on what you have told me, but breaking another’s spell, especially an unknown spell, well... It’s a tad bit like shooting arrows at a target behind your back; I know what I am doing, but I cannot see clearly and have only a vague idea of what I am aiming at.”
Benran did not look pleased. He bolted upright from his chair. “But you are a sorcerer!” he said. “This should be easy for you, shouldn’t it?”
“Calm yourself,” I said. “If I knew the precise spell she used, it would be. We could then conclude our business within the hour. Be that as it may, I do believe I can help you, but it may not be as easy as you hope.”
Benran let out a heavy sigh. “Well then, let’s get started at once. I have a deadline — not a moment to waste!”
Benran lay down on the floor as Orty traced a large circle around him with salt.
“Whatever happens, do not go out of the circle until my say so,” I said. “Understood?”
“Understood.” His tone was less than enthusiastic.
After Orty had finished tracing the circle, I drew glyphs and symbols, and set up intricate wards around and within the perimeter of the circle, chanting in the ancient tongue as I did so.
“Will all this hocus-pocus really do anything?” Benran asked sharply.
“Keep quiet while Master Velmore is working,” snapped Orty. “He mustn’t be interrupted; half-said spells can be dangerous!”
Benran kept his silence after that. I stepped into the circle and Orty left the room. Standing over Benran, I raised my arms and closed my eyes. I cleared my mind of all thought, all worries, and focused on the stillness and quiet around me. Once my mind was empty, it would be ready to reach out into the Outer Spheres unencumbered by the distractions of the mortal world.
I saw Benran there. The shade of his soul was a shadow of himself. It was like looking at a normal human body, only it was composed of thick fog-like substance floating through the Aether.
Something was attached to it: a dark, man-sized leech, clinging to his back. That was the manifestation of Krilda’s curse in this plane of reality. I approached it.
“Begone, foul being! In the name of the gods above and the gods below, I command you to break your grip on this young soul!”
I hardly expected such a simple incantation to have much effect; my purpose was to see the reaction of the entity, to test its strength. It turned out to be far stronger than I had expected.
It stopped sucking on Benran’s soul and turned its attention to me. The leech had a human face, much like an old woman’s, with long scraggily hair hanging down in thin strands.
“Who are you?” It hissed inside my mind when it spoke, like a faint echo in a cavern. “You have no power over me, sorcerer. Only the one who summoned me may end my feast.”
I had no time to respond before I was suddenly surrounded by a dozen such creatures.
“Do you think circles and glyphs can protect you from us, sorcerer? You are nothing but an arrogant fool!” They slithered rapidly towards me from all directions.
In a panic, I sprinted toward the exit I had tethered myself to before entering this realm, and only just made it before they reached me.
When I opened my eyes back in my study, safe and sound, I was panting. Sweat stung my eyes; I wiped it from my brow with my sleeve.
Benran, propped up on his elbows, looked up at me. “Did it work?” he asked. “I don’t feel any different.”
I shook my head and staggered out of the circle. I plopped down in the nearest chair and called Orty for some wine.
Benran sighed. “I’ll take that as a no, then,” he said.
“It’s worse than I thought,” I said after Orty had brought me the wine and I wet my parched throat. “Far worse.”
* * *
“It is a bad situation,” Araman said. “Terrible.”
Araman was an old colleague of mine and an expert in transformation sorcery. We spoke to one another through a pair of crystals, which we had bonded to one another years ago when we parted at the end of our training under our mentor. We used the crystals only rarely, as they were psychically taxing to use; only in serious cases, when time was of the essence, did we take the trouble to use them. Otherwise, we corresponded by letter.
“Tell me,” I said, sweating under the psychic stress of using the crystals. Araman’s furrowed brow perspired as well.
“It’s obvious enough this witch did more than merely use some of this young lad’s hair in her spell,” he said, stroking his long beard. “If that were all, it would be simple enough. Given what you saw, she locked the spell on him using some of her own hair in the spell as well, likely some of her own blood, too.”
So, that explained why the creature had an old woman’s face. A splinter of Krilda’s own essence secured its bond upon Benran.
“What can I do to break it?” I asked. “It is quite urgent. Benran’s wedding is in—”
He raised a hand to stop me. “You’ve explained it to me well enough.” He shut his eyes tightly and rubbed his temples. “The trouble is, my friend, there is nothing you can do, regardless of your skill. Only the one who cast it can break it.”
I felt my heart sink down to my belly. “I will have to persuade her, you mean.”
He nodded.
“Let’s hope she is a reasonable woman. Perhaps young Benran can do something to placate her.”
We ended our connection, and I sank back into my chair. Seldom had I ever felt so powerless. Here was a young man, his whole life ahead of him. He had come to me to solve a very serious problem, yet there was nothing I could do with all my sorcerous power to help him.
“Yes,” I muttered to myself as I tossed Hoot, who was perched on my desk, a morsel. “Let’s hope Krilda can be reasonable.”
* * *
Benran, Orty, and I were about to head out to Krilda’s home in Maerkier’s Wood, a few hours’ ride outside of town, when someone began to pound on the door.
“Now what?” I groaned. I hoped we could arrive at Krilda’s before midday; we did not have time to deal with any other business, urgent or otherwise. “Orty, go see who it is. Tell them I am occupied and to come back another day.”
Orty rushed off to do as I had bid him.
Benran, still recovering from our ordeal in the Outer Spheres, jostled himself out of his stupor and rushed to the window overlooking my front door. He peered down.
“Gods, no!” he shouted. He recoiled from the window as though he had just gripped hot iron. “My father!”
“Your father?” Baron Collaran. This could not be good.
“I... I have to hide, Master Velmore! He can’t see me here... or like this. He hates sorcerers, and he wouldn’t like me using your services, no matter the circumstances. But how did he find me here?”
I pulled him away from the window. “There’s no time to think of that now, Benran. Remain here. Do not move or make a sound, no matter what. I shall deal with your father.”
“But how—”
“Be quiet!” I snapped, more harshly than I meant to. I led him over to a corner of the room, near a shelf of books and cast a spell rendering him invisible.
“Don’t move, and don’t make any sounds. Your father won’t be able to see you, but if you move or make a sound, the spell could be broken.”
Already the baron’s heavy footsteps pounded the stairs. Not only his; there were at least two others with him.
Without waiting for Benran to object any further, I hastily cast the spell over him, and he became a mirror image of the bookshelf next to him. I doubted his father would pay close enough attention to notice that this false “shelf” was nothing more than an image; I could only hope his father was not a bibliophile.
Two men entered, armed and armored. Their hands were on the hilts of their swords, and their tunics bore the badge of House Collaran: a red stag leaping on a green background. The guards had a hostile look in their eyes and one of them, an older man with a paunch, curled his lips in a snarl. The baron came in after them.
Copyright © 2025 by Jared Buck
