by Greg Curtis
But his family had magic? That was something new. It didn't help him though. Especially when he hadn't seen any of them in more than twenty years.
“I need scratching!” Whitey announced unexpectedly as he was draining the last of his mug. Obviously she'd finished her bowl. “And an apology! It's cold outside!”
“That it is.” He put down his cup and let the cat jump up and make herself comfortable on his lap. “But you did very well,” he told her as he started scratching her head. Soon he had her purring.
“You were mean to me. I should scratch your eyes out!” she mumbled at him.
“Then I wouldn't be able to feed you,” he pointed out. “And you want to keep being fed don't you?” Manx knew she did.
“Damn it!” She cursed him quietly, already half asleep. “You muck spouting monkeys have all the answers!”
“I wish,” he replied. In fact he wished he had any answers. Or actually any ones other than what he did have. Because they were no use to anyone. Least of all him.
Chapter Ten
“Gods! What a mess!” Manx mumbled to himself as he tried to make his way around the open air market. But the sad thing was, he didn't even know which mess he was talking about.
The wild animals roaming the streets, keeping a safe distance from the crowds but remaining close enough to them that the food was always in sight. The buildings he could see so clearly now that they were near the city centre, all of them covered in vines and creepers. Or the utter chaos of the people buying and selling and desperately trying not to get robbed by the monkeys and the birds who were everywhere. It turned out that they weren't particularly afraid of people. Not when they were carrying food.
But at least he couldn't see any large predators about. It had taken a while but the guards had finally taken care of the wolves, killing most of them and driving the rest of them out of the city. There were stories about bears being around, but he hadn't seen any. And the closest thing that they had to big cats were wildcats. They were only fifty pounds or so, and wouldn't attack anyone. They mostly scavenged. He hoped.
His real concern though was how and when they would reclaim the city. Because until they did, he couldn't return to work. Somehow, Manx suspected, they weren't going to be able to. These vines had simply arrived out of nowhere and started growing, and while the animals had been loose, no one had been able to start cutting them down. And they had grown at such an impossible rate.
Now he could see five and six story buildings, completely covered in vines. So completely enshrouded in them that he couldn't even see the concrete and stone of the buildings. At the rate they were growing, it wouldn't be too long before the entire centre of the city was a mass of green. A hill of vines. That wasn't possible, was it?!
Worse, birds were nesting in the green constructions. Untold thousands of them that periodically emerged from the greenery and then darkened the sky as they went off hunting for food. The monkeys were also making themselves at home in the vines, which made it impossible for them to be rounded up or shot.
Then there were the blue parrots that seemed to be trying to make every mail box they could find their home. How was anyone ever going to get their mail?
Meanwhile the entire length of the Winstone River that ran through the centre of the city, was infested with hippos. And they didn't just stay in the river. They emerged from it to feed, which meant that hundreds or thousands of properties near the river's edges were now being stripped of vegetation. There wasn't a street that didn't have a collection of wild boars wandering through its gardens. And even the elephants which had mostly left the city for the greener pastures outside Winstone, kept returning and knocking things over.
The damage could be repaired, he supposed. The animals could be driven out in time. The sheep and the deer already had been. The vines could be cut down. Even the hippos could be dealt with. But as the days passed and nothing was repaired, he had the horrible feeling that nothing would be. Winstone was dying in front of him.
And now the crier – the only form of news about the rest of the world that they had left – was reporting that it wasn't just Winstone. Other cities were under attack. Clearview, a dozen leagues east of them, was almost completely overrun. And Richford to the north had fallen silent as the jungle took over.
Where were the defences? Where was the Royal army? But even as Manx wondered about that, he knew that everyone else was wondering the same thing. And no one had any answers. Except for the preachers of course who seemed to have multiplied as they roamed the streets. They had plenty of answers. But all of them were useless.
For the moment there was no point in wondering about things that there were no answers for. He simply had to restock on supplies. Thankfully there were plenty, all being brought in on wagons from outside the city. But coin was going to become a problem soon enough, he knew. If it wasn't already for many. Because it looked like no one was going to go back to work any time soon.
The city was closed. The open air market was only open because people had to eat. After more than a full week of being locked in their homes, people were growing hungry. They refused to just remain in their homes and starve to death. Which was why the market had finally been allowed to open. Or rather why the city guards hadn't tried to stop the people heading for it when they had started pouring out of their houses after they'd seen the wagons arriving.
Maybe this was a step towards normality. Or at least as close towards normal as a city overrun by wild animals could get. And, he thought, they had to try and live in this new city, because if everywhere else was going to become the same, what else could they do? There would be nowhere else to run to. As long as they could keep the dangerous animals away.
Manx was still thinking that as he jostled with other shoppers fighting to get a few loaves of bread, when the screams began. Then he stopped thinking about such things. He stopped fighting too, as did everyone else. Instead they all turned with a single question on their minds – what now? Screaming was always bad. If they knew nothing else they knew that.
Except that this time it wasn't hell beasts or wild animals that people were pointing at he discovered. It was other people. A group of eight or ten or so.
They were too far away for him to get a close look at them. But he could see the other shoppers in front of him pointing, and he could hear the alarm in their voices. The group was also coming closer. Walking calmly towards them.
Then he saw the ears. Spears sticking out of the sides of their heads. And it was then that he knew who they were – shamans. They were appearing out in the open in the middle of the day!
“Shite!” His mouth fell open as he stared at the approaching group. And immediately his thoughts started running around in circles. What did this mean? Had they won their war? Where was Lady Marshendale? Over and over again the questions kept yelling at him inside his head, demanding to be answered. But he didn't have any answers. No one did.
Then the group came close enough for him to see what the others had been pointing at, and surprisingly it wasn't their ears. Some of them had antlers. One had wings. Another was covered in what he thought might be scales. And they were armed, but not with weapons the likes of which he'd ever seen before. They had swords, but ones made of light and fire. Fists that glowed black with menace. And not all of their feet were quite touching the ground.
“Back away,” he called to the others around him as he took his own advice. He didn't know what was happening, but he didn't like it. And anyway he had flour. He could bake his own bread. And he had most of the rest of what he needed. He didn't need to be here anymore.
But backing away wasn't that easy. Not with the press of people behind him, many of them wanting to push forward to see what was happening. He got a few steps further back, but not as many as he would have liked.
“With me.”
A man's voice came from just behind Manx, making him jump. And then he jumped again as he felt a hand smash down on his shoulder and grab hi
m. He turned hurriedly, shocked almost out of his skin, only to stop and stare in shock.
The man wasn't a man. Not when he had small antlers on his head and eyes that were pure amber. Not the irises, the whole eyes. He had no whites.
“Gods be praised!”
“I'm sure they will be, not that they need it!” The man with the antlers started pulling him back through the crowd. “The question is, what do you need?”
Manx tried to make sense of that as the man pulled him back through the people. But he didn't have an answer. Nor did he know why no one was pointing and staring at the man in their midst with the antlers on his head. They should. After all he was right in th middle of the crowd. Everyone could see him. Eventually Manx managed to splutter out the question.
“Because I don't want them to,” the man answered him. “So they haven't noticed me. It's not too dissimilar to your own magic.”
“I don't have magic,” Manx told him. “At least not like that.”
“Larissa said. At least that you seemed to have minimal magic and even less idea of how to use it. That you were in some sort of denial of yourself. That you didn't know you were a Smythe.”
“Of course I know I'm a Smythe!” Manx protested, realising that Larissa had to be the shaman who'd called on him the other night. “But that's just my family name. I'm not a thief. Neither are my family. I'm a librarian.”
“She said that. That you don't even seem to know who you are. But you are absolutely a Smythe. The gifts you can display are absolutely of them. Only druids and shamans and Smythes can talk to cats – and you don't have either antlers or sharp ears. The question is, why can't you use the rest of the Smythe bag of tricks?”
“What bag of tricks?” Did he mean the mist, Manx wondered? Was that part of it? And the seduction of men? He didn't want to even think about that. It wasn't a trick it was a curse! And he also didn't want to tell the man with the antlers that he could do those things. These funny looking spell-casters weren't his friends. “I told her, I don't know anything about this magic stuff. I just talk to cats – and I don't want to!”
“No one wants to,” the man agreed with a nod. “But still you can talk to them. Druids can, because it is our gift to understand all the creatures of the world. Shamans do because they speak for their gods and thus must be able to speak with all the peoples of the world in all tongues. And Smythes do – we don't know why. Therefore you are a Smythe, and as such you have a hundred different ways of hiding and striking from concealment. You can open doors and locks with scarcely a thought. Distract, confuse and misdirect practically as easily as you breathe. Lie with practised ease. Climb walls and enter concealed rooms. Why do you not know that?”
“Because I'm not a thief!” Manx repeated. “I wouldn't do any of that stuff. But she wasn't interested in that,” Manx continued. “She simply told me I was a brigand and no one would ever deal with me because of it. I've never stolen a copper piece in my life!”
“She's a shaman. She follows the edicts of her Goddess strictly, as do all shaman. And most of them would never have anything to do with those who break the law. And four hundred years ago and more, Smythes did exactly that.”
“Worse, they stole from temples, abbeys, monasteries and shrines. They assassinated priests, shamans and clerics for coin. Blackmailed a great many more. And even burnt holy property for a fee. Your family was the enemy of all the faiths. And for us that was only a matter of days ago.”
“Besides, she's suffering at the moment. More than the rest of us. Shamans normally speak with other shamans of the same deity through their thoughts. I'm not sure that there are any other shamans of Ao free yet. Which means she's alone in this new world.”
All of a sudden the man stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face him. “I'm Petherick Martins by the way. A druid as you can tell by the antlers and the eyes. Not even a grand druid. Just a common one. But you can call me Peth. We druids are an informal bunch.”
“Grand druid?” He didn't know the term and for some reason he was a little curious. But then he didn't even really know what a druid was. A wizard of nature he thought. But what that meant he wasn't sure.
“They work with the magical life. Summon magical creatures like rocs and unicorns. But we common druids work with what's around us. Regular beasts of the forest and the field. My family and I used to run a stud. Raised some of the finest horses around.”
“Oh.” It made sense Manx supposed. There were druids and then there were druids. It was all very clear! He shook his head and tried not to think about it.
“And the antlers? The ears?”
“All those called to the magic have physical signs of it. I'm a druid, called to the magic of the living. I have antlers and amber eyes like deer. Taurans have small horns on their heads. Healers have six fingers.”
“Those called instead to the physical and elemental have different traits. Sorcerers have eyes and fingernails that glow blue. Walkers have third eyes to let them see into the other realms.”
“And then there are those whose magic is spiritual. Shamans with their pointed ears. Dreamers with their hair and eyes of molten gold.”
“The only ones called to the magic who show no outward manifestations of it are Smythes. Four hundred years ago, you would have been the odd man out. Not us.”
“Uh huh,” Manx replied non-committally. “And I'm Manx,” he returned the introduction, still trying to take in what he'd been told.
“Maxwell Smythe of Clairmont. Fifth son of Duke Wainthorpe of Clairmont. But it's a bought title not true nobility.” And his family hated that. Because it meant that while his father could claim the title on paper, no one respected it. He could never be considered a peer of the realm. At least that was what the servants had told him. There was nobility and then there was wealth. His family were of wealth. Allowed to associate with the nobility, but only to a point. If he'd been a true Duke he would have been able to pass the title on to his sons. Instead it stayed with the property. One son, when he inherited the property, could be called a Duke. The rest were nobodies.
“Clairmont? That tiny little hamlet west of Highfields?”
“It's not a tiny little hamlet any more,” Manx answered him realising that the man was out of date. “Twenty thousand people call it home, and my family owns most of it.” But still they were just traders in the end. Merchants putting on airs as they said. It was the way of the world.
Meanwhile another thought was turning through his head. What the woman had said the other night. That the magic changed people. That shamans like her had ears that stuck out the side of their ears. Fiends – or walkers as she'd called them – had three eyes. And now druids had antlers and amber eyes while one of those he'd seen before, had wings. And for some reason the ice blue eyes of Lady Marshendale stuck in his thoughts. Was that also a sign of magic?
Before he could ask a noise broke out from behind him and Manx stopped dead and turned around. People were yelling and screaming. He couldn't tell why or even if it was out of anger or fear.
“Nothing to worry about,” the druid told him. “The shamans have just told them some of the new lay of the land.”
“What? New lay of the land? Things are changing? You're taking over?” That didn't sound good to Manx.
“To an extent,” Peth told him. “Magic is returning to the land. New laws, or rather old laws have to be enacted. Things have to return to how they were. And certain groups will be held for trial.”
“But what about the King? You can't just undo King Willhelm's decrees or the laws of the Court. They'll send the Royal Army after you! They'll have you hung as traitors and rebels.” Except of course that these people had magic as he remembered. That might make a difference.
“Yet they haven't shown up thus far,” the druid pointed out.
The druid had a point Manx realised. Possibly a better one than he realised. Almost certainly in fact. “It'll probably take time. The Court will have to put the matter throug
h some sort of committee to decide what to do. Then there might be a fact finding mission. Official reports will have to be written and submitted. An official hearing could follow. And maybe even a vote. After that whatever was decided would go to the King for Royal assent. As they say even the rain falls slowly in Windhaven. But there will be some action taken.” He was sure of that – more or less.
“The King won't just act?”
“Probably not.” Manx had to agree. “In theory he could. He could just command the Royal army. But that hasn't happened in centuries. In practice everything is run by the Court and the Councils.”
“But there is the Silver Order,” he added, suddenly remembering them. Until recently he realised, he'd hardly ever considered them at all. But after seeing Lady Marshendale in action, he had to. They were obviously powerful, both in magic and authority. “They serve the King directly.”
“If they come they will pay for it,” the druid replied angrily. “They're one of the groups that will be put before the Magistrates. They're the ones that did this to us. They're the ones who imprisoned us. But they did worse. Four hundred years ago the Silver Order committed a terrible crime. They didn't just imprison us, they usurped our magic for themselves. They will have to answer for that.”