Anson had developed his skill in magery from years of diligent work at memorizing the words and the subtle, rhythmic movements and gestures required for spellcasting. At first, the gestures gave him difficulty and for a long time he thought that spellcasting was mostly acting because the wrong body postures or facial expressions could dilute the effect of a spell. Once he had mastered the “delivery,” as one old master called it, Anson became especially adept as focusing the mental energy that a mage emitted when drawing spells. He had a gift for sensing this energy, or “force of mind,” whether generated by himself or another. Some called it mindpower. With practice, he became very efficient at directing this energy toward the object of the spell.
Several small buildings were crowded quite close together on both sides of the main street. Some were shops but most were combinations with a trade room on the street level and a living area overhead. There were no lights visible in any of the buildings. Anson passed a tailor’s shop no bigger than a booth, then a potter’s place and eventually stopped in front of Malmo’s Apothecary. Malmo’s cat lay curled up on the doorstep, recuperating from a successful night’s mousing. Anson made frequent visits to this shop because Malmo had the necessary equipment to test the properties of various reagents and thaumaturgic powders. Malmo was also one who saw that a resident mage in Huxley was a benefit to them all, and had let Anson sleep in the shop until he found better housing for himself.
Anson approached the cat and it stretched placidly, purring in response to the gentle petting strokes from his hand. As he moved to scratch it behind the ears, the cat suddenly crouched and froze in position. Its gaze shifted quickly from right to left as if tracking some indistinct sound or movement. Anson immediately sensed the creature was alerting on something more serious than a dog or another cat. Before looking around himself, Anson quickly cast a spell of indifference. The spell took effect immediately as he slowly backed into the shadows in the narrow lane between the Apothecary and the potter’s place. He stood still and quiet, as sounds of movement came from the other side of the street, shuffling sounds punctuated by audible rasps. The cat ran off.
In the darkness, he made out two shadowy figures crossing the street, both men stepping quickly, breathing heavily. Eventually they stopped right in front of the Apothecary. Their clothing was seedy and tattered. One man had rags wrapped around shabby boots; the other had only rags protecting his feet. The first one whispered, “Where in damnation did that gaffer go? Did he go in one of these doors?”
“No,” the other muttered, peering around. He carried a short, stout stick. “I would have heard a door open. The way people around here lock their doors it would have taken too long to open any.”
“How could he just disappear, blast it!”
“I don’t know. But he is the only mark we will find tonight. I know he had a good pair of boots, too. We must have lost the fool! Holt will be riled about us missing him.”
The two men stalked around for another minute, confused about Anson’s disappearance even though the mage was merely several feet away in the narrow space between the two buildings. A dog’s bark could be heard a few buildings away. A second dog started up, then a third, causing the two men to curse their luck at the ruckus and run back across the street and out of sight. From the corner of an eye, Anson saw another shadow lumber from cover behind them. There must have been one more accomplice.
Anson was halfway amused at foiling the two men who clearly intended to accost him, but it was alarming that such men roamed the streets. With the danger past, he broke his concentration on the indifference spell and returned to his route home. He wondered if those men were outsiders. In a way, he felt relieved that he did not recognize them; it would be a sad thing to discover they were men he knew. He had developed a genuine affection for Huxley’s villagers, despite their exaggerated expectations of what he could do for them. He did not wish a more solitary life because Huxley ideally suited his needs. With his knowledge and skills, he could ease pain and sometimes save lives. All he wanted in return was the opportunity to provide service with acceptance of his limitations, and, of course, safe housing.
Safety was a primary concern for any mage. It was widely known that Meire, the King of Gilsum, greatly feared spellcasters. King Meire lavishly rewarded the assassination of any mage, witch, conjuror, thaumaturgist—spellcasters of any kind—whether found in Gilsum or Antrim or any location for that matter; hence, this was a prime incentive for mages to have reclusive ways. Anson experienced this enmity firsthand when Meire’s mercenaries killed Old Burack a while back, ending his last apprenticeship.
Given Meire’s murderous fear of magery, there were surprising rumors that the Gilsum king had accepted some type of mage as a counselor. There were no clues who this might be, but at the Grange alehouse a few months past Anson heard a sotted traveler swear it was some kind of “high mage” come to Gilsum by way of Huxley, of all places. That brought a sniff of incredulity since Anson was the only known mage seen in Huxley for years, although some children talked about spotting a mysterious stranger a time or two before Anson arrived.
Anson cut across the town square, trying again to ponder less dire thoughts. His musing drifted to his time spent apprenticing with Burack. That old carp of a mage was ruthless in his dislike of common people and outright abusive in the treatment of apprentices, but Burack was no threat to Gilsum’s King and did not deserve the ignoble death he suffered from King Meire’s mercenaries. Anson remembered with some guilt how he had fled the day Burack was attacked. From a nearby hiding place, he heard the awful struggle as the old man tried to invoke a death spell on his attackers. He managed to kill two of the mercenaries before falling to the swords of their cohorts. Ironically, it turned deadly for Burack because a death spell is slow developing and limited to a single object, otherwise he might have survived the onslaught. Anson once thought that Burack himself might have been a high mage, but the old graybeard’s vulnerability denied that thought.
Anson knew the words and gestures for the death spell that Burack used to defend himself; any apprentice would have to learn it for self-defense, but Anson doubted he could ever take a life. Besides, it is difficult to generate sufficient force of mind to evoke such powerful spells. Once he actually started a spell of decession, which is used to peacefully extract a creature’s life force as a form of euthanasia. The one time he tried a decession he was gathering lobelia leaves in an isolated meadow when he came upon a mortally injured creature, a crossbreed of a dwarf and troll. Reviled by common folk as abominations, these creatures were rarely ever seen. Out of cruel mockery, locals called them “drolls.” This particular creature lay beaten and seriously injured by a crossbow bolt, but had evidently escaped pursuit only to lie near death. Lying exhausted in the lobelia patch, the droll’s dark skin was ashen from the loss of blood. Thinking that this pariah was so badly injured it should be put out of its misery, Anson was halfway through the decession spell when the droll suddenly opened his eyes. Despite grievous pain and fear, this was obviously a sentient creature whose eyes conveyed such depth of feeling that Anson abruptly ended the spell. Immediately, the mage removed the bolt, staunched the wound, and provided whatever physical comfort he could. Using poppy seeds from a pouch of medicinals, Anson crushed them for a potent extract that would dull the pain and give a long quiet sleep. There seemed little else he could do, so he sadly left the droll to recover or die alone. These memories of a year ago gave way as Anson finally neared the edge of town, but he sighed a bit from remorse that he had abandoned that creature.
A stone dwellinghouse loomed ahead in the dark, moonless night. It was the welcome sight of home for the tired young man. Ideally located, this fire-safe stone structure had a deep well of untainted water. Nearby woods and adjacent meadowlands provided herbs and seasonal plants; most other needed substances were available from local merchants or occasional traveling vendors. Especially important was the secluded meditation hut located a short distance f
rom this dwellinghouse.
Most towns had some type of meditation hut, though smaller hamlets might only set aside a simple shelter. These structures met various needs for the community. For many it was a place of solitude and contemplation. Some used it as a place for worship of preferred deities. Written works in any form were often stored in these places—books, scrolls, palimpsests, chronicles—all of which were highly prized and made accessible as encouragement for any citizen to learn to read. For those who could read, like Anson, its inventory of written works was a community treasure; he called it their library. Huxley’s hut had a store of thirty or so items, including what appeared to be a mage’s timeworn palimpsest Anson discovered with many overwritten pages that included an almanac of information and obscure items. Remarkably, disguised among various entries in this palimpsest were a few spells only detectable by someone familiar with magery. One of these was apparently a spell of deliverance intended as an arcane route for escape in an emergency. Anson eventually uncovered the entire text of the spell disguised among the pages, memorizing the combination of the words needed to invoke a supposed deliverance to a safe haven.
Anson passed through the five-foot high hedgerow that surrounded the dwellinghouse he shared with a few other tenants. So as not to disturb any other residents who shared the place, he carefully opened the front door and quietly padded up the narrow stairs to his room. He bolted his door, went directly to his cot and fell asleep without removing his clothes or boots. He had been asleep about an hour when a faint wisp of yellowish vapor wafted through a partially opened window.
Chapter 3
Attack
Anson stirred in his half sleep, disturbed by a silent but noxious sensation. Abruptly, he sat up in his bed and started furiously rubbing his eyes. Painful, weeping eyes forced him to stumble out of bed and throw open the room’s large lead-paned window. A stiff breeze came through the window, bringing with it a pungent reek. The fresh air did not reduce the burning effect on his eyes. Muted sounds of other residents complaining, along with thumps and door openings, collected into a rising din. He quickly realized the unfamiliar odor and his discomfort were connected and the source was outside the building.
Though he could not see very well because of the mounting irritation and watering eyes, the complaining voices outside his loft indicated others were suffering the same. The acrid odor was completely unfamiliar to him, despite his years of experience with peculiar smells and smarting eyes from concocting herb medicines and alchemic liquids. In fact, such disagreeable effects were common hazards for apprentices but usually the unpleasantness was confined to a room. In this case, the outside air was fouled.
He fumbled over to his cot and dropped to sit on its edge, using the bedcover to blot his streaming eyes. After a few minutes, the stinging sensation started to subside, allowing him to gather his senses and figure out what was happening. The clamor outside turned to tormented outcries punctuated by metallic clanging suggestive of swordplay.
A sudden slam of the downstairs door startled Anson. Still seated on the edge of the cot, his head jerked up but his body froze in terror at the staccato sound of heavy boots on the stairs. When the clomping stopped, someone started to break down the door to his room. It only took a minute to smash the door to pieces. He was in grave danger and the only means of escape was the open window. A man dressed in a red uniform burst through the door, spotted Anson, and in a single continuous movement lunged forward and thrust a sword at him. The sword pierced his bedding just as Anson jumped from the cot and scrambled head first out the window. The attacker cursed his missed stab, wrenched loose the sword and ran back to the stairs, where he tripped over some large fragments of the broken door.
Anson landed on the stout hedgerow in the darkness below his window. The thick mesh of leaves and pliable, twiggy branches cushioned his fall and allowed him to slide to the ground. Without giving thought to the possibility of injury from the fall, he jumped to his feet. Hearing the voices of likely pursuers, he ran halfway round the hedgerow, instinctively using it for cover. He stopped abruptly when he came to a wounded horse lying on the ground, its sides heaving with pain and neck craning in its futile struggle to get up.
Anson winced at the sight of the suffering animal, but he dare not tarry. In the dark, he tried to sidestep around the horse but tripped over the body of its rider, who had also fallen. He recognized the fallen man as Orris, the captain of the small garrison of Royal Armsmen assigned by the Antrim king to protect the village. Orris might be beyond medicinal help, but there was no time to stop and check. He and Anson had become friends upon the mage’s willingness to tend the frequent cuts and bruises acquired by the soldiers in their training. Now that the soldier lay dead or dying it was very difficult for Anson to leave him untended, but the need for self-preservation compelled the mage to flee. He told himself he would return later to bury his friend if the worst happened.
Shouts from attackers came from all directions, along with screams and moans from victims. With Orris fallen and separated from the other Armsmen, the situation must be desperate. Huxley was under attack by Gilsum soldiers. How could this attack have come with no warning? The fouled air and its disabling effects must have been a factor. Was this high magery at work? Perhaps it was true that a mage with skill enough to foul the air now aided Gilsum.
Huddled back against the hedgerow, Anson looked out over an adjacent courtyard bordered on all sides by cottages and other types of small homes. A few structures appeared to be on fire. Dozens of villagers were running in all directions, some chased by armed pursuers. A quick scan showed several shadowy images of bodies lying around, most of them unmoving and most likely unsuccessful defenders of Huxley. A new round of shouts pierced the air, not the sounds of victims but from those in control.
Near the center of the courtyard townspeople of all ages were herded together, some dressed in sleep garments and others barely clothed at all. A ring of Gilsum Guardsmen shouting threats and orders for compliance quickly cordoned the tightly massed crowd. The captured throng rapidly grew in size with others marshaled from all sides. There were no Antrim Armsmen in sight to provide defense and the townspeople were offering little resistance.
For an instant, Anson thought he should sprint across the courtyard to the hostage group and lose himself in the anonymity of the milling crowd. Thinking that compliant civilians would not be slaughtered, he took a step in that direction then stopped abruptly. It would be suicidal for him to surrender. By the light of day, he would surely be discovered for the mage he was and a source of high reward for the man who executed him. For the moment, he was safer in the shadows of the hedgerow. A moment was a short amount of time, but not long enough to cast an indifference spell and he was
It was too dark to make his way to any of the hiding places he had planned for emergencies, and there were too many attackers to find sanctuary anywhere in the village. Quelling his rising state of panic, he tried to figure out some hope for escape. There was the deliverance spell, but to try that he needed to get to the old palimpsest. He needed it to jog all the words from memory and in proper order to draw the spell, if it would even work. There was no better option. He would chance the deliverance.
It was only a short distance from the hedgerow to the library, and unimpeded it would probably take no more than a few minutes to reach it. Before setting off, Anson quickly cast a spell of indifference to keep himself from being noticed. Even amid the violence of combat and hysteria, this spell should allow him to pick his way safely along the hedge and through the town. He had used this spell many times and expected it would work, as it had earlier this night, as long as he made his way without stumbling or losing his concentration. It was essential to the effects of any spell that a mage remained focused, which Anson thought he could do even in the middle of a battle. He could maintain the spell if he did not physically engage anyone or lose his concentration, so he murmured the words and quickly stepped away from the hedge cover. Th
e spell took effect just as the Guardsman who had stormed Anson’s room appeared from the adjacent side of the hedge. Anson slowed at the soldier’s approach, taking care not to diminish the spell’s effect by engaging him in talk or action. With an upraised sword, the Guardsman ran right past Anson, seeing his intended victim, even turning his head toward him for an instant, but not acknowledging him in any conscious way. The Guardsman’s sword bobbed up and down with the swing of his arm as he ran off.
Anson drew a deep breath of relief watching the soldier run out of sight. Once again, the mage moved off in the direction of the library when someone shouted off to his left. The shout came again. It was an order to halt with Anson realizing another Guardsman was shouting at him. He was detected! His concentration had lapsed and the indifference spell failed. Anson froze in fear as this soldier stalked up to him with a pike at the ready position, its tip already bloodied.
“You! Move to the square!” the Guardsman ordered. “Join the other dung shovelers before I run through you where you stand!” he bellowed, jabbing his pike at Anson.
Terrified and confused, Anson was unable to get his mind and body coordinated. Before realizing it, he started to run away. The Guardsman followed, shouting and cursing, but also gaining. Anson looked back but that proved to be another mistake because he tripped over a scattered load of firewood. As Anson went sprawling, the soldier caught up to him. His sides heaving from exertion, the red-uniformed Guardsman stood over Anson with a menacing smile. “You should have followed orders the first time, fool. You’ll pay the price now.”
The Chronicles of Nevin Reasoner: The Complete Duology Page 2