by PMF Johnson
Conjurors could use it to increase the power of their imps to affect items -- and people -- in this world, so Dunshil was of course interested in raw magic, but she was far more interested in capturing the imp those pilgrims hauled along as carelessly as a child's balloon. Imps were hard to find. She could easily break that other conjuror's connection to the imp, given time, and turn the creature to her own use.
And why not? The pilgrims were human, hardly worth a second thought.
"What else would people take into the Wilderlands?" Ulf went on. "Folks go there for gold. Couldn't been that. But if they were going to make themselves a magic retreat, where better? And raw magic would be key to building a retreat, for making your defenses and such."
"T. That wagon was heavy," Dunshil agreed.
No one was hungrier for raw magic than Ulf. He would travel for days following a rumor of raw magic. Ulf was hung about with pebbles of magic, grabbing one or another when casting, adding their power to his spells. He was always studying how to make himself a magic retreat, some sort of fortification or castle even. He got tiresome on the subject.
"You seen the whirligigs around those pilgrims," he said. "Drawn to magic."
"Might be worked magic," Shef said.
Magic that had been worked into a form to fund a long-term spell was stable, making it harder or even impossible to rework and therefore worth less, unless the artifact it inhabited was an especially useful one. But Ulf had his notion and there was no going against that. He had mentioned the magic so the others would go after the wagon -- he was canny, working the others by their greed, for all he didn't say much.
Shef admired his brother, maybe too much sometimes. It was foolish, maybe, yearning for his brother to approve his doings, but what of it?
"T, t. All that raw magic, we'd be rich," Dunshil said.
Silence descended as they each thought about that.
"Ain't much to keep us here," the Preacher said at last, looking around the stable. They'd chased off the saloonkeeper days ago and drunk up all his stock.
"We going after the pilgrims, then?" Ulf said to no one in particular. He ignored Shef. It was a little power he had over his younger brother, playing him for a fool. But he wasn't always like that, he could be friendly, say something nice sometimes.
"That mortal woman's face is narrow," Rock said. "That's elven blood. She'd be right to bear my children." With that disturbing comment, the tall elven began gathering his things from the largest stall.
After a hesitation, the others followed his lead. Shef rounded up his brother's things as well, into a second haversack.
"Is Kin Re getting' better?" Shef asked the Preacher as they rolled up their bedrolls.
"Some. I got him patched up. Fool to get hisself busted up like that, bashed in the head. He ain't thinkin' good even now. Prob'ly was hoping to get one of them what kilt his brother. Wanted a little personal revenge."
Rock hefted his sack and headed out the door.
Shef looked after him. "That pilgrim's wife is eating at his thoughts."
"A man wants a woman," the Preacher spouted. Then he twitched his tail in a sort of shrug. "Gotta remember, elven men can't have kids by elven women. They got to find women from other races, keep their bloodlines fresh. And she's a looker, by human standards."
"Enough to get yourself kilt? He can have her."
The others filed out, leaving Shef alone in the old stable. Shef hesitated, running his hand through his hair. He wanted to think.
The orcen Tarn Re was dead. That didn't matter much as far as Shef was concerned, but it pointed out how vulnerable they were, living the life they did. They'd made a lot of enemies, none more so than his brother Ulf.
Shef should take off, be done with his brother. Ulf had no concerns but for himself. Shef spent half his time keeping other folks separate from his brother, so there wouldn't be a fight.
It was going to get Shef kilt.
He looked down at Ulf's pack in his left hand. He should just leave. Ulf was the worst of them all -- Shef had no illusions about his brother. Ulf was heartless, and you never knew what would set him off.
Shef promised their mother he would care for his brother, but that had been years ago, and was it worth the rest of his life, a promise like that? It wasn't like Ulf was ever gonna change. And now they were going after those pilgrims.
Rock wanted a child on that human woman. Some twisted notion of winning her and getting her to love him.
He'd also heard that elven couldn't have children with other elven -- they said it was the Curse of Luwana, called down centuries ago on the immortal elven for their arrogance. Flames knew every elven Shef ever met was arrogant so maybe it was true. Only true love between elven and mortal could produce a fertile child -- otherwise their kids were like mules, half-elven, unable to have children of their own.
So elven men were always after mortal women, but without much luck since, like Rock, most had no idea what love even was. They could not fathom mortal women being their equal so they could not love them, so they could not have healthy children but only half-breeds they ignored as unworthy.
Served 'em right for acting so mean and superior, not that Shef would say as much.
Why was Shef going along with any of this? He hefted his staff -- he was stronger with his magic than any of them, except maybe Rock. Rock mostly used elven magic, no staff, no fire or water, just the power of his will.
Elven thought their own magic, planar magic, was the only pure magic, though most could use war magic or conjurations at a pinch. They were immortal, and canny.
With planar magic Rock could freeze a man in place with his thoughts alone, stop him from breathing, stop his heart. Shef had seen elven mages use will magic -- a brutal way to die.
He'd only seen one mortal man ever face down an elven mage, back in the Midlands years ago -- Arch Compher.
An elven mage threw his will magic on Arch that day, but Arch got off his fireball anyway, crisping the elven. Arch had so powerful a will even an elven couldn't lock him down.
But that elven hadn't been as powerful as Rock.
Shef licked his lips. Was he himself that strong? Could he out-duel Rock in a face-to-face showdown? That would sure show his brother something.
Shef had a chance. Elven mages had to speak a complex little phrase to open the Gate to the Other Side that funded their planar magic. A fast enough war mage could get a spell off in that time, kill the elven wizard first.
But that elven phrase didn't take very long to recite, and then the little blue sphere of will magic would speed out and hit you. If the elven had you in sight, that blue sphere never missed...
Shef's heart thumped as excitement and fear washed over him. He was going to find out. Soon, he promised himself. His hands trembled as he lifted the two packs and followed after the others.
When he came out into the sun, Ulf had his horse ready for him. Showed how eager Ulf was for that magic.
"You hanging back?" He had noticed Shef moving slow.
"I'm comin'."
"What's goin' through your head?"
Shef shrugged. "Just thinkin' about Rock."
Ulf shook his head sourly. "Wonderin' if you could face him? Never understood why you cared about things like that. Man gives you trouble, hit him from behind, burn him. Or let me do it. Why give yourself a chance to get hurt?"
They still shared moments like this, brothers against the world. Shef felt a little better for it.
The Preacher led them out, riding a black stallion. Few orcen rode horseback, it was not comfortable with their large tails. Orcen who rode horseback were marked as outlaws, folks who needed to move fast over long distances.
Anyway, the Preacher liked to think himself their leader, and his large, grand-looking horse was part of that.
Rock rode a full war horse large enough to bear his bulk. He could use those wings to fly, but only in conjunction with his will magic, since he was so heavy. Using will magic to help
fly was draining, so elven rarely did it. Rock rode to one side: he was always a little separate from the others, not part of their agreement.
Then came Shef and Ulf on their non-descript horses, hard to see from a distance in the Wilderlands, hard to trace when bought or sold.
Dunshil followed, her four insect-like legs allowing her to move as quickly as any horse, and after her came the orcen Kin Re, who lagged behind on a mousy grey. The latter was banged around after being hit in the head, but keeping up. Then rode another orcen, Benn Ku.
And last came the Owl.
No one remembered who named the Owl. He joined them at a fire out in the Wilderlands one night, and fell in with them after that. He was always prowling at night, so the name seemed to fit. He looked elven, had the same thin, stark gaunt features as Rock did, but with broader shoulders and a smaller pair of wings. Half-elven, then. Rock barely spoke to him -- to many elven, half-breeds like the Owl represented the failure of their whole race.
The Owl wore homespun clothes, and brought in a steady supply of fresh meat to complement the meals magicked up by the Preacher -- the Preacher could make bland oatmeal and bread from the grasses around them, but the meats he prayed up were always a bit suspect -- mouse or vole meat or worse. So the antelope and rabbit the Owl brought in were much welcome.
What the Owl was doing out in the Wilderlands no one asked.
They headed out without rushing, sure to catch the wagon soon enough. Once they got deep enough into the Magic, the land itself would help cover their deeds. Things were always changing out there, being altered, vanishing.
Chapter Five
Moonbeams filtered through the pale clouds, and if Mara looked closely, she could see small angelic-like beings hurrying up and down the pale bands of light in the sky. The sight disturbed her, like more and more about the Wilderlands. There was no explanation for so much out here, no knowing what was safe, what was dangerous. The night remained still, their campfire small. The scent of grass was sharp where they had beaten it down.
"I'm afraid he's gone for good," Mara said.
"Which is fine," Deeb said. "He owes us nothing. We owe him, in fact, for helping us so often."
"And those men?"
"They're behind us," Deeb said. "Arch said they would be."
"He told me to always keep my eyes open," Galle piped up. He was trying to act more adult these days, and spoke slower and as thoughtfully as he could. It was a boy's reflection of the drifter mage's personality. Arch had made a big impression on their son. "Always."
#
It happened the next morning, in a moment of carelessness. The blue of the sky seemed paler here, and the clouds shifted in the sky like opponents seeking an advantage. Strange scenes grew common at the place where the horizon faded into mirage, as they experienced laughter from nowhere, unexpected winds, images of creatures, intelligent or otherwise, in the mirages ahead.
Constant small irregularities appeared in the natural world, but nothing you could point at with assurance -- a grasshopper inspecting the protective amulet on Mara's wrist with what seemed too much intelligence, a ghost-like coyote lingering around their camp at dawn and evening, but never in the day and never late at night, as though the world out here were testing them for any weakness.
They felt the constant pressure, and though they remained civil with each other, it took a conscious effort on their parts -- the oppressiveness of the place weighed on them.
They had grown so used to the whirligigs they ignored them now. So Galle turned his back on one that hovered close -- too close they would have said a week ago -- just as the wagon lumbered between Galle and his parents, cutting him off from their view for a moment.
A loud snort from one of the mules roused Deeb from the lethargy of the long march. His eye marked where Mara trudged beside the wagon, where their riding horse plodded along on a rawhide lead tied to the wagon's rear gate, where Galle...
Where was Galle?
Alarmed, Deeb ran for the far side of the wagon. There stood Galle covered in silver whirligigs, crawling over him everywhere like metallic butterflies sucking at the nectar of a flower.
"Get away," Deeb screamed at them. "Lok!" He called for the imp as he charged.
But the imp was at the far perimeter of his patrol around their wagon, precious moments away.
Deeb swung at the whirligigs with his fists. He roused only a few. Galle stood passively, under their sway. Roaring, Deeb drew his knife and smacked at the creatures. He knocked one free and clove it in two.
Then Mara was there, grabbing a whirligig barehanded and jerking it off their son. She flung it free and Deeb's blade clipped it, knocking it down.
Lok arrived with a rush of power like a huge psychic wind, scattering the whirligigs. They fled, an explosion of silver streaming into the sky, but halted again a short distance away and hovered there, ominously.
The imp enveloped the one last whirligig flopping on the grass, wounded and unable to get away. The pale body of the imp intensified into an opaque white, then faded to invisibility. The whirligig was gone.
Galle stood unmoving, his eyes closed. His skin glowed silver, as though the whirligigs had imparted some of their essence into him, in exchange for...what? His life's energy?
Desperate, helpless, Deeb looked over his son for bite marks, somewhere he might suck out the poison, but the boy's skin was unmarked. His eyes remained closed, his expression distant and dreamy.
"Galle, can you hear me? You need to open your eyes, son. Galle."
Miraculously, the boy did open his eyes, but his expression remained the same, distant and unfocused. The pupils of his eyes had turned silver.
"Galle." Mara folded her son in her arms. "Come back to us. We love you. I love you. Child of my heart."
Galle received her hug, but made no other response.
"Help." Deeb found himself running through the grass, crying aloud. "Help us, please. Help!"
But of course no one appeared. Only the whirligigs drifted closer. He raised his knife and cursed them, waiting beyond his reach.
Catching his master's emotions, Lok rushed from one side to the other, challenging the creatures, but they simply floated further away, lazily.
Deeb returned to the wagon, despairing, unable to think of what to do.
Mara said, "We need help."
She headed for the back of the wagon and Deeb rushed to help her, undoing the knots that held the canvas closed, loosening the ropes, lowering the gate and boosting her into the wagon.
He drew his son close to the wagon and stood guard, an eye on the whirligigs, another on the slow sweeping grass all around them.
"Mother. Grandmothers." He heard Mara intone the beginning of her ritual, the words of the spell coming out quickly, clearly. An orange glow flickered inside the wagon, then began to glow steadily. A wave of nostalgia overwhelmed Deeb -- the effect of Mara's family magic kicking in.
The whirligigs streamed closer. Lok rushed them, backing them away, but they spread out, forcing the imp to retreat to keep any from getting behind him. He took up a position at the front of the wagon. So the man and his imp stood guard as the silver beings swooped and lunged, agitated at the show of magic.
Inside the wagon, voices conversed in a low tone. Galle's eyes had closed again. He stood quietly near his father, not reacting to the whirligigs. Had they lost their son?
So near the epicenter of the family magic, Deeb's eyes took in the bare prairie, absorbing its importance. This place would always be a part of him now, central to his dreams -- such was an effect of the nostalgic magic. It would hold a special meaning forever, and he would yearn for this windswept place with a certain despair. If he died a ghost, this would be one of the empty spots he would haunt.
Finally, the voices ended, the glow of magic faded, his intense nostalgia faded and the whirligigs drifted slowly away.
Deeb set Lok to patrolling again, then unhitched the stock, hobbling and picketing them, giving each
a hatful of their precious water.
Mara emerged from the wagon, moving unsteadily. Magic drained strength from its wielder. "They weren't even willing to say he could improve."
"They didn't know a cure? No help?"
She shook her head no, unable to speak, her eyes downcast.
After a minute, he hoisted their son up on the seat of the wagon, where the boy sat passively. "We'd best be going on. We'll need water."
They moved on under the blazing sun, the changing sky, time meaningless, grief overwhelming them. Toward the end of the day, they came across a low dip, with a creek at the bottom. Deeb scouted upstream until he found a place they could get their wagon down the bank and the bed of the creek was firm enough to cross.
Across, they rode up a ravine that came down to the creek, stopped to camp in a hollow just below the level of the prairie. The mules were trembling from the effort. He considered how tired they were, and getting thin from their efforts. "We better stop here."
He worried about the men still following them, but saw nothing he could do about them. His family needed rest.
She nodded. "Maybe..." She let the thought die unvoiced.
That evening, Mara dedicated herself fiercely to her son, bathing his brow with a cool cloth, whispering his name over and over, asking him to open his eyes, to answer. But he did not. Was he fading further into this dream state? Would he ever wake? Her ancestors had not said he was doomed. Would he improve?
By dint of patience, she got her son to eat a little bread softened in broth, and Deeb thought that a hopeful sign. He cared for their stock and the camp as she ministered to their son, but as evening deepened he had to speak once more.
"Mara? I spotted someone's trail out there today."
"Arch?"
He shook his head. "Too small for his horse. Pony tracks."
The Wilderlanders rode ponies, so the stories said -- native peoples who lived in and changed with the magic of the land, unruled by any save themselves, fierce warriors who would ride a week for a fight, a notional people, admiring of courage and curious in general. But they had suffered at the hands of their neighbors over the centuries, so for them too often any stranger was an enemy to be fought without mercy.