Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories

by Vox Day

  He glanced up at the black sail. It was faded and grey now and bore a device that was unfamiliar to him. But it was not hard to decode: The sigil was a horned skull with a forked tongue. Snaketongue, he guessed.

  It amazed him that Cajarc could exert such power, so effortlessly, even on the open sea. It wasn’t that the currents of power were not palpable. Speer could see them in the sky being buffeted by the wind and feel their throbbing pulse deep below the surface of the sea. But they were weak in comparison with those that ran over the land and felt somehow slippery to his mind. They were difficult to grasp and utilize. And yet Cajarc maintained the illusion without any flaws that Speer could see with either his physical or his magical vision.

  Like Mordlis, Nidarhälla was located inside a fjord, and like Raegedal, the town was situated on the cliffs above the harbor. The docks were larger than those of Raegedal, and in addition to the six snekkjas Cajarc had mentioned, there were dozens of much smaller boats, most with masts, tied up along the sprawling harbor complex.

  There were a few curious looks and some friendly waves. No one in the harbor seemed to notice anything amiss as they sailed uneventfully into the fjord and Cajarc steered the small ship into a berth on the southern end of the docks. One of the men ran a rope through a metal ring on the prow and lashed it fast in a knot that Speer noted could be untied with a single tug. The men began lifting several heavy bags out of a storage compartment in the floor as Speer leaped off the side and onto the wooden dock, followed a moment later by Cajarc.

  “What’s in the bags?” Speer asked.

  “A few things to add to the excitement. Besides, we need some excuse to be walking up to the town.”

  The dockmaster waved them over as they marched toward the well-traveled dirt path that led up from the sea to the town. But he didn’t even bother asking them what nature of goods was being borne by the false thralls after Cajarc smiled ingratiatingly and pressed a pair of silver coins into his hand.

  Speer was glad it was a cool day as they trudged up the steep incline of the path, the dirt of which was packed so hard that it felt like brick under his feet. There were two armed men at the top of the cliff, but neither gave them more than a cursory glance. The town gates were open and Speer glanced nervously around, wishing that Cajarc had given him more detailed instructions, or at least explained even the general outline of his intentions.

  “Wait outside, my lord. The village men will stay inside and fight us and the fires. I leave it to you to deal with the women and children.”

  “How am I to recognize the women from Tønstadr?”

  “You won’t.” Cajarc looked surprised. “We’re here to set an example, not rescue the wenches. If they survive, so much the better, but that’s not our concern.”

  Speer frowned. He'd been under the impression this was a rescue mission.

  “So how am I to deal with them?”

  “As you see fit.” The sorcerer snorted and squeezed his shoulder. “I once saw Lord Mauragh drop the roof of a cathedral on the people gathered there to worship. There must have been a thousand people inside. The question you have to ask yourself, Lord Dauragh, is if you are worthy of calling yourself your father’s son or not.”

  With that, he turned back toward open gates of Nidarhälla, and instructed two of the guards to remain behind with Speer.

  “Cajarc!” he called. “What’s in the bags?”

  “Wood shavings soaked in pitch.” Cajarc laughed at his surprise at the humble nature of the sorcerer’s weapon. “We make our own luck, my lord, and the simplest ways are often best.”

  After the sorcerer, followed by the eight men from Mordlis, disappeared into the town, Speer sighed and made himself comfortable on the dying brown grass. He couldn’t see the sea from where he sat, but he could smell it, and the cries of the seagulls soaring overhead were impossible to mistake. He closed his eyes to help make sense of the structure of the local leys in his head. The strongest one was a powerful channel that flowed from the east, from the very heart of the great island and toward the sea. He reached out and redirected it to him. The warmth of the power of the land rapidly filled his body, and he realized it would be enough to let him do whatever he wanted.

  A wall of fire? An illusion that multiplied his two men into two hundred? An earthquake that would cause the cliff face to collapse? No, none of them struck him as sufficiently lethal…or worthy of one who sought to be his father’s heir. Had his early years living as Per Gnasor’s son enervated him permanently, or was he truly a Witchking?

  He coughed to clear his throat and spit. No sooner had he done so than he saw a sudden glow in the air around him as someone, presumably Cajarc, drew upon the sky leys. Almost immediately, he heard shouts of alarm, soon followed by black smoke rising into the sky in eight different locations. Soon there were screams and shrieks coming from the town, and by the time flames and smoke could be seen on the rooftops, people were beginning to run out of the gates, weighed down with children and their most precious possessions.

  Even if he could not see their fear, the sheer mass of it struck him as if it was an odor coming off of them. He could actually taste it, and the taste was, if not sweet, exactly, at least pleasant. He could feel Cajarc’s manipulations too. He felt their effects on the leys of earth and sky as the sorcerer wove his illusions to confuse the town’s warriors and hurled blasts of intense fire that set their clothes and beards and long hair alight.

  The Écarlatean had also replaced the spell that disguised their guardsmen with another one, one that had the two men standing on either side of Speer trembling, and in one case, visibly drooling, with an eagerness to kill. The two tongueless men from Mordlis kept glancing back and forth between him and the fleeing people of Nidarhälla, waiting for his permission to draw their swords and attack. One of them, the one who wasn’t drooling, was alternately whimpering and growling.

  The crowd of women, old men, and children had grown to nearly one hundred, with more joining them at every moment, when Speer decided the time had come to act. Most of them, seeing only three strangers in the distance instead of a large band of raiders, seemed to believe they were safe outside the palisade and turned their backs to him in order to stare at the smoke rising from their homes.

  Speer drew more from the strong land ley and reached within himself to find the despair he had known in his solitary flight from Pretigny, the horror he had felt when watching his childhood home burn, and the deep and endless loneliness that had been his fate since coming to Mordlis. Then he raised his arm and cast it forth from him like a vast spiderish web of darkness that swept over the unresisting villagers like a wave. He could see their bodies sway underneath its maleficent force as it amplified their already considerable fear. Several of the weaker ones could not stand it: children and old women fell silently to the grass, rendered catatonic by the shadow that assailed their souls.

  He stood there calmly, channeling the power of the land through him, transforming it into darkness and despair that swallowed up the escapees from the burning town and held them firmly in its net. He waited, listening to the cries of the entrapped and the shouts of the desperate warriors as they were struck down one by one by Cajarc and his men, until he counted nearly two hundred townspeople caught up in his sorcery.

  The sense of control intoxicated him. He gloried in the sensation of magic flowing through him, in the sight of the crowd bending to his will. For the first time, he began to understand the terror of the the name Witchking and he reveled in it.

  Still holding them fast, he used his other hand to draw upon the sky leys, and from them he created a false but powerful wind that blew west, toward the sea. It buffeted the villagers, knocked many of them flat, and sent several of the smaller children tumbling over and over toward the cliffs. Soon the sobs of despair turned to helpless screams as the first child fell from the heights toward the rocky shore below, followed by another, and then a third.

  “Now,” Speer told the two trembl
ing men beside him.

  Without tongues, they could not speak, but they snarled wordlessly in response and began rushing toward the large mass of people stumbling and slipping backward before the evil wind. They were only two against two hundred, and yet so frightened and helpless were the ensorcelled townspeople that a keen of sheer animal terror went up, and every man, woman, and child still on his feet fled from them, their shrieks as wordless as those of their assailants.

  Their eyes unseeing, their minds unthinking, they ran without hesitating right over the edge of the cliff and plunged to the rocks on the shore of the sea.

  There were some who did not run and did not fall, having already collapsed or being too overcome with fear to move, even with the encouragement of the magical wind. But soon the two men of Mordlis were among them, chopping and stabbing, and the dry brown grass was slick and red with blood by the time they finished their butchery.

  Speer exhaled, released both magical currents, and sat down again on the grass. He felt both exhausted and exhilarated. And, for the first time, he felt that he might truly be worthy of assuming his father’s terrible mantle. He closed his eyes and relaxed, ignoring the occasional prickles of the broken grass beneath him. He heard the two guards return, and given the unhurried nature of their footfalls as they took up their positions on either side of him again, he judged their bloodthirsty madness was well slaked.

  After a time, he heard someone approaching. He opened his eyes and saw Cajarc stalking toward him, followed by seven of the eight guards who had accompanied the sorcerer in his attack on the town, as well as twenty young women with ropes around their necks and a tall man who was bound and blindfolded. The tall man was bleeding from three wounds to his arms and had the beginnings of a massive bruise on the left side of his face.

  “Did you do nothing but sit there?” the sorcerer said angrily.

  It amused Speer to realize that Cajarc hadn’t felt the manipulations of the magical currents. But then, fighting six ships’ worth of reavers would tend to be somewhat of a distraction for any sorcerer, no matter how skilled.

  He smiled dreamily at his teacher. “Did you not tell me the simplest ways are often best?”

  Cajarc frowned and looked at the two guards, noting that their armor was covered with blood. One of them lifted his chin, indicating the direction of the sea. Signaling for the others to remain, Cajarc walked across the field, gingerly stepping over the occasional body, and stopped at the edge of the cliff. He spent a long moment looking down in silence at the mass of human wreckage below.

  When he returned, there was a measure of approval, even respect, in his eyes that had not been there before. He bowed, without irony, as Speer slowly rose to his feet.

  “My lord, you must forgive me if I have ever doubted you. You are most truly the son of Ar Mauragh.”

  Speer waved the apology away indifferently. “Is this man the so-called king?”

  Cajarc smiled and gestured toward the wounded captive. “Allow me to present to you Hrolf Snaketongue, once the king of Nidarhälla, now an eagle who will soon fly to the gods on scarlet wings. Snaketongue, you have the honor of being the first to fall to Ar Dauragh, soon to be the King of Mordlis and the Iles de Loup.”

  • • •

  The raid on Nidarhälla marked a turning point in Speer’s relationship with Cajarc. When they returned to Tønstadr and the godi carved the blood eagle on the Snaketongue's back, it was Speer, not Cajarc, who stood in the place of honor at his right hand. The Écarlatean became less of a teacher and more of a trusted advisor. Confident in Speer’s sorcerous abilities—and more importantly, his willingness to use them ruthlessly—Cajarc began to plot a plan of conquest using the Iles de Loup as a stronghold from which the southern continent could be assaulted.

  The sea strength of the reavers meant they would always have a place to which they could fall back, an island fortress that neither the elves nor the dwarves could ever hope to take. It would not be hard to convince the reavers to attack the southern kingdoms, but it would be difficult to impose at least an element of discipline upon them. They were a fractious people, much given to battling amongst themselves, and on the main island alone, there were at least one hundred clan leaders who styled themselves kings.

  It was a challenge, not a problem. Of more concern was the fact that, despite hundreds of encounters with dozens of women procured for him from Tønstadr, Nidarhälla, and the surrounding villages, Speer was yet to father a child, or, insofar as Cajarc could determine, even impregnate a woman.

  “The matter is beyond me,” the sorcerer confessed reluctantly as they pored over a map of the islands in the library. “You were not to begin your initiation into your father’s magics until your thirtieth year, but I fear that we shall have to modify his plan for you. He intended that you have at least seven heirs before I turned you over to your next teacher. But now, I don’t see how that is possible.”

  “I will have another teacher?” Speer understood the importance of heirs from the strategic perspective, but his present lack of them didn’t affect him in the slightest. Fatherhood held no interest for him. “Who is he? When will he come? What is the nature of the discipline he teaches? Will I finally learn diablerie?”

  Cajarc raised his hand. “You will have your answers, Ar Dauragh, but not from me.” He seemed uncharacteristically somber, and for a moment looked like he wanted to say something but instead began to roll up the map. He restored it to its place on a shelf among a number of other maps, and sighed and beckoned to Speer.

  “I see no alternative, so there is no reason to put this off. Follow me. It’s time you learn what lies beneath the castle.”

  “The dungeons?” Speer asked as they walked out of the library. He was inordinately excited. Was this why he had never been allowed to descend below the ground level? The door that gave access to them behind the kitchen was always locked. Had his new teacher been kept captive here for all these years? Or was it one of his father’s colleagues, a true Witchking, living hidden away from everyone, even from the castle attendants?

  Cajarc produced a key from a thong around his neck and unlocked the thick wooden door. It opened easily and quietly, as if it had been used with regularity. Speer followed Cajarc down the steep circular stone stairs that led to the dungeons below the ground level.

  It was without windows, dark and damp. The only light that ever shined upon the stony walls and floors had to be fire or magical in nature. With an indifferent gesture, Cajarc lit all of the rushlights in bronze sconces attached to the stone walls on both sides. Most of them were half-burned already, Speer saw.

  “Is there a prisoner here?”

  “Of sorts.”

  Cajarc led Speer past some empty cells, which showed no signs of having been occupied in years, and to a large iron door that was not only locked but barred with three thick metal slats. The upper and lower slats were iron, but the middle one gleamed argent in the rushlight. It was silver. It also featured a square with a handle at about eye level. Speer assumed it covered a window into the chamber.

  “What are you keeping in there?”

  “At the moment, nothing. Help me remove these and get the door open.”

  When the door opened, Speer saw at once that the large room inside was directly underneath the main tower, because it was the same unusual shape. It was a pentagon, and within it was constructed a permanent pentagram that consisted of two tracks of iron connecting the five massive silver candelabra, each of which held three fresh, fat candles. The two tracks were about four fingers deep and permitted the addition of a salt or liquid pentagram as well as the iron.

  Someone, it was very clear, intended this room for some very serious summonings. The excited fluttering in Speer’s stomach abruptly soured, as for the first time he felt a little afraid of whatever it was that Cajarc intended. It did not help his nerves when two of the guards entered the room, one carrying a large sack and the other a small barrel. After lighting the candles, the two
men began to fill the iron tracks, first with salt from the sack, then with a dark red liquid that was poured from the barrel. Speer knew from its smell that it had to be blood.

  Cajarc must’ve sensed his alarm. “It’s only the pig we had earlier for dinner,” he said.

  “I only thought—”

  “Yes, I can imagine. The blood of Man and Dwarf is more potent, Ar Dauragh. The blood of elves, and your blood, for that matter, is even more so. But pig’s blood will suffice here. After all, it would hardly serve our purpose were we to unduly prey upon the very people we wish to follow us.”

  “My blood is more potent than a Man’s? Cajarc, am I not a man?”

  “That is what I am hoping your new teacher will be able to determine.” He looked at Speer and shrugged. “As it happens, I am increasingly suspicious that you are not enough of a Man to breed with a mere woman. Your bloodline is too pure. Which, of course, is encouraging on one level but creates difficulties on another.”

  “Am I correct in assuming that my teacher is not a man either?”

  “He most certainly is not.” Cajarc put his hands on his hips and looked around the room, nodding approvingly. “All right, one last thing and we can go out and get that door closed. Give me your hand.”

  “Why?” Speer winced as Cajarc drew what looked like a silver dagger from his belt and nicked his finger, then squeezed five or six drops of his blood into the very center of the giant pentagram.

  “He’s been waiting a long time for this. And he’s not going to come if he doesn’t know you’re here.”

  They retired behind the door, and at Cajarc’s direction, the two silent guards slid the three heavy slats into place. Then, after receiving a small, writhing, burlap sack from one of them, the sorcerer sent them back up the stairs, leaving Speer and Cajarc alone.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Speer said, sensing that the older man was hesitant about summoning what Speer assumed must be a demon. He was eager to learn diablerie, but from what he had read of the art, the sort of precautions Cajarc was taking were extraordinary and indicated that the spirit being called was of considerable power.