Magic, Sorcery and Witchcraft: Book One of Marcus Grimm saga

by Stas Borodin

  Master Dante could not conquer death, and even the Zontrakian mage Telaris, who lived countless centuries, fell too, struck dead by a mere arrow.

  “And the giants fell, and heroes no more…” I remembered the first lines of “The End of Times.”

  “Who is looking at you from the mirror?” Korn stood behind me, leaning with his forehead against the doorpost. “I’m also asking myself – what in this world is stronger than death …?”

  I couldn’t see his face, but for some reason I thought it was wet with tears.

  “We are stronger than death, Korn!” I suddenly realized. “As long as we are alive, we are stronger than death! Every day, as long as we are alive, we will be winning! Death is always there, always lurking in the shadows, always ready to strike us. But every passing day we have is our small victory!”

  The squire sighed and emerged from the shadows. His cheeks were actually wet. “Then, Master Marcus, let’s fight!”

  ✽✽✽

  Late that night the signal horn sang. I jumped out of bed, as though I had not slept at all. Grabbing a crossbow and arrows from the table, I rushed down the stairs.

  The squires were already assembled in the yard. Portable lamps were burning bright, and our soldiers quickly, but without fuss, fastened their armour.

  The horn sang again, and the warriors laughed.

  “Enough, Loki, we are awake!”

  Korn ran up to me. In his mailed fist he held a heavy battle-axe. “There are about fifty thugs gathered in front of the house,” he reported. “They even have siege ladders.”

  “I’m sure it’s Spekul Borkah.” My mother was standing in the doorway. “Only he has the nerve to attack the house of a noble family.”

  “Well”—my heart was pounding—“I hope that tonight he gets what he deserves!”

  “To the wall!” Korn barked.

  Luckily, my great-grandfather Mezid had built the house as a fortress. The house, of course, had been rebuilt several times, but it had never lost its fortification. The northern wall of the building hung over a cliff, making an attack on that side impossible. The south wall that surrounded the courtyard was twenty feet thick and was constructed of massive stone blocks that could withstand even a catapult barrage. Above the gate stood a round stone turret. It was built in such a way that the defenders could easily bombard the besiegers while remaining invisible. They could shoot arrows and pour hot tar on the heads of those who dared get close to the gate.

  Accompanied by Korn, I climbed the tower. To my surprise, I found a bubbling vat full of tar, and Melvin, who was busy feeding coals to the fire. The old butler was sporting an ancient rusty helm and a short sword in a faded scabbard.

  “My son would fight for you,” the old man said, “if he was still alive.”

  “I know, Melvin,” I assured him. “Your clan has repeatedly proved its mettle!”

  Peti, Art and Es took the wall to the left of the tower, and Amell, Lokman and Mentor took the wall on the right. Our squires were covered with armour from head to toe; they were armed with swords and spears, only the giant Art threw his shield upon his back to make it easier to wield his enormous poleaxe.

  Down below, at the base of the wall, the brigands grew in numbers. Our neighbours, awakened by the noise, started to close their heavy shutters.

  “Damn cowards!” Melvin chuckled. He was standing next to us, tightly clenching his sword hilt in his fist. “I hoped that someone would alert the city guard—”

  “The city guard?” Korn snorted. “I doubt that would change anything!”

  The swarming crowd filled the small square in front of our house.

  “It looks like a disturbed anthill.” I whistled. “Quite an unpleasant sight!”

  “We will crush these damned bugs!” Korn raised his eyebrows. “This time we have the advantage.”

  I wanted to hope that my squire was right. Once again death opened its stinking mouth and breathed right in our faces, taunting and mocking.

  A red signal flare soared high over the rooftops. It exploded with a loud bang, illuminating the sky with myriads of glittering bloody sparks. Obviously, it was a signal for the attack, as the crowd surged forward silently.

  Siege ladders ground against the walls, ropes with hooks soared high. The squires laughed.

  I even had goosebumps on my back from this laughter. Forgetting fear for a moment, I laughed too. I loaded my crossbow and looked out of the crenel. On both sides the brigands silently scaled the ladders. They had little armour. Some of them wore light steel helmets, leather caps or felt hats. Their weapons were also the most diverse. They wielded rusty swords, butcher’s cleavers, and kitchen knives.

  An arrow hit the wall next to me, and I recoiled from the crenel.

  “They operate smoothly,” Korn said. “Just like real professionals.”

  A moment later, a wave of attackers reached the top of the wall, and the first blood was shed.

  “Elllaaaa – eeeeeeh!” the squires cried. Swords flew, and dead brigands fell from the wall onto the heads of their accomplices. I saw Art leaning over the wall and smashing the ladders with his fearsome poleaxe. The ladders scattered into splinters, and the brigands flew down, floundering helplessly in the wreckage.

  From the tower, I could see the streets converging at our house. Every one was jammed with a silent mob. It was an unsettling sight.

  New scaling ladders sailed over the brigands’ heads. They passed them from hand to hand, and in seconds they were again at the walls.

  “How do they manage to keep quiet?” Korn whistled. “Did you notice that they even fall in silence?”

  I was struck by that too. How can you make such a huge crowd silent?

  “It’s magic!” Melvin shook his head. “What a disgrace!”

  Art swung his poleaxe again, but then the first arrow struck him in the chest. It pierced his armour and stuck vibrating in his breast plate. Arrows fell like hail, and the squire had to take cover behind the battlements.

  The bandits resumed their vicious attack. Hidden from the enemy’s eyes, my squires continued to strike anyone who dared approach them.

  However, arrows continued to pour, chipping hefty chunks of plaster off the stone walls.

  “Look, they’re shooting from the neighbouring houses!” Old Melvin was amazed. “I cannot believe that our neighbours are aiding the rascals!”

  “They only let them in,” suggested Korn, “to keep themselves safe.”

  I noticed a black silhouette against the grey sky, raised my crossbow and squeezed the trigger hook. The figure tumbled down a tiled roof and was swallowed by the canyon of Lord En Street.

  I quickly reloaded my crossbow and began to seek out a new target, but the bowmen saw the danger and were lying low.

  The squires on the walls had started some lewd song, relentlessly cutting down the advancing enemies with their swords.

  “Here you are, my friends,” whispered Melvin. “At last!”

  I looked through the bars under my feet, and then at the old butler. In his hands Melvin clutched the lever from the vat of boiling tar. The old man’s face was tough and stern.

  The brigands were dragging a tree trunk, pointed at one end. Melvin carefully pulled the handle. The vat gently leaned and a smoking black stream poured down through the bars.

  Even now, the attackers did not scream. In utter silence, they tried in vain to shake off the boiling tar, which easily penetrated their clothing and light armour. The bandits fell, writhing in black sticky puddles. I recoiled involuntarily from the grating when the stench of burning flesh hit my nostrils.

  “I’ll be damned!” cried Korn. “I’ve never seen anything so horrible!”

  Death once again showed us one of its heinous guises; it mocked our victory.

  The brigands suddenly retreated. Before I could blink, the streets were empty. The crowd scurried away, leaving behind only the mountains of garbage and mutilated corpses. They were piled everywhere, like heaps of s
eaweed and shells on the exposed seashore.

  “It was the work of magic, Master Marcus!” Korn pointed down. “And we prevailed once again!”

  ✽✽✽

  I gathered my little army in the courtyard for inspection. Melvin expressed a desire to remain on guard duty, and I did not dare refuse. The fighting spirit of the old man had never had been so high. He drew his sword and proudly walked the ramparts, peering vigilantly into the empty streets.

  Art was our only wounded. The arrow that pierced his armour had barely grazed the skin, but my mother was still worried, fearing that the tip might be poisoned. We carefully removed the steel breastplate and Amell sniffed the arrowhead. He gently touched it with the tip of his tongue and spat.

  “There is no poison,” he said. “But you still need to wash and disinfect the wound. Who knows where these assholes kept their arrows!”

  Mother looked reproachfully at the squire, and he bit his tongue.

  “Excuse me for being rude, ma’am.” He looked embarrassed.

  “You’re not in the barracks,” Art chuckled. “Watch your tongue!”

  “Yes, Mr Good Manners!” Amell saluted.

  Everyone laughed, including my mother. The tension gradually subsided, but it was still too early to relax.

  “I want to see what’s out there,” I said. “Lokman and Peti, come with me.”

  Korn took us to the gate and helped to remove the latch.

  “Don’t go far,” he said. “This could be a trap!”

  Right outside the gate, corpses piled up like a mountain. Thin strands of dried tar swayed gently over my head, and the air smelled of burnt hair and flesh. My stomach churned. I carefully tied a scarf over my face and moved on.

  Six disfigured corpses were lying around the charred ram. They had not expected such a surprise from the old butler.

  “Hey, our friends were well prepared,” Lokman chuckled. “Look, everyone has a bag under his belt! They hoped to get a rich bounty!”

  “Now they will fill the bellies of rats and vultures,” added Peti.

  The white-plastered walls were soaked from top to bottom with blood. Arrows bristled like a porcupine needles, and the ropes which hung from the walls looked like dead grey snakes.

  We heard muffled groans and curses coming from under the piles of corpses.

  “Look”—I was surprised—“They are not mute after all!”

  The squires went to work and soon dug out two wounded bandits.

  “Our Mentor will make them all talk.” Peti grinned. “They will even sing in unison, if he wants them to!”

  Suddenly, a commanding voice sounded. “I’d like to know what is going on here!”

  The captain of the city guard, accompanied by fifty soldiers, stood in front of us. “Bah, this is our dear friend, Marcus Grimm!” The captain waved his hand. “What happened this time?”

  “You seem to be sleeping soundly tonight,” I said. “I’m sorry that you had to wake up so early.”

  “Thank you, my dear friend, but I sleep like a baby.” A smile blossomed on the captain’s face. “A good night’s sleep is very important for your health.”

  “Who is this clown?” Lokman asked dryly. “Can I poke him with a spear?”

  “No, please don’t!” The captain laughed again. “I’m not a clown, I am the captain of the city guard, and the name is Santo Van.”

  Peti spat and lowered the visor on his helmet. Lokman silently followed suit.

  I raised my hand, stopping the squires. “We managed to make friends with Master Van,” I said. “Why quarrel over trifles?”

  The guards lined up behind the captain, forming a phalanx.

  “So true, Master Grimm,” the captain nodded. “Let’s see what you have here.”

  The captain raised his hand and the guards lowered their shields. Taking me by the arm, he led me away from his soldiers.

  “I don’t know what you think of me, Master Grimm,” he said in a low voice, “but I am concerned about what is happening on the streets of my city. I give you my word that those behind this attack will be punished with the utmost severity! If we don’t keep order, the city may explode like a gas sphere. I hope you understand that?”

  “I am glad you’ve noticed,” I said. “If you were worried about order, then why did you put chopping blocks on every town square?”

  “I don’t like it either.” The captain frowned. “So let’s not provoke anyone.”

  We went back to my squires.

  “I see that you took prisoners.” He nodded towards the wounded. “Give them to me; I will try to sort things out quietly, without drawing undue attention.”

  “Why should I trust you?” I asked. “Because of your incomparable sense of humour?”

  “Maybe.” The captain smiled slyly.

  “I’m afraid I have no choice,” I said.

  “I understand.” Van nodded. “But this way would be better for both of us.”

  We returned to the prisoners. “Take them away,” I said.

  The guards grabbed the brigands and manacled their hands behind their backs.

  “I can assure you”—the captain straightened his helm—“that your aid will be counted in your favour.”

  “What is he talking about?” Peti hissed.

  We stared silently as the detachment of the city guard slowly walked away.

  “It seems that our captain has not yet decided what to do with us,” I said wearily. “In any case, it is better not to provoke him.”

  ✽✽✽

  The sun had barely touched the rooftops and the temple bells were ringing matins when the small square in front of our house came to life, filled by people with carts, ladders and buckets of paint. The organizational skills of our old butler matched those of a battle commander.

  As if by magic, gravediggers loaded the corpses onto their carts, junkmen collected debris and trash, and teams of painters began to wash the walls, preparing them for painting.

  Curious neighbours appeared on balconies and rooftops, watching us work.

  Peti, who was standing guard on the wall, gestured obscenely and showered them with sophisticated insults. “What do you want from us, you bastards? Where were you last night?”

  Our neighbours, for the most part, were wealthy merchants. Their two–three-storey houses were below our walls, so that Peti was looking down at them from his post. He could see the groomed courtyards with fountains and gardens, paths and marble benches.

  “You damn bitches let the assassins in, and now you have the nerve to stare at me from the balcony?” Peti spat. “Maybe I should take my crossbow and shoot you all like partridges?”

  The neighbour ladies fled with loud squeals, closing the shutters on the windows.

  It was impossible to look at the dashing squire without a smile. He spun around like a small rooster-weathervane, proudly sticking out his pointy nose and armoured chest.

  “Our Peti is a humdinger!” Mother smiled. She was standing next to me at the window, watching the progress of the work.

  “He was Master Ertur’s squire,” I reminded her. “He had a good teacher.”

  Mother nodded, and her smile widened. We remembered Master Ertur well. He was a living fireball, a sparkling bundle of untameable energy. He was short and fat, but he possessed such incredible strength and courage that he seemed much taller. Always first in battle and in tournaments, poet and duellist, he had enjoyed great popularity among women, but other men always kept their distance, fearing his sharp tongue more than sharp steel.

  Peti hung down from the wall and began to teach the painters how to paint the wall. We laughed, hiding behind the curtains.

  Amell and Es had set up wooden tables and a portable forge in the centre of the courtyard. Having collected the armour dented in the previous night’s battle, they began repairs. Hammers rang and the grindstone screeched.

  “Where are the rest of our knights?” Mother leaned out the window, trying to see the yard better.


  “Art is guarding the gate. Lokman and Mentor went to the market to buy supplies. Korn said that Lokman is unmatched at buying things and Mentor cooks like a chef. So tonight we will have a real feast!”

  Mother put her hand on my shoulder. I saw that she was about to cry. I had to act immediately, but it was already too late.

  “Our house has never been so full of life, even when your father was still alive,” she said. “All that you touch comes to life! It begins to sound in a new way!”

  There was no way to stop the flow of her tears. I knew that joy and sorrow were mixed therein; I realized that tears sometimes spoke louder than words.

  “I was watching the battle yesterday and I felt like a little girl again. Once again, I was sitting on my grandmother Esme’s lap, and my grandfather Stobruk was defending the castle Penlor from the vicious attack of hateful neighbours.”

  I handed my mother a handkerchief, which she immediately crumpled, forgetting to wipe her eyes.

  “You are so much like your father, grandfather and great-grandfather. It’s as if all the generations of Grimm and Penlor have mixed in you! Your brother Eran was the perfect warrior just like your grandfather Mezid was. Your father was a wise commander, like your grandfather Marcus, but in you, I can see also the traits of my family. The blood of House Penlor!”

  Mother sobbed. “My mother’s traits – all our vassals were utterly devoted to her – and my grandfather’s, who loved his soldiers like his own children.”

  “I’m just a boy,” I shrugged. “Adults still don’t take me seriously!”

  “You’re the head of House Grimm,” my mother said seriously. “Never forget that!”

  Chapter 4

  Santo Van knocked on our door three days later. He was alone, without his guards, but in full regalia. Melvin took him to the reception room, where my mother was talking with another moneylender.

  “I am glad to see that you’re doing well,” Santo Van said. He stared at my mother, mechanically polishing his breastplate with a ceremonial beret.