Forsaken Magic- Witch of the Thorn

by Chris Turner

  “My best wishes to you,” said Risgan. Now it was his turn to pause. “But do priestesses marry? I thought they were supposed to be virgins?”

  “I’ll marry, Risgan, never fear!” she laughed. “I’m the priestess who makes her own rules. Even against my father’s wishes. I will take over his rule one day. For now we must suffer through his blundering. But his power wanes every day and he will not last long as hetman. Then I will change the ways of the clan forever.”

  “You already have.”

  Long after Risgan and the others had taken to the trees, darkness spread over the land like a gloved hand. Risgan gave a long sigh.

  “That’s one noble and courageous lady.”

  “Yes,” Jurna murmured, “too bad there weren’t more of her kind.”

  Kahel lanced them a steely look. “Are you lugs going to yammer on, or shake a leg? The moon is up and I don’t want to be picked off by any straggling isks.”

  * * *

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  Risgan’s saga continues in The Isk Rider

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  Learn how Risgan became an outlaw and fell afoul of Afrid the sorceress,

  Read Book 1 of the Relic Hunter: Witch of the Thorn

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  Turn the page for an excerpt from The Isk Rider…

  THE ISK RIDER by Chris Turner (excerpt)

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  The forests of the north were forbidding and vast; indeed, providing no pleasures or fragrant bowers for the casual day-tripper. As the five fugitives of the sorceress Afrid’s keep braved the knitted tangle and vine-swept valleys, Risgan felt a lightness to his step, a curious vigour he had not experienced for years. He recalled Afrid’s extreme reversal of aging and wondered if he were feeling effects of similar nature, though in a lesser, more merciful degree. It prompted him to wonder about his own fate. He remembered all too well handling the luminous side of his new talisman with more frequency than the dark, Kraken-blasted one, which might explain his more energetic step versus that of his peers. The mixed handling might have created a slower decay than what had overtaken the baby-faced sorceress who stared out of the small thorn prison at his side. Risgan wondered... his lips curled in a disapproving scowl...

  Was the thing cursed?

  He had kept it covered in its black silk, so that he might not tamper with the magic. Cursed magic: so why not get rid of it? The relic was dangerous, more trouble than it was worth... but if it were valued as much as Vosta’s magician had hinted... No, if he were strictly honest, he would realize that this vain attachment to the fist-sized piece of nephrite would never allow him to jettison it so wantonly. It was a magnificent gem, entrancing, beguiling. Yet probably tainted... the reason why it had been buried in the sarcophagus in the first place. So, why had he been the one to dig it up?

  Risgan sat with these chilling questions as he padded through the aisles of green balmwood with his four companions. The carpets of goblin leaf and wolf-spruce needles felt crisp under his feet, like beautiful embroidery from a mistress’s gown. The dappled spinneys and hidden falls were lush and fresh, the vine-draped ruins, curiosities to be feared. There were beasts that dwelled here with senses much keener than his own, which justified ample caution. Nonetheless, the way was easier with the support of four companions rather than none, so with gratitude Risgan made swift progress. The archer Kahel’s skill kept hungry gibbeths at bay; the tracker Jurna’s scouting was not to be faulted. Climbing to the top of a ridge, he sized up the area, deciding on what course to take, often sparing the uneasy troupe leagues of cumbersome skirting of marsh or sluggish river—and the pitfalls of an encounter with a cave volfi or flock of forest mastakons. Moeze the magician’s magic was unspectacular. His questionable sorcery could only be counted amongst their least ripest assets, as were Hape’s, who was timid in his mannerisms—hardly a hero of the road, excepting his knack for finding safe places to sleep.

  Armed with these resources, the road was not as secure as Risgan would have liked. Successive bouts of bad weather had left them dispirited. The group weathered lightning and freak storms and they passed the dreaded Bagmire swamps along a natural causeway of fallen deadheads where they struggled to attain higher ground. The fringes of the Fadnar woods saw them savaged by half-mongoloid forest bandits, barely repulsed by Moeze’s diminutive magic and Kahel’s sharp arrows. Surviving, they only walked into an attack by a shaggy gibbeth, the beast slowed only by Risgan’s purple stun-powder and Moeze’s blinding silver disc. Jurna’s knives and Risgan’s gibbeth club slew the creature, but Kahel suffered minor injuries from a surprise swoop by a rogue isk. Moeze pointed his squirt tube and sprayed the bird’s eyes while Risgan savaged it with his club. The bird flew off, cawing in fury. Hape could not quite be the same after staring that blue-eyed, bald-headed fiend in the eye.

  “Onwards, wayfarers, onwards!” called Risgan with energy. “We have yet to escape these savage woods!”

  “You really expect us to find this fabled city which Hape speaks of?” grumbled Kahel.

  “I do.”

  With the most reserved caution they continued, retaining most of Afrid’s magic items, including her skull amulet which guarded several supernatural powers, all undecipherable. Afrid’s self-powered, three-wheeled carriage was still intact, the same which had carried all their supplies safely, although it was in need of being carried across the most onerous terrain.

  In these moments Risgan vowed to demand full restitution from Vosta and his detestable magician who had betrayed him to His Highness, the Pontific, and forced him on this perilous adventure.

  Risgan had been practicing incantations in secret using Afrid’s amulet, reading from her spell book. He repeated each phrase with a determined turn of tongue. The magic syllables invoked a thrill of mystique in him and had him flexing his fingers in the attitude of a mage, the same sorcerous gestures Afrid had demonstrated back at her mansion.

  To no great avail. Risgan attracted the interests of a low-flying isk as it swooped in search of prey from the treetops. The bird’s attack was swift and would have killed them all had not Kahel, after a hasty miss, put an arrow into its breast.

  “Ugly things, these isks,” spat Jurna, eyeing its twitching black hide. “Between them and Afrid, I think we’re—”

  “What? The most ill-fated fools in Fandria?” finished Kahel. He yanked the bloody arrow from the beast’s flesh and stuck it in his quiver.

  Risgan stared at the massive yellow beak and hooked talons and rubbed his chin in grave reflection. There were grumbles and curses amongst the fellowship, and Risgan was banned from practicing further spellcraft...

  That’s the end of the excerpt. Read the rest of The Isk Rider on kindle unlimited. innersky.ca/iskrider

  Turn the page for an excerpt from Forsaken Magic…

  FORSAKEN MAGIC (excerpt)

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  The low mound at Risgan’s feet was anything but ordinary to his trained eye. Underneath it had the look of treasure. It is said that grave-robbing was bad for the soul, likely to incur the wrath of the spirits. But Risgan was not of this belief, nor an entertainer of superstition. It was bad for business.

  Without hesitation, he swung his pickaxe hard on the packed earth. His trim leather hunting breeches creaked with the effort. Standing atop his pile made him seem taller than usual in his low black boots. His square chin, brawny arms and untroubled stance had a queer way of looking quixotic in this deserted quarter with only fallen, moss-covered columns to his left and a collapsed lichen-ridden domed prayer hall to his right. The air, sticky and sweltering, lent to the atmosphere of antiquity and decay. Flung to a side in the dirt lay scalpel, scoop, wire brush, bodkin, bone horn: certain accoutrements of his trade, alon
g with a diamond scratcher for measuring gem hardness. Also a polished truncheon of gibbeth femur useful for surprising bandits, whom he encountered often in his trade.

  The club had served good purpose—an instrument of finality in settling previous ‘disagreements’ with wizards and unruly clients. One could never be too careful at out-of-town fairs or in the company of disreputable relic hounds. Only yesterday he had been impelled to ward off the thrusts of two petty thieves in a back alley whose overzealous confidence had earned them a quick beating, thanks to his club. The day before, a squawking dealer had occupied his time for an hour squabbling over a price of a simple amethyst. In terms of his recent finds, he had discovered an amphora of withered dry olives with impressive inscriptions dating around 401 CD, certainly a prize to any historian—yet hardly worth the ten mezks of its material value. In a nearby crypt, he had uncovered a mouldering wristband of a Karkarian which gave off an offensive stench and an eerie whine when he twirled it from his finger. Interesting, but hardly salesworthy. An ostler’s whip too whose poor workmanship was only outmatched by the black scavenger beetles inhabiting its handle.

  Risgan gave a weary laugh. When would he ever see the end of this unavailing bric-a-brac? Perhaps his luck had run dry? The feeling was discomforting. A snuffle from the nearby forest suddenly shook him from his thoughts.

  He crouched, poised like a panther.

  The sound was gone. Probably a foxmok or some passing baby basilhoon. He sighed. Relatively harmless.

  Relatively.

  He swung his attention back to his pick-axing.

  Drenched in sweat, he grunted some time later to more vigorous axe plunges. The clink of metal on pickaxe came as music to his ears. The jangle from the newly-hewn deep hole was slightly tinnier than normal, a sign which could mean anything. He paused, scratching at his head. He wiped the sweat from his red-rimmed eyes. The midsummer heat was getting to him. Unseemly things lurked in the forest. His haste in choosing this less than wholesome location brought memories of apprehension crawling in his skull.

  He recalled his desperation to secure sellable relics and pay his gambling debts, also his decision to wander far from his home base. Yet here he was, a place a bowshot away from the ancient worship hall of Lin, the ruined complex of jumbled masonry and moss-covered pylons amidst wilted beggar bush and thistle.

  This haunt was better left for ghouls. He hoped he would not regret his decision. His fingers worked nevertheless with precision and his muscles flexed, recalling how curiosity had led him to the discovery of these ruins, briefly researched in the Zanzuria library.

  His lavender-grey eyes glinted in the dull light. He stooped to uncover what his pickaxe had hit: a large coffer. He exhaled a breath, sensing a movement.

  A scrape, a rustle. The merest snuffle of interest... Risgan knew better.

  His muscles tensed for a confrontation and he reached for his waist belt. The male gibbeth was a stone’s throw away. His keen horror had him grimacing, then crouching out of sight of the snuffling beast, soon to be a hair’s breadth away. He would be trapped in this dank hole, in which case his death was imminent.

  Without preamble, Risgan acted. Scrambling out of his pit, he fingered his ancient Kraken-whistle horn. A quick blast and the creature was bolting out from the underbrush. Gods! would it be rendered dysfunctional for even a brief moment?

  Within a heartbeat the gibbeth charged and Risgan braced himself for death...

  * * *

  Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story please consider telling your friends or posting a short review.

  Risgan’s adventures continue in Book II, The Isk Rider of Bazuur.

  Turn the page for an excerpt…

  THE ISK RIDER excerpt

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  The forests of the north were forbidding and vast; indeed, providing no pleasures or fragrant bowers for the casual day-tripper. As the five fugitives of the sorceress Afrid’s keep braved the knitted tangle and vine-swept valleys, Risgan felt a lightness to his step, a curious vigour he had not experienced for years. He recalled Afrid’s extreme reversal of aging and wondered if he were feeling effects of similar nature, though in a lesser, more merciful degree. It prompted him to wonder about his own fate. He remembered all too well handling the luminous side of his new talisman with more frequency than the dark, Kraken-blasted one, which might explain his more energetic step versus that of his peers. The mixed handling might have created a slower decay than what had overtaken the baby-faced sorceress who stared out of the small thorn prison at his side. Risgan wondered... his lips curled in a disapproving scowl...

  Was the thing cursed?

  He had kept it covered in its black silk, so that he might not tamper with the magic. Cursed magic: so why not get rid of it? The relic was dangerous, more trouble than it was worth... but if it were valued as much as Vosta’s magician had hinted... No, if he were strictly honest, he would realize that this vain attachment to the fist-sized piece of nephrite would never allow him to jettison it so wantonly. It was a magnificent gem, entrancing, beguiling. Yet probably tainted... the reason why it had been buried in the sarcophagus in the first place. So, why had he been the one to dig it up?

  Risgan sat with these chilling questions as he padded through the aisles of green balmwood with his four companions. The carpets of goblin leaf and wolf-spruce needles felt crisp under his feet, like beautiful embroidery from a mistress’s gown. The dappled spinneys and hidden falls were lush and fresh, the vine-draped ruins, curiosities to be feared. There were beasts that dwelled here with senses much keener than his own, which justified ample caution. Nonetheless, the way was easier with the support of four companions rather than none, so with gratitude Risgan made swift progress. The archer Kahel’s skill kept hungry gibbeths at bay; the tracker Jurna’s scouting was not to be faulted. Climbing to the top of a ridge, he sized up the area, deciding on what course to take, often sparing the uneasy troupe leagues of cumbersome skirting of marsh or sluggish river—and the pitfalls of an encounter with a cave volfi or flock of forest mastakons. Moeze the magician’s magic was unspectacular. His questionable sorcery could only be counted amongst their least ripest assets, as were Hape’s, who was timid in his mannerisms—hardly a hero of the road, excepting his knack for finding safe places to sleep.

  Armed with these resources, the road was not as secure as Risgan would have liked. Successive bouts of bad weather had left them dispirited. The group weathered lightning and freak storms and they passed the dreaded Bagmire swamps along a natural causeway of fallen deadheads where they struggled to attain higher ground. The fringes of the Fadnar woods saw them savaged by half-mongoloid forest bandits, barely repulsed by Moeze’s diminutive magic and Kahel’s sharp arrows. Surviving, they only walked into an attack by a shaggy gibbeth, the beast slowed only by Risgan’s purple stun-powder and Moeze’s blinding silver disc. Jurna’s knives and Risgan’s gibbeth club slew the creature, but Kahel suffered minor injuries from a surprise swoop by a rogue isk. Moeze pointed his squirt tube and sprayed the bird’s eyes while Risgan savaged it with his club. The bird flew off, cawing in fury. Hape could not quite be the same after staring that blue-eyed, bald-headed fiend in the eye.

  “Onwards, wayfarers, onwards!” called Risgan with energy. “We have yet to escape these savage woods!”

  “You really expect us to find this fabled city which Hape speaks of?” grumbled Kahel.

  “I do.”

  With the most reserved caution they continued, retaining most of Afrid’s magic items, including her skull amulet which guarded several supernatural powers, all undecipherable. Afrid’s self-powered, three-wheeled carriage was still intact, the same which had carried all their supplies safely, although it was in need of being carried across the most onerous terrain.

  In these moments Risgan vowed to demand full restitution from Vosta and his detestable magician who had betrayed him to His Highness, the Pontific, and forced him on this perilous adventure.
>
  Risgan had been practicing incantations in secret using Afrid’s amulet, reading from her spell book. He repeated each phrase with a determined turn of tongue. The magic syllables invoked a thrill of mystique in him and had him flexing his fingers in the attitude of a mage, the same sorcerous gestures Afrid had demonstrated back at her mansion.

  To no great avail. Risgan attracted the interests of a low-flying isk as it swooped in search of prey from the treetops. The bird’s attack was swift and would have killed them all had not Kahel, after a hasty miss, put an arrow into its breast.

  “Ugly things, these isks,” spat Jurna, eyeing its twitching black hide. “Between them and Afrid, I think we’re—”

  “What? The most ill-fated fools in Fandria?” finished Kahel. He yanked the bloody arrow from the beast’s flesh and stuck it in his quiver.

  Risgan stared at the massive yellow beak and hooked talons and rubbed his chin in grave reflection. There were grumbles and curses amongst the fellowship, and Risgan was banned from practicing further spellcraft...

  That’s the end of the excerpt. Read the rest of The Isk Rider on kindle unlimited. innersky.ca/iskrider

  Here are the books in the series:

  Forsaken Magic

  The Isk Rider

  The Temple of Vitus

  Visit innersky.ca/kindle to browse all Chris’s SFF titles…

  Other books by Chris Turner,

  writer of fantasy, adventure, and SF.

  Visual artist, musician.

  Dragon Sea Chronicles

  Rogues of Bindar