Land of Salvania

  The druid Mecmac donned his best green cloak. Usually, he wore a white cloak for ceremonies, but this night was different. Taking his ornate horn off a peg above the hearth, Mecmac slipped out of his small cottage and walked easily down the familiar path leading to the Dragon Stones. The moon was full, and the night was full of promise. He was the curator, of sorts, for The Stones. A few times a year, some visitor would stop to ask about the long-lost builders and the magic they must have used to handle such huge stones. Mecmac knew some of the story from the lore of his Order. He knew some from reading old scrolls that hinted at other scrolls he had never seen. That was how he had restarted a new/old ceremony: he had read from a crumbling scroll that the Order of Green, possibly an ancient mystic order like his, once held ceremonies at The Stones during the change of each season. Don thou the green of thy station And seek the standing stones. Do this under the Worm Moon in ...

  In a cabin by the brook I saw a glowing magic book. Protected by a circle green That glowed with magic yet unseen. The book did shimmer like a fish, And bade me come to make a wish. If my heart be not askew, Could my wish at last come true? I fought back the fear and doubt. Without remorse it bubbled out. And you may think it awful funny, I asked, just once, to slay a bunny. [Some may be curious about all this talk of slaying bunnies. First off, I am not anti-bunny. I think they are cute and cuddly. But, during a recent LARP event with Alliance Atlanta , we were set upon by vicious NPC (non-player character) bunnies that mauled us. And later, a smaller group of us (the badass Order of Jirrah) were taught a valuable lesson about pride and when to ask for help. Again, it was bunnies. Ferocious jackalopes, to be exact. So, now you know. Fear the bunnies.] /// Copyright

  Idium was not a wizard. He had found a wizard's staff in the Dreamwood a year earlier, and it did all the work. It called itself "Branch." Most recently Branch seemed to get more bossy than usual. Just this morning, it had said, "We need to be at the White River Castle before the full moon." "Why? I'd like to find a nice tavern and make some coin." "I don't need coins," Branch said. "Abusing our relationship for parlor tricks to amaze a few backward villagers is a waste of my devastating talents." "A guy's gotta eat." The thought made his empty stomach rumble. "I see free food all around. There, eat that mushroom," Branch said. A purple light glowed from the crystal at the staff's tip and reached out to caress a small white mushroom growing at the foot of a rotten stump. "Is it poisonous?" "After all we've been through, you don't trust me?" Branch seemed hurt...

  He was always so dramatic, saying cryptic stuff like, "Stay behind me. I feel something ahead." He reminded me of an actor playing a caricature of a wizard at the Spring Faire complete with his elaborate gestures and somber, black robes. Most of the time, when he stopped us on the trail, nothing happened. Maybe he sent some magic ahead to dispel whatever caused his "feeling." Maybe he was just full of himself. Or full of something. This time, he produced a handful of already lit candles, which was magic enough for me, and intoned, "I command you to leave this place in the name of the Eternal Light!" Nothing happened that I could see, but I drew my sword (as did my three comrades). Again, he said, "Leave this place. You are banished to the Outerland!" The candles seemed to get brighter, and I heard a rustle in the dark forest ahead. We waited a few more minutes, and he turned, the candles vanishing into his robes. How did he do that? ...

  There was power here. The druid felt it as sure as he felt the sun on his face. All day he had walked slowly through and around the grove. Sometimes he stopped for a moment and let the power drift around him like smoke, holding out his hands as if he could touch it. A bit of snow fell, just a dusting, and the grove changed into a wonderland of glinting crystals, sending vivid shards of light into his mind. It took most of a day, but he eventually spiraled into the grove's center, letting the power guide his steps. There was no hurry, no goal, no task to be completed. He knew the power would come and go on its own, as transitory as a favorite cat. He let it happen, letting the power displace the darkness in him. The days were short now, and soon the dark would come in earnest with howling winds and ice clicking on his window. Slowly, the power faded, and he felt lighter for the first time in months. For just these few hours, he forgot about the funeral and the eternal hole i...

As Kyllen led the last squad fleeing the Duke's burning town , he had a single moment of clarity amid the screams and roaring flames. A man in black robes was walking calmly within the chaos as unconcerned as a shopper strolling through the market looking for plums. He carried a glowing wand, and uncanny flames spread around him. Wooden structures, baskets, anything remotely flammable exploded into bright orange fire. The man was not even singed by the pulsing heat Kyllen could easily feel from a bow shot away. Kyllen grabbed an archer by the shoulder, spinning her around. "Can you hit that man in black?" He pointed into the town. She automatically raised her arm to reach for an arrow, but her quiver was empty. "Shit. I'm out." She started looking frantically for loose arrows on the ground. The heat increased, and Kyllen's squad instinctively stepped back. "The gods be damned heat is too much," the archer cried. "We cannot stay here...

  The wizard unrolled the partly burned scroll, looking from it to the monument and back. The scroll was written in a flowing Elvenari script, and the wording was so old, he could barely understand. His halting interpretation was: "Seek you the south bay whereupon stands the fox flame of Pamania. One whose art is pure may sense the power of the monument and be refreshed." Many weeks of continuous travel, storms, and hardship had brought him south. Long had he sought this legend, finally to determine its power for himself. His art was strong, but it refused to show him the way. Instead, he had to endure days of weary speech with suspicious villagers. None had heard of a place, god, or man called "Pamania." None seemed interested in the least in his origin or his quest. To the wizard, they were as witless as the cattle they tended. Finally, he met an old woman at a lonely cottage on the edge of some nameless village. He sensed a spark of the art in her, though...

  Watching Girl was born with a twisted leg. She could not do some of the things that other children could do; it bothered her parents, but it didn't bother her. She seemed to get around the tiny village and surrounding woods well enough with her walking stick. Watching Girl's mind was keen, and she could sense things that others missed. It might be the flick of a squirrel’s tail or a distant ripple of a pond turtle's snout, but she was the first to notice it. She could see the frog struggling to emerge from a piece of wood, needing only a little sculpting with her carving knife to free it. As she grew older, she came to see other invisible things. She could see the sadness in the grandmother who stared into the fire at night. She could see the brooding anger in the skinny boy who always lost the wrestling matches. On the same night that her long-anticipated womanly flow arrived for the first time, there was a bright star that flashed across the sky, heading north, in...

  "A wizard's power of Changing and Summoning can shake the balance of the world. It is dangerous, that power...It must follow knowledge, and serve need." ― Ursula K. Le Guin, " A Wizard of Earthsea " Artwork (c)2022 Mickey Kulp

It had taken some serious wheedling, but Handol finally agreed to hand over one of the red jewels he had "acquired" from a troll statue . Bradyn opened his spellbook, the writhing letters slowly drifting into place, forming words he could read for just a moment before scattering. "Gem of blood," he said aloud as Handol watched. "Wall of stone. Open now and take us home. Powers high and powers low, heed my words and make it so!" The stones seemed to melt and run like ink, forming a low doorway filled with light and colors. It remined Bradyn of lamp oil spilled onto a pool of water. He closed the stained leather tome and tossed the gem back to his friend. "Let's see what happened," the wizard said as he stepped into the shimmering light. As he looked into the next room, he was astounded at the vivid colors. It was as if he had stepped into a painting. Or perhaps he had found a different reality. /// Copyright

  The portal shimmered behind them, churning with disturbed light. Handol, the aging thief from the southlands pulled out his "pig skinner" and stared into the misty castle courtyard that had appeared before them. "Steady, my love," Bradyn cooed, stroking the hawk that rode on his shoulder. "All done. See, it wasn't that bad." "Speak for yourself," Handol said. "I thought I was gonna puke." His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the misty courtyard bathed in flickering red and yellow light. Although they were surrounded by swirling fog, it was daytime here on the other side of the magick. "The architecture looks correct," Bradyn said. He blew out the candle in his lamp. "And there it is." He pointed toward a fountain set into the stone wall. Handol followed as Bradyn walked slowly forward. The water from the fountain seemed to pour slowly, almost like syrup, into a stone basin. The basin drained into ...

  Mothers clutched their children and hustled away when Morden walked down the street. Soldiers hands unconsciously drifted toward their weapons when Morden appeared in town. The wise watched carefully when Morden stood still, eyes closed. Some days, Morden was amused at this ridiculous behavior, some days he was annoyed. Even getting a beer at the pub was a huge disruption, crowds falling silent, eyes wary. Forget about attending any town festivals or market days. Accidentally summon a red dragon just one time, and you pay for it forever. /// Copyright

  He had taken to roaming at night when the annoying clamor of the population's minds at last fell silent. It would be different if their minds were more interesting. But, alas, no. They only cared for the moment, the perceived slights to their pride, the small revenges, the petty fears. Even their nighttime dreams, now a breeze where their waking minds were a gale, were small and boring. Some wanted love, some fought faceless monsters. All typical and dull. Bovine. "Let them be sheep," Vecnan purred in his mind. He looked at the jewel glowing faintly on the end of his staff. The star stone. Vecnan was the only one who understood him. Indeed, their bond was closer than any parent or lover. The jewel seemed to pulse as the words came. "We will rule them all one day, and they will never even notice." /// Copyright

  The wizard Elzalore opened his lamp, pulled out the sputtering, feeble remnants of the tallow candle, and used it to light the last candle in his haversack. The tunnels under the Queen's castle were rumored to be so vast that entire squads of soldiers and miners (and doubtless hundreds of treasure-seekers) had vanished over the years. He believed the stories now after spending two days in the chill damp, sleeping on stones in the utter silence. But Elzalore had a map. The old herb lady at the edge of the moors had said it was a true map from her grandfather. Her grandfather had helped build a new tower on the castle as a young man a hundred years earlier. Elzalore had paid her ten gold for it, a princely sum he hoped to recoup with a single discovery. For, in addition to the map, he had a scroll that pulled him toward his destination. Soon, he hoped, he would find old Skandarnish's dusty bones and the jewel he had carried when alive. The jewel was reward enough, but the ...

  "Danger! Danger!" the magic staff screamed in his mind. It jumped out of his hand and clattered on the cobbled bridge, flopping like a fish out of water. Ever since he had found the staff in that abandoned lair under the mountains, he had regretted bringing it with him. Far above the castle, he heard a dragon's piercing cry from somewhere in the storm clouds. The staff screeched again in his skull and started inch-worming away from the castle. It was going to be that kind of week. /// Copyright

  It had started about a week before. Two priests of the Hedronia sect had met each other on a roadway, each one heading for the same destination. After learning that each had been struggling with dreams that had called them toward the White River, each was relieved that they had not gone insane. But relief had been followed by troubling thoughts. "Where should we go?" "What do the dreams mean?" "We must fast and meditate." They continued toward the White River, seeking signs known only to the wise. They fasted each day, taking only water and mushrooms known to aid visions and dreams. They chanted each night until exhaustion forced sleep. On the fifth night of their vigil, both dreamed of a cave hidden by an ancient grove. The next day they arrived. The dreams did not predict the staff floating near the entrance, it's tip glowing with blue swirling mist. The dreams did not say what to do now. And the adventure began. /// Copyright

  "Follow Farsinger," the small Yunni shaman said, her bracelets jingling as she ladeled more stew into her guest's bowl. The raven heard her name and stirred from her nap on the pronounced bosom of a carved fertility totem. Farsinger looked at the guest, a human healer from the White River village, and cooed in Ravenspeech, "Yes, I know the way, friend Don-lee-sar." The healer nodded thanks to the large black bird. Then he turned to the Yunni. "You have seen the artifact yourself?" "I have," she replied. "They have no idea how important it is." Two weeks later, Farsinger landed on a thatched roof and squawked, "We are here." The healer waved greetings to a few dirty children who ran into a nearby cottage. He waited just a moment, and a woman came outside, wiping her hands on her apron. "Hello," he said with a friendly bow. The lady nodded without a reply. "My name is Donlisar. I am a healer traveli...

  "The tracks end right here," Cedric said to his nephew. Saul was the only one of the brood that showed any aptitude for the "family business." Saul knelt with his uncle, watching the older tracker's eyes and hands move over the ground as if he was invoking some arcane spell of magick. Cedric's voice was dreamy. "It's like she was walking at a normal pace, then took a leap off her right foot." He pointed to the last track, deeper than the others in the soft soil. They both turned, facing the direction of travel, looking for a reason someone would jump. Saul said, "She might have jumped up to that limb." He pointed to a forked tree with a low limb on the right side. They both looked up the tree. It was empty, swaying a little in the spring breeze. Cedric stood and walked around the tree in a circle that spiraled out. There were no other tracks from their quarry. "If she climbed that tree, she didn't come down." Th...

  Osran, a young wizard of the Order of the Hidden Gateway, didn't mind his incarceration too much. They fed him twice a day and kept his water jug full. He had a window to look out when he was bored. It was not much worse than university. He had his spell book which the two city guards had not tried to take. Being mostly illiterate and entirely ignorant of a wizard's - even a young one's - power, the guards only took his small dagger. Osran smiled at the memory. The two jelly heads thought they were safe. No dagger, no danger. He stepped back from the window and opened his ornate leather spellbook and began meditating. "What would be fun, today?" he asked silently. He felt a familiar cool breeze flow through his mind. The book said, "We could turn the bars into licorice twists. Or maybe turn a guard's member into a limp noodle?" Osran chuckled. "You're naughty." "You know it, babe," the spellbook echoed in his mind....

  Farsinger was unusually insistent. "I saw it glowing. It's magicked, I tell ya." She hopped on Ulrich's shoulder and pecked him gently on the neck. "Pick it up. It may be lucky." "Or it may turn me into a worm," Ulrich growled, his pagan sensibilities and his Oma's old stories had him on alert. "Then I'll have a nice breakfast," Farsinger cawed, laughing. "Or it may bring some luck. Pick it up." "It's just a stick," Ulrich said with a dismissive wave. "I think you're scared," Farsinger said with a raven growl of derision. And that sealed it. Ulrich picked up the stick. Except it wasn't a stick. /// Copyright