Land of Salvania

  "Ahhhh!" Farsinger squawked and leapt off Ulrich's shoulder. "Fek, fek, fek," she cursed in Raven Speech as she winged through the trees in terror. It was equivalent to Ulrich's most violent swear word, "Fook." "Gods be damned, stupid bird," Ulrich cried, trying to drop the glowing magic "stick" that Farsinger had said "might bring good luck." But his hand was locked on the vibrating wand, and no amount of shaking would release it. Then a hideous, distorted face appeared in the sickly cloud swirling around the tip and said, "Hullo, there. Got any raw meat you don't need?" /// Copyright

  The villagers were sure the Beltane fire had been "pixied." No matter what they tried, they could not get the annual bonfire to stay lit. It didn't stop the celebrants from eating and drinking their fill, but it was getting dark, and Beltane without a bonfire just would not do. Even the best huntsman who boasted he could start a fire in a rainstorm had no luck. "What about old Ulias?" the cobbler asked, slurring his words a little and taking another pull off a wineskin. "He ain't done any wizarding in a while." Ulias, the old village wizard, had never been known as a great conjurer. His advice mostly involved herbs, mushrooms, and the peculiarities of the weather. But desperate measures were required, and someone dispatched several dirty, barefoot boys into the walled city to round up the wizard. He arrived a few minutes later, buttoning his ceremonial robe. "We need a fire," someone said. "Pixies have gotten into the wood," a

Duke Halbert, the queen’s father, had become a shuffling, muttering shadow that wandered the castle halls at all hours, disturbing the dogs and interrupting late-night trysts. He was pleasant enough when approached for conversation, but his words were disjointed and likely to have no relationship to the topic. When Elric, the queen’s chef, found Halbert outside the pantry at midnight, he asked, “Milord, are you hungry? You barely touched your supper.” “Old Bob used to bring us a string of trout on festival days. I went fishing with him one time, and he sprinkled some kind of dust on the water. He called it Fairy Cinders. Said he got it from an old lady in the woods.” Elric just stared. Not sure what to say and regretting he had started this conversation at all. “Here’s the strange part: when he sprinkled it on the water, fish would jump out, and we just needed to catch them.” Halbert made a grabbing motion and smiled. “It was great fun. Old Bob said the dust made the fish think

Elzalore tossed and moaned in his sleep. He was young again, maybe 14. He was a starving boy during the siege, trapped behind the duke's walls for months while the enemy outside stopped any chance of relief.  He had been roaming the streets at night, mad with hunger. He had become a senseless animal, driven only by the need to survive. He was a scrawny, dirty, growling thing. He prowled the empty shopping district, just one of many places he checked each night. He looked under baskets and found human skulls gleaming white in the torchlight. He looked under stacks of bloody rugs and found bones. Finally, he reached a distant part of the market. Somehow, he knew this was off limits. Dangerous. He stopped, tense and coiled like a cat deciding to leap. Maybe there was food back there. Had he ever looked? No. Or had he? He wasn’t sure. He heard a small noise behind a stall. Was someone there ahead of him? Was someone taking his food? That was enough. He rushed forward, h

Osran stood back in the crowd, trying to be inconspicuous. He watched the traveling seer, named Ivakius, perform an elaborate ceremony with a smoking bundle of sage. He wore ceremonial face paint, and he had stripped down to a thin tunic in the summer swelter. "Now, my friends, this place has been purified," Ivakius said, his voice deep and serious. "I will begin to reach into the realm of spirits, and we shall see what we may." As the seer closed his eyes and mumbled, Osran reached out with his astral thoughts, seeing the situation with the Deep Magic. He almost giggled. There was no more magic about Ivakius than a house cat. No, he was being unfair. Osran had seen some house cats with a glint of magic, and this charlatan had none at all. "I can feel a spirit that wants to speak to someone in the crowd. Has anyone lost their father?" Osran smiled as half the crowd raised their hands. Of course. Ask enough vague questions and you can steer the cr

Elzalore had finally reached his limit. He had remained calm while the inbred gate guard with missing front teeth had looked him up and down. He had remained calm when the dolt asked him about his business at the castle. Then the guard stepped in it. Deep. "You will need to swear an oath on yer gods, if ya have any, that you are not some kind of deviant. Like a queer or a Dwarven-lover." The Deep Magic came so quickly, and so focused, that Elzalore was startled to feel it pouring out of his hands without effort. Indeed, he had never felt so in tune with the power of the universe. "AHHHH!" The guard cried out and stumbled back, the bones of his face twisting into a hideous mask. A lady at a nearby market stall screamed and ran away with a toddler in tow, his dirty feet barely touching the ground. Dogs all over the surrounding village began howling. A flight of crows called out and erupted from the trees. "Stop right there," another guard bellowed

The village shaman stood before the bonfire in the cleared center of the pine grove. The crowd hushed in expectation; even the wild fae-folk, eyes glittering orange, listened from the forest shadows. He started tapping a small drum and chanting about the wheel of turning seasons and of the balance of light and dark. "Today is the ending of the equinox, the Alban Elfed. Now comes the waning of the day as the night takes her due. We mark this moment to give our thanks for the blessings of abundance." As if on cue, a new baby cried, and the assembly giggled politely. Smiling, he continued. "But we also have another blessing: the blessing of change. As the darkness grows, let us leave her with the things we discard. Bad habits. Sadness. Sickness of spirit. All of these, she will take, and gladly." He removed a piece of broken stalk, the chaff of the day's winnowing, and tossed it into the flames. "So I give my sadness to the night. So may we all.&qu

  Leeka was gathering firewood for her mother, and a glint caught her eye. She spotted a book with dried mud on the leather cover. Two glass beads glued in its corner were scattering the morning sun. The book was laying on top of a thorn bush like it had fallen from the sky. It tingled when she touched it, and she heard these words in a strange accent… I shall call this meditation “Claiming a Cloud.” Spoken in my true voice as Kalendarian the Bard in the fifth year of Duke Nultan of White River. I am in the forest with browsing deer. They look at me but they do not flee. I like that. It is as if I am a spirit here, without smell or threat. Just another forest citizen. In this timeless space, ancient information prevails. Bird songs and scamperings in dry leaves travel along little-used paths in my mind. No city noise here. No cries of sorrow. No traders bellowing their wares. No requirement for justice. The vivid blue after image of the dappled sunlight appears behind a tree s

Sir Andrew stopped at the edge of the ancient forest, his skin tingling, his feet heavy. He had felt this same odd sensation once, long ago. He had been called "sergeant" back then, and his squad had been jogging forward, passing through and around the mostly untrained militia - farmers and boys with ramshackle armor and rusty swords. It had been a terrible day. And today, facing the shadows of centuries-old giants, he felt...stopped. It was like his feet were moving through mud. His spirit was reluctant to advance. His mind whispered that it would be nice to turn around, wouldn't it? Go back into the sun and leave this alien place behind. He lifted a heavy arm and pushed against the empty air as if it had become a locked door. A shimmer of color glinted around his hand. It swirled and vanished. So, this is magic, he thought. Was it magic like this that had slaughtered his squad? Was it magic like this that had slowed his steps as his friends and comrades trotte

“The green glamour is upon you now,” the Yunni shaman said. “Those with the inner sight may still be able to see you, so beware. The faeries of the forest will see you as easily as always, but few others will notice more than a shadow drifting at the corner of their eyes.” The healer felt somehow lighter. It was like he had removed a heavy pack basket he had been lugging up a mountain trail. “My skin feels...strange. Like it is tingling.” “Yes, the mushrooms in my potion do that sometimes. I find it quite pleasant.” The healer nodded. “So the effect will fade when I leave the forest?” “Yes. My power is modest.” The small Yunni smiled. Modest? The healer chuckled. Even the most haughty, bejeweled wizard visiting the queen’s court had never claimed they could make a man invisible. “This glamour will only fool the eyes. Ears and noses can sense you, so you could still find your way into a troll’s belly.” /// Copyright

The wizard Osran of Sangrey City followed the bright new star with the long tail west each night. He slept during the day in a Bubble of Seclusion, which inexplicably did not work on pixies. Indeed, the pixies seemed to be drawn to the simple magic like hummingbirds to a honeysuckle. Each evening, he awoke and collapsed the bubble, now simmering with pixies glinting in and out of existence all over the surface. Usually, within a few minutes, they would scatter in rainbow light to their usual forest haunts. But not today. Today he crossed the White River, slept, and awoke before sunset as usual. But the pixies over here positively clung to him, flashing like jewels as they came and went through the ethereal realm, clinging to his clothes and hair. At first, it annoyed him, but he got used to it. It actually worked in his favor. As he walked through a town the next evening, the cloud of pixies drew a crowd. So he stepped up on the town fountain and went through his usual busking

  Sergeant Andrew looked up at the east tower, toward Ekaterina's apartment. He thought he saw the princess for a second, then the curtains dropped closed. A horn blew. The drums started. "Rangers on the flank," Captain Velten bellowed. The captain dropped his steel visor and tapped his warhorse with one shiny spur. The small cavalry squadron followed him down toward the open field east of the castle. Andrew let out a piercing whistle that warbled up and down in a specific way. His Rangers recognized the command for "Forward, Right Flank." He heard a distant whistle from the other side of the half-mile long line of fighters. Another Ranger squad was heading "Forward, Left Flank." This was going to be a mess. Once the fighting started, it was always a mess. But, with wizards involved, something bad was always just around the corner. "Sergeant," a young page ran up to Andrew. "A word, if you please." The boy was way too cl

Everyone called her Aunt Matilda. Each day, she cooked a cauldron of pottage with peas, carrots, onions, mushrooms, a few nuts, and black kernels of Elvenari rice.  Very rarely, a sliver of meat might appear. Nobody asked where the meat came from. It was hot, and it filled empty bellies. That was all anyone needed to know. She carried it one wooden bowl at a time up the stone stairs running up to the outer wall. She would deliver her food, a kind word, and a pat on the arm to each of the weary soldiers manning the wall. The soldiers would smile and, staring across the once-manicured market grounds toward the forest, eat their pottage in silence. Sometimes, an arrow would come out of the forest and fall short. The soldiers would jeer and call to the invisible enemy to improve their aim. Sometimes the arrows would go long, and the soldiers would call out to the people in the courtyard behind them to watch out. One day, an arrow landed next to Elzalore, splintering on the cobbled lane run

     Sir Andrew, the old Ranger, went to the local wizard to see about a curse. Really, it was the son of the local wizard. The man Sir Andrew called "the wizard" had retired from public life a few years ago, and rumor had it that he had become a hermit up in the hills. He had given his remaining days to vegetables and contemplation. "So you want a curse removed," the wizard's son repeated unnecessarily. "You'll need to tell me more." The old Ranger spoke about obligations to his fallen comrades. He spoke about a new quest that the north winds had brought on a wolf's tongue. He spoke about the statute of limitations on responsibility. He spoke about suffering and memories and wounds that never quite close up. "So, if I stop summoning the spirits each evening, will I be struck dead, or given everlasting crotch rot, or something like that?" The wizard's son wasn't sure. If indeed a high quest had been visited on Sir Andrew, t