Shadows & Sorcery #103
What’s that smell? Flash fiction all over the shop… You’ll be reading it, sooner or later…in the one hundred and third edition of Shadows & Sorcery!
How does three tales of frightful chasms, strange magic, and wondrous cities strike you? Because that’s what we got here, hot off the presses.
Now remember! Next week, no Shadows & Sorcery, but instead a fresh chapter of The Path of Poison. New around here? Get up to speed via this handy chapter index…
Very quickly, friends, because we are all friends here at Shadows & Sorcery, if you are an illustrator, or you know an illustrator who might be up for working on a project in the near-ish future, please let me know! I want whatever weird stuff yer fingers and brains can make, folks.
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This week we get a look into the workings and lore of Shield Magic, we descend into the dread depths of the Archives Chasm, and we find ourselves gazing upon the City of the Pilgrims…
Shield Magic
The town walls were broken at regular intervals by flat-topped conical towers, on the outward faces of which were large, downward-pointing flat triangles. Upon each one, seven circle wards, and behind these in the towers, unseen, were shield mages working them. Rising higher than aught else, higher even than the central keep, were seven other conical towers spread through the town, and upon their faces, similar triangles with the same wards. It was evidently clear no expense had been spared here.
The air was different in the town. Lighter, cooler, settled. It could be felt the second the gates were passed, like rising from a mire into a crystal clear stream, or like tearing away a wet cloth one had been forced to breath through. There was a vibrancy to the sky, the suns, the people did not have about them that deep weariness they wear in the wilds. The soft shadows of evening and the quietude of the calm back streets away from the vivacious thoroughfare were a refreshing comfort.
And yet, every so often, something seemed to approach. It never came too close, but passed within a distance that warranted a look over the shoulder. It felt all the more strange since the town was so secure in its shield magic. But then again, that which had been loosed so long ago was of such vast reach that the whole of the world lay in its grasp.
Upon the walls, over doorways, on doors themselves, small decorative kites and teardrops on clothing and belts and buckles, and then upon the arms of just about every single citizen--shields were omnipresent. For the most part the people wore small, light bucklers fastened to the wrist or forearm. Although they certainly could be used as defense against weaponry in a pinch, these were in truth instruments of spellcasting, and were invoked at almost every turn.
In a time long forgotten, a nameless, dreadful power was let loose upon the world. What it was, who did so, these things were not recorded. But in the oldest stories from around the world, it had been there for a long time already, and those myths remember the dreadful powers of the hammer magic developed to first subdue, and then control that darkness. Mighty warriors of old, and few of them regarded as little more than warlords, would gather that power into devastating displays of raw force from which only an equally brutal power could survive.
Against this long reign of frightful sorcery was sword magic developed, a style which sought to channel rather than gather. But there was soon a dagger behind every back in that age, bloody duels in the streets called on the power which came readily to the blade, and even children passed in whispers the necessary geometries and words of sword magic amongst each other on street corners, inscribing them onto dulled razors and stolen butchers' tools.
Finally, against this was shield magic created. Spells to deflect, to ward, to repulse that power which yet stalks the land. Every scrap of lore and aspect of casting was poured into this new body of spellwork. The three Higher Faculties of Sense, Knowledge, and Speech were taken advantage of as never before. Intricate geometries that must be touched in the right order as the right words were spoken--it was almost foolproof because it invited not the power upon the caster, but redirected it elsewhere. No beast had all three faculties, either. Beasts could bear blades and hammers, but did not have Speech, this was known, for although they could communicate, no amount of experimentation could get them to awaken the powers of a shield spell.
Suddenly, there was shouting in the street. A name was called out, sandwiched between about half a dozen insults. The duelling culture of past centuries had never quite died off, nor had it been truly outlawed, at least not here. The people around backed away a little, and some pre-emptively set their hands on their shields. A figure walked into the middle of the street, calling out his opponent, wearing the three-quarter coat and wide cuffs of a wannabe man about town. He wore a handsome, if not opulent buckler. Three others appeared with hesitant motions, themselves wearing bucklers also. One pensive fellow looked on without moving, while the other two, a man and woman, stood close together in consultation with turned heads, but their eyes didn't leave the man who paced back and forth, yelling.
In an instant, there was a kind of heavy rushing upon the stone of the street, in the wake of which was a discolouration of the air. The challenger had hissed some spell as he ran his fingers over a section of the geometries, and the power which crowded impotently about every soul in the town was suddenly repulsed as it drove itself, half-unseen towards the trio. The silent, pensive man leapt forth with a spell of his own, and the dreadful rumble suddenly cascaded instead through the streets and alleys, dissipating momentarily. It seemed the quarrel was being extended to all of them, but two of them stepped back. There was a certain etiquette to be observed. No sense doing something to warrant further vengeance.
Bellowed words were exchanged, the challenger holding his hands just close enough to touch the shield when they needed to. His opponent twitched an arm, about to create some ward and begin to the duel, when a new figure entered, crashing a massive greatshield into the stone between them, running their hands over sections of the shield with expert swiftness. The challenger and his opponent were brought to their knees immediately by the surge of dark power. It all happened so fast that it was hard to determine who that new figure was, but their raiment denoted them as some town official--a magician from a shield tower most likely, considering that power.
Harsh words were had, violent motions made, and the challenger shaken roughly while the cowering opponent slunk away. This wouldn't be the last trouble the town had today, it looked like, but for now the people went back to their business.
Archives Chasm
Just within sight of the town, there sat upon a tall ridge of land the naked remains of an old facade. It was no castle nor lookout tower, it was too low, too small, and its proportions were too intricate despite their ruination to be a grim border watch. The walls were ragged and worn, and yet decoration remained in its sharply curving buttresses which issued from the deep alcoves between the short, thick, twisting pillars, themselves topped with storm-smoothed ornamentation. All of this baroque grandeur loomed above the two who, under a cold grey sky, clambered slowly up the damp, grassy ridge to the ruins of the old wizard-king's archives.
There can be a romanticism to ruins, in the dignity and awe which can shine through even the deepest decay, of what was and might have been, of a sense of deep time and mystery. And in this particular case, the lost cause of the old archives had once held a great amount of sentiment. But not any more. These were the things the two mused upon silently, unspeaking, save for when the guide remarked to his scholar client on the correct path upwards. The interior was splayed out for quite a ways, and though it wasn't very tall, much of the soft, dim light of the overcast evening was hidden in the rising shadows of crumbling walls and pillars.
"Keep all that knowledge in one place...something's bound to happen," said the guide in a low, rumbling voice laden with a subtle unease. The interior was wide, but it was mostly empty. In the middle of the sunken walls and remains of old chambers was a great gaping rent in the earth, the collapsed masonry providing an uneven and extremely dangerous path down into the ridge the archive ruins sat on, and, if legend spoke truth, into much greater depths. "What you want, if you must have it," he said, "it's in there."
The guide held the paper lantern on a short staff in front of them both. The scholar's eyes darted around not, the guide thought, in disquiet, but in fascination. The second they were immersed within the chasm, it was like they stepped into another world. From what the guide understood, this vast wound in the earth really was half another world. All the lore the old wizard-king had piled up in here over the long years finally reached a breaking point. The magic within hadn't been static, it seemed, it wasn't just scrawls on old scrolls and tomes and plates, it was sigils, summoning circles, names, and words of power in occult tongues all bound up together.
The wizard-king hadn't survived the collapse, he had been lost to the sorcerous depths a century ago, and the crack and roar which announced it for leagues around was still sometimes spoken of in whispers in the town which had to see the eerie ruins silhouetted against the sun every morning. Romanticism was fit only for ignorant visitors now.
All he had to do was hold the lantern, was the constant assurance of the scholar. There were loose scraps of yellowed parchment on the dusty stone, but little else to hint at the riches of esoteric knowledge that had once dwelt just above. Likely the place had been ravaged by hunters and scavengers to exhaustion decades ago. But not completely, the scholar had said, no, deep down, in reaches which tested most folks' courage were the oldest, most potent grimoires ripe for the picking. The guide had continued to wonder if he was not committing some grave error in bringing to this place someone who spoke in such subtly dreadful tones as the scholar did. But the hefty sack of gold coins checked his desire to flee more than once.
One thing in particular which weighed on the guide's mind was that the chasm was was not quiet. Their path had devolved from the crumbled ruins of the archives above and into slick black subterranean rock which wove about in odd, undulating slopes. With every couple of steps, there was some skittering, or chattering sound, or cry in the distance. It was not a comforting distance, one that said the sources of such sounds were far off, it felt far more to the guide as if they were in the open, and that at any second, in this twilit expanse, something might rush from the murk, called up from a grim spell scrawled in blood a thousand years ago. Trails of animate darkness passed in the air, and titan blurs on black wings thundered silently across the black heavens of the chasm. The sable rent which reached out to the archive ruins was a dim, squinting eye now. The guide felt it might finally close at any second.
The worst part, though, was the scholar. He was giddy as his head shot around in response to sounds or movements the guide couldn't sense--or perhaps didn't want to. Sometimes his hand went out as if to touch something, and more than once it recoiled and the scholar made some shape with his fingers. In places there were wide shallow pools of water that seemed to retain a blackness despite the lamplight upon them. The scholar warned in a low tone to not peer into them too long. The guide hadn't even considered going near them.
"Don't falter now," came the voice of the scholar, muffled by some aspect of the air, or the darkness. "We've just passed borderland." The guide had stopped short. There were sights and sensations that the human mind knew in its depths were not for it to perceive. That "half another world" was quickly here becoming more than half. To the guide's knowledge, and he had known much older wayfarers than himself in his time, few ever went into the true depths of the archives chasm. There were all kinds of vanished parties, and if someone did come back, they didn't come back the same. Or alone.
In the middle of what seemed to be black cyclopean blocks melting out of the eroded bedrock, an old, yellowed tome sat upon a small sort of dull dark growth in the midst of a yawning expanse of smooth, shining black stone. It was open, and the guide swore to himself that the air just above the pages shimmered. The scholar was shuffling forward, arm outstretched. The depths of the guide's mind screamed at him to not follow--he obeyed without question.
"You can go now," said his voice with a curious buzzing uncomfortable to the ear.
The scholar hunched over the open tome, and looked back only once with eyes that shone briefly with a light not of this world.
It was a long haul out of the chasm, knowing that the hands he felt clawing at his back were more than a feeling.
City of the Pilgrims
From the austere anchorite to the ecstatic celebrant, and from the spiritually aware nomad to the simple conscientious traveller, all these and more will one day find themselves gazing from the high hilltops down onto the broad vista of the shimmering sea, which shines as if it were a bed of purest crystal, its foam a wash of pearl and opal, and the city on its shore, that the sea's perfumed winds kiss, the crown jewel of it all--the city of the pilgrims.
For untold leagues in this hard land, at the ends of the earth, were impassable mouldering swamps, un-navigable frigid crags, and perilous shadowed valleys. Seaward promised little better for travellers with its long miles of perpetual storms, jagged rocks, and horror-infested deeps. The barren, windswept hilltops afforded the only path to the sea, save the grim coasts, and the city there was the soul's balm and land's vanguard in this far place.
After many long marches through lifeless, lonely, haunted country, or terror-wracked waters, one could veritably feel the buzz of life in the city from even a distance so great as the crest of the highest knoll, or the depths of the sea-fog. It was a place of movement and motion and energy in every way imaginable, and a profound curiosity. It was not the final stop for any who gazed upon its walls and domes and obelisks--in fact, the city, despite its vastness upon the jutting peninsula, had no permanent residents. It was a nexus for the world's faithful seeking enlightenment and blessings across the sea, and the city was the promised first step. But it must be kept for all those who would pass through.
From high councils to guildsmen, from merchants to priests, from labourers to farmers, not a soul tarried in the city of the pilgrims longer than was necessary. Some arrived and departed the next day, leaving in some small yet venerable establishment a generous offering, while some would stay for years at a time, taking up governing positions and seeing to the upkeep of this holy threshold. Solemn pilgrims would take up the rake and hoe, while celebrants of every colour and temperament would fill the shoes of managers and administrators. Some would even tend to the rites of alien faiths in deference to the sanctity of the city. Something about the place fostered communion unseen elsewhere in all the world. It really was of the other world.
The land here had known the feet of pilgrims before even the first stone had been raised, and as such, the old streets which wind and coil for miles are themselves the shrines of the small gods of long dead cults. The city has fostered their collective veneration, and has welcomed them as the beneficiaries of this sacred space. Even religions professing an unwavering monolatrism will bow in respect to this resting place of old gods.
No matter how long they might stay, the goal of all was preparation. Taking up the roles of every day positions was a sort of dutiful payback and paying forward of faith, but so too was the city a meeting place for companions going on mystic voyages across the waters, and it was perhaps one of the finest stores of old wisdom in the world. Countless feet had trod the primal stone, and left their mark. Libraries, archives, and reliquariums of fantastic and glorious opulence abound, filled with the deep theological lore of centuries uncounted. Sages have hungered for the tomes kept there, but are denied entry, for they sought not what lies beyond the waters. They were repulsed by blessings from beyond, and no god or demon or spirit-wind would bend to whims of the sorcerer who would assail the holy walls.
But not all hands who sought to infiltrate the sanctity of the city came from without, for spies crept within under pilgrim's hoods, and the city remembers the trod of armoured feet who came under the banner of gods...