Freshly hatched from a 200 million year old petrified egg, it’s the one hundred and thirty eighth edition of Shadows & Sorcery!
Carlofans™ rejoice! A triple bill of everyone’s favourite funny old wizard awaits below—Menace! Peril! Theological debate! What the hell are you doing???? Go read!
I would be remiss, of course, if I didn’t say that new readers or those who missed it should read last week’s three-part gothic fantasy adventure to a celestial fortress, which can be espied right over HERE
Also, a week or two back I wrote up a lengthy, rambling documentary article detailing the development of a magic system for the barbarian setting debuted here at S&S. If you want a look into how the sorcerous sausage is made, you can read it over at my writer’s blog from which this publication gets its name HERE
And lastly, my friends, please take a second to let the stories know you liked them—tap that little heart button!
This week, the red wizard Carloman contributes to a weighty debate over the City of the Flame, he encounters a frightful example of Profaned Magic, and he descends deep into Minosmiir’s Palace Catacombs…
City of the Flame
Carloman, being a Voerlunder, was considered an impartial judge, and as a wizard, considered wise counsel for this matter of grand import. The intricate politics of the whole thing was somewhat beyond his understanding, but it had been described to him, at length, and finally summarized by the Prince herself, that over the course of some centuries, tensions had been brewing between the two major factions of Mul Manatar's celestial cult: those who held the Sun in primacy, and those who held Fire in primacy. Mul Manatar had been known as, and identified itself as the City of the Sun, among a dozen other names pertaining to the stars, thunder, the great lake, and so on. But the cult of the Firstborn Flame was of such influence and size that serious considerations were had amongst the governing bodies to declare the entire southern shore of Mul Manatar as the City of the Flame.
"The Sun," said the Chief Diviner of Fire, "leaves us for whole spans at a time, but the Flame remains."
"The Sun is called to give guidance across the world, this is known," replied the Chief Sungazer with great conviction.
True enough, thought Carloman.
"The Flame," continued the Sungazer, "cannot light the land as the Sun does, it but barely lights a chamber, and it is as likely to be blown out as burn down a village."
"What you would call danger," came a barely concealed sneer, "we call power. Fire demands careful and measured use lest we burn ourselves—and burning is learning. Indeed, the Fire is our only ally when the Sun inevitably leaves."
"Fire is of the Sun," said the Sungazer, clearly reaching for something new, "how can you give our gentle guide, which returns to grant wisdom even when called across the world, such little regard?"
He's not actually right about that, the wizard silently frowned.
"The Flame, quite simply, is always there to grant us guidance."
He has him there, thought Carloman, nodding.
"And the Sun always returns! It trusts us enough to go where it is needed, and returns as it can even on far journeys!"
A fine rebuttal, the wizard mused.
"Besides, no Fire has ever came close to the majesty of the Sun."
Another reach, but the Sungazer was correct, Carloman thought, and a more important point than either probably could guess.
Mul Manatar's faith was concerned, since ancient days, with immediacy, with closeness. In terms of veneration, the Sun and the Firstborn Flame had always received the bulk, literally being the closest, with Thunder and the Stars a ways behind. There was no closer one could get than a Fire in one's hearth or camp. But there was no more powerful a guide than the Sun which illumined the landscape itself. And no greater a guide in dark places than the Flame, which goes where the Sun cannot.
This was such a fruitless exercise, Carloman all but said aloud when asked for input. He feared his expression gave him away. He was only here because he'd been promised room and board, and he thought it might have been an interesting discussion. They'd been at this for a week before he arrived in the city, apparently. This was a fine chamber, he mused as he cooked up something to say. Great blue dome, cream pillars—sunwashed, they'd say—then that almost completely solid veined marble floor. Mul Manatar and Voerlund shared a love of domes. These folk were half Voerlunder anyway. Maybe something could be done with that.
"Well," the wizard sighed, "I don't know. Both of you gentlemen do have good points. But it's not as if the cosmos exists in a state of division as your cults have so artificially imposed. Consider that though the Sun, and Stars—the ultimate source of the Sun—are composed of Flame, neither are 'of' each other. Had no Sun come down to us I do not doubt Flame would still exist. Yet, further consider that it isn't Flame, but Light, which the objects of this fine city give their veneration to. A common ground exists all around and about you—indeed, does not the Thunder cast its light over the land when it roars? Are not the individuals flames of candle and hearth analogous on a microcosmic scale to the great tapestry of Stars above?"
Carloman knew he was slightly losing them. He didn't care.
"But I digress. An example if I may: try to understand your Celestial Bodies, as the less zealous of your people readily do, as parts of a whole. Have you any regard for the World Serpent, gentlemen?"
The Diviner and Sungazer shared a quick, confused look and stuttered a general "not really".
"Well, I've always been quite fond of the Manatarian view of of the Sun as Serpent's Eye, the Stars its Scales, and the Fire its Breath. And the Thunder its Call, I should not leave that out. Aspects of a whole, with each part having its own role and place, none above or beyond the other. Each one a tool, as sorcerers like myself would put it, for different situations. There are times when only a personal Flame may suit, and times when the glory of the Sun must be consulted. Indeed, there are times when one may look for answers in the distant Stars, or receive affirmation from a Thunderblast. I dare they'd grasp this concept quickly in any Silverden monastery. In any case, gentlemen, if you want my input on this whole affair, if you want to name the southshore after the Flame, be prepared to set aside districts for the Thunder and Stars, too. I am not a politician, but it would seem, I fear, rather negligent of the fine and ancient culture of this city if Mul Manatar continued its tradition of lopsided reverence! Travellers neither of you may be, so as one who has spent countless nights on the road, the gentle illumination of the Stars has been an ever-present and welcome companion. Did you know it has been surmised that it was a crash of Thunder that gave humans the first Flame? But I digress once more. You have my suggestion, and much to ponder, I hope. I shall be interested to see the fruits of this council," Carloman spoke as loud and rolling as he could without shouting as he rose to leave, "in a year or two's time," he finished under his breath.
That ought to put them off me for a while, was the wizard's thought as he bowed goodbye and left in search of a quiet tavern.
Profaned Magic
The red wizard Carloman leaned on the bar of the public house, sipping on a mug of cider, humming in agreement and recognition of the small talk that sometimes passed his way as a courtesy, until topic of conversation finally came, as it always did, to the wizard himself.
"A traveller, are ye?" asked a gruff farmer who eyed warily the wizard's god-carven staff.
"Been one most of my life, I consider it a privilege."
"How'd ye make coin, never settling?" asked a lanky, younger fellow.
"Oh, I'm always ready to lend a hand, wherever I may be."
"Been far?" asked the farmer.
"Very!" said Carloman, setting down another three thin gold coins. "As far as Minosmiir in the east, as far as the cold desert in the south, I have even had occasion to visit the Macha forests across the sea."
"Must be some life, eh?" said the barmaid, sliding another cider to the wizard.
"See odd things out there?" the young man leaned in with an inquiring brow.
"I wouldn't even know where to begin," Carloman grinned from behind his mug. "Still, for all that, I don't believe I've ever been in this part of Voerlund before. At least I don't recall it, and I ought to considering that odd tree of yours out there."
It was an image that had immediately struck itself into the wizard's brain the second he saw it. A lone tree in a wide, flat field, with five great big boughs, three reaching up, two were lower. When viewed from the road leading into the village, it gave the stark impression of a great hand reaching out of the earth. By the excited murmurs which erupted from the cold, distant trio, he could tell it was a source of a local pride. But truth be told, Carloman had found it to be somewhat eerie. It looked to be a focus of somewhat unorthodox veneration, he thought. It had been festooned with little offerings—wishes and charms, he guessed—hung upon its branches, many quite old and faded, and in some places almost wholly plastering the boughs. But then again, landwight shrines took all kinds of forms, so he had reserved judgement, despite his feelings.
"Aye, 'tis our hangin' tree, it is!" the farmer piped up. "A dozen Macha pirates were hanged on those branches over a thousand years ago. Started the tradition, see."
"Criminals and such used to be strung up and left on it, they did," said the younger man, "and they deserved no less."
"These days," said the barmaid, "that's all gone. Maybe we're gettin' soft, eh?" she ended with a chuckle.
Carloman watched them as they spoke—not to him, but to each other. He was very still as he listened, until the younger man turned to him.
"Say, you've seen around our tree, haven't you?"
It was like he'd forgotten why they were even talking about it.
"Indeed, an interesting sight, to be sure."
"We leave offerings still," said the barmaid, "last of the fowl and sometimes the aurox goes to it, giving back and all that."
Giving back?
"Which reminds me," said the farmer clapping his hand on the warped wooden bar, "I'd better go talk to old Annys."
"Have you no landwight shrine hereabouts?" Carloman enquired.
"We have the tree," said the barmaid plainly.
'The' tree, not 'our' tree.
"Canons haven't been out this way in years, besides," the farmer called back as he left with a nod to the barmaid. "I'd wager the generations under it would say, could they see us now, that we're doing just fine."
Well, that does it, thought the wizard, I don't like this.
Carloman was singularly aware that he'd better not leave immediately. The younger fellow and barmaid got to talking about local affairs. He nursed the cider in the mug, and hoped the fruit hadn't come from the tree. No amount of trite little charms covers up the magical stain of centuries of bloody execution and offering. Wasn't a right thing to offer lives, not even the strangest cults to Oros Baletor spill living blood on the altar. The wizard hunched over the bar in thought. Like a great big hand, reaching up, grasping. Warding? Pushing away? S'eth, maybe that's why he'd never been here before. Cut off, keeping to their tree, isolated. Yeah, that made sense. That felt a little too plausible. And its grip had been around them for generations.
After a few minutes, Carloman stood back up, downed the dregs of his mug, and slid it back with a gold piece beneath it. The barmaid gave a curt nod as he picked up his staff. The younger man didn't look at all.
Outside, the sun was far enough away that the light took on a sickly pallor, and a chill had crept into the blustery air. The village was spread thin and wide, the public house—the communal gathering place of the locals when not at home—being the only notable eminence. Little else to see or do in this flat expanse. Not even a decent look at the sea, too far inland. A short ways off was the tree. Carloman wandered to it slowly and indirectly, not wishing to attract the attentions of furtive shadows which stepped into house thresholds or behind buildings as he passed.
The wind tumbled about, restless, with a measure of strength in it. Carloman arrived at the tree. Its general colour was an ashy, lifeless brown. It bore no leaves, but instead many hard, dark little buds. The branches shook in the breeze. The larger ones creaked as they were moved. It sounded like laughter. He looked it up and down. Brown shapes poked out from the soil for a ways around it. Graves. Offerings. He shuddered. That was when someone cleared their throat behind him.
He turned not too quickly. He didn't want to betray anything, or give them the wrong idea.
"Got business here, do ye?" It was the farmer. Three others were with him, two labourers, and a third: a sneering, craggy-faced old man. A bitter visage that eyed him with intense suspicion.
"I, ah, thought I might leave a token here. Out of good faith. Maybe I shall pass through here again. It will help me remember."
"Maybe," said the farmer.
"Hang it," said the old man in an inscrutable accent.
No need to worry about me forgetting this place, the wizard thought. I'll be back, believe me. Not too quick though. From around his neck, Carloman chose one of his World Serpent charms. He hadn't time to study the rest of the stuff up here, but had a pretty strong feeling there'd be no other deity's charms on this thing. Better place it on a limb and leave. He sensed daggers at his back, at least from the eyes of that elder. Into the loop of something else did he hang his Serpent's charm, quickly touching it with crossed fingers before he stepped back from the creaking laughter of the bending boughs. Wouldn't come out easy at least.
"I will leave you gentlemen to your work, sorry if I caused any bother." And having been met with silence, Carloman turned and left, seeking a healthy woodland to pass the night in, and thinking he'd avoid this spot for the next while, but maybe go have a word with someone in the Highmarch Venerate's College to see about a canon coming down here.
Palace Catacomb
Carloman sat up on the long, plush divan, gnawing on a hunk of aurox meat marinated in a sweet, creamy sauce, and laughed to himself as the Vassalarch Aresto clapped for more drink to be brought. The wizard hadn't a clue what the lords, governors, and the like of the known world saw in him who was as much a wild man as he was a member of civilization. He'd been the guest of Manatarian governors, and the Prince, a few times. He'd met the current Lunderman monarch once, and was counted as a friend by a dozen Voerlund counts. He'd had three short conversations with two Archvenerates of Silverden. He'd been to a Guildhead dinner in Baletor twice. Maybe it was his potency. Maybe he just had that friendly aura some folk are burdened with. Whatever it was, it still made him uncomfortable, more so when he was the only other person on this raised jewelled dais surrounded by a wide circle of warriors, dancers, and musicians, all facing him.
The vassalarch, or as Carloman was inclined to say, baron, for that was the term in Voerlund, was fascinated by wizardry. When word spread in his city there was a foreign magician in town, whom some high ranking warriors recalled well, an invite found its way to Carloman's inn bedroom rather quickly. And here he was. The baron had been pestering him with questions all evening, and regaled him with stories of his family's Hero-God, who had been a magician herself in life, or so it was believed. This piqued Carloman's interest enough for him to not engineer a way out of the palace hall. The food didn't hurt either.
The baron lazed upon his divan, a goblet of strong wine in one hand, the other tapping away to the music. He was pure steppe folk through and through. His colours were of the earth, rich and dark, he was lean with sharp, curving features, he wore a stylish long beard only on the chin, but wore a shaved head, poorly maintained, a sign of a military past. He was adorned in numerous earrings of gold which complimented his wide-sleeved deep purple robe, silver-buckled leather girdle, and loose navy jacket. Carloman understood the rich fabrics and jewels to be an expression of glory. Glory to one's Hero-God pseudo-ancestor in all things, from conduct to fashion. Stately Voerlunders like Carloman reared on stoic honour couldn't feel more out of place. Opulence was a way of life in Minosmiir.
As the wizard reached over to a gilded table for a drink, the baron leaned over and spoke in a low and clear merchant's tongue.
"I trust our, how shall I say, offerings are to your tastes, Carloman?"
"I hope I have done nothing to make you think otherwise, my baron—ah, vassalarch," he corrected himself before lifting a tall gold plated cup to his lips. The Minosmiiri laughed.
"Baron is a fine term, I always believed it sounded strong." Carloman nodded in assent. "I am glad you say this, Carloman, for truly no expense was spared...but alas, I fear something is still not right."
"Oh?" inquired the wizard, looking from under his brow and over his cup.
"I am, of course, much interested in the ways of sorcerers, but as you know, I have no experience of this myself, so I was hoping your presence and pleasure might...well, I hate to say this for it may make all this become insincere, but my men have signalled to me-"
"There is a problem, baron?"
"Yes," the baron said with some hesitancy, coming a little closer, his well-practiced joviality falling away. "The palace catacombs...they have gone silent. Our Hero does not come forth. Something else lingers within." Carloman perked up immediately. Serpent's Breath am I glad I'm here for a reason, he thought, setting his cup down. "The city has not been well, things are not right, they are, how shall I say, not in balance. I had hoped a sorcerer's presence would drive away what does this, but..."
"Well," said Carloman standing up and downing his cup, "we won't get aught done sitting here, baron."
Preparations were made immediately for Vassalarch Aresto and the red wizard Carloman to descend into the ancient catacombs beneath the palace. Looks of nervous relief spread amongst the people as word got out. They had hidden it pretty well, the wizard thought, he'd taken this whole thing to be some gaudy Minosmiir fancy. Though it did seem that Aresto was genuinely interested in the magical arts at least. Carloman had been waiting by the stone gates to the crypts, studying the old, worn inscriptions when the baron reappeared. He was clad in full Heroic replica regalia: a crown of hammered tin feathers painted red and gold, a burnished bronze mantle about his shoulders surmounted a sleeveless robe of small metal scales, also red, which clacked like a kitchen as he walked forth in high-strapped sandals and traditional loose-sleeved burgundy tunic. Carloman believed this was part of the calling ceremony, donning the features and clothing of the Hero to be summoned. It was certainly a look, he thought.
Two red robes descended into the dry, cool air of the palace catacombs, and Carloman clacked his staff on the stone so that it wasn't just the baron making a racket. But that was the point, after all. Announce their coming to the Hero—and whatever else it was down here. For all it was a subterranean passage, lit by well-spaced smouldering braziers, there was something uneasy about the air. Drafts from beyond was the most likely culprit, but Carloman knew it wasn't that. It never was. No clean flow of air lingered so persistently like this feeble breeze did. Like trailing fingers across their robes and skin, grasping at something. He wasn't sure if he felt pity or disgust at it. The baron was frightened, that was for sure. He didn't jump, but he tensed and hissed as his eyes darted about at nothing.
The catacombs held an aspect of immense antiquity. The remains of grave slabs were set on the floor under the actual grave-galleries in the walls themselves, from which bones poked through the clay. Many were bare, but some bore hints of rotten fabrics, armour, even weapons. They were all of them past barons of this hill, Aresto said, though he said precious little else as the duo crept through the halls. They weren't unlike Voerlund tombs, the wizard thought. Good thing to share. These, however, were much more vertical nature, and this particular city's quirk was that the reigning family's Hero grave lay in its uttermost depths, while almost all the rest had prominent, public locations.
What could be down here? Carloman went over this in his head as the air perceptibly thickened and those trailing fingers began finding purchase before sliding away. Well, he thought, as he drew out a small, rough orange gem, Minosmiir had a colourful history. Almost as colourful as his own Voerlund—another commonality—and he would have bet a lot of coin that the pursuit of glory had made it so some unwholesome baron's spirit decided to finally make its move. He breathed upon the gem and set it into his staff's head, shaped like an open serpent's mouth. Why now? A change in families or fortunes, who knew. He tried asking Aresto about any potential candidates for the darkness lurking here, and about eight potential names in Carloman got the point. He swung his staff out and the warm radiance flooded the passage before them, and for a moment, dispelled the tremulous air.
They stood then at the final set of wide, worn steps that led down into to the cthonic temple of the Hero-God. The wizard surveyed his surroundings. Four torches set into the walls burned low—whether it was due to neglect or something else, he couldn't be sure. The wooden portal with its decorative bronze bracing was ajar. For some reason it made Carloman think something had snuck in. From the look on his face, Aresto thought so too. But they must go forth, was what the stern look the wizard gave to the baron said.
Each Minosmiiri Hero-God had a unique tradition of veneration associated with it, and this one was of the rarer, magical breed. Her temple was deep, hidden, intimate. Small altars littered it, each one bearing old offerings of incense and gold. The walls were bare clay, held with three wide square pillars on either side of the long chamber, carven with fantastical images of flying humanoids. The floor was a chipped cerulean mosaic, and the ceiling was braced with a series of stone arches that almost made it seem organic. Countless candles upon the ground and on the pillars lit all of this in a hazy amber radiance that threw thick shadows. At the very end was the tomb itself, set into a slope of bare earth. It was clearly older than anything around it, the stone was loose and stained with age, soil, and moisture, and the statue at its head was worn almost to a smooth obelisk.
Something that looked too much like a person to be moving the way it did squatted atop this, worrying at the stone with curling talons. The light seemed to have trouble catching it, but the general outline of the thing showed that it was bedecked in the remains of some great flowing fabric, now a mass of trailing tatters. That it bore clothing made the way it moved all the worse.
The wizard strode forth and scratched a circle in the loose, dry soil that littered the floor. With the fingers of his free hand crossed, he spoke a divine name to each cardinal direction, and stamped his god-carved staff into the ground. He turned, expecting to have to pull back the baron, but found instead a face overcome with rage. Perfect.
"Cast it out, Baron Aresto! Call forth your-"
The baron thundered forth of his own volition, roused into wonderful action at the sight, spewing a string of intricate Minosmiiri swears between bellowed calls to the Hero-God of his bloodline. The thing on the tomb skittered forth with maledictions of its own, but Carloman, fingers entwined, joined in and used what little he knew of Minosmiir's colourful language to fight the advance of the dark thing. This land had perhaps some of the most imaginative invective in the known world, and worked pretty well as petty curses and sorcerous attacks in the right circumstances. Didn't stop him mixing in a few others he knew, too. While this might have been the Hero-God's land, hopes and demands of divine retribution from the Serpent's Coils and even the tread of mighty Cannoc in Macha flew from his mouth—he kept it as clean as he could, of course.
The wizard directed his staff at the thing which reared up to the furious Aresto with the face of boundless decay, and he laughed as a flash of searing light sent it staggering back.
"Dark-souled baron of old, or vermin of the Outer Dark, your bones to-"
"I do this!" was what the baron yelled back at Carloman in a rough merchant's tongue. The wizard stopped, and felt that in this moment, the baron might very well be up to the task. The thing seemed to feel so too as it fell back before Aresto's full-named invocation of the Hero-God.
The ground trembled and dust fell from the ceiling as a scintillating ray flew with the crack of thunder from the back of the temple and cowed the mouldering shape. Amid the dancing spears of light, Carloman watched Vassalarch Aresto throw out a hand in greeting to a shape he could but barely discern in the light, which in one fell swoop sent down a shaft of light into the bent back of the dead thing, crushing it against the earth. The thought flitted across Carloman's mind wordlessly that it resembled a wizard's staff. With it came a burst of cool air, and the ground, along with Carloman's circle, was wiped clean, and all that lay there when the light receded was a pile of wet, yellow bones under a pile of thin, stringy black rags.
After a hearty hail to the sorceress Hero-God from them both, Carloman braced himself for the coming feast. This one, though, he felt was deserved.
Great to have so much Carloman! The second story was very creepy in best possible way!