Shadows & Sorcery #140
One hundred and forty Shadows & Sorceryses? Sorceries? For real? Yes!
That’s mad isn’t it? What else is mad is this week’s edition, which actually a pretty regular triple bill of dark fantasy—mostly. Mostly? How so? You’re gonna have to read it to find out, bucko.
Small announcement by the way! Shadows & Sorcery turns THREE YEARS OLD this Wednesday! The first Edition Zero was released September 4th 2021, go take a look at that one for funsies. Happy birthday to us! And sincerely, thank you everyone who came onboard and stuck around. I love doing this, and it’s partly for me, partly for you. Thank you for letting me share all this stuff with you.
Now, for the new folks (and sure, the old folks too) last week was the 25th chapter of The Path of Poison, and the gang have found themselves in a new town with new challenges… Check that bad boy out over HERE
Also, while you’re clicking links, why not check out the last Shadows & Sorcery, too? It was pretty good honestly.
And lastly, my friends, please take a second to tap that little heart button and let the stories know you liked them!
This week, we bear witness to a grim rite within the Temple of Sorcerers, we watch an old god awaken in Ruined Altar, and the red wizard Carloman deals with the fallout of a terrible crime in Forest of Ritual…
Temple of Sorcerers
Long wisps of incense rose from tall braziers and collected in the arches of the high vaulted dark ceiling, through which there filtered three great beams of dark gold sunlight. Bells tinkled in curious harmonies alongside deep drums that sounded like inhuman heartbeats, issuing forth from shadowy culverts between twisting pillars, and out into the slate veined marble hall. Through this long passage a procession of seven figures passed, their mien sombre, their slow advance expressing a well-practiced reverence. They were clad in golden robes that shimmered in honeycomb patterns in the sunlight, they had small, slender, delicate features on long faces with long sloping foreheads, their skin was slate like the walls, and their eyes were each a long, curving slit which gave each of them a melancholy yet somehow proud bearing.
They were Alfar, this was their temple, and they were sorcerers.
Before them was a half dome apse, lavished with gold and cerulean filigree and mosaic, an idealized reflection of the heavens inside which lay the object their reverent gazes. Their eyes fell across it slowly, with such doting and devotion that it was as if they were meeting with a venerable ancestor. It was almost certain that each of them had personally known the owner of the raiment, but that was well over a thousand years ago, and memories and reflections, they knew all too well, became subtly twisted with age. But the rite to draw forth its power never changed, and never left. They let themselves bask in the nostalgia for a moment, and the beauty of the raiment. A golden robe after which their own was modelled, a high conical helm, also gold, bulging slightly, bedecked with white jewels, a set of long gloves of the highest, most delicate quality chattel-leather fitted with silver plates, and segmented ornamental greaves with gold leaf and cured chattel-leather.
Each piece was blessed by a god so that the ancient archmagister of old who once wore it might walk as a living instrument of divine power. And walk they did, until an Ogre's determined fingers plucked the sorcerer from the inedible relics and scattered them for centuries. But here they were again, now long safe in the temple's care, an object of arcane communion, a genuine point where the gods touched the world and left their mark. The secrets, and fruits of those secrets, belonged to them alone.
The squirming human barbarian—gagged, mercifully—was brought onto the low, grooved altar before the raiment. A frothing Vargeld beast. It was secured by veiled, lotus-drugged labourers, who scuttled away at the command of the Alfar master sorcerer who led this procession. Three sticks of incense were lit with a small, flame-bearing relic, and prayers were whispered into their scented smoke by the master. They were placed in a receptacle just beyond the writhing human. One of the lesser sorcerers produced then a long, thin, curving dagger, the blade badly stained, and with a nod from the master, slid it under the ribs of the human who screamed into its chest for only three seconds before the blade sundered the heart.
The six lesser sorcerers stood back and looked on with a burning anticipation that shattered their melancholy calm. The master bent down and took upon two fingers fresh, hot blood, and in a single deft motion, ran them across each one of the relics while speaking a three-word invocation otherwise reserved for attempts at direct communion. But this was close enough, and what was awakened was the blessing inside the raiment. The power of it rushed into the master who stood back, ramrod straight, and then spoke the names of each of the six others, and which relic they might activate.
In turn, each one approached the sacrifice, their gold robes hushing over the sacred ground, their two fingers and three words touching their designated relic, the raiment of a legendary companion of old. The blessing would last perhaps seven days, but in that time, the power and its privileges were theirs, to walk like heroes of the elder time, when favour flowed from the gods like wine in the Month of Songs.
Ruined Altar
Each thunderbolt bathed the streets in a cold, midday glare, the image of rushing figures, bared blades, and flying arrows seemed as if caught in a moment of frozen time before it all descended back into a rain-slick, fire-lit dark. Harsh tongues roared panicked arguments and commands as steel-tipped shafts glanced harmlessly from the stone flesh of the idol.
Kill them. I don't care how...I beg you...kill them.
The town square. Somewhere in its mind, it recongized that something about it was wrong. There should be an altar there. What stood there was no altar. How long had it been since it was here last? A screaming figure flung itself at the idol. Suddenly, the drive—the fervent, seething faith welled up in the idol's heart and with one swift arc, the stone hammer in its hand sundered the rushing shape's head to red mulch. Hot red gore was illumined in a flash from above. The idol put a hand to its own chest, and there felt the still-wet crimson streak that had started all of this.
I don't know who's listening...but if you can hear me...kill them.
A great soul, far above, further above than the thunder and the slate sky, above the sundered heavens where stars eternally drift out of alignment, where shattered moons edge closer to the world below, above it all, like a pre-birth memory, an impression, a great soul stirred in the finally silent cosmos by a voice, and a feeling. It had been the one to sleep lightest, in a dreamless state where the hope of one last prayer was its focus.
Be the vessel of my wrath...my life for vengeance.
It had all but clung to its idol-shrine, its altar, a weather-scarred thing half sunk in the mire, effaced of holy symbols, and yet one hand always was reaching down to it from in high. The god's own faith had, it seemed, been rewarded. The haze of long sleep, no matter how thin, was beginning to fade. Several dozen corpses, smashed, pounded, and grounded lay in a wake behind the god. Its ancient robes, now no more than heaps of stained and tattered drapery across its chiselled frame, lapped about it like tongues of flame as its eyes blazed with fire true. No wonder mankind had hammered all their altars to dust.
But, so spoke the desperate prayer of destruction, not all of them. Not yet.
Be the last...the last in all the world...
Forest of Ritual
Carloman stepped into the cellar. It was bare, dusty, bereft of warmth, even this far south in Silverden, save for something wet and red under the wooden plank flooring, which supported naked plaster walls rising to a low, curved ceiling. Two large-paned small windows near the ceiling admitted weak beams of pallid sunlight. The room was also full of temple guards. They were restraining the madman who had thus far murdered three people. In the middle of the floor was someone else, a woman—alive, thank the gods. She was covered in naught but sapping wet rags, she was shaking, her golden eyes bloodshot. The wizard strode past the guards who stood near her, trying to talk to her. Carloman set his staff, engraved with the images of the gods, on the floor with a word so that it stood perfectly upright, flung off his crimson cloak, and lay it about the girl. He spoke openly seven words of flame, and set the tips of his fingers, entwined, on the fabric. She seemed to soften in a fashion as the warmth flooded her. She looked up with a shaking breath, and Carloman bent down to her. He didn't need to speak. She broke out in a fresh sob and he helped her up.
As he led her out of the room, his arm around her shoulder, he locked eyes with the killer. In that moment, it took every ounce of restraint to stop the red wizard from doing something rash.
The rest of that day and long night was spent lighting candles outside a windowless dungeon cell as foul eyes watched from within, and then repeating words of flame at the bedside of the woman who'd narrowly escaped a wretched demise. Mareas was her name. He learned that from someone else. She hadn't spoken since she'd been rescued, and had remained wrapped in the wizard's cloak. He intended to let her keep it as long as she needed. There had been a stink to the whole thing. Not enough to be something truly Dark...but it had been getting close. Carloman had left his staff in the room just in case. No one was going to touch it, and he didn't mind leaving some presence of the gods there to cleanse that horrid place.
Come morning, the the town became quite picturesque, how it mingled with the broad open forest at its south end, reclining in the calm golden shade of the ancient forest canopy. Silverden didn't build temples, not counting the vast temple complex capital, of course. No point, they believed, seeing as the Serpent's coils pervaded all things at all points. But some places felt a little more special than others, they admitted to that, and were right about it. One of those special places lay just outside the town bounds. The house where it had all happened conveniently sat near those bounds, too. Easy escape must have been the idea. Serpent's Breath, that it had been going on just below their feet—bah! No more of that, Carloman, he thought to himself.
In the forest proper, the ground became a mat of soft, springy loam and short thick grass, small birds sang as they flew from branch to branch, and above, the sun cast golden rays upon the rich green canopy. The gentle breeze made the light shimmer almost like water. Carloman sat a little ways opposite Mareas, who seemed to have calmed down considerably, but exhaustion had flooded her dark gold eyes.
"Why are we out here?" she asked, looking down. That same exhaustion coloured her tone.
"I have brought you here to help you. You've been through something...that will leave a mark. It almost left worse. But you can return from it, I promise."
"I hope so..." The meekness of her words filled him with an anger he was well used to hiding. Gods of the world, this stuff really did get to him.
"You can. But only if you make it so."
"Why did this happen to me?" She looked up. "What order is there in this, that those other folk had to die?"
"This was man's doing. No god willed this, no custodian dead let it happen. Do not mistake subtlety for negligence."
"I spent a three days in that cellar with the stink of corpses and filth. Could the custodians really not help me?"
"Well, I think they had a hand in saving you, actually."
"Why not the others then?" A tinge of anger.
"It was I who got here late—but not too late."
"Who are you, Salaman? You're not a venerate."
She spoke his name in a distinctly southern style.
"I'm a magician from Voerlund. Though I like to think I'm from a little bit of everywhere," he added with a smile.
She have him an odd look in return—to be expected.
He gave her some moments to muster up whatever she had to say. He let her hear the gentle forest sounds, and let her feel the coolness of the breeze carrying woodland scents between the boles. They were fighting something of a battle here, though she didn't know it.
"How are you to help me, Salaman?"
"You are sitting, right now, in a sanctuary. Safe and secure from all the world. From rough hands and prying temple guards."
"I don't think I'm going to feel safe for a long time. Sorry." Her eyes fell closed almost involuntarily.
"Red is blood. Fire. Rage." Her eyes peeled open and fixed on him and his sudden forceful tone. "But," he continued, softer, "red is also warmth, passion, life, and vitality. Red is what you want it to be." Her eyes left his as she took in whatever that meant in. "Green is life and vitality, too. And growth, and replenishment."
"And sickness. Green is sickly," she croaked.
"Sometimes. Only if it has to be. Same with yellow. But yellow is also sunlight, and it is a most energetic colour."
"Why...did you bring me here?"
"I brought you here because it is a sanctuary, and you are in need of aid more than you know."
"Are you going to cast a spell on me?" An actual tremble of fear of ran through her words.
"Not at all, dear, no. You're going to cast a spell. On yourself."
She stumbled through sounds, but didn't speak.
"It's all magic, but you don't need to call it that. Many people in fact don't call it that, because to them, it isn't magic."
"What isn't?" The mild confusion was doing exactly what he'd wanted and shook her of the malaise.
"The warm red cloak around you, the regenerative green about you, the energizing yellow above you. Feel these things. They are as real as the grass, and the air, and the scent upon it. If there is one place in this town you can feel safe, that can be yours and no one else's, make it this place."
"With colours?"
"With colours. Words. Thoughts. Feelings. Intentions. Wizards call these things 'ritual motions', even if they be only in your head. They're no less real."
"But are you not a sorcerer?"
"I am. But it would mean much more if you did it yourself."
"I don't know where to begin, Salaman."
"Begin wherever you want. Perhaps with a desire. Hmm, tell you what, that cloak. It's been all over the world. Been through a lot of things. A lot of magic. That, and these robes, have saved my life a few times. That kind of thing makes a mark, too. Use it, until you don't need it. I will be here the whole time."
"I don't want talk about magic springing up around me-"
"Why would it? You're in a shrine of the World Serpent, meditating on order, and meaning. If anything your venerates will be pleased to see it."
"Will...something happen?"
"You may not notice it immediately, but yes, something will happen. Before you know it, something will change."
"How?"
"Here. And in you. I won't lie, Mareas," he made sure to pronounce her southern sounds, "you will have to work at this. But that's the point."
Carloman stood up, to let the girl think. He'd better get his staff, and check on things. Mareas seemed as yet very small. She'd been through more than most people ever should be. But she had everything in her favour, even if she didn't really know it, at least not right now. Suddenly, though, she darted a look up to him.
"Please," she said, "don't leave just yet."
The old wizard knelt down.
"If the venerates are right about one thing, which they are, and many more things besides, Mareas, you're not alone. The Serpent is in this place, and in this place, its coils tighten for you."