Right, folks, so this has been a while coming. In the distant past, I once said I would take regular breaks from S&S, which I never did (and have commented on, too). Every so often I’ve taken a week off, delayed some things here and there, but if I’m going to be honest, none of it has really helped. 3-5 stories a week, sometimes entire 2-4k word short stories, sooner or later, a week off or no, it was gonna catch up with me. All my fault, but there it is.
A friend suggested I take a summer break, to which I declined. I don’t want to break my habit. S&S keeps me writing, I’m certain I’ve written more in the 5~ years of its existence than I ever did beforehand. So, instead, a compromise: for the next while, maybe a month, maybe more, Shadows & Sorcery will be coming out every second week. This gives me and the stories breathing room to expand, to experiment, to polish, which will result in better for me and better stories for you.
I know some of you spend your commutes and breaks and so forth reading these, and I am sorry you kinda lose that a bit. But there are 5 years worth of stories here! AND you can go from one to the next and previous in the editions themselves now! Delve into the misty past. I know I will be.
This edition is also a little bit different! While the first tale is classic S&S, the second is something similar to what I did before with S&S #185, giving a published story of mine, now lost to the ether, a permanent home. It was actually published during an event two years ago that, well, let’s just say was not a good experience for me. I give it to you now, a little flash horror tale, expanded, polished, and better than before. Is this hackwork? Absolutely, but it’s good hackwork, so it’s okay. It’s followed by an untitled story, which is an idea I liked and had fleshed out but could just never match to a title (all S&S stories spring from their titles, if you weren’t aware!). So I hope enjoy this odd little grab bag!
If you missed last week’s S&S, a three-part exploration of on-the-spot worldbuilding and weird dungeon-crawling, you can check that chap out here!
This week, we seek answers of the War Madness, we witness Magnini’s Last Trick, and the red wizard Carloman gives a trouble youth some very necessary advice…
War Madness
Two full years into the War on the Temples, to the capital city finally came the siege. If it even was a siege. There had come a point where the soldiers, then the guard, and then the conscripts, had began to think otherwise. Cut off on all sides, utterly surrounded, under waves of assault, sometimes lasting half a day, aye it looked like a siege—but if that were the case, they asked each other, if that were the case, where were the battering rams? The towers? Ladders? Catapults? There had been a few of them in the beginning, to make a few holes, sure. But there were no offensives to take the city. Infantry and the odd cavalry charge, sweeping in, taking a section and holding some ground inside the city, only to be routed, playing out over and over again, never gaining an actual foothold. Were they, the soldiers wondered, just that good, or what? One look around at the bandaged men in slings and tourniquets, the empty tents with little hanging charms that were quietly ignored and taken down without the fanfare they otherwise deserved, the smoke—the ever present smoke, the stench of middens and shallow graves, and the stagnant water and rotting blood on the cracked, pitted stone. One look at that, and they didn’t want to answer.
Every so often, an assassin slipped in, and one of their commanders was taken out, found the next morning in grotesque fashion, too, but replaced just as quick with whoever would do. They weren’t dismantling or sabotaging command structures, or the water or food, either. Indeed, their stocks were lasting...getting low, but lasting. Throughout the city, people had come together to gather everything everyone had from produce to beasts to medicines to anything else tucked away. They lost soldiers, and were losing more by the day, but never that many, not even when the a defense or an assault went really bad. People were still coming forward of their own volition to enlist, the number of conscripts were both low and temporary. Someone had to run and clean the place. The soldiers were too busy killing, dying, or taking something to just sleep.
What the hell was going on out there? Not a single captain, commander, or even old sergeant could even hint at a guess. The city—the capital!—was surrounded and just seemed to be, well, being chipped away at, inside and out. What was the point? The forces outside could rush in and take this place—not without a fight, of course—but they could flood the streets with bodies if they wanted. But they never did. And to add to all that, there was the horns. Assaults were sometimes signalled by the piercing call of horns, and sometimes not, instead they were sounded during the attacks—strange horns, they were, too, horrible to hear. Deep, bass things, like groaning metal, it hit the ear in an awful way, and seemed to echo long after they had ended. No one seemed to know what they signalled, or meant, though old fighters, a few city scholars, and even a few remaining clerics did whisper. Just what they whispered was hushed quickly in the presence of others, though, and clerics often turned questions around to the need for temperance, communion, and to seek not glory in what they had to do, but forgiveness.
So, they had fortified the long, makeshift roads in the breached sections of the capital wall, and had, on occasion, staged offensives of their own, but each time, no matter the hour, no matter the weather, no matter the advance decoys and vanguards, they were pushed back with heavy rains of ballistae and explosives, forced back on the defensive. Kept inside the walls. The walls...they didn’t even really resemble the historic ones anymore. The tall walls, the proud walls, of that warm golden stone, cleaned of its deities, along which the best-sighted scouts and marksmen had patrolled day and night, which had held fast for six hundred years. The enemy might not be wheeling out gatecrackers, but fires were lit and explosives set off all the same. Chipping away. Tarnishing. Staining. So many buildings, like the new structures of the reformation, were reduced to burnt out and cracked shells, looking, as if seen as the bird does, like the ragged ends of rotten old linens, the decay creeping in further and further to the frail old towers of the time of the thearchy ascendancy. So many homes repurposed, or just abandoned out of fear. Some torched in attacks that got deep into the streets.
It had been a blanket command, since the fighting got really bad, to give no quarter, no exceptions, no prisoners, no mercy, to trust in your sword arm and your fellows and nothing else, and while that hadn’t changed for the most part, there came to a cadre of fighters one grey morn a new order: capture a marshal. Command wanted answers.
The first few attempts were not successful. Most were killed in the heat of battle, some were maimed so badly they died on the way back to headquarters. It took the lives of three of the city’s soldiers during a sudden raid, where their captain took a chance, and in the end, they got one. And then, that one died quite quickly into an interrogation. Soldiers went hungry that night for what they did. They tried again, several times, wary of the enemy becoming suspicious, but they never did. That was what they believed led to their eventual success.
Dragged screaming through the streets and into the shell of an old house, reinforced as best could be done and made into a holding cell, they locked their prisoner in there, and began to work on him. It was going south yet again, until a furious captain barged in, and grabbed the offending soldier by the throat.
“This!” he growled, driving his fist into the man, “Is not soldiering! What are you? Some cleric’s dog?” he roared, shaking the soldier. “Look at yourself!” He grabbed the man by the collar, tight. The eyes bulged. The throat rasped. “You! Are a soldier!” He hit the man again. “Act like it!” he bellowed, faces nearly touching, and he threw the man to the ground. There was a good chance, they began to think afterwards, that this was why the prisoner began to trust them, and not the food, proper bed, or recovery time before being questioned by that captain and, in a show of good faith, no one else.
There was a report made a short time after, followed by the sudden disappearance of the captain.
The prisoner had confided in the captain that, at first, they knew nothing more than the soldiers of the capital. The prisoner had been a soldier for the past decade, a veteran, by all accounts, loyal, bearer of some dozen field commissions, and reduced to another one of the horde under this high marshal. That’s all they were to him. You favour with blood. His cronies were always watching, and returning to his tent—and a mighty strange thing that was, too. Few got to see it. The walls around it, they got the feeling, weren’t fortifications. They were to hide it from view. They dared not defy the high marshal or his vanguard, and neither did they try and desert. There was nowhere to go. And besides, it was better to hope you died in battle, rather than get caught. The things he’d been doing to people...not even punishments sometimes. The prisoner believed he was making sure he kept them all scared.
In a low voice, as if he was afraid he might be heard, the prisoner said they were sure the high marshal had gone mad. There was no point to this anymore. Maybe there hadn’t been for a long time. It was supposed to be an honour being part of this invasion force, under the high marshal himself. The prisoner had thought so, for a while. Then, he had thought differently. And then, one evening, as the stink of pipe weed and burning resin wafted in thick fogs throughout their encampment, the prisoner found themselves received a commendation...from the high marshal himself. The captain, who had ceased to be an interrogator at this point, gave the prisoner the minute of silence it seemed was needed to summon the courage.
“He’s worshipping the war god.” The voice was small, so small it had trouble getting out. “I saw the idol myself. They made a mark on my shoulder. We’re sacrifices. You’re sacrifices. He won’t stop until it’s just him cutting his elite guard’s bared throats amidst the smoking ruins of the capital.”
What happened in the aftermath of this revelation became a fixture in the annals of history for the next several decades, communicating to successive generations, for whom the War on the Temples was fading into legend, just what fires were driving those within the reformation. Upon the fields outside the old capital there stands yet a single monument, less of a commemoration, and more of a warning of what happened. It lets those who study it know that beneath them is a graveyard, and that upon the very spot they stand, an idol once stood. It sends a shiver down most backs. Those who seek it out do not get an answer to their question, if whether the last stand, or the last assault, or the tragic sacrifice really did happen as the different accounts say. Most who leave say they don’t want to know. What matters is that it happened. And they quietly leave that place of troubled winds.
Magnini’s Last Trick
The Mystic Magnini flung out his cloak with a dramatic flourish, making it hang in the air for just a second as he crossed the small stage, all lights on him—he was a performer, but he focused better when he couldn’t see the audience so well. He had never quite gotten over the catastrophic humiliation his first failed performance. He ran a hand quickly down his Luciferian goatee, and took a bow. He looked to his assistant, Asenath. Beautiful. Graceful beyond compare. Long black locks tinged with the same subtle shimmer of gold that played across her skin like sunlight on water. Invaluable. But the price had been heavy. A siren they had called her, when the theatre directors had dropped by, unannounced. Oh, they had no idea.
Magnini had been studying. Deeper than anyone ever should, he was told—warned—threatened. He had found it hard to hold back the laughter then as he did now. When does an illusion become so real that even the performer forgets it’s an illusion? When it’s not an illusion. Oh, they really had no idea. The crowd before him, addled with cheap wine dressed up as anything else, couldn’t see the names, the signs, the grisly totems which all hung just out of sight—a sleight of spirit.
The rote, fawning introduction was followed with little ceremony by three words that hadn’t been spoken by human tongues in ages too horrible to recount, transmitted through a cheap microphone, resounding across the smoky little theatre. Magnini did not hide his smile as with a flourish of his wrist—a personal touch—he slid his hand behind the very air itself, half his arm vanishing into nothing as the audience erupted into the whispers and craning necks he had for so long desired.
He could see beyond the lights for just a second. Victor and Marianna were out there. Not sitting too close. But just enough. They knew, now. Oh, yes, they knew. Victor’s knuckles, white with straining. Marianna’s lips, pursed and pale with fright. Stop me, thought the magician. I dare you, said his eyes he knew they could see.
From beyond the air, the Mystic Magnini began to beckon something that turned the whispers into raised voices, and the raised voices into screams.
No, they had no idea.
But tonight, they would know.
They would all know.
The sun blazed in the far distance, as it sought out other climes and skies, sending long streaks of light across the starry, black velvet. A great circular building of white stone, covered in arches, was alight with tall torches and bonfires that spread throughout the small town that surrounded it. Trees clustered in gathering squares and lined many long, snaking streets, their greens vivid in the firelight. Banners and flags hung from long coloured cords cast between the tops of the low buildings. Chatter filled the warm night air, mixed with the clinking of glass, laughter, song, and cheer, and the air was alive with the scent of spices, fresh bread, and grilled meats.
Tonight was a sultry night, a hot-blooded night, in the midst of a long and bountiful summer in eastern Silverden. Tonight was a matchmaker’s night. Bashful maturity, brash youth, and bachelors of all walks alike roamed the streets seeking food, drink, and companionship between entertainments local and imported, all of it under the watch of not too many plumed temple guards and secret volunteers, making sure nothing was amiss. There was one, however, who, despite the fantastic costumes and theatrics, stood out. Although a stage had been prepared for him, he did not sit on it, instead choosing to walk and sit among whatever audience turned up. The great throng that had amassed was exactly what the red wizard Carloman had feared. Serpent’s Breath, he wouldn’t have survived all this on that stage. Best meet it head on was his idea.
So, for about two hours, he reckoned more or less, Carloman conformed as close to the monk’s wishes as possible: he told fantastic stories, only slightly embellished and peppered with humorous Voerlunder colloquialisms to get laughs, he used the wild and mirthful atmosphere to perform magical displays—including partly levitating a small group of people with the sheer energy around him, to the mild discomfort of some attending canons—but he also sat down at points, and shared heartfelt sermons and wisdom about the beauty of mutual guardianship, a Voerlund notion amenable in Silverden. He ended on this, as it seemed best to let them disperse for food and whatever else was on their minds with something that let him sit down for a while.
Some moments later, however, a young man came up to him. He was a Silverden, a town native, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes downcast—Carloman had an idea what was about to happen, and rose to meet the lad, blocking him from the rest of the crowd’s sight for his own sake.
“What’s the matter, eh? Hmm! You see a talisman or spell for courage?” He clapped the young man on the shoulder with a laugh.
“Well, I-I was actually wondering, uhm, if—well, yes, sort of.” He could barely get the words out, bless him.
“Nonsense! The only magic you need is in the air tonight! Go forth, my son.”
“I wanted to ask,” said the lad, eyes suddenly shooting up, “if you...” he came a bit closer then, and spoke lower, “knew about love spells.”
Carloman merely blinked, and cocked his head.
“You know...something so she’ll fall in love with me.”
“And why, pray tell,” came the wizard’s sudden grave tone, “would you need such a thing?”
“I was told,” the young man spoke in a sharp, swift tone just above a whisper, “wizards can do those things...make people feel things, even—even think things.”
Carloman suppressed the flaring of his fiery amber eyes.
“There’s this girl… She would never have me, I’m pathetic, my ancestors won’t help me, b-but I-I love her, I do-”
Carloman did not particularly believe what the young man said—any of it. He knew exactly what he was looking at. He chose not to hide his intense distaste of the young man’s talk.
“Some sorcerers can. I certainly will not, and those who would you had best pray you never meet,” came the rumble of his voice like a far off storm. “Who gave you these ideas?”
“Never mind, I-I’m sorry, I should go,” the young man said, already turning, shoulders hunched, and shuffling into the warm Silverden night—but the wizard thrust out his staff, its touch on the young man’s arm stopping him in his tracks. Carloman was not above the use of such force, but he made a point to almost never use it. It was too much like coercion to him. That point did not, though, stand when he wanted to keep what he considered a delicate situation from vanishing into the crowd.
“Idle folklore, superstition, ignorance and supposition, people say all sorts of things about magicians and their powers,” Carloman intoned as he drew the young man back to him, who turned with wide, shaking eyes to meet the wizard’s own burning amber. “I fear that you have been harbouring hopes, and have been seeking out ways to fulfil them... There are smiles and laughter in this town tonight. I intend to make sure things stay that way, and I believe you are more inclined to hurt yourself over something like this than another, which I also cannot have.” The young man’s eyes fell down completely. “I am not so apart from this world that I cannot understand your pain. But this is not the way of things. So, boy, I will give you a talisman, I think. But you will not bear it around your neck or belt, nor will you wave it about like some crude sorcery. I have for you, and you alone, a piece of knowledge.”
The wizard set his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, gently. He looked up, guilty, but with some sense shriving.
“Take it from someone who has walked from one end of the known world to the other a dozen times over. And if not that, then from a magician. The world is clay. You are of the world. Therefore you, too, are clay. And everything you do leaves its mark, inside and out. I mean this literally. With this knowledge I have made for you a new mark. But it is up to you, and you alone, to decide your final shape, and, my son, how it shall appear to others.”
A "friend"? Likely story! More like an enemy in waiting! 👺