A small foreward…
This serial is intended as part travelogue, part adventure. As readers, you will be exploring this world, its wonders and dangers, alongside the protagonist. It’s set in my years-in-the-making worldbuilding project called Demiurge. This world is inspired by real life Gnostic theology and I don’t know how many disparate pieces of magical and religious lore I’ve accumulated over the years, as well as a love for old school fantasy and sword and sorcery fiction, but with a focus on the sorcery.
Chapters will be short to short-ish, partly so emails don’t get clipped, partly because that’s just how I’m comfortable writing. I hope for each entry to serve as an event and move things forward in some way. As they will be released monthly, I feel this is very important. There’s nothing worse than filler. But perhaps I’ll linger on certain things if I feel they’re necessary. You never do know exactly what the future may bring (unless you’re a wizard, of course).
Lastly, readers might want to know a little more about just what’s going on in this world for context, things that might not be immediately pertinent to the story of our protagonist, but which fellow fantasy enthusiasts and worldbuilders might be interested in. To that end, I will release a small write-up of this world should readers demand it. If you want to know more, ask! Likely such a thing will have spoilers, so be warned…
With that out of the way, please enjoy the first chapter of The Path of Poison.
A shadow stood in the doorway of the apothecary. Though silhouetted by the bleary light outside, Sepp could see it was a temple guardsman. The last time they were around, it was to tell him and his master, Búcher, to start packing. He had been dreading seeing them come around again. And it wasn’t just any guard, it was a commander, wearing an impressive silver-blue sash and crested helm. The fellow stepped up to the counter beside Miss Imalde, a regular customer.
“G’morning ma’am,” said the commander, “you’d better hear this too.” He then nodded to Sepp, a young man who looked now from under a mop of dark gold hair with eyes to match. “Lad, tell your master the temple guard is moving to evacuate the village – now. One of my men will be around in a few minutes and you’re to follow him. I hope you’ve packed what you can. We’re moving folks out to a fortress just over the Voerlund border, they said they’ll help. And ma’am, you’d better get going, your unit won’t be long either.” His brow betrayed his concern. He turned to leave, and looked back only once to give a short nod to them both.
Sepp picked the conversation back up as best he could, blinking the shock away and clearing his throat.
“Now, the yellow flowers, miss,” the woman looked down at the packs that had been prepared. “Remember to be careful with the dosage – only three or four of the big petals, and make sure not to sit them with the marrak root, okay?” He held each one up for emphasis as he helped place the packets into her worn wicker basket. She seemed to appreciate his effort, and tried to smile, but stopped herself and leaned over a counter a little, whispering:
“Sepp, I'm sorry to ask, but you wouldn't know if your master’s finished the...you know...” Her eyes, dark gold like his, were wide with worry. He took a second to register her meaning. He never felt comfortable with this, not with anyone.
“Master Búcher!” he called into the back room. A second later, there was a shuffle and a wooden clank, and there appeared from a low aperture behind the desk a gaunt old fellow about whom everything was yellow paleness. A native Voerlunder. Here, in Silverden, he'd be called Byoosher, but Sepp had taken especial care to learn the correct way to say it, with the hard sounds of the north. He was, after all, his foster father. Búcher’s pursed mouth and perpetual squint gave him a harsh aspect which came in handy with awkward customers. He could be severe at times, but he was patient, and meant well. One doesn't become an apothecary unless one cares. Sepp had sometimes needed to remind himself of that in the past.
Búcher leaned over the counter, producing from his sleeve a little black glass bottle with a design on some parchment hanging off the neck. Miss Imalde took a half step closer. The apothecary placed it in her palm and gently closed her hand over it, saying as he looked her in the eye:
“This is the third one you've bought, you know.”
“Well...could be any day now,” she stammered as she looked down, placing a hand gently on her heavily pregnant belly. “Have to be cautious, especially after what the commander just said.”
“Just be careful with the stuff in that bottle. Keep it shut, and at the foot of your bed, not the head, or slip it in your boot, not ‘round your neck.”
“I will, Master Byoosher, thank you,” she rushed the words out as she slipped a number of thin, amber coins into the apothecary's hand, flashed a nervous smile, turned and left. Búcher and Sepp stood there for a moment, silent. His master was a hex man. Decades ago, during his training, he had picked up the art from the Turach, a nomadic people who lived across the sea, wandering to and from ancient strongholds in the wilderness. It was the art of using poisons for and against harm. It worked off the idea that poisons weren't dangerous simply through ingestion or application, but their mere presence, coupled with special floral designs called blooms that represented inward or outward motions, could have effects. Placing a little black bottle at the foot of one's bed, for instance, thus keeping it before you as a shield, helped to repel harm in a general manner. But it also worked in reverse, where placing a poison under someone, or on a rooftop, or somewhere else unknown to the victim, brought on weakness, sickness, misfortune, even direct harm. The stronger the poison, the stronger the effect. It was magic, plain and simple, and magic, or what most folk considered to be magic, rarely had an entirely positive reputation. Especially when it involved the laying of poisons.
Búcher looked to Sepp and nodded towards the door. The young man strode past the counter and watched her as she walked up the dirt road to her home not too far away. She was a good customer, partly because of diligence, partly because of mild paranoia, and they had made a habit of checking on her homeward progress as a sign of trust. She lived so close by because the shop was in fact Búcher's own home, with a small extension built on the side from which he mixed and sold concoctions of all kinds, and hexes. It had been Sepp’s home for the past eight years, too. His parents had been temple guard. His father had died in a border conflict – the rock in the pond whose ripples were just now reaching the village. His mother made it home, but didn’t live long. As a boy, he had spent hours going back and forth collecting medicines, bringing Búcher back with him, ultimately to no avail. With no family in the village, his parents having moved from elsewhere, the apothecary took him in and made him an apprentice and ward. He felt for the boy. Unfortunately, quite early on, Sepp had seen Búcher making hexes, and from that time his adopted son was entrusted with the knowledge.
Sepp walked a few paces from the house, towards the main street that divided the two great clusters of buildings that made up the village, and looked about. On the wide span of a tall bluff sat this northern-most village in the northern-most canton of the Holy Veneracy of Silverden. The day was stark above it. The sun burned from behind a veil of pale grey clouds that stretched beyond sight. A constant weak wind made the air restless. Less smoke than usual drifted from the buildings, which were cream in colour, with dark, flat topped wooden rooftops. The guard rushed around the houses, while some sat atop horses at street corners, talking in terse tones. Lithe dracomounts and their riders scurried sharply about to different figures who sat at makeshift desks covered in charts. Folk stood in groups outside, others sat on their doorsteps. Sepp recognized so many of the faces, but not the expressions.
He looked down the long main road, past the village borders, and out into the countryside. Far to the south was the capital canton and head of the entire Veneracy, the Archvenerate. He wondered what the Archvenerate thought about the abbot of another monastery on the warpath, if he was even aware of it yet. The cantons had a large degree of autonomy, and their own storied histories. Some had more spiritual aspirations, and others had a more martial bent. Even in a land renowned for its strong faith, archpriests bickered over dogmatic details at their tri-annual synods, and the scions of old lords, long absorbed into the Veneracy, sometimes felt their hands search for blades at their sides. Immediately to the north were the wilds of Silverden’s sister kingdom, Voerlund, which looked much like it did around the village: wide green vistas of leafy wilderness, smatterings of tall open forest, and heather-strewn hills in the distance riddled with caves. You wouldn't even know you'd passed into that country until you saw the grey squat towers manned by pale gold people, the Voerlunders, whom Sepp thought rather tough people, but if they were anything like Búcher, they were alright. Sepp had been through the south of that country several times over the years with his master, looking for herbs. He wasn’t expecting to see it again so soon.
He entered back into the apothecary, the entrance didn’t have a doorway but they did set a sheet of wood against it at night to deter curious animals or youths. It was a low, close, but not cramped room. Personal was what he’d always thought. Built of dark, warm wood, scant light reached the ceiling, leaving it often shrouded in dim shadow, which gave it the appearance of being much larger than it actually was. The cool stone tiles of the floor were never free of dust. The walls would hold jars of premixed salves and oils, tied bundles of herbs and dried flowers, an impressive display, and in summer, a heady aroma. Behind the counter lay the more important speciality items. And behind this, in a back room, Búcher kept and mixed hexes. But now that was all packed tightly into three chests, ready to be carried on a burden beast, their personal effects were in two smaller packs that Búcher was now bringing out from the house. Sepp felt an awful tugging in his chest looking at this room as it ought not to be. It would be the second home he’d lost.
It was then that there was shouting from outside, and the thundering gallop of many hooves from all directions...
A great start to the story. Will keep reading for sure! Very atmospheric. I can almost see the tension hanging thick in the air as I read.
I'm liking this so far. It's difficult to find good fantasy fiction. I always feel like everyone's trying to copy Tolkien for the lack of a better idea.