Chapter Five: The First Week

This chapter introduces some of the magic mechanisms and Sir's point of view.

     Rain clouds poured across the fields while Som watched from inside. It seemed that only a moment ago he had been watching this exact scene from an orphanage. Now he was in a sanctuary filled with knowledge and love.

     Som had learned much this week. In his arithmetic he had mastered one through five on the multiplication tables, a feat that not a one of his friends at the orphanage had managed. In his language class he had been learning about dialects. Som now knew that people from different places spoke the same language differently. For instance, the werewolves of the South speak slowly and with an emphasis on “R”s, while the rakshasas (angry cat people, Sir had called them) of the North speak quickly and draw out their “S”s. In science class Som had been learning about water, in a lot of different shapes. Sometimes it was a flowing river, other times a frozen ice cube in his drink. It was even in the air!

     Som’s afternoon classes were much different. In martial arts Som had to think while moving. For the majority of the week the two went over basic techniques; how to punch, kick, fall and throw. He wasn’t very good at it yet, but Sir promised that he would get better.

     Magic class was confusing. Sir had been talking about just the barest fundamentals of what magic was, and it still bewildered Som.

     “Magic is energy born of friction between things.” Sir had said, “Between elements, between people, or between concepts. There is magic in the oceans brushing the shore, in the accidental stumble of one person colliding with another, in the war between two separate beliefs. Magic is what happens when things interact.”

     And Som had replied simply, “Huh?”

     Sir spent the better half of the hour reiterating that point alone.

     Lore was probably Som’s favorite class. This week he had been learning of herbs and their uses. Som studied Aloe plants and got to treat a burn he had given himself playing in the kitchen. A lot of things could be done with just plants.

     Outside of class Som played in the fields, where all sorts of things could happen. One day he was a mighty knight using his martial arts prowess to slay demons in the Netherealm, the next he was a powerful sorcerer tossing fireballs at Unseelie faeries. The world was his playground, his battlefield, his home.

     At nights the world weary Som would return for dinner, specially prepared by the golems. He would ravenously eat whatever was put in front of him, then hobble to bed and collapse. For the time being Som’s life was one of simple pleasures and growth.

     The dark and quiet atmosphere of Som’s room seemed to call him to sleep. Little eyelids seemed lined with lead. Manifesting his will, Som tore himself away from the window and got into bed. The room fuzzed and darkness embraced him.

     Thus did Som experience unnatural sleep.

* * *

     Night’s fall signaled the beginning of Sunday’s eve.   The rain had been pouring unnaturally hard and for too long. Something was afoot, and it reeked of magic.

     Sir had made sure to slip just the slightest bit of passion flower extract into Som’s dinner, just enough to make sure he slept fast tonight.

     The elderly man took long strides to his office, where he pulled out the items prepared for this night. The first was a small glass cube containing two chambers. In one chamber there was desert sand from the local area. In the other, ocean water. The second and third items were a brush and waterproof paint. With those he inscribed a blue guarding rune upon his forehead. The fourth article was an umbrella. The final boon was a yew wand.

     Four fingers were pressed against the corners of the cube. Desert dust mingled with ocean water, releasing magical energies. Sir caught the energies in his wand; they traveled up through dry capillaries where once water and nutrients flowed. Grasping the wand, Sir pointed its tip at his forehead. Energy poured from the wand into the rune. Its color changed to a vibrant red. Catherine meandered into the room and stood at attention.

     “You will watch over the boy. Eat anything that comes near him. The golems are down because of the rain, so it’s just us.”

     The feline nodded in understanding and went to her post.

     Liquid ice seemed to be falling from the sky. Heat was torn from the desert air as each raindrop passed. Hauntingly beautiful music called out across his field. As Sir walked out of his domain, he saw a lone woman standing in the rain thirty yards away. Sir approached her, covering distance quickly till finally they stood but four feet away from one another.

     The woman was about five feet tall with shimmering blue eyes and long azure-touched blond hair. She wore an indigo sleeveless dress, embroidered across the hem and held in her hands an ivory harp which she gently played in the rain. The melody was light yet touching, resembling the sound of a lakes tide. A glamour was imbued into the sounds, its intent to reduce wariness and facilitate amiable attitudes. Upon seeing his rune the woman stopped her music making.

     “What’s the matter? I was enjoying that piece.” Sir said coyly.

     The woman frowned, “Your attitude is irritating sage.” Her voice chimed beautifully.

     “Good.” Spat Sir, adopting a hostile and direct attitude. “Get off my lawn.”

     Blue eyes shone dangerously, “Your hospitality is simply too much for me.” Her accent was difficult to place, though it was decidedly inhuman.

     Sir snorted, sensing that a blunt approach would serve better than a formal parley.  “If you don’t get off my lawn, you’ll find yourself in a hospital little girl.”

     “I am not a ‘little girl’. I quickened before your grandfather breathed his first.” Her eyes narrowed.

     “Well little girl, I’ve been around a lot longer than you might imagine.” Sir grinned, happy that his intuition had paid off. The fey were at home with politicking and wordplay. Callous words disarmed them of a potent weapon.

     “Perhaps…” the maiden smiled knowingly, “Perhaps too long. My prey is stashed away by now. The years have worn on your cunning as well as your strength, old one.”

     Sir smiled back, teeth bared in something more akin to a snarl. He allowed some of his truly felt hostility to slip past the carefully manufactured façade. “Hobgoblins are sneaky buggers aren’t they? Their grimy, rubbery little hides don’t deal with sharp claws very well though.”

     Catherine prowled into sight, carrying the severed arm of small humanoid.

     The enchanter’s face hardened into ice, her voice dripped command and pose. “I do not take kindly to those who steal my prey. Nor will my Queen.”

     Sir ignored her threat and set his trap with a careless attitude, “Have you ever heard of the Words of Power?” The already considerable tension floating about doubled in weight, “They are truly ancient utterings that lock into powerful caches of magic. They are coveted by mages all over the world.”

     The woman listened wearily but interestedly, taking note of the change in subject but not protesting it. Either she’s power hungry or desperate. Probably both, thought Sir.

     “Words of Power have come about in a plethora of ways. Most of them are from time unmemorable. But a few of their births are known. For example, there was Jonathan Illandial from nearly 3000 years ago.” Sirs words drawled out carelessly. The faerie woman had begun to back away but Catherine flanked her.

     “Jonathan was a good man. A hedge wizard of more than modest talent. A village healer. Respected by all for miles around. A paragon of the union between kindness and magic. The one blip of sadness in his happy life came about when his wife died in labor.

     “After that he had devoted himself to his daughter. Making sure she had good schooling and plenty of care. But one day a fairy waltzed by and stole his child away.” Sirs words took on a dangerous edge.

     “Jonathan pursued that faerie through its realm, cutting down legions of fey with wit and skill to rescue his little girl. Entire ballads were composed to his prowess, some of which survive today.

     “But when Jonathan finally found his little girl she was withered with age. Time flows differently within the Etherland than the Terra. She had been made into an ornament, it seemed. Her life had been spent as a human coat rack, her murmurs of pain a source of delight to the fiends that utilized her. Jonathan arrived just as she breathed her last breath, crying out for her long lost father. Filled with rage and anguish he called forth a Dwarven god of iron in the realm of the fey.”

     A gasp of terror escaped from pretty blue lips. The faerie must’ve recognized this tale and tried to flee. Silver teeth bore deep into her calf and she screamed while falling. Her enchanted harp flew from her hands and landed twenty feet away. Blue blood flowed freely, leaving frost where it touched Catherine.

     “Jonathan bargained with the Dwarf god as the fey land beneath iron feet withered and died. In exchange for Jonathan’s nearly pure soul, the Dwarf god promised an eternal weapon against the fey. A Word made of soul and iron, bound to both parties.”

     The woman’s eyes widened. “No!” she screamed.

     “FERRTORAM!”

     She froze, like time had stopped for her. Her skin, blood and dress lost its color, becoming a dark gray. Perfect stillness made her into a statue.

     Then the scream of wind rushing at demonic speeds cried out. A piece of her stomach had imploded into a hollow cavern within her. Rainwater and clouds were forced through the portal into the Dwarf god’s dimension, likely into a water barrel for dipping the vast quantities of hot metal produced there. Sir and Catherine held tight to one another. Though they felt no pull themselves, the airborne flood of water sought to drag everything with it into damnation. An unearthly howl called out for what felt like hours.

     When the last piece of the naiad had gone through the vortex all became quiet. The portal dissipated with the rain, Sir and Catherine were left in soaking in silence.

     What that fairy done to displease her queen so, Sir could not fathom. “You had better clean the mess you made before Som gets up.” Sir said bitterly to his familiar as he picked up the ivory harp. It was engraved the phrase “a fonte puro pura defluit aqua”, from a clear spring clear water flows. Sir took note of a small black blemish on the very base of the harp and began walking back to the house.