Diary of a Conjurer Read online

  Screams came from above deck, followed by a loud crack of splitting wood.

  “Let me out of here, I can help,” Ivar called. No one responded. “Help!” he cried again. His heart pounded frantically. This is my fate? The winds would have me drown while bound to a pole in a sorceress’s ship? That’s it? That’s my Crossing?

  The ship rocked violently when the hatch door flew open and Hacatine, her rapier in her hand, stumbled down the stair. A flood of water gushed into the cabin behind her. Holding onto the walls as the ship jolted, she directed her wrath at Ivar.

  “This is your doing?” she accused, pointing her weapon at him. “What makes you so special that your cursed Kaempern Wind defends you? We didn’t come here for this. I’ve better things to tend to than fight the gale over you!” Several of her warriors fell into the cabin behind her.

  Hacatine stumbled toward him. He shut his eyes and held his breath, certain it was his end, but when her blade fell, it slashed only his ropes. His body sprung forward as the ship bolted again.

  “Throw him overboard, and stop this tempest. Feed his flesh to the wind he worships.” she commanded her soldiers.

  Two women seized Ivar. The ship rolled as the three of them tossed against the walls of the hatch. They staggered up the stairs onto the upper deck. After the women gained their balance, they dragged him forward as if he were an anchor, pulling him across the flooded deck, grabbing onto lines that swung freely from a fallen mast. With bodies bent toward the gale, they bucked the storm until they came starboard. When a wave pulled the ship high on its crest, Ivar’ captors, now hanging on to ratlines, released him. The motion of the rising surf thrust him into the waters. He had only enough time to take a breath before he sank into the depths of the angry sea.

  Beached

  Despite his long silver hair reflecting the rays of the moon, Silvio remained hidden in the shadows, observing the small gig that vaulted on the surf. A woman wrestled with her oars as the tide sucked her craft into the oncoming wave. The ocean refused to let her shore. After several futile attempts, she jumped out of the boat and dove into the water, pulling the vessel from the suction of the hungry sea.

  “Wicked trespasser! No one comes to Bandene Forest from the north, not rowing boats in a stormy sea, they don’t! This reeks of Taikus. Sorcery!” He grumbled quietly to himself, his saliva catching on his beard as he hissed.

  Silvio had seen the same leather armor many years ago, before his exile. And those silk balloon slacks soaked from swimming were a sure giveaway of her sect. Were she indeed a sorceress, he would stay camouflaged until he learned more. With one eye, he guarded the campfire left smoldering; the other stayed fixed on the invader.

  Once beached, the woman bent over the skiff, and much to Silvio’s surprise, she lifted a body out of the boat and slung it over her back, trudging up the shore to drier sand. She must have smelled the burning embers, for she walked toward them quickly. She laid the body down, fussed over it, and took off one of her fur wraps, held it to the flames to gather warmth, and then placed it over whomever lay motionless at her feet.

  Silvio grunted. He wouldn’t be fooled by kindness! Still, his curiosity drew him closer.

  The woman threw several pieces of driftwood on the coals. She blew on the embers until flames shot into the night sky. Silvio could see her better now. The dancing light silhouetted her figure. “Sorceress, just as I thought! There’s no mistaking that yellow aura. Cursed wickedness!” He wiped the drool off his beard with the palm of his hand. “Not on my beach, you won’t. Hacatine will not haunt me again. Not here. Not her cronies either.” Conjuring his magic, he stretched out his crooked fingers. “Baldervinquish Smote!”

  The spell traveled through his body, lighting his veins with an ominous green. His lips trembled as he spoke, his curse sending a bolt of wizardry at the woman. His boorish growl upset the silence and she spun around, but it was too late for her to react. The magic stunned the woman and she froze solid as stone.

  Silvio waited. The sound of sparking embers rose from the fire pit but no movement came from either of the trespassers. With cautious steps the wizard approached his victim. He glanced at the body lying helplessly under the fur. Ebon hair hung in wet tendrils over the young human’s forehead; his thick, black lashes sealed his eyes shut. Though the moon cast a blue glow over the entire beach, Silvio could tell the boy’s complexion was dark, not pale like his own. The intruder wasn’t a man, not yet, but he wasn’t a boy either.

  “Fool youth,” Silvio grunted and turned his attention toward the statue. Circling her, he sniffed disapprovingly, his mouth curled in distaste. “Hacatine’s puppet.” Silvio removed the sword from her sheath and tossed it into the woods. As he did, the weapon turned into a stream of sizzling green smoke, disappearing into a puff of flakes that settled quietly on the forest floor.

  “Cursed sorceress!” He stood on his toes to look into her eyes, his own wide with contempt, and then he clamped his teeth together and let out a long disdainful hiss. Knowing she couldn’t respond, he growled and then smiled as he planted his feet back in the sand again. His body relaxed into its natural bent position.

  He cast one more glance at the young man lying on the ground. Friend or foe, he didn’t know, but he’d find out soon enough when the boy awoke. The old man walked to his stump, sat by the fire, and sipped his tea. Deep into the night he kept watch over his two captives. Finally, his head bobbed over his beard, his weary eyes closed, and he fell asleep.

  The First Clue

  Smoke drifted in front of Ivar’s eyes partially masking the huge stone that towered over his head. Perhaps the pillar was a tombstone. Maybe he was in Elysian Fields where the Kaemperns bury their heroes. It didn’t seem right, though! He was too young to die.

  Ivar blinked the structure into focus. Incredibly tall for a tombstone, and he didn’t feel like he was buried. There weren’t any dirt walls that would indicate he was in a grave. Only large piles of smooth, white driftwood logs surrounded him.

  Fog hovered low, mingling with the smoke. Both were blue-gray. The smoke he could smell. The fog he could feel because it seeped into his bones and sent chills throughout his body.

  Don’t move Ivar. If you move, you might find out you can’t because you’re dead. You don’t want to know that you’re dead. He lay still, listening for his pulse, feeling it pound in his head. Pain! When he drew in a breath he coughed and then his chest ached. You’re not dead. Good. But you’re close to it.

  The gentle roar of ocean brought back the images of the night before. There had been a ship and a terrible storm. He remembered the ghostly face of a sorceress, and ropes bound tight around his body. A rapier slashing at him, women pulling him on deck and then the crash of water over his head sucking him into a raging sea. That was all he remembered. He had no idea how he got on a beach unless the tide washed him ashore, but that didn’t account for the fire pit, or the fleece that he was bundled in, or the fact that he could still breathe. Someone must have helped him.

  The statue stared at him with stone cold eyes against the backdrop of a cloudy sky. A statue? Why would they bury me and then erect a statue?

  He squinted as daylight shone behind the figure.

  “You’re alive!”

  The voice startled him. It wasn’t the statue that spoke. It was a man’s voice. “I am?” Ivar asked. He tried sitting up, but his body didn’t obey so he got no further than lifting his head.

  “Bah!” the man spoke in a raspy tone. “For what good it is, half-man, half-dead. Wake up if there’s any waking left in that skinny shell of yours. There are questions you need to answer.”

  Ivar felt a nudge on his shoulder and turned to the touch, finding an arthritic foot a few feet from his chin with toenails thick and twisted so awkwardly that they bent backwards, pointing at the silver hairs curled on its owner’s feet.

  Ivar immediately bolted in an upright position. “Who are you?”

  “Does that matter? Who I am? E
h? What matters is who you are,” the man’s green eyes peered through the slit of bushy brows, his nose red as a holly berry. He wiped the drool from his mouth and rubbed his hand dry on his knee britches.

  “I’m a Kaempern,” Ivar answered, still shocked. He brushed the sand off his hands and studied the old man.

  Hunched over, he had long silver hair that hung almost to his knees, covering his suspenders. His skin was weathered and wrinkled, hanging from his gnarly bones as though he were half starved; yet his color was a healthy tan from the sun.

  “Humpf.” The man turned and waddled to a log by the fire. He picked up a dark iron kettle and poured steaming liquid into a clay cup. “Kaempern are you? And who’s your friend?” He nodded to the statue.

  Ivar studied the stone sculpture. A lovely piece of art, her skin, though gray as the smoke that drifted around her, was smooth and sheen. Chiseled fur fell over one shoulder, and armor formed a breastplate under the stole. Wavy long hair framed her gentle face and draped down her back. An empty sheath hung from a wide belt around her waist. The more he gazed at her, the more familiar she looked.

  “Eh?” the silver haired stranger pressed him for an answer.

  “I have no idea,” Ivar whispered, wondering what a statue was doing on a desolate beach. He’d only seen a statue once before on a merchant’s table in Menek–a figurine the size of his palm, made from solid gold, a treasure retained from the days of trade with the pirates.

  “She knows you.” The old man didn’t look at him when he said it; he just kept sipping his tea.

  “What do you mean? It’s a statue. How can it know me?”

  “Thirsty?”

  Ivar took the cup that was handed to him and sniffed its contents. A sweet aroma traveled on the steam, delighting his senses, reminding him how empty his stomach was.

  “Fool youth. Drink. Hurry up! You think I would poison you, eh? Feeling guilty are you?” The old man set the kettle back into the coals and took a seat next to Ivar, holding his own cup with both his hands, though the way his fingers twisted around it looked painful. “Might ought to be rid of you for making a mess of my beach, littering it with Sorceress breath. Lucky for you, I don’t kill people. Maybe freeze them for a little while.”

  “Freeze? You froze her?” A sudden fear rushed through Ivar as he recalled where he had seen that face. It was the woman who had tied him to the post, the woman named Promise. “You turned her to stone?”

  The old man didn’t answer.

  “Who are you? Where am I?” If the old coot turned a beautiful girl to stone, what else is he capable of?

  The man’s stare sent a chill down the Ivar’s back. “Silvio,” he answered. “Who are you?”

  Ivar hesitated to tell the old man. A name added to magic could do great harm, or so Meneks fablers had told him. Yet, Ivar didn’t want to stir the magician’s temper, either. “My name’s Ivar.”

  Silvio’s ominous green eyes didn’t let Ivar go, nor did they blink. Instead they poked into his being like a needle, burning his veins with sorcery. The magician had to be searching his soul. Ivar stood.

  “Indeed!” Silvio scratched his beard. “Sit down, I won’t hurt you. Not right now.”

  Ivar felt his body turn morbid cold from fear. He sat.

  “A Kaempern?” Silvio chewed his tealeaves for a while as he inspected Ivar. Then in a fit of disgust he spat, “Holderwash! No you aren’t!”

  Ivar gulped and scooted away from him.

  “Liar! You think I don’t know a Kaempern when I see one? Bah!” He faced the campfire. “Kaempern my skillywag. Don’t know why you want to lie, but you’re no Kaempern!”

  “My father is Aren of the Cave Clan, good friends with Amleth, chief and elder.”

  “Is that right? Then tell me this. Why is your hair the color of charcoal, and your eyes as deep as night? Tell me that! Kaempern, bah.” His crooked fingers trembled so violently that the little bit of tea left in his cup spilled to the ground. “Everyone knows the Kaemperns are a northern race; fair-haired and light-eyed. Jellbedash, Kaempern my toenails!”

  The youth watched the crooked man stand, and with an abundance of noise, empty the pots around the campfire. With a muffled clunk the iron skillet dropped to the ground. Silvio swept sand from the log with his long bony hands, giving Ivar a foul look when he was finished.

  “Half-breed no doubt. Mixed with the likes of Taikus,” he grumbled, nodding to the statue. “Sorceress blood most like. Who is she? Your sister?”

  Ivar was tongue tied. He knew he didn’t look like a Kaempern. He couldn’t argue, but he wasn’t going to go into depth about his adoption with this cranky fellow. It wouldn’t satisfy the old man’s accusations anyway. For all Ivar knew he did come from Taikus.

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you, old man,” Ivar stood again, this time his anger prompted him. “I know who I am.”

  Silvio spun to face him in wicked surprise, one green eye so wide it looked as though it would pop out of its socket “You know who you are, do you? But you don’t know who she is?”

  Ivar’s gaze followed Silvio’s shaking finger, the statue his mark.

  “No. I mean she looks like the woman that held me captive on the ship that pulled me from the serpent’s clutches. Her name was Promise. But I never saw her before last night.”

  “Promise? Some promise she is, a promise to your end maybe. Take a good look at her. Stands before you a Taikan, strong-arm of the sorceress Hacatine. Evil, I tell you.” His face leaned into the youth’s; his hot breath blew hair into the lad’s eyes as he hissed. “Evil. And she took a liking to you. Saved your life, from the looks of it.” He unfolded his body as best he could and turned his back to Ivar. “You’re no Kaempern, I can tell you that. No wizard, either,” he added, the last comment accented with a grumble as he waddled toward the forest.

  Ivar watched him as he disappeared into the shadows of the woods, relieved to see the old man go. The trip had been traumatic enough without a stranger badgering him. He questioned his own sanity even now, for he thought he saw little people running alongside the magician’s feet. Ivar attributed the vision to having swallowed too much seawater the night before.

  Glad for the silence, Ivar sat in the sand, leaned against a log by the fire, and drank his tea. The liquid felt warm in his belly, and the flavor was pleasant. Despite what he had gone through the night before, Ivar was comfortable. A breeze from the ocean picked up, quickly shifting the fog, though low clouds still dampened the day. The salty mist of the ocean fog fell leaving tiny droplets on his hair, on his bare arms, and on the stone statue.

  Ivar glanced at her again. Daylight had her color to dull rust, not unlike the color in Promise’s eyes the night before, eyes that had traveled deep into his memories. How painful that experience had been. Still something had filled the void when she finally released him. Ivar didn’t quite understand what it was. Now she stood frozen in time, and he was drawn to her, wishing she would wake up so he could ask her what she had done.

  A slanted smile grew across Ivar’s face. He thought he saw her breathe. “So I’m a bit enchanted by your magic!” he said to Promise. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Even frozen into a piece of stone her beauty was mesmerizing. “I bet you didn’t know that my people, the Kaemperns, have magic, too. We have a magical shield that protects us from sorceresses like you. Why, if we were back home you’d never be able to do what you did to me.”

  He chuckled to himself, thinking how fun it would be to take her back to the Northern forests and show her off to his friends. “You might like it there.” Ivar took a sip of tea and scooted up out of the sand. “We have heroes too you know? My father, for one.” Ivar wished he could tell her more, but he didn’t know more. Only that Aren had done heroic deeds during the war. “They won’t tell me exactly what he did.” He shrugged, studying the leaves that had settled at the bottom of his mug. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s all connected–the war, my childhood, and my parents. Aml
eth acts like I’m not supposed to know. Like it’s for the best.” He glanced up at her, noticing how sympathetic her eyes were. It was safe to tell a statue these things, and it felt good to get them out in the open. “I’m not supposed to be doing this either, my Crossing. Not according to Amleth. But the magic winds told me I could. So see? I’ve got magic!”

  The waves pounded on the beach in answer, a comforting sound now that he was safe on shore. The fog hung low again, neutralizing any color that had been struggling against the gray. Ivar loved the salty fragrance of the ocean, and he didn’t mind the fog so much either. He threw another log on the fire and warmed his hands.

  “I can’t say as anything is really going right with my quest, though.” He snickered. “Nothing as planned, anyway, and I’ve only been gone one night. Look at me! No weapons. All of my clothes are back at Moor Cove. Think you could do a little magic trick and get them here?” He laughed at his request. “Don’t suppose you could. Though I suppose despite my ill fortune, all is not lost. You!” He held his mug up toward her. “My fine lady, burned a hole in my head and saw my past. So now I shall seek to find a way to get you out of that predicament you’re in so that you can tell me what you saw!” He drank the rest of his tea. The flames of the campfire sparked and popped with new energy, casting fire light onto the statue, restoring the bronze color more natural to her race. He sobered as he stared into her eyes.” Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for saving my life. I hope I can return the favor someday. Maybe today, even.”

  When the words left his tongue, her eyes widened and Ivar’s heart stopped.

  “That spell won’t last forever.” Silvio said, having snuck up behind him.

  Though startled, Ivar kept his eyes on Promise, hoping to see her move again.

  “But she won’t wake up yet,” the conjurer added, clanging an array of pots behind Ivar. “I’ve made sure of it. It’d be a wicked thing if she did.”