4000 words! And unfinished…
The judge glared down at me, wiping my saliva from his face with a bright yellow handkerchief. He was scarlet with anger, tendons bulging outrageously from the sides of his neck. The crowd behind me sat in stunned silence.
The courtroom was filled to overflowing, men and women were packed into the back, the rear doors, and out into the street. Children were perched on shoulders, relaying what was happening to their parents. The tall, narrow windows of the courtroom — which seemed to capture and intensify the midday heat — caused me to wonder if this building were not used incongruously as a church on Sundays.
I stood before the judge, my hands bound behind me as the two men with guns who flanked me shifted nervously on their feet. A droplet of sweat made its way lazily down my cheek as I watched him in unconcealed amusement.
The silence was broken by a girl’s giggle from the back of the room.
The judge came to life. “Take him away!” he shrieked, his own spittle spraying. The entire courtroom exploded into sound, everyone trying to be heard above his neighbor. I was surprised that the judge had controlled his temper for this long, since my courtroom demeanor includes far more than spitting in the judge’s face as he passes sentence. The vocabulary I had used today would have burned even my father’s ears, master curser though he was.
I struggled as the men beside me grabbed me by my upper arms and dragged me toward the rear, pushing their way firmly through the crowd. I found time to wink at the girl who had giggled. She was no more than seven or eight, and was dressed in a spotless white dress. She smiled back, but I was hauled quickly away and out of the noise and stifling heat into the bright noon sunshine.
Either it was normal procedure to hang people immediately after sentencing, or they made an exception in my case, because they dragged me along the main street toward the gallows that was located at the edge of town. On either side of the wide street were closely-spaced wooden buildings which grew scarcer nearer to the gallows. My efforts to free myself kicked up thick clouds of dust from the street which looked as if it had not seen rain in months. The gallows, now distantly visible at the end of the street, drew ominously nearer. Word of the inside festivities had spread swiftly, because the street was now lined with people in twos and threes hurrying to ensure a good view.
After what seemed like years, I was supported, shaking from exhaustion, at the foot of the gallows. An air of expectancy hung over the crowd which was nearly three times as large as the one in the courtroom — and was probably composed of every man, woman and child in the town. I was somewhat surprised at the presence of the children, but I guessed that perhaps the parents were trying to show them why they should be good and not break the law. I wondered how many hangings this crowd had witnessed, how often a body could be seen silhouetted against the evening sun as a silent reminder of their self-appointed superiority.
The stairs leading up to the platform were wide enough for three to walk abreast, which is how we ascended, the sun beating relentlessly upon my head. The wooden stairs creaked under our weight, but showed no signs of collapsing. I struggled as we climbed, trying to buy time.
We finally reached the top, and I was herded toward a four-by-four foot trap door with a lever upright next to it and the noose hanging long enough to be resting on the platform. One of the men produced a hood from somewhere, and raised it toward my head. I told him that I did not want it. “It ain’t for you,” he said, “It’s for them.”. He motioned with his head toward the crowd, “Hanged men aren’t too pretty.”
“I still don’t want it,” I repeated, “don’t I even get this last request?” He looked at me, shrugged, and tossed it aside. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief. That had been close. I needed to be able to speak clearly, and that isn’t too easy inside a hood.
They positioned me above the trap door, whose unsteadiness caused me to wonder whether or not it would give way prematurely. When the noose was placed upon me, the slack hung down to my knees. They pulled the knot tight and positioned it on the left side of my neck. Then they waited.
I looked out over the crowd, noticing that they were eager to watch, but careful to avoid meeting my gaze. I caught sight of the judge excusing himself through the crowd. He separated himself from the others and strode solemnly forward to read the charges and formally condemn me to death.
“Amos Jackson,” he intoned, which wasn’t my real name — though my fathers’ name was Jack. “You have been duly tried and found guilty of the murder of Cyral Blackwood.” Not his real name either. He went on to speak of my “lack of Christian morals” and “intolerable criminal character” — finally ending with, “And may Almighty God have mercy on your soul.” He paused for a moment with bowed head, and then looked up and nodded to the man on my left.
I glanced up at the sun. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. I had to stall.
I looked to my left where the man was reaching toward the lever. He stopped when I yelled unoriginally, “Wait!” I took a breath and couldn’t help but smile as I felt the power flow into me. I thought carefully back to what I was supposed to say. The crowd was intensely still as I opened my mouth to speak.
It was a pity that my execution would not be in the same world as my birth. I would have liked to have had my family and friends, and even poor Greshem, witness my escape. They would appreciate a show of power more than these people who lived in a world where magic was nearly forgotten. Maybe next time.
I was born Amonsl, second son of Jack the Cooper of Smithton. Smithton, located where the Brine and Capering rivers join to form the Leewater, is also one of the closest approaches to boatable water that Blackwood Forest makes. These two factors make Smithton the leading center of trade for the region, which in turn made my father, the leading cooper, a very prominent man.
Up until the time I was twelve, I was content with the idea of following in my father’s footsteps. The understanding was that when my father died, my brother Mordel, who is ten years my senior, and I would take over the coopery. Like my brother, I had nearly grown up in my father’s shop, the workmen and I becoming good friends, while I learned the trade at an early age. The noise and bustle of the shop kept me dazzled for many years. As I grew older and my interests broadened, I was intrigued by the fact that visiting merchants and tradesmen always seemed to bring their eligible young daughters along with them when discussing business with my father. They were apparently trying to insure good, inexpensive relations with my father by marrying into his family. Approaching my teens, it was not unreasonable to be thinking of marriage. My father had married at fourteen, my brother at sixteen. My brother’s son Will was only eight years younger than I.
Life went without incident until one day an eastern magician came to Smithton to perform. My father received a written invitation offering free admission for him and his family (an odd courtesy to extend to the rich). The name of the magician, it said, was Greshem of the Eastern Hills. He would perform an hour after sunset. Attending with my family, I didn’t know what to expect and did not imagine that it could change my life so drastically.
Word spread rapidly, and the crowd began to gather shortly after sundown. By showtime, most of the town were waiting eagerly for the magician to make his appearance. Suddenly, he was there, dressed in red and silver, emerging from a cloud of smoke. He seemed to me to be the oldest living human I ever seen, but his voice was young and strong. His eyes blazed like embers, and seemed to single me out, to burn into my soul. Throughout the entire act, I felt that I was the only one in the audience, that he and I were the only things in the universe. The splendor of the show was indescribable, though I now realize that it was composed of simple parlor tricks that require very little magic, if any at all. Nonetheless, the crowd went home feeling that they had gotten their money’s worth.
I stayed after everyone had gone, wanting to speak to him — to tell him how much I wanted to be a magician also; but I hid in the shadows, too afraid to find the words. I watched him for a time, packing up his equipment — until he turned to me and said, “Come over here, boy,” as if he had known I had been there all the time. Stepping out into the light, I walked warily over to where he had sat down.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice much older than it had been during his act, his eyes no longer blazing. How could he not know?
“Sir,” I had said, “can anyone learn to be a magician?” He studied me carefully for a very long time. I thought uncomfortably that he wasn’t going to answer, but at last he spoke.
“No, not anyone. A student of the arts should be young, bright and willing to devote himself entirely to learning.” I was silent for a time, summoning up courage for my next question.
My heart sank as he stood and began to walk away, carrying his few belongings. I felt like crying, but was too stunned to do anything. When he was nearly gone from sight, he turned to face me. Again, we were the only two things in the universe, and I heard him as clearly as if he were standing beside me. “Be ready with a horse and two days of provisions at sunrise.” Then he was gone, and I was left overflowing with emotion. I was halfway home before I realized that I had never actually asked if I could come.
I couldn’t sleep that night, and was in the stables an hour before dawn making preparations. Leaving word with my mother, as I was unable to face my father, I was hurrying toward the east end of town as the sky began to brighten. Greshem did not acknowledge me as I caught up to him, but I rode proudly in his wake as we journeyed to meet the rising sun.
It was three years before I returned to Smithton. I found that during that time both of my parents had died of a devastating plague during one of the rainy seasons. My brother Mordel, who had kept the business running successfully, was not especially happy to see me — for fear that I would claim my half. He was saving it for his son Kellen (Will had also died in the plague). I stayed for only one night, and then went back to my home in the Eastern Hills.
“It is essential for a magician to be able to see through illusions.” Greshem stood before me in red and silver. I had been apprenticed to him for eight years — most of which were spent in the small cave in which we now were. The cave was located high in the Eastern Hills, ten miles from the nearest town, and nearly thirty leagues from Smithton. I had learned much during that time. Delving deep into obscure disciplines and the archaic branches of learning, I had come slowly to understand the lore of the magician, I had also grown slowly to despise Greshem — because of the humor he found in my mistakes, and the joy he took in humiliating me.
Ten feet away, Greshem unconsciously smirked, anticipating my failure. His tone, that of a lecturer, was in odd contrast to the dagger he held loosely in his right hand. My eyes were on the dagger. “Illusions affect sight, hearing, and smell. The important difference is that illusions do not have the aura of the objects they appear to be, a difference you should be able to detect by now.”
Actually, I wasn’t as good at auras as I should have been — and the pressure of one of Greshem’s tests would only make things more difficult. The idea was simple though — a dog made to look like a cat still has the aura of a dog — a difference that a trained magician should be able to recognize at a glance. I chewed my lower lip and watched his right hand.
“An illusion can totally lack reality,” a flower appeared then disappeared in his previously empty left hand, “or it can be an alteration of reality,” the dagger in his right hand became a snake, “but one cannot hide reality behind nothing,” the dagger vanished for a moment, but even I could still see its aura.
Suddenly, his shoulders tensed and he threw the dagger, or did he? Time seemed to slow as I concentrated on the weapon e flying toward me. Did it have an aura? I couldn’t tell, and decided to play it safe. I dodged, and the dagger disappeared several feet in front of me leaving no aura. Illusion.
He was smiling openly as he threw the next dagger. I watched it hurl toward me. Illusion, I decided. Even if it weren’t, it would only nick my left arm. Standing still, I met his amused gaze — and the dagger painlessly creased my left shoulder drawing bright blood. Damn.
He laughed, “Not guessing very well are you?” he taunted. With a gesture, my wound vanished. It had been another illusion, damn him!
He threw another dagger and turned his back. Dodging, I heard it crash into the wall behind me. Inconclusive either way. Years of persecution stoked my anger. Drawing my own dagger, I raced toward him and dove at his back. I passed through him and hit the ground hard at the entranceway, my dagger clattering harmlessly out into the night. His laughter boomed loud from the shadows at the side of the cave — where my subconscious told me he had been the whole time. I glared at him, still not totally sure if he were real or another illusion. Getting to my feet, I ran shamefacedly out into the darkness.
I rushed aimlessly away from the cave. My eyes were filled with the red haze of anger. After perhaps fifteen minutes, I found myself beside a jagged outcropping of rock overlooking the eastern desert. I was at one of the highest points in the mountains. I marvelled silently at the good fortune I had had in not falling to my death along the way. Travel in the mountains is dangerous enough in full daylight, but to charge about recklessly at night is folly. I looked out over the desert as my breathing slowed. The moon was beginning to rise to the southeast. Long, silvery fingers of moonlight stretched bleakly across the desert floor casting dark silhouettes of the scattered rock formations. I watched the shadows shrink to half their size, but still my anger did not lessen. I would kill Greshem if I could, but should I try and fail…
I heard some rocks scatter behind me as someone approached. Greshem? Seeking to make amends? I was thinking of ignoring him until I remembered my attempt on his life. Fearing reciprocation, I spun around. Before me was a tall, bearded man much younger in appearance than Greshem. He was dressed in blue with a red cross upon his left shoulder. His staff glowed dimly. I checked automatically that it was not another of Greshem’s illusions.
“Cephus!” I hissed. This man was a rival magician as great as Greshem — but, if tales can be believed, far more evil. Greshem was often complaining of Cephus interfering in his plans. I made preparations to defend myself.
“Come now, lad,” he said smiling broadly, “I come in peace!”
“Why should I believe you, dog? Your very breath reeks of lies!”
‘You believe me evil?” he laughed good naturedly, “Where I come from, tales of Greshem’s atrocities are terrible enough to curdle blood. He looked at me penetratingly. “Don’t believe everything you hear.
I relaxed somewhat. “What do you want?”
I stood at the cave mouth, staring at Greshem’s back as he sat cross-legged before the fire. I thought back to my encounter with Cephus. He had stated that he had a plan where I could humiliate Greshem without fear of retaliation. As I asked him to explain, I already knew that I would accept. My eyes narrowed as I recalled the many times I had been humiliated and disgraced by Greshem. Savoring my hatred, I thought about the fact that soon I would no longer be his apprentice. This act would be a fitting farewell gift.
Greshem misinterpreted my pause in entering. “All is well,” he said, “I forgive you for your rashness.”. Biting back a sarcastic reply, I entered the cave and found my bedroll. Lying down, I closed my eyes — but was too anxious to sleep. The waiting seemed endless. Unbelievably, I must have dozed off for a time because the fire suddenly seemed much lower than it had. Greshem finally retired when the fire did, but I lay still another hour before rising and creeping carefully toward him.
As a magician increases in knowledge and power, he discovers after a time that there is a limit to the amount that he can accumulate. To increase further, the magician must employ some outside means to relieve the burden of further gains. The typical solution is to store portions of previously-obtained wisdom in some personal magical item called a ‘token’.
Once a magician acquires a token, he is said to be at the ‘master level.’ Many masters store the bulk of their knowledge in their tokens. This being the case, tokens are carefully guarded and protected. Since it is possible to become attuned to another magician’s token, it sometimes occurs that a younger magician gains the powers of a much more experienced magician, thus saving many years of studying and training.
Standing beside the fire I had just made, I turned Greshem’s token over in my hand. It was a small crystal, the size of my smallest finger, fastened to a gold chain. It flashed brilliant yellow in the firelight.
Cephus had given me a tiny mushroom that he had picked up in his travels — whose spores, when inhaled, render the victim unable to perform any magic for twenty-four hours. The mushroom must be crushed beneath the very nose of the victim. As Greshem’s apprentice, I was the only one whom he trusted enough not to set automatic magical guards against. Therefore, I was the only one who could get close enough to him — even in his sleep.
I had asked Cephus what he would gain if I agreed to his plan. He replied, “The satisfaction of Greshem being defeated by a lesser magician, and also the respite gained by preventing him from meddling in my own affairs for a time.” Spurred on by thoughts of revenge against Greshem, I probed no further.
I looked down at Greshem as he sat against the wall, powerless, his hands and feet bound. Turning to go, I knew that he would be able to free himself once what powers he had left returned. “Worthless lout!” he cried after me, “ungrateful goat! I curse you a thousand times! I shall revenge you into my grave!”
Laughing, I strode from the cave, putting his token safely within my pouch.
Midday found me approaching the woodcutter’s shack Cephus had described. He had instructed me to bring him the token so he could show me how to attune myself to it. Reining in my horse, I dismounted. Cephus met me at the door! “Where is it?” he asked, his eyes bright.
I put my hand to my pouch. “Not so fast,” I said confidently, stepping past him into the building. The world went painfully dark.
I awoke only a short time later, judging by the sun. My brain throbbed in agony, and I had a large knot on the back of my head. My pouch was gone.
I made to cast a spell that would tell me Cephus’ whereabouts, and was perplexed when nothing happened. Going through the motions again with the same result, I came to the conclusion that he must have used one of his mushrooms on me while I was unconscious. All my magic was gone.
I cursed my stupidity. Cephus was by now the most powerful magician in centuries — having certainly taken time to attune himself to Greshem’s token, and I was powerless. Locating my horse, I mounted. There really was little doubt to where Cephus had gone. I hurried back the way I had come to avenge Greshem’s certain death.
Night had fallen before I drew near the cave that had been my home for many years. From many miles away, I could see and hear the battle raging like some multihued thunderstorm, but now, all was eerily silent. It was almost exactly one day since I had robbed Greshem of his powers. If his defenses could hold for a few more minutes…
Suddenly, I was standing beside him, amid a landscape charred and blackened. Though his lifeblood spilled from several mortal wounds, his eyes blazed with a cold fire. He had regained his power. I marvelled at how Greshem could have survived for so long. How little I knew of his power. It was then that I knew fear — for I realized that he could kill me now should he wish.
As if sensing my fear, he smiled weakly. “I have one more task for you Amonsl.” For the better part of a minute, rugged coughing shook his body. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth as he fought to hang on to his rapidly-fading life for a few more moments. At last, he was once more able to speak. “Destroy Cephus. Follow him to wherever he may lead, but destroy him. Give me your word that you will do this thing.” Afraid to do anything else, I gave him my word.
Breath rattled in his chest as he hurried to finish what he had to say. “Cephus will travel through time and space trying to escape. Do not lose him. Once he is no more, you will wish to return to this plane — but you lack the necessary lore. Merely say these words,” he whispered a phrase in the Old Tongue, “but only after you have slain him! Thus shall I have my revenge.”
He was gone then, upon his face a peaceful, if crooked, smile.
I looked up and saw Cephus standing on a nearby ridge. He sneered at me, then turned and walked away, his laughter louder than the thunder. I sighed and trekked reluctantly after him.
I know where this is going — can you guess? Maybe I’ve written the ending already, but it’s not stapled to the rest of the story.
So I’ve gone through all my papers, and I do not have an existing written ending — but here’s what will happen: the main character (Amonsl) will pursue and eventually kill Cephus, then say the words that Greshem told him — but… those words won’t transport Amonsl back, they will instead kill him (‘thus shall I have my revenge’).
