Sinners of Magic

Sinners of
Magic

Lynette E.
Creswell

Published in 2014 by
SmashWords

Copyright ©Lynette E
.
Creswell
2014 Smashwords
Edition

First Edition

The author has asserted their
moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to
be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of
this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise
circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which
it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on
the subsequent purchaser.

All characters and events in
this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this
title is available from the British Library.

This book is
ded
icated to my mum, Shirley, who loved my
story with a passion, but never lived long enough to see it in
print.

Acknowledgements

Many people
have given me valuable encouragement, support and constructive
criticism during the writing of this book, which will eventually be
a trilogy. Thank you to:

Andy, my
long-suffering husband for believing in me and being so supportive;
Jamie, my son, for helping me sculpt the first few chapters;
Kristian, Arron and Alex for listening to a new chapter over and
over again; Hannah Clark, my daughter-in-law to be, for her
friendship, enthusiasm and ability to reread; Cheryl, my
daughter-in-law, for her funny suggestions and bags of
wit.

A huge ‘Thank
You ‘ must go to Sue Christelow for editing my story to such a high
standard and making me realise no author can do it alone. And last
but by no means least, Phil Moss, who painted the most amazing
cover.

Prologue

The forest seemed calm and
settled for the night until a storm broke high above the whispering
trees. Across a narrow mud track a solitary figure hurried along a
darkened trail. Hunched over to protect himself from the rain and
bitter wind, the elf dragged the hood of his cloak down over his
brow. A lock of black hair escaped his grasp and it danced to and
fro across his forehead until he grabbed hold and pushed it behind
a pointed ear. A flash of lightning filled the night sky and the
elf looked up, revealing his two crimson eyes. He found the light
almost blinding and so he pulled the hood even closer and then
quickly carried on his way.

It had been a long journey,
plagued with worry and mindless stress over what was yet to come.
He was a shape-changer of considerable talent yet he was forbidden
to use any of his powers outside of his own realm; it was the law.
The elf therefore travelled in his human form, avoiding unwanted
attention from his own kind and maintaining a low profile.

Without warning, the rain
changed to hail, stinging his eyes and freezing his toughened skin.
He shivered, feeling the cold worm its way down his spine, but he
was also aware he was almost at his journey’s end. A memory
flashed; it was brief but sharp and he strained his eyes into the
darkest part of the wood.

As he drew away from the path,
he was able to make out the dark silhouette of a small, rounded
door, hidden in a mesh of brambles and thick foliage. It was old
and neglected, just as he remembered, and its ivy-covered hinges
were crudely carved within the trunk of a huge oak tree.

His cloth-wrapped boots stepped
without a sound over debris and hidden roots and the hairs on the
back of his neck stood rigid and sharp when a twig snapped beneath
one of his feet. He inhaled a deep breath, calling upon a calm
state of mind, preparing himself to convene with a powerful force
known to be much stronger than his own. With only the briefest
hesitation he grabbed hold of the slippery latch and pushed his way
inside the witch’s domain, praying he would live to see the sun
rise.

‘
Who’s
there?’ demanded the witch, hearing the door creak open. ‘’Have you
no manners? Hasn’t anyone ever taught you to knock?’

The elf stepped out of the
shadows and made a small bow whilst mumbling some kind of
apology.

‘
Oh, it’s
you, Tremlon,’ she muttered, sounding somewhat disappointed. ‘Close
that damn door before I catch me death.’ Tremlon did as he was told
before untying his rain-soaked cloak and allowing it to fall onto
the small stool by his feet.

‘
You’re
late,’ the witch snapped, pointing a bony finger towards him.
‘Where’ve you been ‘till now?’

Tremlon’s brow furrowed.

‘
Lilura, you
know I’ve travelled far,’ he said, sounding terse. ‘Is this any way
to greet a guest?’

The witch watched him with a
crooked smile playing across her thin, stretched lips.

‘
There’s a
lot of things I’d call you and a guest ain’t one of them!’ she
spat. Tremlon frowned. It was obvious she had no intention of
making this visit anything less than uncomfortable for him. He felt
his eyes roll over his host’s attire.

Lilura was dressed in long,
dark robes, which rested upon the straw-covered floor. The hem of
her clothing was tatty with age, a string of dried dirt clinging to
the bottom of her garment. She was old enough to be his
great-grandmother, and her skin was dry and paper thin, wrinkled in
some places and stretched to the point of splitting in others. Her
face was haggard beyond any recognition, but her eyes were sharp
and alive. He felt himself redden when she caught him watching
her.

‘
I’m soaked
to the skin,’ he ventured, when she didn’t offer for him to sit by
the fire. ‘Will you not allow me to be warm and dry this
night?’

‘
If you feel
you must,’ she said, pointing to a spot where he would not be in
her way. ‘Just don’t go making yourself too
comfortable!’

A fire blazed in the farthest
corner of the room and he watched in wonder when a prism of bright
shimmers bounced softly against the unusual angular walls. Her lair
was as he remembered. Each dark corner was filled with eerie
objects and deadly beasties. The strong aroma which filled his
nostrils was not of death, as one might expect, but of the powerful
scent of the forest. He noted a vast mixture of herbs and dried
flowers dangled along the roofline, like an upside-down, dehydrated
meadow. Plants which she used either for their healing properties
or to make her deathly poisons.

As he approached the flames,
the witch nodded towards a large twisted root which she used as a
table.

‘
Sit over
there,’ she commanded, turning to view her visitor with shrewd
eyes. ‘I’ve been paid to feed you b’fore we leave.’

Tremlon felt a shiver of
apprehension creep down his spine at the thought of her offering
him food. He knew it would not be wise to decline her offer and
sensed the danger she put him in, forcing the chill in his bone to
deepen.

‘
You’ll not
be poisoned this night,’ she said with a cackle. ‘I’ve been paid
well by your king for this conspiracy, enough it seems to spare
your wretched life this night.’

Tremlon dropped his gaze,
trying to keep his turbulent emotions well hidden. Secretly, he
chided himself for his carelessness; she had been able to read his
thoughts too easily. There was a moment’s silence as he closed his
mind to her.

‘
I told you
to sit,’ she snapped, turning hostile when she realised he’d
severed the connection.

Reluctantly he obeyed, afraid
of the glare still burning in her eyes, aware of her
unpredictability.

‘
The child’s
not here then?’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant. The old crone
let out a hiss between her rotting teeth.

‘
No, she
isn’t here yet,’ she answered, moving slowly towards a brewing pot.
‘Time enough for trouble,’ she added, twisting her body to shoot
him a menacing grin. She flicked her tongue along her lips, tasting
the fear that emanated from his life force, giving her cause for a
moment of satisfaction. She picked up a ladle and filled a coarse,
wooden bowl with a thin broth she had made earlier in anticipation
of his arrival.

‘
Be at ease,
elf,’ she said, adding one more spoonful. ‘The wind will bring the
babe soon enough.’

She turned, placing the bowl
before him, together with a crudely carved wooden spoon.

‘
It’ll give
you the strength of mind you seek, along with the gift of courage
you so lack,’ she hissed, her eyes almost black with
wickedness.

Tremlon felt himself bristle
and a tremble of anger rippled down his spine. His lips pursed at
the slight, but he remained silent. He disliked the old woman
intensely, but was no fool to her powers. Instead, he picked up the
spoon and placed the first mouthful of the watery broth to his
lips. She turned away from him and stared into the flames.

Slowly, the elf started to
chew, grimacing with embarrassment when his stomach growled from
hunger.

‘
Damn cold
night for a babe to be travelling,’ he remarked, mustering some
courage to break the eerie silence and to hide the rumble from his
stomach. Lilura moved towards the warmth of the fire, watching with
interest the long, dark shadows created by the flames.

‘
And to be a
long one for us,’ she said, her eyes turning cold.

‘
My humble
thanks for the food,’ he replied, ignoring her menacing
stare.

‘
It’s what’s
expected of me,’ Lilura answered, with a shrug of a bony shoulder.
‘But be warned, my kind deeds have run dry.’ Before he could answer
the door burst open, causing huge droplets of icy rain to blow in
the witch’s face.

‘
Be off with
you, stranger!’ Lilura screeched, when the dark silhouette of a man
blocked her small doorway. ‘You have no right to be
here.’

‘
It’s
Bridgemear!’ shouted Tremlon, feeling relieved to see the magician.
‘It’s good to see you safe and well.’

The newcomer was a larger man
than the elf, tall and solidly built. His clothes were filthy from
the track, but the dirt did nothing to hide his ice-blue eyes. He
stepped forward with wide strides, a confidence born only of the
powerful. A nod of his head was his only acknowledgement that he
had heard the elf as he stepped inside.

Bridgemear was well over six
feet tall, born within an elite realm of sorcerers, and the room
was made even smaller by his presence. He wore a long, draping coat
and, pulling back the hood, he revealed plaited blonde hair falling
either side of a strikingly handsome face. His menacing stare
rested upon the shape-changer.

‘
Tremlon,’ he
said, his eyes hard like pieces of flint, ‘I have the child, as
arranged.’ Closing the door with the heel of his boot, he took a
step towards them. The roof was low, almost touching his head; he
flicked his gaze across the room. A spare chair moved to his side
and he sat without invitation.

Disturbed by the sudden mayhem,
a mangy cat slipped between the unwanted intruders; unnoticed it
crept towards the magician. In a flash its claws were outstretched,
seeking his flesh, and with one vicious swipe it latched itself
onto his calf.

‘
Get away!’
cried Bridgemear, kicking the startled feline aside. ‘I have no
time to mess with familiars.’ The witch moved surprisingly quickly
for an old crone, grabbing Bridgemear’s arm in retaliation. She
instantly regretted her impulsive action when hot pain seared
through her fingertips and up her arm. She bit her lip to stifle a
cry, releasing her grip and leaping back in shock. Bridgemear
chuckled, but his eyes flashed like cold steel.

‘
Foolish
one,’ he chided, beginning to unfasten his tunic. ‘You of all
people should know your darkness cannot touch the light.’ The witch
stole to the rear of the room, still rubbing her arm.

‘
I haven’t
even been told what all this is about yet,’ she lied, when the pain
in her fingers began to subside and her anger had no choice but to
cool.

Bridgemear’s lips tightened.
‘You know too much of my business already,’ he spat, causing his
eyes to narrow. ‘You know only too well what you have to do.’
Peeling back his cloak, he revealed the half-naked body of a
sleeping child. ‘You must ensure the babe is switched with one that
has died in the ordinary world.’