Veneficus: Stones of the Chosen (24 page)

The long magus had a mischievous glint to the fading iridescence of his bushy-browed eyes as he blew on his long fingers.

“I enjoyed that. Haven’t blown anything up for many a long year.” He turned to the boy. “C’mon, skirmisher, I need a rest. All this excitement is wearing me out.”

Mael sat in his customary position by the lakeside surrounded by otters. His hearing was now gradually joining his blindness, speech was becoming difficult, his mental capacity was waning, and he couldn’t stand up anymore. With less than nine days to go his system was shutting down rapidly. The ability to handle any sorcery, even the most basic stuff, had also deserted him. None of this worried him. His had led, apart from the last fifteen years with Elelendise and the disappearance of Simeon, a contented and productive life. Much good had been done through many interesting and ultimately fulfilling acts of mainly virtuous sorcery. Humanity hereabouts was definitely better off for his being around. And always the love, affection, and lifelong companionship of his beloved otter, now surrounding him in their hundreds as they proudly sat with him through those final few days. Great grandfathers sat alongside grandmothers and grandfathers, mothers and fathers, and children. A great mix of long-tailed, thick brown and gray fur with occasional breast patches of white, and bright brown, intelligent eyes fixed on his face around the spiky gray whiskers that were so sensitive to current, smells, and temperature changes. From time to time a young otter, nudged or prompted by an elder, would ease up to Mael’s side and place its head on his knee for a few moments in a sort of personal homage. Receiving a gentle tickle behind the ears from the old magus, the youngster would walk quietly back to its place and, amid a lick or two of approval from the elders it passed on the way, resume its vigil. Every now and then one or two would slide off into the water to lubricate the oily, thick skin, only to return to the same spot to once again fix on the face of their bald, blind old liege-lord. He had counseled them carefully throughout the last year on their feelings and behavior when these moments arrived. Their demeanor must reflect a quiet happiness and contentment. There must be no regrets or mourning, no sadness. The old enchanter had completed his term of venefical office, and his going was a celebration. One day in the distant future another liege-lord would arrive. No one knew when or who it would be, but there would be one. In the meantime their colony was strong and sustainable through the good fish and water husbandry the old magus had taught them. And now, finally, Mael had the one missing piece of his departure that had been worrying him. It had been a close-run thing, but Merlin had turned up just in time to ensure his correct placement under his destiny stone. The old Wessex warmonger, so long a distant figure of derision and wrong-headedness for Mael, had arrived just in time and had proven to be a most engaging and resourceful veneficus. And, like Mael, a student of Hellenistic strictures as a life guide, albeit the old northern magus had preferred the more basic leanings of Diogenes and the Cynics. Had Merlin and Mael had more time together they could have really become something, perhaps changed the course of this emerging absurdity known as Christianity that was pervading these lands. Still, better late than never, and the night they had spent together laughing their way through the mistakes and successes of their magical lives had brought great joy to them both. As for Elelendise and her immortal mentor Tiresias, their little game was far from complete. The long magus and his extraordinary young tyro would surely make life difficult for them.

Sitting amid his devoted animals, contentedly reflecting on matters as he moved inexorably toward his last moments, Mael was at peace with his world.

Until, in a screeching, clawing maw of seething high otter resentment, Elelendise arrived.

There are many other minor deities, semi-gods, and pretenders drifting around the Presidium, quite a few of whom are related to the nine members of the ruling elite. As with all large, powerful dynasties there is constant jockeying for positions and favors. A successful show wouldn’t do Tiresias’s future any harm - keep him on Zeus’s special tablet for another couple of thousand years or so.

The long magus and Twilight sat in the shade of a small copse of silver birch trees practicing magic. Reasonably proficient now in rendering himself invisible and transforming him and anything he was holding short distances, the boy was eager to learn more. The next stage in his use of the enchantments was the manipulation of other objects or people. As Merlin explained, manipulation of one’s self was basic sorcery; moving others or objects around or changing their physical structure was an altogether harder accomplishment.

“Although I chastised you at the time, I really liked the way you turned that Lindisfarne monk into a goat.” The boy giggled. “Can you teach me to do that?”

“That will take time. First of all we will start by changing simpler objects, always remembering, of course, the law of reversal. We must always retain the ability to return it back to its original state.”

He broke off a small silver birch branch, walked ten paces away, and pushed it into the ground. Sitting down by the boy he indicated the branch.

“You have noticed that my eyes glow an iridescent green when I use an enchantment, and the repellent wolf-woman’s glow blue. Although your glow is still in its infancy - it increases with the onset of power - it is a delightful dark glow. A manifestation of an iridescent color formation that I have never seen before, a black light. As your abilities and usage of the enchantments grow, the glow will intensify. Remember always that
mens agitate molem -
mind moves matter. If you think deeply enough upon that branch I have just stuck in the ground, you should be able to turn it into a small, growing silver birch sapling. The way to accomplish this is to fix the object for a complete instant in your mind to the exclusion of everything else. Absorb it, take on its properties. In the case of that branch, feel the bark as if it were your own skin, feel the pith and sap oozing through it as if it were your blood, its grained fibers your sinews - in short, become it.”

Twilight concentrated on the branch, and a faint dark glow irradiated from his eyes.

And the branch suddenly became a clump of daffodils.

Chuckling merrily the long magus indicated with a circular motion that the boy should reverse the procedure, and the daffodils turned into a thorn bush, then a nettle, a pile of wet mud, a boulder, and finally, after much hand wringing and steely concentration, back to the original branch.

“There.” The old astounder beamed. “You’ve done it.”

“But I never managed to turn it into a sapling.” The boy sighed.

The long magus waved his hand and opened the long fingers to reveal a small seed pod.

“Here, plant this silver birch seed. It will grow quicker!”

After more practice and a great deal of mirth at the strange objects that appeared, they settled down in the shade to rest.

“Apart from the annual visit to Stonehenge to soothe the cowerers in the raging mists, wars and religions,” Twilight sighed, “seem to dominate everything we do. Are these the dominant factors of the life of a veneficus?”

“The landscape of your early life as the Wessex veneficus will undoubtedly be, as was mine, dominated by war. In my case it was Arthur, and in yours it is Penda. The difference is that I was on the same side as Arthur, who was usually the aggressor, whereas you are in opposition to the aggressor. There is, however, a common denominator …”

The long magus stopped and raised a questioning bushy eyebrow at the boy.

“Christianity,” replied Twilight immediately. “Both Arthur and Penda put their trust in that faith.”

Merlin nodded. “Although I stood alongside Arthur and added the weight of the enchantments to his many victories, I could never shake him of this Christian faith, however much I pointed out that it was based around a whole series of unconnected absurdities or that, due to my venefical duties, I knew the real truth of the afterlife. Christianity had become too ingrained with him as a reason to do things. The belief excuses the act. It is the same with Penda, who uses its proliferation to justify this invasion of our Celtic heartland.”

“If Penda wasn’t a Christian, would he still want to conquer this land?”

“Of course. He’d just find another set of reasons to justify the bloodshed. They all do. This was proven when Arthur came up against another Christian enemy. The fact that both were supported by the same faith didn’t stop them fighting. The common Christian brotherhood instantly disintegrated in the face of continued dominance by one over the other. When faith was rendered mute by commonality, something else just had to be found to replace it as a reason for conflict. The fighting must go on at all costs. Nothing must be allowed to stop that.”

“But surely the essence of a held belief is peaceful coexistence with one another?”

The long magus shook his head.

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? However, history teaches us otherwise. It’s in the stars that mankind will always fight, with or without a reason. Peaceful coexistence with each other is not an option, not for very long anyhow.”

“Is there anything we can do to shake or replace Penda’s belief?”

“Probably not, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t give it a try. Besides, I think it’s time we met the northern king face to face … don’t you?”

Penda was on his knees in the small chapel of Cadbury Castle praying fervently. It was the early hours of the morning, and he was alone. The room was lit by three guttering candles around the stone walls, their flickering flames casting eerie shadows on the crude wooden cross and rough-hewn benches. It was two days after the flood, an event from which the mighty northern conqueror had not recovered and probably never would. Four hundred and fifty well-armed soldiers under his direct command completely and comprehensively beaten by an old man of ninety-three and a boy of eleven. He now knew beyond all doubt that this sorcery could be a powerful weapon in the right hands. He was almost at the point of recalling Elelendise; ill-used or even naive sorcery was better than none at all. His campaign was not going well, and he needed some help and guidance, preferably from the Almighty himself. He was praying for a sign and confirmation that he was doing the right thing. Most of all he was praying for the return of his beloved daughter.

He became distracted and couldn’t concentrate upon his communion. His god would not speak to him unless his entire being was immersed in the act of worship. He paused, squeezed his eyes shut, and pushed his forehead hard into his thumbs and tried again to pray. Nothing came; his brain refused to function, his mouth steadfastly mute. He became frozen in the act of worship. Only his eyes worked when he opened them.

Then he wished he hadn’t.

For standing in the flickering shadows in front of him, one towering over the other, was a pair of ill-matched specters that could only be Merlin and his boy tyro. Whilst he, the mighty conquering king of the north and head of the largest army in the land, had been rendered speechless and was on his knees, paralyzed in an attitude of total submission before them.

From the shadows playing around his face Merlin’s smile beamed down at him as he nodded his head in greeting.

“By the Mountains of the Mothers, what do we have here?” he said quietly.

“I believe it to be a trespassing invader king, prostrate, paralyzed, and mute,” replied his boy companion.

Eyes bulging in anger Penda strained every sinew to break out of the paralysis. It was no good. He was completely immobile; all he could do was look, listen, and breathe.

“A trespassing invader king, prostrate, paralyzed, and mute, eh,” the long magus repeated. “Not, then, an ancient Babylonian or Persian king, lands where men knew from the very beginning of time - when the earth had been under the control of savage demons - that civilization and order would only hold through the establishment of a true king. Kingless chaos was the Babylonians’ ultimate nightmare. Their prayers to the gods were answered, a monarch was installed, the line of succession established, and order and civilization ensured. I know that we are in barbarian Wessex and different divinities and customs exist, but those old ancients knew a few things when it came to the reasoning behind king-making. This person before us, therefore, cannot be a true king, for he is the perpetrator of a great deal of disorder and chaos in these lands. I think that he is a demon, not a king, and I certainly would not humble myself before him. Would you?”

The boy considered the question before answering gravely, “I would not. Did the Babylonians not have the main thoroughfare in their great city named ‘May-the-Arrogant-Not-Flourish’ as a state behavior symbol and memory of past kings and their understated achievements?”

“They did. Do you suppose there is such a thoroughfare in Northumberland, the land where this demon-who-would-be-aking comes from?”

“I very much doubt it, but we could ask him. Can Northumberland demons speak?” Twilight said, coming closer and peering questioningly into Penda’s bulging eyes.

“Only in short bursts,” said the long magus. “Tell us, trespassing, prostrate, and paralyzed invader demon-who-wouldbe-king, do you have a thoroughfare in Northumberland named May-the-Arrogant-Not-Flourish?”

His eyes glowed iridescent green, and Penda’s speech was restored.

Immediately as Penda felt his power of speech return he opened his mouth to let out a great bellow of anger and call for his guards.