#48: Bad Magic

Images of Frode’s brutal ritual continue to haunt me through the silence and darkness, of blood pouring from his mouth as he digs out a pair of teeth with my blade, replacing them with stones from the pouch seized from the heucuva.  The nature of the stones eludes me, and it takes effort to push the grisly thoughts from my mind. I focus instead on my facsimile of Frode’s pattern of sticks and bones, used to power the elder’s spell.  The arcane style, primitive yet effective, fascinates me, and I do my best to reconstruct it from memory.  Once satisfied with the results, sleep threatens, so I settle into my hide near the small bonfire, seeking rest.

I am disturbed by the crunch of boots in the snow, however, and stare as I see Vargmenni standing a few yards away.  I watch as she scans the camp, Aros and I sleeping near the fire, and her attention rests for a while on my reconstruction of Frode’s spell.  She says nothing, and after a few long moments, turns away.  Curious but unconcerned, I give in to fatigue and settle into a deep sleep.

A woman’s scream pierces the night, and I pull myself quickly to my feet.  Aros is already standing, his cudgel in hand, and he marches through Tovt.  “Zeb?” I call out questioningly, pointing to my chest, then to the village to see if he wants me to follow.  He looks back and holds up a hand in a staying gesture—I obey, drawing my knife as I try to stay alert.

Several members of the village are stirred into motion by the scream, and I can see a torch or two flickering in the distance.  The shadows make it hard, but I catch glimpse of Frode’s figure in the shadows, dragging behind him the form of a woman in one hand and a large sword in the other.  It is not Vargmenni, that much is clear.  His torso is still covered in blood, though it’s not clear if it is fresh or dried blood from the brutal extractions earlier this evening.  The woman he drags does not seem to be resisting, though she seems fearful or distressed. 

I follow his passage until he disappears into the village, and while I am concerned for what might be going on, I recognize the impracticality of doing anything about it.  The sword, however, is a curiosity—it speaks of craftsmanship I had not yet seen displayed in the village.

In a few minutes, the camp settles and Aros returns.  He appears stoic, and barely acknowledges me before settling back into his bedroll, ignoring my questioning looks.  Though wracked by curiosity I do not broach the matter—Aros has earned my trust, and if he is not concerned, I do my best to suppress my own disquiet.  More noises are heard throughout the night, muffled screams and cries, but no one stirs or makes to stop them.  I find falling back to sleep difficult, so I sit near the fire cross-legged and focus on my breathing until sleep finally comes. 

When I awaken, I can see Aros sitting near the fire staring into the flames.  His clay jug of water is nearby, and he shares it with me.  I point to a haunch of the deer and then to the fire, making it clear that I intend to cook breakfast.  He nods in approval, and once cooked we share the meat silently.  When finished, Aros stands and gestures for me to remain again before heading to the village.  I can see villagers going about their business but can make out few other details, so I content myself to eat and drink my fill, eager to regain my strength.

When Aros eventually returns, he issues what appears to be a command.  “Okt!” he says, gesturing for me to stand and follow.  I assent, walking quietly behind him as he leads me to Frode.  The elder looks agitated this morning, the cause unknown.  He has changed his hides, but dried flakes of blood are still visible on his neck, arms and legs.  I peer at his face, expecting to see bruising or swelling from the ritual, and while I see signs of damage to his face, it’s not as horrid as I would have thought.  Aros’ folk are hardened, indeed.

“Good morning,” I offer as a greeting, not expecting a response.  Frode regards me with a piercing stare, and when he replies it is to Aros in his own language, not to me.  His speech is altered by the removal of his teeth, his voice coarse and speech somewhat slurred.  Frode gestures to both of us, continuing to speak unintelligibly, and I recognize only Vargmenni’s name.  After the conversation we are clearly dismissed, and Aros guides me away from Tovt.

When we return to camp, Aros gestures for me to gather my belongings.  I leave the sticks and bones behind, throwing the deer hide over a shoulder and pat the knife tucked into my belt, gesturing that I’m ready.  We walk to the edge of the village where we meet a pair of large men, clearly warriors, each carrying a weapon similar to that of Aros.  Vargmenni and Frode appear shortly after, though from separate directions, the elder carrying his immense sword in one hand.  The other holds a rope, and from it Frode drags a bedraggled woman.  She is clothed, though appears as if she has been beaten recently—or worse.

Frode stands before the group, pulling the woman roughly to his side.  He gestures to each gathered, starting with Aros, speaking the warrior’s name.  The other warriors he identifies as Harka and Baln, and a slight scowl crosses his face when he names Vargmenni.  The scowl deepens when he points to the other woman, naming her Gola.  Frode clearly intends for us to leave Tovt, though the destination is unknown.  Unsure how it will be received, I turn to Vargmenni and speak in the common tongue.  “Are we going to danger?” I ask her slowly, using the most basic language I can.  She takes a few moments to process before responding slowly.

“Danger,” she says awkwardly, and I am glad to see that the exchange does not seem to anger Frode.  I point to Aros’ hide armor and weapon and turn to regard Frode, pointing a finger at my own chest.  “Warrior,” I say, attempting to communicate that I am capable of bearing arms.  Vargmenni looks as if she’s going to speak on my behalf but Frode interrupts, and whatever he says puts an end to the conversation.  I nod, deciding not to press the matter.  Frode gestures and Aros leads our small group from the village, heading into the wilderness.

Aros looks at me almost empathetically, thumping on his chest.  I take it as a sign of reassurance, thumping my own chest and smiling, doing my best to keep up.  Seven of us form a procession that leads into the hills.  Though still uncertain of the terrain, I assume that we are heading back to the stone circle and the heucuva.  The rapid pace of the warriors requires nearly all of my focus and energy to keep up, and I spare no time to attempt any further communication. 

Two days of sleep and nourishment have done much to restore my constitution, and I feel more like myself.  The terrain we pass through is rough, with many light snowbanks.  Vargmenni and Gola do not travel particularly fast compared to the men, which provides some relief to the otherwise strenuous pace, especially as we reach small ridges and hills.  My thoughts stray towards Nobanion, knowing that we are headed towards some unknown danger, and I find myself eager to prove myself to my new patron in some way.  We travel all day, sun rising and then beginning to fall again, and it is not until sunset that our group pauses to rest.  A bright moon rises into the clouded sky.

Before long, my assumptions are confirmed, and I can see the circle of stones in the dim light atop a nearby ridge.  I point ahead and say “heucuva”, looking to the warriors and to Frode to see what reaction is elicited.  The warriors seem hesitant and cautious, but Frode surprises me by laughing out loud.  It is an altogether unexpected reaction, and I find that Frode’s confidence is actually rather unsettling.  He pushes forward, raising his enormous blade.  I shrug to Aros, draw my knife and follow.

Frode stops before entering, gesturing for Aros and the warriors to flank the circle of stones.  Frode drops Gola’s tether, and she sits on a nearby rock obediently.  The nature of their relationship is still a mystery.  I recognize this is the first time that Aros has left my side, and I am left alone with Frode, Gola and Vargmenni.  The absence of the large warrior, my protector and only friend in this strange world, leaves me feeling vulnerable. 

Frode motions for me and Vargmenni to follow behind him as he steps towards the menhirs, and his pace quickens as he cries out “Heucuva!” and unlimbers his large sword.  I follow as commanded, though Frode’s sudden transformation leaves me feeling very uncertain.  Rather than the composed elder and potential mentor I had expected, Frode has turned out to be impetuous and violent, reminiscent more of a Malaran beast cultist than a village elder.

A cloaked figure steps from amid the circle, the heucuva in its disguise.  Frode’s march hastens as he raises his sword and he launches himself into the air, feet leaving the ground, taking flight as if aided by magic. Vargmenni and the others are as shocked as I am, and she clutches my arm, looking terrified.  “Bad magic,” she says with a quivering voice.  It seems clear she’s referring to Frode, not the heucuva, and my instincts take over as I motion for her to stand behind me, putting myself between her and the creature.

Frode hovers over the stone circle and the heucuva for a moment, then suddenly dives towards the creature, his sword whirling.  He slashes mightily in a cross swing that strikes the creature, though the blow seems deflected, leaving the heucuva seemingly unharmed.  Frode lands nearby, growling angrily, and the creature’s disguise is cast off.  It lashes out at Frode with skeletal hands, though Frode backs out of reach, avoiding the attack.

I turn to Vargmenni and command her to remain behind as I approach the circle, careful not to cross the threshold.  While trying to keep an eye on Frode I examine the ground, hoping to find a weapon or something that can be of use.  I see the hilt of a broadsword in a pile of snow nearby, but nothing else of apparent value.

Frode swings wildly again, his blade passing in front of or directly through the creature.  The length of Frode’s weapon keeps the heucuva at bay, preventing a counterattack.  In a second, overhead stroke that would cut a normal man in half, Frode strikes the creature in the shoulder but the blade is shunted by the creature’s unworldly magic.  I have encountered foes like this before.

Over my shoulder, I shout for Vargmenni to come to my side.  In my panic, I’m unable to put together a coherent command, though I want desperately for her to tell Frode to retreat, that he is not able to combat this kind of magic.  She fails to comprehend my meaning as we hear the crash of Frode’s blade again behind us.  He brings it down upon the creature’s skull and again, the sword is deflected.  Frode is enraged, too angry to acknowledge the ineffectiveness of his attacks.

“Magic!” I yell at Vargmenni, and she looks at me questioningly.  “Magic!” I repeat vehemently, “tell him it can only be harmed by magic!”  I hope that she understands, and I hope that Frode will listen to reason.

The heucuva rakes its claws across Frode’s face, blood spraying onto the ground.  Suddenly, Vargmenni steps breaches the stone circle, holding out her hands—and a torrent of flame launches from them, setting the creature ablaze.  It shrieks as it begins to collapse in a heap of burning robe and bone.  Frode pulls himself to his feet, hacking as its form crumbles to a pile of ash.

I look at Vargmenni, surprised, and she seems nearly overwhelmed.  I gesture for her to follow me into the circle and we approach Frode, who is still hacking at the smoldering undead remains.  I can see Aros and the other warriors drawing near, looking around cautiously, careful not to enter the stone circle.

“This place is evil, and we should not be here.  Tell him,” I command Vargmenni.  She begins speaking rapidly to Frode, and I can only assume she has gathered my meaning.  Frode ignores her words, instead leaving the remains of the heucuva behind to pace and poke about the ground within the circle.

Very quietly, Vargmenni speaks to me again.  “Frode.  Bad magic.  Beware.”  I gesture for her to follow again and we leave the circle, as behind us we see Aros enter, his weapon out.  He begins speaking loudly to Frode, and the elder turns on the warrior, swinging his sword wildly, aggressively clattering it against Aros’ cudgel as they shout at one another incoherently.  Aros finally withdraws, leaving Frode alone among the menhirs.

“And what about your magic?  Bad magic, or good?” I ask, curious to see her response.

“Vargmenni magic, protect,” is her surprising response.  “Vargmenni, fire hands.”  The conversation is interrupted when Frode leaves the circle, striding back to where he left Gola.  Aros follows behind and the two speak, their conflict from before seemingly forgotten.  Once again Frode seems coherent, and while I recognize Vargmenni’s name as well as my own, I understand nothing more of their conversation.  Frode finally turns to me and Vargmenni and then starts issuing orders to the others, seemingly to make camp.

A camp is established uncomfortably close to the menhirs.  A large fire is built for warmth and hides are tossed on the ground around it.  While the warriors discuss setting watches over the camp, I desperately want to communicate with Aros, but I feel as if anything were overheard it could have disastrous—perhaps even deadly—consequences.  I have so many questions, about the heucuva, about Frode and his descent into madness, as well as about Vargmenni and the sudden revelation of her magical prowess.

I decide to sit near the fire in silence and keep an eye on Frode as much as possible.  Frode remains awake during the first watch, focusing his gaze upon the members of the camp intently, appearing deep in thought.  I try not to meet his gaze.  I can’t shake the feeling that Frode is a potential threat, and for a moment I entertain thoughts of slitting his throat in his sleep.  These are Malaran instincts however, and I banish them, castigating myself.  I know too little of these people to make such judgments.

Hours pass and fatigue threatens, but one of the warriors eventually comes to change watch and Frode grabs Gola and pushes her to the ground, drawing her arm over his side as if using her for warmth, lying down near the flame.  Only when I see the man’s eye’s close do I let sleep take me.

I awaken the next morning and take a few steps away from the camp, seeking privacy to pray to my patron.  I ask forgiveness for the rash thoughts of the previous night, though the lingering sense that Frode is dangerous remains.  I seek Nobanion’s guidance on this complicated situation, and appeal to the King of Beasts for the means to discover the information I need to choose a path forward.

I feel clarity for the first time that Nobanion has heard my prayers, and that he has granted me the powers I seek.  As the camp makes ready to depart, I return to the stone circle.  The warriors take note, and Aros makes to stand and join me, but I gesture to him to stay.  Frode notices but makes no move to stop me. 

Amid the stones, nothing seems changed or disturbed from the previous night.  Using the spells granted me, I open up my senses, investigating the circle and debris littered within for signs of magic, hoping to make some sense of the runes carved into the stones.  The runes are indeed magical in nature, though I am unable to discern the source or the type.  I believe them to be an entrapment spell, similar to abjurations I have used in the past, though I have no way to prove the theory.

I shift my divine perception, this time concentrating on a divination to seek out fell energies.  I am relieved that the remains of the heucuva, defeated, do not radiate emanations of evil.  Likewise, the stones themselves, while magical, are neutral in alignment.  Satisfied at the results, I pause to consider my next actions.  Holding on to the energy of the spell I return to camp, hoping for an opportunity to use the magic to discover more of Frode’s nature.