The Warlock

Meetings

This story is dedicated to my friend Danil.

~~~

I first arrived in the village around the middle of October. It had been raining brutally, endlessly for two weeks, with no sign of letting up. When I arrived, the whole village was struggling with the weather. A barn had caved in from the buildup of water on its roof. The crops were drowning, and the thatch, the wood, everything was soaked and moist through and through. All the villagers, the farmers and laborers and children were miserable and despondent. I would have felt the same, if not for my magick.

As it was, I stayed in Kadagv for one night. I had come early in the morning since I needed a day to recover and prepare my rituals, my charms before I attempted to assail the hillock. When the villagers asked me why I had come I was honest with them. This was a simpler time, when magick did not have the whiff and stench of death and suspicion around it.

I told them the truth: I had come to apprentice for the Warlock.

Of course, they asked me about my powers, but I knew better than to ingratiate myself with them before I made myself known to the village's witch. I politely declined requests to enchant their crops, brew them potions, or sell them charms. If they pressed me, I just told them outright: I didn't wish to upset their witch. And though the rain fell hard, and they were all tired, and rightfully frustrated with me, they didn't push me.

Before I went to see the Warlock, there on the hillock, in the forest, I prepared all the necessary wards, charms and potions. I was overprepared, if anything. I had the customary bundle of Wayfarer's Root tied in a cloth sack, which I hid in my robes. I had bone charms: the whale, the eagle and the fox. I had my woven shawls under my robes, sewn from oak pith and gilded in silk. I had crafted fine wards for the journey, which I hoped would not alert the Warlock to my presence and allow me to come unannounced. My fingers were painted in chalk, and I had carved runes onto my stomach in coal. There was limestone powder in my hair, for extra protection in case he tried to charm me or seduce me.

That second morning in Kadagv, I had dressed in my shawls and robes, put on my charms and checked them for malicious tampering, and set out with the rising of the sun. Or at least, with what little of the sun I could see rise, clouded as it was in dark storm clouds.

I had stayed in an inn near the center of town and was walking to the northern gate when I passed by the smithy. Only the fishermen and wives were about this early in the morning, but in the heavy, torrential downpour, half-hidden by the rain, I saw a slight, quick-footed figure moving about on the house's portico. Unable to quell my curiosity, I moved sideways to approach.

I had seen many blacksmiths in my time, and this youth didn't strike me as a blacksmith. A smith has strong, burly arms like twin dragons, a fine (though usually dirty) apron, and (if they aren't too old) a fine head of matted hair. This young man was anything but a smith. He was as tall as me, but thin as a rake, wearing woolen trousers and a woven shirt, shivering in the cold as he dashed from the huge forge to the tool-rack near the window, and back. Though the portico and forge were covered by an overhang, the wind blew especially strong that morning, and the youth's white shirt fluttered like a flag of surrender. He looked clean, well-groomed, which was also unusual for a blacksmith—his shirt was crisp and clean, his hair was freshly washed and neatly combed. His hands were as thin as he was, and when he carried the hammers and leather across from the tool rack to the worktable, he looked almost comical, like he was bound to fall over any moment. When he pumped the bellows on the forge, sweat showed on his brow, despite the cold weather.

I liked him.

"Good morning," I said, mildly. I stood just outside the porch, in the rain. At first he didn't notice me, so frantic and attentive was his work, but after a few moments he jolted and looked up at me.