Magick In Theory And Praxis (1-1)
Chapter 1, Part 1
Welcome. Magick In Theory And Praxis is a serialized fantasy/sci-fi story. This is where we begin, with three travelers in dire circumstances. Once the next installment is released, you can find it here.
Nurelien closed his left eye to the sand buffeting them—the cracked lens on that side of his gas-mask offering no protection—and he placed his hand upon his pointed hat to make sure that the wind wouldn’t blow it away. The grey hat had been passed down from his father and had never fit quite right. The mask did help to keep it on his head, though if he lost the heirloom he would never be able to forgive himself.
“No tricks to stop the storm?” Torns held on to the cross hanging from his neck.
“You could pray,” Nurelien shouted over the wind.
“Been praying,” Torns said. “God’s being mysterious again. Is Satan being mysterious?”
“The rebel needn’t stop the storm. He will guide us through it.”
Torns took his bare hand out of its pocket to rub it with his gloved hand. He looked at Versat. “That leaves you, then.”
“If tech could stop this storm,” she said, the beak of her mask not turning even slightly his way, “then I would have stopped it already.”
“It’s going to get worse,” Torns lifted the scarf up to his mouth, tying another knot at the back. Maybe that would keep it from slipping again. “The wind is blowing toward the sea. Soon, the Corsair will be blown adrift if the sand doesn’t shred it first.”
“Turning back is not an option,” Versat affirmed. There was nothing else she would say about it.
Nurelien reached into the bag hanging over his shoulder. Like a ritual, he had checked it once about every thirty minutes since they left the sinking fortress. There was no reason to. Nothing had ever fallen out of the bag and an enchantment ensured that nothing ever could. Still, it comforted him to feel inside. It was good to know that the supplies were still there, but he only smiled when he felt the book and the urn beside it.
When Versat first came to him with the plan to leave the sinking fortress, Nurelien knew that he had to bring his parents. They had always talked about leaving. The writing had been on the wall for ages: soon, home would be no more. Finding another place to settle made the most sense. Versat didn’t plan to abandon the fortress, though. Karatch was a short trip away, just two days of sailing and a day on foot. Nurelien would have much rather gone north to Thiemon to live out his father’s dreams. If they weren’t planning to return, he would have argued harder.
The raging sand obfuscated everything. Silhouettes poked out here and there, things that could be a rock or a cactus or a person. They hadn’t gotten turned around yet according to Versat’s compass—she looked down at it about every five seconds—but they would need to find shelter soon. Already, the sand was cutting into the skin around Nurelien’s left eye. Soon, it would blow through his cloak and tear him apart.
Nurelien closed both eyes. One by one, he removed the fingers of the glove on his right hand, reaching out into the storm and allowing the gales to slice sand into his flesh. Blood rolled down his arm and into the sleeve of his cloak. In the darkness of his closed eyes, the vibrant sigil of the rebel burned. He felt a hand wrap around his, closing his bottom fingers and pointing the index out. When he opened his eyes, a faint silhouette peeked out from the distance.
“There,” he said. “We must get to shelter before we’re sandblasted apart.”
“You sure?” Torns asked. A bit of sand flew into his mouth. Spitting out would only invite more in, so he decided to swallow. It was grainy, rough against the walls of his throat. “I have heard of hermits and great monstrosities living in the wastes. Anything could have found shelter there when the storm first appeared on the horizon.”
“If a hermit lives there, I’m sure they won’t bite.” Versat put her compass in one of the pockets of her jumpsuit. The buttoned flaps ensured that nothing would fall out. She put a hand on each strap of her backpack and started toward the distant shadow.
Their bodies leaned against the wind which grew stronger by the minute. Pushing against a wall sounded easier. Still, they wrestled their legs in front of themselves. One step, dig in the heel, next leg. That was how it had to be done for several minutes until they finally came to the shape.
It was one of the old houses. Stone walls rose to support a thinning roof. Clearly, the structure had stood there for ages, battling a thousand and more sandstorms with nothing more than defiance. Every inch of the surface was rough where grains of sand had thrown themselves against the walls, nature raging against the persistence of the ancient house. At the front, the raised door suggested that at one point a porch had been set in front of the house but was claimed by the wastes long ago, the first casualty in a war that nature was sure to win eventually.
Versat was the first to enter. Unbuckling the mask was more of a relief than the unadulterated air inside. As the others followed her in, she took note of the windows which had been boarded up with wooden planks thicker than the battered door. In the corner of this first room was a wicker basket housing vibrant flowers picked from the desert.
“I don’t like the signs of life,” Torns said.
“Hello,” Nurelien called out, earning him a smack on the shoulder from Torns. Nurelien ignored him. “We don’t mean to intrude.”
The three waited for any response. Only the howling wind spoke back to them.
“We should check the rooms for signs of life,” Versat said. She set her bag on the floor, pulling a heartbeat monitor from it. “Damn thing’s scrambled from the storm.”
Nurelien shuffled to a door at the back of the house. The knob was mostly smooth, though a few nicks revealed its history. More than that, it turned with resistance, the grime stuck within it suggesting that the room behind this door held secrets that would transform his world if he could muster up the power to listen to them. Had Versat or Torns picked this room, they wouldn’t hear the message that this doorknob had to say—but that was the power of magic. Perhaps the aether had even been the thing that brought Nurelien to this room instead of the others. If it takes magic to tell your secrets, then you might only ask a magician to listen to you. Still, the knob offered enough resistance to ask if Nurelien was sure he wanted to venture further.
“Yes,” Nurelien whispered, and the grime disappeared. The door creaked open.
The room was dark inside. What little light peeked through the boards closing off the main room could not enter here. Nurelien turned over his hand, rolling his fingers into an open fist. He slashed down into the index finger with the nail of his thumb. From the blood, a small flame emerged. He learned a long time ago how to numb himself to the heat. Light was worth it. The cuts, he couldn’t get used to. The pain was part of the sacrifice. His fingers rolled over, one at a time, and the flame grew into his palm so he could see the whole room from the entrance.
It was bare inside, save for a wardrobe and a pile of bones. Nurelien gasped despite himself. Bones, corpses, and pieces chewed off of cadavers in the wastes were expected. Here, in a place of dwelling, Nurelien didn’t expect it.
“What is it?” Versat pushed the door open, and Torns followed quickly behind. They looked down at the skeleton and had their answer.
“They must have been killed,” Nurelien said.
“Or, it was a hermit,” Torns made the sign of the cross over his head and shoulders. “No one to get rid of the body.”
“It is said that hermits of the wastes keep a network specifically to dispose of their bodies,” Nurelien said.
“Then whoever came for this one was eaten by a creature of the wastes,” Torns said.
“Couldn’t have been a hermit,” Versat squatted, scanning the bones with a flashlight. “The bones are too small. This is a child, no older than thirteen.”
Air escaped Torns. A hermit certainly would have burnt the remains of their child, he couldn’t argue against that. Any civilized person would, really. What he couldn’t reason was why a child was alone in the wastes. “There were no bones in the other rooms, Versat and I checked.”
Versat looked at Nurelien, still adorned in his gas mask. “Can you find out what happened?”
“I don’t have the tools for proper necromancy,” Nurelien’s voice trembled. “Besides, this is a child. To disturb them… it wouldn’t be right.”
“Better you than a fiend.” Versat stood, putting a hand on Nurelien’s shoulder. “We need to find out what happened here. You can burn the bones after.”
“Only the skull,” Nurelion said. “Makeshift necromancy will require that I burn the rest of the skeleton.”
Versat nodded and stepped back. The weight of the room shifted as Nurelien took off his mask. He set it on the floor, then approached the bones with caution. In his bag, he opened the urn and filled his palm with ashes. His father wouldn’t mind, but his mother wouldn’t want to have any part in this. ‘Better to destroy the bones, let the spirit rest’ he could hear her say. It didn’t matter. Versat was right. This could be the scene of a murder, the shelter might belong to the person (or people) who did it. If they didn’t find out whether the old house was safe, they might have to go back into the storm.
Nurelien spread the handful of ashes onto the body of the skeleton, hoping it was mostly, if not all, his father’s remains. Magic required essence. Blood was always trustworthy, however there was not enough blood in his body to perform an act of makeshift necromancy. Even if all three of them offered their blood, it would likely take a day or two out of their trip to recover from the ritual, especially since they weren’t practitioners. If a universal essence wasn’t available, one symbolic of the act had to be employed. Without the tools of traditional necromancy, this would have to do.
Nurelien split the flame in his palm, one piece of fire for both hands. The ember in his left hand sank down through the air and toward the skeleton. Once it touched the ashes, the flame went green. Nurelien sighed with relief. He didn’t want to burn his parents’ remains for nothing.
The bones were quickly charred by the flames. It ate the body like a pack of wolves on a doe. When only the skull remained, the green climbed up through the bottom and into the eyes.
“Who are you?” It asked.
“I am Nurelien, son of Etchoutsu,” the wizard said. “I don’t mean to disturb your rest. We found your bones in this house. We need to know why they weren’t burned.”
“No one would venture here,” the skull said.
Versat and Torns looked at each other. Leaving the conversation to Nurelien was the best thing to do, though. Neither of them had ever dealt with necromancy before.
“We did,” Nurelien said. “A hermit just as easily could have come.”
“It wouldn’t matter if a hermit came, they are not permitted entry to Karatch. In fact, if one came, it would have been better for them. I would never get a chance to return.”
“Who fears your return?” Nurelien leaned in. “Who left you here?”
The green flames looked up into Nurelien’s eyes. They were small, and through the animation of the spirit within this skull, had become dim enough not to blind him. “I came to the wastes seeking a hermit, one that they say has seen the divine. King Atmus saw me escape. I should have known it would be the perfect opportunity for them to finally eliminate me, but I’m not sure that would have stopped me. He sent a power enforcer after me. During a sandstorm, I took shelter here, and the enforcer tracked me down. He killed me in my sleep.”
“But why?” Torns interjected. “You’re only a child.”
“Atmus knew that I practice magic,” the child said. “But, he had no way of obtaining evidence, I made sure of that. I could not be tried, so an assassination was the best chance to get rid of me.”
“Magic is not allowed in Karatch?” Versat asked.
“Magic can’t be controlled,” the child said. “Anything, or anyone, that can’t be controlled is not allowed in Karatch.”
Nurelien put a hand over his mouth. He couldn’t believe that a city so advanced to be known across the bleeding sea could outright ban one of the four enlightenments.
“Nurelien controls magic all of the time,” Torns guffawed.
“I master magic,” Nurelien said. “I do not control it. That right belongs to the divine alone.” His hand drooped off of his face and Nurelien turned back to the child. “I am sorry for disturbing your death. There is nothing else we wish to know. I can burn your skull now, and no one else will ever do this again. You will know peace.”
“Wait,” the child yelled. “Nurelien, that is what he called you, yes?”
Nurelien nodded.
“I am Kamt,” the child continued. “You mustn’t burn me. I need to return to Karatch. I have to know that my sister is alright.”
“Magic is outlawed there,” Nurelien said. “How are we supposed to sneak you into the city? You would be crushed in one of our bags.”
“There is a birdcage in the wardrobe, along with a muffling cloth,” Kamt said. “My robin sat in there as I was killed. You may place me in it.”
Nurelien looked at Versat. “It would be good to have someone with us who understands the city. I would never have guessed that magic is outlawed there.”
“Why don’t traders speak of that?” Torns said. “Traders never tell you anything important.”
So damn cool. "If it takes magic to tell your secrets, then you might only ask a magician to listen to you." What a line 👏
Interesting start!