Majutsu-shi no Chikara Ch. 09

For a grim moment, she considered extreme physical injury... casting the idea aside as she rummaged through her archives for spells that modified the body in less grisly ways. She grimaced as she pored over her limited supply of transmutation magic. She knew enough about flora and fauna to know some beings reproduced asexually... others were hermaphrodites (which posed its own problems, given the intensity of the nymph's hex)... but little to nothing about any creatures that would be considered "sexless". Regenerative magic took too much concentration to maintain, if she were mid-assault. Layering several different spells in woven matrices seemed the most available solution... and that had its own risks.

Another dour frown creased her onyx lips as she reflected on the varied avenues by which other wizards -- more specialized sorcerers than she -- would counter such an effect. Generalizing one's abilities had its advantages, to be certain... today was not one of them. Casting her self-reproach aside, Emseray gathered reagents of varying rarity and volume -- even using a tree-like arrangement of artificing to concoct some of the more rare components from the mundane stock already available. Her heartbeat kept the time, and her breathing measured four or five to a minute of sand -- but the nymph did not descend upon her in full wrath.

By the time she was ready to begin working on her newer defensive magic, Esmeray approximated nearly an hour had passed from when she'd found her hidden shelter. A deeply held sigh of relief tore from her as the alarm warning of the tent prickled just behind her ears, letting her know someone was approaching. She took the time to secure her preparations, not wanting to leave any of her work half-begun or floating mid-cast if something interrupted. Attuning her senses using the array tethered to her tent, she scanned over the startled animals that had alerted her. Antelope.

The herd moved swiftly, south and east -- driven by something even further north and west, from the direction of a satellite of Renks Cairn: a village named for a river of flowering reeds. Help or hindrance, she did not know. If they came from the Tower, then it would go ill for her. Anyone or anything else was of no consequence.

"Farmers." She could just make out the profile of a few ox-drawn carts, perhaps a dozen humanoids with a trio of small horses or large burros. Too far to discern more, as the wind shifted and the dust they kicked-up obscured them from her view.

Whatever had distracted the nymph from her could not last much longer, she feared, and Emseray returned to the laborious task of establishing her new assortment of protections. The first brace of spells went into position neatly, the second set -- a trio of wards with affinities to emulate the natural elements -- were trickier. The magnetic behavior of some magic made some spells fit together easily. Others to lesser degrees even to the point of catastrophic interaction (including dissolution of the magic or outright explosion of energy). Here, Esmeray was propping spells at careful angles to each other -- selected as much for their similarity of the spells above or below them in the lattice-work as their differences to the spells adjacent in their tier.

Her mouth hurt from pronouncing the long strings of gibberish associated with magical resonance -- her eyes straining as the abundance muddied her view of the natural waves around her, threatening to make her hands slip even as her fatigued tongue stuttered along a line that sounded much like the inhale of some fish with a broken spine.

The barest tap-tap as the second layer of magic fit into place offered her respite, and she gasped heavily from the effort -- sweat now rising on her skin, as her body had more time to recover from her earlier abuses. She stopped to eat and drink from the stores of her provisions, thanking the Nameless Power and her own training for the presence of mind that had steered her so close to this secluded refuge. Fear had dogged her every step in her flight from South-wold, and her brain had been so plagued by lust that she had no sense of direction or time. Esmeray was silently thankful to whatever had pulled the nymph's attention, once more. The tent had not been in her direct line of approach -- nor intended to be on a direct line of egress. Still, here she was, returned to her roost like a messenger-bird.

Seeing the growing mass of the curse dripping through, she decided it would be worth the time to fortify her body with additional food and drink -- only to spend it again on another round of urgent masturbation before embarking on the next course of interwoven magical barriers.

...

Esmeray gave a satisfied, determined grunt as she climaxed, stroking her fingers around the outside lips of her sex as her other hand directed the enchanted phallus in and out of her in the most efficient rhythm she could manage. It robbed her of any true enjoyment, and made the endeavor all the more lack-luster for the gradually climbing tidal wave still encroaching -- inch by terrible inch -- on her meager aversion magic.

"If, if, if..." she growled to herself, again counting the number of ways she could escape this waking nightmare... if she only had the right tools.

She could feel Nabid's insufferable laughter echoing in the halls of her mnemonic archives, but the imp's spirit was no more bound to this plane. Sucking at her teeth, she tsk'd with irritation and got back to work. If not now, then soon, the nymph would return to her and Esmeray could not wait longer.

The last two courses of magic fitted into place like great beams of stone or timber, grinding and crunching into place and showering her with what felt like an eon of arcane dust as the entire structure groaned around her. There she stood, a tiny human Wizard inside her magical fortress... surrounded by a moat of her own death, beyond the walls that guarded her. Prisoner to a curse from a fae that, by all rights, should have imploded before such a hex could even come into being.

It bothered her. Not that she had underestimated the nymph -- that particular insult was long given over to the practicalities of survival. What bothered her was how it had been done. Try as she might, Esmeray could not remember enough detail to recreate the events leading to her current condition... and what she could recall bore the tell-tale scorching of wyrm-fire. Yet no dragon had been present.

"Had it not?" She worried her lip, hand cradling her chin as she considered the fragments of memory -- her iron tower creaking and groaning like a windmill around her in the ether.

Dragons of any sort were dangerous. Dragons you couldn't see... she shivered at the notion, wondering if her observations were passing well beyond perception and into the realm of fabrication. Powerful illusions could look like nothing important -- but why would a dragon be interested in a tiny village like South-wold? What artifact or person...

"A bloodline?" her eyes shot open, then narrowed as she perused yet more tomes within her mind -- heedless of the looming threat just beyond the narrow boundary of her defenses.

She could take some of this back to the Tower -- it might even be enough to remove the remaining curse her colleagues had placed upon her. Her mouth turned with a smile, reflecting on how quickly she had dispatched the Elemental. It was an unpleasant enjoyment, savoring that victory... and while her heart quickened, her stomach churned.

Nothing. She frowned once more. Nothing in her memory revealed any draconic lineage in South-wold. Not that her memory was without flaw, but that she had no additional resource to be rid of the matter quickly.

Standing up, Esmeray gathered her belongings into their storage -- all told, her mobile shelter and its contents were the size of a traveling physician's chest. One cubit on a side and two cubits tall, the pack was bulky and deceptively light. It was, in fact, only the shell that served as the base of the construct, unfolding into a hexagonal platform three strides across. Everything else was suspended in a cloud around her, anchored just below or above the tangible plane of the material and a half-step out of phase with reality... just close enough to conjure, and too far away to ever see or touch.

It was not as duplicitous as the more conventional planar satchels, whose mouths opened into another planar reality hedged-off from this one... such portals invited meddling of a sort Emseray found distasteful, and were so wildly popular among the merchant class as to become common-place for anyone with enough coin. These "bottomless bags" were often touted as limitless, with inscrutable security against theft, with all the convenience of portability and all the intractability of a vault... why, then, did so many end up in the hands of thieves and errant travelers with a ready sword-arm?

She preferred storing her traveling possessions where she could see them through her arcane perception. In order for someone to steal those items, they would have to know the exact manner in which they were stored -- or they'd have to kill her (in which case, what did she care if her equipment spilled forth in a deluge of debris?). Rather than let a thief steal a house by simply walking away with the door, Esmeray thought it far more fitting that the house should vomit itself on the would-be thief once they picked the lock.

It wasn't as easy to achieve as her earlier stowing, where she had simply forced her belongings into the elastic, mutable body of a homunculus. That method displaced volume and required actual physical manipulation, but was so rudimentary that most hand magicians used it to pack entire cart-loads into a wagon without breaking a sweat. Really, it was little more than physical movement of objects within the same plane of reality.

With fortress and accoutrements in tow, Esmeray pointed herself directly toward Renks Cairn and took a deep breath. A last, carefully tilted spell with an itchingly-sour incantation had her passing over the grasslands as swift as a horse -- with all the noise and dust of her galloping giving evidence of her passing... but now was not a time for stealth.

By nightfall, she was at the gates of Renks Cairn -- sweating, stinking, and ravenous. To her relief, the staggering constructs of her fortification had held... and she didn't know if or whether the nymph had directed so much as an eye at her. Esmeray stopped only once during her passage to the city, to eat more of her ration, drink water, and fuck herself through another lust stupor -- but otherwise set her jaw and plodded, break-neck fast, on a direct course.

Now at the gates, she confronted one of the many guards waving passersby through (in or out) and occasionally stopping "suspicious cargo" that more often than not wound up trading hands among the guards during dice games or drunken bets. The only real policing of trade happened inside the city, rarely in the public eye. All the soldiers were of undefined rank with simple insignia -- bearing the royal crest of Renks Cairn (and Ser Majesty Hitsuyo) or a combination of the royal crest and the mark of the Tower (which stood for any soldier of the Guild of Wizards) riveted to their mail. All were in brigandine and chain kilts, hefting spears in-hand with a single sword or hatchet at their belt. At least one Agent of the Tower (an elite soldier: the Tower's equivalent of the Royal Guard) would stand guard at each of the city's three gates, day or night.

"I need to speak with an Agent of the Tower." Esmeray panted, shrugging uncomfortably hot under the straps holding her shelter's carapace to her back.

"Papers?" The guard, dark-haired, brown-skinned, black-eyed and bored-looking, gazed at her with mundane eyes from the shade of his broad helm.

She smiled, politely -- the effect muted by her unnaturally dark skin, which enhanced each shadow of her face and made her mouth appear suddenly, toothily, from the darkness. The guard flinched out of instinct, and scowled at her as he composed himself.

"I am Esmeray Saran, formerly of the Guild." She raised her chin ever so slightly, straightening her shoulders. Her hair was bound tightly behind her head, and did not stir. "I am on Guild business and am instructed to deliver my business to an Agent of the Tower."

"Uh... wait here." The guard frowned at her, using his spear like a walking stick as he shouldered and barked his way through the crowd passing through the gate.

She didn't wait. She followed silently in his shadow, close enough to enjoy his wake and far enough that he didn't seem to notice. When the soldier of Renks Cairn reached a sergeant, her royal insignia buttressed by the curled spike of the Tower's emblem, he turned to look over his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his armor.

"Thought I said..."

"To wait, yes." Emseray pushed past him, ignoring his indignant complaint and posturing. "I'm on Tower business, not yours."

"What business for the Tower?" The sergeant's eyes peered at her with knowing, the faint tattoos of enchantments outlining her eyes and causing them to glow faintly as the woman focused on material and immaterial planes. "Begging pardon, Ser Wizard. I am instructed to say you cannot pass the gates of Renks Cairn."

"Hmph." Esmeray nodded. She'd suspected as much, when she left... it stung a bit to hear, but it was otherwise a non-issue. "I believe the architects to be Kamakshi, a dragon, and the Elemental himself."

If the sergeant was surprised, her face did not show it. She closed her eyes, mumbled under her breath, and opened her eyes as though in an eye-blink. When she focused on Esmeray, she nodded and gave the barest of polite smiles to the exiled Wizard.

"Your message is delivered. Have ye any further business for the Tower?" her smile faded, eyes piercing and searching around Esmeray for additional information... or threats.

"None. Good day." Esmeray returned the courtesy and backed up two paces before turning -- her body seeming to move just aside from other foot traffic.

"Good day, Ser Wizard." The Sergeant saluted her, clapping a gauntlet-clad fist to her mailed shoulder.

The younger and lower-ranking soldier's gaze was blended puzzlement and dislike; Tower business was not so common that he knew the way of it. With a last shrug, he sniffed and decidedly ignored Saran as she withdrew from the gates. Best not to interfere in Wizard business.

...

"I agree, she's clearly unwell." Nurcan nodded.

"Unhinged." Akuji growled, arms across his chest where he sat beside the small cooking hearth of Shaum's family home.

"Yes, unhinged." Nurcan shrugged in agreement with a narrow rolling of her eyes. "Exactly what do you think I can do about it?"

"All we can do is ask that she leave us in peace." Shaum sighed, shivering inside his blankets even as the warmth of day soaked through him; sunlight over the mountain-tops spilling through a west-facing window. "She is older than South-wold... older than Matta."

"Yes, 'old as the hills'..." Nurcan smiled ruefully. "It's been said of you, as well."

"This is no ballad. Her presence is creating havoc." Shaum scowled at her, wrinkles and all seeming to multiply on his face as he spoke.

"I'll ask." Akuji stood up, tired of the second and third round of circular argument between the two. "I'd not even bother, if you hadn't overheard her talking to the dead."

"Not just the dead. To Matta, Akuji." Nurcan corrected pointedly, smoothing the braided knots in her hair with her hands. "And she seemed to think she knew his answers or worse: that he is answering her."

"Right, his ghost." Akuji deflected her frown with a frown of his own that bounced the look from Nurcan down into the hearth. He spat into the hearth.

"Not for the likes of him." Shaum's wrinkled head shook, and his eyes glinted sunlight as he settled deeper where he sat. "Matta knew of ghosts, and how to prevent their wrath."

"I'm sure it's not all like the stories." Akuji scoffed, but without heat.

Prende's appearance had called more question into whether Matta had down-played his early years, rather than embellish. The dragon's tooth they'd pulled from Matta's fire pit told that the old sorcerer had done a bit of both. With a last meeting of their eyes, Akuji turned and left.

His simple cloth and leather shoes hissed on the much-traveled paths of the village. His home, so broken and battered as he himself now felt, sighed with distant work-song that lacked the fullness of a large team in the field. It moaned with the lowing of cattle -- the herd scattered-about with too-few shepherds to keep them from abusing the remaining structures, or damaging the fast-growing crops in the fields. A fair dozen halfhearted attempts were made in the last two days to accomplish both -- but Akuji had reasoned that the crops were more valuable and the homes could be rebuilt, in a pinch. Today, a full dozen goats had gotten loose of a corral and were bounding onto the cattle and up to the pitched roofs of houses. There, they bleated their mislike of all things non-goat and took great bites from the mostly thatch constructions... leaving pock-marks, holes, and mountains of droppings in their wake. The riot of fowl that accompanied every day was conspicuously absent -- many of the birds scattered or culled since the attack.

Wanda and Tomas were teaching the younger children how to skip stones at the goats' flanks, in effort to encourage them off the roofs. While not overly cautious of the animals' dignity, they were wary of throwing stones from the line of sight of any particular target -- lest the goats become shy of them after such treatment. The bucks proved far more difficult to coax down than any doe. One such attempt resulted in the buck trampling its way through the roof in a crash of dust and sticks, swearing and screaming erupting below... even as Tomas hastily shepherded the children quickly away, and Wanda rushed to check on the beset family and their uninvited guest.

"Be nothing left by winter, at this rate." Akuji hunched his shoulders and balled his fists, keeping his eyes turned away from the spectacle as he sought Prende.

"Akuji!" the voice of his wife... no. It was Ginga. Akuji rebuked himself as he looked up, seeing her waving her arms from beside the site of Matta's ruined hovel. He turned again, away from the fields where he was sure Prende had been earlier. The young woman smiled nervously at him, adjusting the cinch around her middle while the older man quickened his pace forward.

What words they could not say aloud, they traded with their eyes and tepid smiles. Each as uncomfortable now as ever before, the meager ties of their intimacy now washed-over by the eerie presence of the nymph nearby. It made the torn and broken edges of themselves smoother... blurry and less-defined such that the unease was more like a familiar clumsiness as the contours of their lives bumped awkwardly together looking for the correct angle that would allow them to interlock like proper pieces of a much larger puzzle. Akuji gave her what he hoped passed as a fatherly embrace, cleaving her to his breast with his arms high about her shoulders. Ginga, sensing this or not, likewise drew her hands up to the middle of Akuji's back and squeezed, drawing a deep breath and wondering whether Prende alone was responsible for how she now felt about her dead lover's father.

"She talking or muttering?" The question was moot, as he could plainly hear the stumbling, stuttering chanting of Prende only a few paces away. Ginga gave a breathy sigh and slipped from his arms, adjusting her scarf and her cinch again.

"Muttering. Not a proper word since she started digging through there, again." She pointed to where Prende had sifted and arranged the last of the hovel's wreckage into teetering palisades all around the foundation stones that remained half-buried in the earthen embankment. Akuji could make no ready sense of the nymph's muddling, nor the significance of where and how she had positioned the detritus.