The Wayward Witch Chronicles

The old woods road wasn’t anything pretentious. It started out with a few wooden railings, but quickly gave up the illusion of being anything but a bit of trodden dirt through the hayfields. It cut its way along the straight line of trees marking the extent of the village’s woodcutting ambitions. The trees here were tall, skinny alders, with white bark and emerald leaves as the world approached the height of summer. Despite the dry season, the air smelled of thick and healthy greens as they followed the pathway into the forest.

Bolstered by the pleasant walk, West found himself recalling fond memories but bothersome subjects. “So Dover!” Thinking through his next words carefully, he asked, “Any word out o’ that grandfather of yers?”

“Eh,” Dover shrugged, shaking his head. “Not a letter since I wrote him about my promotion to Acquisitions. Between my losing that old sword of his and signing on with the Bureau, I imagine he’s written me off.”

“Ah, sorry to hear it, lad. It was me hope Honjo’d put his own feelin’s on the Bureau aside, at least fer fam’ly,” West sympathized.

“Yeah, well, it’s not as though he and I ever got on well in the first place. I suspect you and he were much more chummy than he and I ever were, and no offense, but he hates you ever since you took your oath.”

“Ah, well– truth to tell, our fallin’ out happened a good time a’fore me joinin’ with the Bureau.” Dover didn’t pry, and West was grateful not to delve into a sore subject. “But him cuttin’ off contact with ye like that isnae what I’d’ve wanted fer ye.”

“No skin off my nose,” Dover said. With a brighter tone, he added, “I do hear from my sister from time to time, so I know all’s well.”

“Glad I am to hear that, lad,” West said warmly. He hadn’t had the chance to meet Dover’s sister– not even one year older, but Dover insisted, much more talented in everything that mattered to their grandfather. But there was no mistaking Dover’s familial affection for his sibling, and what pleased him made West smile as well.

“Anyway.” Ready for a change of subject, Dover dovetailed, “It’s lucky you were so close by to be able to come today. If we’d had to wait for someone from the headquarters, I don’t think we’d have had the time to wait for an Investigator at all.”

“Aye well, it ‘appens me own investigation put me in the area,” West said. “And yer right about when to be expectin’ trouble– it’ll be tonight, if any.”

Dover nodded. “It’s like the old saying: ’If you want to cross a river, wait for the Sleeping Night.’”

“Righ’ ye are, lad. Travel spells get more and more tricky, the fuller the moons be. On a night like tonight with both moons full, anyone plannin’ to travel by magic will be usin’ a portal.”

“But what I haven’t sorted yet is: Why wouldn’t our magicker come by any other time of the month? A travel spell that works any other time of the month would be more practical, wouldn’t it?” Dover wondered.

“Well, there’s a second part to the old quip, ye know. ‘If ye want to cross a river, wait fer the Sleeping Night; if ye want to build a bridge, begin under the light o’ the Twin Eyes.’ The ether’s ripe with creation magic on the full moon nights, and there’s all sorts o’ spells what ye can hardly manage any other night.”

“So… our magicker’s looking to do some kind of conjuration here then?”

West hesitated. “Mebbe… but there’s lots o’ magicks that have some part o’ creation magic beyond just plain ol’ conjuration. Summonin’, tranfigurin’, and necromancy all lean on it, and prob’ly some others as well. So we’d best nae make any assumptions ‘til we can get the truth straight from the magicker herself.”

The dirt road branched off ahead with a thin side path. A tree marking the junction was festooned with old, worn fishing nets, and a rectangular plank with a single muddy symbol on it– a handprint with four long, webbed fingers. “The Nuralli village is over here.” Dover nodded. “Do you want to stop by?”

“Nae need, lad, I was already there earlier.” West said. “They’re in a right fit o’er at the pond, knowin’ jes’ how the villagers have gotta be lookin’ at them.”

Dover nodded, imagining. “Hopefully your visit helped keep things calm.”

“One o’ the reasons I wasn’t by sooner,” West admitted. “Most times what somethin’ stinks of rotten magic, fingers go pointin’ at them. Better to speak with ‘em first and clear up the story quicklike, and make sure naebody goes overreactin’.”

Dover hummed his understanding. “Do you think our magicker is a Nuralli?”

The Investigator shook his head. “Naebody’s been unaccounted for at the local waters. An’ besides, it jes’ dinnae make sense. Nuralli havenae even got their own writin’ fer teachin’ with– that’s why they’re such big talkers, sharin’ it all in stories and song and old jokes! Withou’ that kind o’ learnin’ though, there’re nae more than a handful o’ Nuralli what practice magic in any serious fashion.”

“But there was at least one,” Dover murmured.

“Aye lad, there was and is,” West agreed somberly. “An’ all it took was one rotten old man to dip his toes into necromancy, and humans jes’ about stamped out every Nuralli village north o’ the Twisted River. Even a hundred years on, folks are still usin’ filthy words like Croaker and accusin’ Nuralli of any bad magic what comes by them.” The Investigator thought back to the headwoman’s accusations and grimaced. “Those humans back there’re already workin’ themselves up to do themselves a repeat of history if we dinnae sort this out, so let’s make sure and do it proper.”

The words hung in the air as they continued on their way. The boundaries between road and forest were bleeding together now, far enough out that the plant growth wasn’t fully beaten down by foot and cart. This path wasn’t used for much more than the occasional foray into the woods for forage, hunting, or maybe fishing. The thought of the last gave West a wistful feeling. Maybe once this was all sorted, he could take a few hour’s reprieve from the road and cast out his net….

As though manifested by his desire for creekside relaxation, West and Dover soon heard the trickle and tumble of running water ahead. “It’s just upstream here,” Dover indicated as they approached the small brook. “I checked on it yesterday, and it looks unused since the initial report.”

“Much appreciated, laddie. Let's go and take a look-see then.”

The brook was young, its bank shallow as it flowed through the brush. Following its path meant choosing between soaking their boots or crawling through thick shrubs on more than one occasion, but neither complained.

They’d traveled some way before West broke the silence. “Well, that cannae be natural,” he remarked, jerking his chin ahead. On the brook’s west bank, the greenery gave way to a strange moss. It was rich green in places, but deep vermillion in others, mingling together like bloody whorls. Wordlessly, his companion knelt by the moss, examining without touching it. “What is it, laddie?”

“This moss covering was here before, but it didn’t have red patches like this,” Dover murmured. “Let me have a good look at it. I’m not the strongest at reading magic, but Grandfather taught me a little.” With a gentle inhale, the Glamori’s eyes took on a silver sheen– a testament to the Mani influence in his mixed blood, seeing beyond the physical world like that. Unperturbed, West waited for his appraisal.

After some examination, Dover spoke. "That'se discolored parts have soaked up some magic, but it seems stagnant.” The Acquisitor pinched a small thread of it between his fingers. It crumbled into dull brown dirt. “Hm. It looks like the portal probably leaks a bit of magic when it’s activated. I wouldn’t eat the stuff, but it’s completely passive.”

West’s face turned grim. “Yer sayin’ that the portal’s been activated lately?”

“So it would seem,” Dover said as he rose, the silver fading from his eyes. “Shall we go take a look?”

“Aye, let's do jes’ that.”

As they hiked away from the brook, the curving trails of red velvet moss began to thicken and conjoin into an overwhelming carpet, smothering out grasses and reducing shrubs to drooping sticks. West and Dover maneuvered around the tall trunks of the alders– some of which had acquired a fuzzy red coating nearest their roots- then came within eyesight of their quarry.

It was one of the oddest portal gates West had seen.

West traveled often through the great masterpieces of arcane engineering used in the large cities of the Steelelands. Compared to those, this one might be considered a funny joke compared to those if the thought of actually using it weren’t deadly frightening.

Set near the dead center of a clearing, it was barely taller than West himself. It ramshackle rim would make any of the Bureau mages gasp in outrage, scraped together with irregular metal bits that might have been repurposed from farm tools. The runes shaping its spellcraft were only shallow scratches. The etheric rip of the portal itself seemed dodgy, its shimmering red colors struggling to maintain contact with the rim.

West whistled under his breath, pushing through the last branches separating him from the . “That’s a brave headwizard we’re dealin’ with. I couldnae be persuaded to go through that thing short o’ my life bein’ at stake.”

Dover nodded his agreement. “It’s been woken up, but it’s not been used yet. Look– no footprints in the moss. Someone’s activated it from the other side.”

“Aye, yer right at that,” West said. “Why turn it on unless yer plannin on usin’ it right away, though?”

“Well, it seems a bit… makeshift.” That’s a generous way o’ sayin’ it, West thought. “It may need time to warm up before it’s ready to use,” Dover suggested, rifling through his pack. “I don’t know the intricacies of how portals work. This is a good chance though, let me take a look.”

Dover draped a small white cloth from his pack against the portal’s rim. At the touch of the enchanted iron, the cloth shimmered and stuck fast. From a small clay pot, Dover applied a weakly-tinged poultice with his fingers to the fabric, like rubbing charcoal on paper to get an impression of a leaf. Short, fat lines shifted under the cloth, the unsteady movement evoking a plate of maggots. Then, Dover flicked the cloth off the portal, and the shapes settled into a pattern both complex and pleasing to the eye. Packing his supplies away again, Dover offered the cloth to West for inspection.

“Enchanter’s pigment, was it?” West traced the patterns, but they had no more meaning to him than the runic writing on the portal itself. He returned the cloth to the Acquisitor. “Dinnae seem necessary if yer bringin’ in the portal itself.”

“Well, we can't do anything with the portal until you’ve finished your business with the mage, and portals often won’t work if they’ve been relocated. So we’ll want to see what’s on the other end before we tamper with this one. Plus, we want to keep a record of the enchantments on it, and any changes that might happen now that it’s been activated,” Dover said as he examined the patterns, centimeter by centimeter. “Not to mention, it’s usually safer to study a record than the portal itself– these things can have some nasty traps.”

“Cannae argue with that. Ye know how to read that thing?”

“Not enough for anything this complex,” Dover admitted. “I can glean a bit, but it takes years to understand all the ins and outs.” The Acquisitor lowered the cloth and added, “If I’ve got the time to study all that, I’d rather spend it on the parts of the job that make an immediate difference.” He shot West a cocky half-smile.

The whiff of arrogance raised West’s brows. “Well, if ye’ve gotta be impatient, at least yer forthright about it.”

Dover waved a hand. “Well, I’m not planning to stay in Acquisitions forever, and this isn’t something you need to know to be an Investigator. You don’t know it, after all.”

“Aye, but laddie, I was recruited back when the Bureau was fresh and new,” West reminded him. “E’ry Investigator’s got their own talents, but we’ve all got the highest expectations fer the ones what’re brought up from within. They’re expectin’ ye to be a better Investigator than what they had to settle for with the likes of me. Dinnae be lookin’ so far ahead that ye miss what it is yer meant to learn first.” Admonished, Dover nodded and re-examined the cloth. His fingers traced over a complication in the pattern. “Found somethin’?”

“There’s something grafted into the enchantment here. It might just be a telltale for the caster to know if the portal is used, or it might be something with a bit more teeth.” As he measured the lateness of the day, Dover folded up the cloth, matching end to end by touch. “We’ll be better off waiting for someone to come through, rather than trying the portal for ourselves. I’ll get this pattern back to the department and we’ll get more information on the spellwork within a week at most. Unless you want to put your stamp to get a priority job out of it…?”

“Let’s get out o’ sight and see who we’re dealin’ with first, and worry ‘bout the bureaucracy later.” With the lack of shrubbery, they had to walk a good way to ensure enough trees and dead shrubs between them and the portal– close enough to keep watch, but far enough that they wouldn’t be immediately spotted by someone coming through.

Settling under an alder’s stretched, silver-barked branches, West said, “Might be a long wait; may as well be comfortable. Jes’ keep back and let me take care o’ all the talkin’ when the time comes, aye?”

“Of course,” Dover agreed, joining West to while away the last hours til evening.