The Coming of Magic

By Edwin C. Mason

A cave in a dark forest, a royal castle, an abandoned church. These are the places where the dark wanders and from which it issues challenges.
In "The Tower of the Eagle" an unscrupulous man courts a wizard's daughter.
In "The Gate of the Ages" an ancient wizard struggles in vain against his own creation.
In The Fire of St. Denian's a young man just discovering his powers must face foes that make the bravest blanch, and after that must battle a darkness that can't be killed.
These six tales are set in worlds where magic exists and monsters prowl the darkness. Some people should never have to face the night, but for the night, these seem the perfect prey. In the darkness, they battle back against foes they can't comprehend, revealing unexpected strengths and weaknesses before the end.
This collection contains the short novel The Fire of St. Denian's.
All stories are complete in this volume.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edwin C. Mason
• Release date: Oct 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781927857335

Edwin C. Mason

Edwin C. Mason was born in 1964 in a house half full of books and dedicated his early years to similarly filling the other half. Now he dreams of filling other people's houses the same way. He started writing in 1977 after reading "Pirates of Venus" by Edgar Rice Burroughs, and in the intervening years he has made every mistake it's possible for a writer to make. He lives in Toronto with his dreams and delusions.

Book preview

The Coming of Magic:

Tales of Wizards and Adventure volume 1

Edwin C. Mason

© 2013 Edwin C. Mason

all rights reserved

GND Publishing

Toronto ON, Canada

Smashwords Edition

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Contents

Cave of the Oracle

Tower of the Eagle

The Fire of St. Denian’s

Temple of the Fox

The Gate of the Ages

The Pint of Innocence

Also Available by the Author

About the Author

The Coming of Magic:

Tales of Wizards and Adventure volume 1

Edwin C. Mason

Cave of the Oracle

Touching her through the pouch, Cenhelm felt her warmth and wondered what colour she was now.

He rode into the village of Breswicke from the west along the unpaved road that passed through a dozen places just as tiny and dull. But Breswicke bordered one place the others did not, and that brought him here.

The farmers in the field barely looked up as he passed, likely too dull to realize the import of a warrior riding in the early morning. Those among the hovels paid a little more attention. Not that they could tell he was a royal messenger, but they were closer and could see the details that marked him an important man. Not just the gaited palfrey, but the birds and filigree embroidered around his collar and cuffs, the velvet cap, the silver belt buckle and broach set with garnets. Especially the sword his king had given him, with a golden pommel and gold wire and red velvet on the grip.

He stopped where the people clustered nearest. Where is your headman?

The lord is gone, lord.

Cenhelm looked for the speaker. She stood not much over five feet, at the rear of the crowd, bent over with age. I know that. The village headman, woman.

Gone with the lord. The reeve is here.

Lovely! Now he’d have to deal with a serf, smelly and more ignorant than the rest of them. He will do. Where will I find him?

A boy ran toward the farmers. The woman said, Thomas will fetch him. Come, lord, he will meet you in Marta’s.

Cenhelm shrugged and dismounted. One of the village women took his reins and patted the palfrey on her nose, speaking calmly and wearing an honest smile. She seemed in good hands, so he let her go.

Marta’s turned out to be nothing more than a larger hut than most. No, that wasn’t fair. In a village of sunken hovels, hers was a proper longhouse, although small. Inside the door, the sheep pen stood empty, as it should until winter returned, and gave no smell to speak of. Above him, meat hung from the thatched roof, smoking above the hearth fire set in the middle of the larger room. One bench sat near one long wall beside a shelf that must serve as a table. Three large chairs stood around a rough-cut table at the far end, and there a middle-aged woman set a pint jack on a table and smiled at him.

He shrugged. Marta? he asked.

Yes, lord. Elis will be here soon. Are you hungry?

No. Curtains hung across the wall opposite the bench, dividing the room into several compartments. Do you serve as an inn as well?

Yes, lord. Penny for the night, dinner and breakfast included. Beer is a farthing a jug. The hutch farthest from the door is occupied, but take your pick of the rest.

He didn’t think much of the prospects, but it would serve for the night. Pulling back a curtain revealed a single pallet on the floor and a single peg for a cloak. The blankets looked clean. That was something.

The beer wasn’t cold, and wasn’t strong either. Maybe he should fine this Marta for weak beer. But that would make for trouble, and he might yet require the good will of these peasants.

A man stepped in, puffed out his chest, sat opposite Cenhelm at the table. Just the sort of self-important serf that gets elevated to reeve. His hair, mussed from the cap he’d just removed, ran straight back from a receding hairline, giving his narrow face an almost hawk like look. Elis? Cenhelm asked.

Yes, lord....

Cenhelm. I’m the king’s man, sent by his hand.

He nodded, as if finding the king’s man across from him was the most natural thing on earth. You’ll be looking for the sheriff, then.

Just the sort of suggestion a peasant would make. Cenhelm waved it away. This has nothing to do with the sheriff, or any other officer, or any lord, or anyone else. The king has sent me to find the Cave of the Oracle, not to dither with thirty appointees over the matter or be feasted by the lord at every holding along the way. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the odd feast in passing, but that wasn’t the point. Just give me directions and I’ll be going in the morning.

Marta brought Elis a mug, and he looked into it for a while before answering. Lord, it would be better if we took you there, the young men. Make a proper outing of it, take a roast duck or two and a barrel to celebrate your triumph, eat under the sky, and dance. You like to dance, Lord?

He didn’t want to think what these bumpkins did for dancing. He certainly wouldn’t participate. One had standards to maintain. "In the king’s hall I dance among the fairest ladies of the court and to the finest bards known. Here, I will celebrate with a jug of this barely potable beer and a good night’s sleep. I need no party, just directions.

But, lord, the woods can be dangerous. Bears and boars and such. Surely a few spears in case one attacks.

What was he getting at? Boars, yes, and bears roam woods like this. But both are afraid of me. I have a reputation, you know.

Elis smiled and nodded, looked like he was trying to laugh. Outside children called rhythmically to each other in a game Cenhelm remembered from his own youth.

Lord, a reputation is all very well, but I think boars do not listen to troubadours. A small party, only, a few good men to help surround a boar so it can’t escape your spear. And we likely won’t see one at all, so we would just be there to carry and fetch for you. Surely that would be better than entering the woods alone, where anything might lurk around the corner.

The smell of pottage wafted from the cauldron suspended over the hearth, and Cenhelm’s stomach rumbled. Would it be so bad to take a few men, just to hear them talking? Just to have someone to say a word to here or there? He thought that was not the reason Elis wanted them to go. Did he have something hidden in the woods, something that the young men could steer Cenhelm around? Likely, even if it was only rabbit snares, but Cenhelm had no interest in catching peasants who poached the king’s hares, and said as much.

Elis’s eyes narrowed slightly at that. A sign of guilt? Or was he plotting? We have no snares. The lord wouldn’t tolerate them. Mores the pity, I used to enjoy a rabbit stew when I was younger. But that doesn’t really matter, does it? Truth be told, lord, I’m concerned you’ll get lost. There are several tricks and turns on the way to the Cave of the Oracle, and many ways to get lost enough that we’d have to send a party to search for you. I thought that sending the search party with you would be simpler. If you prefer, I could just send a single guide. One person couldn’t usurp any of your glory in such a quest.

One person. One bumpkin to bump into the trees and presume to clap him on the back when the task was done. No. I will set out at first light, and go alone. Now give me directions and let me finish my beer. I understand I’ve paid for a jug, and might as well drink it. His stomach rumbled. Will there be any meat to go with the pottage?

Elis nodded. For guests there always is. Smoked mutton probably. Marta will slaughter a duck if you ask, but cooking it will take a while, so you have to give her warning. It’s a farthing extra.

Cenhelm shook it off. I’ll take the mutton. Now, I still need direction.

Elis scratched his ear and sighed. If you insist.

~ ~ ~

A rooster’s crowing woke him as dawn broke. He pushed off the rough blanket and rose to his haunches on the pallet. A little stuffing in it might have done wonders. Stretching, he could reach the wattle and daub on one side and stick his hand through the blanket over the doorway on the other.

Lord’s up. Marta’s voice came from the common room.

Cenhelm stood and stumbled to the jug of water on the stool. It was hot. He looked toward the hearth fire, as if he could see through the curtain into the common room. They had taken better care of him than he expected. Not that he’d recommend this backwater village for anything, but their hospitality was better than most. He washed quickly, and before he was half dressed, a hand reached in through the curtain with a steaming mug. Thank you.

The answering voice purred, You’re welcome, lord. Resonant, sultry, it had his attention in an instant. Well, the oddest things might be found in the oddest places. But if she were a harlot, he would have expected an offer last night. He wondered what she looked like. The tea she passed in must be a special brew. He caught the taste of a dozen herbs he knew, bitter and mellow and a little smoky. Another unexpected treat.

When he pushed through the curtain, he found a dark-haired woman stirring porridge over the hearth. She glanced at him and lowered her eyes again.

Cenhelm sat at the table. Three men already sat at the board against the wall, talking softly and laughing. One seemed to be telling a story about ploughing. What there could be to talk — and laugh — about with lowing, Cenhelm couldn’t imagine, but they seemed to be harmlessly engaged. He sat against the wall where he could see the room.

The woman ladled porridge into a bowl and stood. Her kirtle was little more than a homespun bag draped over curves. Eyes still down, she minced over to him on bare feet, and set the bowl before him. Would my lord like anything else?

So she had the voice that made a man long to make foolish mistakes. Look at me.

She started, then blushed and slowly raised her face. Her eyes didn’t meet his, not quite, focusing on his mouth, he thought. Handsome rather than pretty, her dark curls definitely her best feature, apart from a voice that might start a riot.

Thank you, that will be all. While he ate, he contemplated the route, all he’d heard of the journey and what little he knew of the destination. No one visited the Cave of the Oracle because the Oracle was gone, long lost in the unfolding centuries. Until Randalfr stumbled across it. Well, he hadn’t survived this far. This was Cenhelm’s turn for a small share of glory, how much glory depending on how many lies he could pay the bards for. He couldn’t afford a dragon or a giant, but maybe a troll. Unless he actually found a challenge at this point. He laughed at the notion.

Marta sat across from him. Did everything meet your satisfaction?

He looked at the last scrapings in the bowl and realized he was full and a little more. The bed was clean, the food filling. The tea was wonderful.

She smiled and nodded. That was Elene’s blend. She picks the herbs herself.

He glanced at the dark woman stirring the porridge. Elene?

Marta nodded.

He lowered his voice. Is she thrall?

Her face lost all its merry wrinkles and settled into a scowl. She is freeborn, neither thrall nor villein. My daughter.

Cenhelm looked more closely. Yes, they had the same chin, and only age had changed the mother’s nose. I did not mean to offend. Why did he apologize to a peasant? It’s her manner. She seems....

Marta waved her hand dismissively. No, she’s just shy.

He opened his mouth to mention her clothes, until he saw that Marta’s kirtle was just as plain, and the three young men eating were barefoot as well. Instead, he said, I will need a lunch for later.

All arranged. Bread and a hard-boiled egg, and some apples. We have a few left from the winter. Nothing else is really out yet.

Thank you.

I’ve even included a pot of beer. Will you ride or walk?

He’d thought about that in the night. The cave wasn’t far, and the terrain was uneven. Walk.

"Then