Graven

Graven

A Legend from the Strength of Old

By Mark VanTassel

Date: 1

A cricket hit his head, then hopped away. It was far from what he wanted, but when you’re in prison you take what you can get, or you starve.

Graven lunged forward and snapped up the cricket. It had an earthy, nutty flavor. He gagged, and his jailer giggled. Another creature landed in his cell, this time a spider. Graven tensed and forced himself forward. Spiders were nasty, but he had to eat.

It was fat, black, and shiny, with a red hourglass on its belly. It promptly identified him as a threat. Graven circled it, trying to get an angle that didn’t involve the fangs. Spiders were stupid, but not that stupid. Sadly.

He whipped it with his tail, sending it rolling, and lunged after it. The spider recovered in time to grab his face and bite him on the lower lip. Graven lost his composure.

They thrashed across the cell, with him struggling to get hold of the spider’s body with his forelegs. The spider fought back by hanging onto his face, biting, and deploying webbing everywhere.

His scales protected him from the bites, and he was probably immune to the venom, but who likes a spider on their face?

It was with violent satisfaction that he bit down on the spider. A crunch followed, and it spasmed. Ichor squirted into his mouth, and Graven spasmed too. Spiders were disgusting. Live food was disgusting. He wished a horrible curse on the jailer, then ate the spider.

The jailer laughed at him, then closed the cell’s trap door. Graven settled in for another day in darkness, with only his leavings for company. Days had passed since the jailer cleaned the cell, and the corner pile was growing fungus. If he was lucky, it was edible fungus. He shook himself and huddled into the corner opposite the pile.

* * *

The trapdoor opened, letting the light from an oil lamp spill into the cell.

“I don’t want to sell him,” the jailer whined.

“And I didn’t want two brutal days of labor to turn into the village idiot, but here we are,” said a woman’s voice.

“What an exceptional find.” A tall, thin man pushed the woman aside and leaned over the cell. “Where did you get a lysk this small?”

The newcomer had an impressive black beard that fell below his waist in a complex braid. He wore a black cloak over simple undyed wool clothes.

“Master Grayman had him,” the jailer said.

“Why is he in this little box?”

The jailer’s voice took on the air of teaching a moron. “Because he’ll get away without it.”

“Watch your tone, boy,” the tall man said. “Lysks are much smarter than dogs or horses. If you take care of them, they stay with you. If this one wants to leave, it’s because you’ve abused it.”

Graven felt a rush of hope. Grayman had seemed alright, but he had died only two days after bringing Graven to his home. Then the jailer grabbed him and stuffed him in the cell. Perhaps he could go with the tall man.

“I have not,” the jailer said. “I feed him every day. I clean his cage out once a week, and I put him near the fire.”

“What have you been feeding him?”

“Bugs and spiders,” the woman said. “As if I needed more filth in here.”

The tall man whirled and Graven heard the sound of flesh striking flesh, followed by someone falling.

“Ow,” the jailer simpered. “What the hell was that for?”

“You gave him bugs and spiders? You locked him in a tiny cage? You left him with his filth? I considered training you, now that Grayman has passed, but I’ll not waste my time on an idiot. Give me the lysk, and I’ll be going.”

“You can’t just take him,” the jailor whined.

“Lysks are not for sale,” the tall man said. Graven’s heart leaped. The man wanted a partner, not a pet.

“Could you, perhaps, leave us with a bit of something?” the woman asked. “Times are hard, and my sewing doesn’t bring enough.”

“Aye,” the man said. He leaned over the cell and spoke to Graven. “You understand, I’m not buying you. I’m helping a widow and her idiot son, so they don’t starve.”

Graven nodded.

“Oh, you’re a smart one indeed,” the man said. A smile lit his face. He rustled in a pocket, and Graven heard the distinctive sound of gold clinking together.

“Oh, you can’t give me that,” the woman said. “It’s far too much. You could hire a laborer for a year.”

“It’s alright,” the man said. “I’ll not take the boy on, but I will ask around. Perhaps I can find a champion of lost causes.”

“Bless you for your kindness,” the woman said.

A hand reached down into the cell, and Graven climbed on. In the palm was a little metal bead. Graven dove on the treat and snapped it down, then looked up at the man. The bead was probably for him, but he should have checked first.

“There’s a good lad,” the man said. “My name is Master Lenuel Forester.”

It took a couple of seconds to begin digesting the metal, and then his whole body shook as energy flooded him. His skin tingled, and he couldn’t tell if it was ecstacy or something worse. The top of his head felt hot, and his toes burned with cold. He belched, and a little flash of blue fire spread across Forester’s thumb.

Graven’s eyes widened, and he lunged at the burned spot and licked it. Forester laughed and ran a gentle finger down Graven’s back.

“That’s alright, lad. I imagine it’s been far too long since your last good meal.”

“He eats metal?” the jailer asked.

“Not just metal,” Forester said. “He has complex needs, and he offers complex skills in return. By taking such poor care of him, you made a lifelong enemy. He will never work with you or trust you. This is why we bring students along carefully. Forging blindly ahead can lead to success in some disciplines, but in the arcane it leads to failure and misery. You think on that, and if I manage to find you a new master, you remember this lesson.”

“Yes, Master Forester. Thank you, sir.”

“That’s better,” Forester said. “You’re learning already.”

Forester placed Graven on his collar, and Graven burrowed in between the master’s warm skin and the rough cloth, peeking out at the world. They walked out, leaving the dark basement, climbing to the ground floor of a stone building.

Wood tables and benches occupied most of the floor space, and flames crackled in a large stone fireplace at the far end.

Forester went to the fire and placed Graven on the hearth. The heat and light were delicious, and he ran to the nearest coal and took a bite. The clean flavor of pure charcoal pushed aside the last remnants of spider ichor in his mouth. The spice of flame sent pulses of energy down his sides, and he belched yellow fire.

“You’re a regular enthusiast, aren’t you?” Forester said.

Graven shook himself and burrowed into the coal bed, luxuriating in the feel of real warmth.

“What in the devil is that?” a woman asked.

“My new friend,” Forester said. He slipped her a coin, and Graven scented copper. “I’ll thank you kindly not to compare him to evil. Can you bring me a pint of brown, please?”

“Of course, sir. Right away.”

The drink she brought was big enough for Graven to swim in. He came out of the fire to investigate, and Forester set it on the hearth for him. It smelled faintly of nectar, but had strong overtones of earth and something bitter.

“Go ahead and try it,” Forester said. “Let me know what you think.”

Graven lapped a little sip, then grimaced, stuck his tongue out, and tried to wipe the flavor off with his forefeet.

“Oh no,” Forester said with a gentle laugh. “I’d hoped you would like it. Probably has too much water and hops in it.”

Graven sneezed and went back to the fire for another palate-cleansing bite of charcoal.

The lady returned and offered Graven a bit of meat. It was black on one side, and red on the other. He licked it, then ate the charred side.

“He’s a cutie, isn’t he?”

“He is that, and much more,” Forester said. “Take that raw bit into the fire. It’ll cook right up for you.”

Graven seized the meat and dragged it into the coal bed. Forester was right, it only took a few seconds to become edible. Graven finished his snack, then went to the edge of the hearth nearest the woman and stared up at her.

“Give him a scratch,” Forester said. “He’s trying to thank you for the treat.”

“He won’t bite?”

Forester shrugged. “I wouldn’t think so. He’s been a keen student so far.”

She reached down and held her finger out. Graven gave it a sniff, then a couple of licks. She tasted of meat, mushrooms, and fire. Clearly a good person. He nuzzled her fingertip, and she giggled.

“I think he likes me.”

“He does indeed. Lysks are smarter than anything short of people, and even some them. You know who I mean,” Forester said with a wink and a nod at the floor.

“That’s unkind, sir. Raddy is a good boy, just rough at the edges.”

“If you say so,” Forester said. “Thank you for the pint. Have a fine day.”

She took the empty mug. “And you, sir.”

Forester put his hand down, and Graven hopped aboard.

* * *

They found a short, thick man with graying temples in front of Forester’s door.

“Master Maker,” he said with a grin that split his beard.

“Master Warrior,” Forester said. They shook elbows, and then embraced.

“Look what I brought you,” the Warrior said. He held out a leather bag, and Forester reached inside. The bottle he retrieved was clear glass with a cork stopper. The contents were burnt orange that glinted in the sunlight like liquid fire.

“Oh, laddie,” Forester said. “This is a treat indeed. Come inside, and we’ll share a dram or three.”

Forester’s home was a large open room with a bed on one wall, two fireplaces, and workbenches filling the space. There were stones, metal ingots, books, scrolls, and thousands of containers shelved along the far wall.

He got a shallow copper dish out and sat beside the larger of the two hearths. He laid some wood in the firebox, and put the dish on the hearth in front of it.

“Care to start the fire, laddie?”

Graven ran out from his place inside Forester’s collar, down his arm, and to the wood. He puffed up, and felt his sides warm. Then he jetted white fire into the base of the wood. In seconds it was popping merrily.

The visiting wizard pulled another chair over and sat, leaning forward to study Graven.

“Where in God’s name did you find this little treasure?”

“Grayman had him. Not sure where he was before that.”

The Warrior frowned up at Forester. “Why would Grayman give him up? He’s a delight.”

Forester shrugged his shoulders in the way of men who didn’t want to say something. “I guess you haven’t heard. He passed about eight days gone.”

“What? How?”

“Just one of those things. Went to sleep, didn’t wake.”

The Warrior bowed his head. “That takes much of the joy from homecoming.”

Forester rose and put his hand on the Warrior’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, MacGorin. I’ve fumbled the news something awful. He was a good master to you, and I’m a lout for telling you this way.”

Graven went to the hearth near MacGorin and reached up with a forefoot.

“Would you look at that,” MacGorin said. He reached down, and Graven ran up his hand and arm, then burrowed into the beard at the side of his neck.

“Aye,” Forester said. “He’s a brilliant lad. That idiot boy Grayman was training had him trapped in a little box made of bricks. Fed him bugs and spiders.”

MacGorin shook his head sadly, then reached up to give Graven a gentle scratch with a fingertip. “That’s no way to treat a lysk. Especially not a unique one like this. Don’t think too harshly of Raddy, though. It’s not his fault he can’t read. Something about his eyes. He tries to keep it secret from everyone, but he can’t see anything closer than his outstretched fingertips.”

Forester got a pair of tumblers, then uncorked the bottle with a satisfying pop. He poured a serving for each of them, then another into the shallow dish.

“Come on down and try this, laddie. I reckon you’ll like it better than the ale.”

MacGorin reached down to the hearth, and Graven ran down his arm and over to the dish. The contents smelled lovely, of charred oak and peat. He lapped a sip, and a shudder went through him. The nectar was almost overpowering. He coughed a little blue fireball into the dish, then crawled in as the flame spread across the surface.

Graven rolled in the burning nectar, lapping it up, and reveling in the warmth of the fire, and the burn of the nectar in his throat.

“I’d say he likes it,” Forester chuckled.

“Watching this makes the whole campaign worth it,” MacGorin smiled.

“How was it this year?” Forester asked.

“Awful. We killed them like scything down wheat. And they still refuse to come to the bargaining table. The only good news is that our losses were light, and theirs were so heavy I can’t see them returning to the field for several years.”

Forester leaned back in his chair and studied his friend. “So you’ll be around for a while, then?”

“Looks that way.”

“Perhaps you’d train Raddy. I told the boy I would look for a new master on his behalf.”

MacGorin shook his head sadly. “I wouldn’t know how to teach him. He can’t read, and I don’t know how to make up for that.”

The fire went out in Graven’s dish, so he stepped out and went to snuggle in the coals.

“You know, I have an idea.” Forester rose and stepped to a chest beside the hearth. He rummaged around for a bit and returned with a quartz sphere. Setting the stone on the hearth, he looked at Graven. “How are you with shaping, laddie?”

Graven circled the sphere, then bent his breath to align with the stone. Then he slipped into the rock, swimming in little swirls and whorls. After a few moments he popped back out. Left behind were little trails of bubbles which formed the image of a lysk.

“That’s impossible,” MacGorin said.

“What it is is bloody fantastic,” Forester said. “Master Warrior, fetch the boy. He lives in the basement underneath the High Note.”

“What should I say to him?” MacGorin asked.

“Nothing. Let him sweat a bit. See how he handles some pressure.”

“You really think you can allow him to read?”

“Perhaps. Go fetch him, and let’s find out.”

* * *

Raddy looked terrified as MacGorin dragged him in. The former jailer’s eyes darted back and forth. He flinched away from several objects as they crossed the room. Finally, MacGorin tossed him on a chair in front of the fire.

“Do not move until you’re released.”

“Yes, Master MacGorin.”

Then his eyes locked onto the quartz sphere. “Please, take that away from me.”

MacGorin gave him an ‘are you stupid’ frown. “It’s just a rock, boy. Being round doesn’t make it evil.”

“That’s not what my priest says.”

“Idiot,” Forester muttered.

Raddy flinched. “Don’t speak ill of holy men, sir. I beg you.”

“He’s not speaking ill of your priest,” MacGorin said. “He’s speaking ill of you.”

Raddy relaxed, and his shoulders slumped. “Why am I here?”

Crossing the room, Forester put a mask made of crystals and heavy gold wire over Raddy’s eyes.

“Pick a point on the wall.” He gestured across the room. “Keep your gaze on it. Don’t waver.”

On the far wall a series of curves appeared in ice blue light. Graven understood the problem immediately. The boy’s eyes were misshapen. If they were to craft a bit of crystal to bend the light, Raddy would be able to see up close.

Forester got a piece of velum and a feather. He trimmed the feather, dipped it in ink, then made a rapid sketch on the velum. The sketch made the meaning of the curves on the wall clearer, but Graven knew what Forester wanted. He shook his head.

“I know, you don’t want to help Raddy,” Forester said. “Can you do it for me, please?”

Graven thought about it, then looked at the bottle of nectar.

“You’ll do it for the bottle?” Forester asked.

Graven stomped his foot twice.

“Two bottles?”

He nodded.

Forester looked a MacGarin. “Do you have another bottle?”

“Aye. I’ll trade for it. Not sure what I want in exchange yet.”

“That’s alright. You’re not the kind to cheat me.” He turned his eyes back to Graven. “You have a deal, laddie. Two lenses, two bottles.”

It took a handful of minutes for Graven to spin off the lenses from the quartz sphere. Then Forester mounted them in a frame of copper wire.

MacGarin put the finished product on the jailer, then handed him a book. Raddy flipped it open, his eyes went wide, and he let out a sob.

Graven leaped from the hearth to Raddy’s knee, ran up his shirt, and licked a tear from his cheek.

“Ah,” Raddy said. “Maybe he doesn’t hate me after all.”

If that’s what he thought about drinking the tears of your enemies, he was an even bigger idiot than people thought.