The Sorcerer

The hearth crackles its last dying embers, and throughout my chamber the cold sets in, meanders its way through the shoddy foundations of the dilapidated greystone tower, and settles into the space like an unwanted visitor. Like it owns the space, knows every nook and cranny of my solitude nestled deep within Marlock Forest—and perhaps it does. The tower was old. A sleepy hollow fallen prey to the shackles of time, imprisoned in a tapestry of roots and vines that tightly weaved through wood and stone and turned what once might have been laborious architecture into crooked angles that jutted and skewed.

In almost satire timing, the wind howls, and I flinch as the floorboards beneath my slippers shudder, as if taking umbrage of my musings. Once, twice, I blink, as reality clears like crystal back into my vision, and my thoughts dissipate.

A chuckle rumbles in my chest, wobbles up my throat and past parted lips.

“Sorry old girl, didn’t mean to offend,” I say with a wry smile. The silence that answers back is bliss. The tower was a structure of few words—and I liked it that way.

With a click of my fingers, the book in my lap snaps shut, and I place it on the side table, taking care to avoid spilling the now tepid murky waters of liquid laid to waste in its ceramic and garishly floral confinement. My throat bobs as I swallow down another chuckle begging for release, and I hum my amusement at the thought of comparing myself to tea—a perfect analogy to my life really, to what I have allowed myself to become.

And I reveled in it.

Why else would I choose to live in this precarious tower, isolated from civilization and the like, for hexes sake.

The wind lets loose another gust that skirts across the building’s perimeter, and I tense, bracing myself for the repercussions of my pondering. Sure enough, the tower deplores through complaints, and I mutter an incoherent apology to the wind. My hands unclench from arms of ochre, the fabric of my chair worn membranous from years of use, years of blithely wasting away. An embarrassing grunt accompanies brittle movement as I push against my lap and make to stand. The motion takes longer than I’d like to admit, and is followed by another dragged out exasperating moment of stretching muscles and shuffling feet. Silk brushes wood as I unceremoniously sweep my way across the room, my hands fumbling in the folds of my robes, fingertips roaming over textures and sending images to my mind’s eye to discern. Soft and crunchy, a tissue, round and smooth, a marble, something grai—ahh. Found it.

Candlelight flickers from a stick of wax resting within an ornately forged sconce, and I stretch over its flame, lighting the pipe plucked from the labyrinth of my pocket, already stuffed tight with herbs ground the evening prior. I draw in the smoke and hold, packing my lungs to the brim and relishing in the burn that consumes within. My eyes flicker shut, and I tunnel in on the dark flecks that float aimlessly through closed lids, before letting loose a shuddered breath that quickly transmutes into a spluttered cough. My eyes snap open, and I stretch one arm behind, flicking my wrist before rolling it in circular motions and snapping my arm forward again. The sound of metal scraping pottery clinks to life from behind as my spine straightens and shoulders loosen, body aches fading as I succumb to the numb—a sure sign that my efforts of gathering and grinding together a compendium of botanicals last night have proven successful. The clinking sound loudens as my teacup floats delicately through the room and smoothly halts its trajectory mere inches from my face. A small spoon moves with fervency on its own in clockwise circles that grate across ceramic, eager to please yet taking great caution not to spill the freshly made tea that sloshes dangerously close to the rim. I let the magical vessel linger as I savour the moment, sway in dissociation, moving to the rhythm of my content. My pace quickens and robes of the brightest cerulean chase my movements, followed by a somewhat stressed cup as I prance across creaky floorboards, my pipe perched haphazardly between sealed lips. Vision doubles, body spirals, colours kaleidoscope and pupils blow.

And I dance.

I dance like no one is watching, because no one is watching. I dance and—WHACK.

A garbled shout explodes from surprised vocal chords as something collides with my face, sending my pipe clattering to the ground.

“What in the Gruble’s gravy is this,” I hiss, and the haze of my high is quickly swallowed up by a maelstrom of panic and confusion as I fight to fend off the sudden assailant that assaults in a barrage of thrashing against skin. Both hands lift to grasp around the thing attacking my face, and my mouth moves on its own before my mind can comprehend.

“Bullar!” The word bellows out of me, and a flash of blue erupts from clammy palms, absorbing the intruder into a vortex of water that churns several turns more before coming to a standstill in mid-air. I shake my head, and beads of luminescent aqua rivulet through my peppered locks before scattering in every direction. My head snaps up so fast it’s a wonder it doesn’t break, and I blanch, mouth hanging agape and balking wide-eyed up at the bubble that floats at my mercy. The thing gnashes and roars within its watery prison, and my heart quickens its pace in the dawning realization of what manner of creature I hold captive…a Malumletter.

I hadn’t realised I had spoken the name out loud until the letter stills, grinning widely with unsettling malice, and flashing a row of yellowing sharp points that protrude from bloodied gums. I take a small step back as the black parchment bobs in its confinement—and although lacking eyes, visceral fear prickles up my spine and the hair on my nape bristles at the feeling of being watched.

Malumletters, otherwise known as parchment demons, were originally intended to be used as a crude way of communicating between the realms of Hell, usually to send threats or pick fights.

So basically, hate mail.

They came into existence using the charred remains of damned souls, of which Ater trees were born. The trees were then chopped down and turned into parchment, soul-imbued letters that may have been harmless if not for the fact that they took rapture in shredding flesh from bone using the set of gnarly canines that featured across their…face, or lack thereof.

Malumletters were rare, likely because they were not intended for the mortal realm. They would have to be conjured by someone who held true hate in their heart for them to survive a summons. Someone with immense power and an affinity to the nether. And I know exactly who.

Victor Visego.

And that could mean only one thing.