Post by Seek on Apr 17, 2015 3:04:32 GMT 10
Series: Where the Wind Blows
Title: Scanran Magic
Rating: PG
Event: Fantasy Fencing
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 615 words
Summary: Myles approaches Lindhall about Scanran magic.
-
“Tea?”
Lindhall freezes in the middle of taking off his overcoat, and then smiles. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he says.
“I didn’t think you were,” Sir Myles says, with an enigmatic smile. He has, Lindhall notes, begun to make himself at home, and he’s brought a pot of tea with him, which is about enough for Lindhall to forgive the unexpected intrusion. He is, after all, exhausted.
He crosses the room to join Myles at the table. “What is it about, then?” he asks. The tea is autumnal; redolent with the taste of crisp, fresh apples and some light spices Lindhall can’t quite name.
Myles’ expression grows sombre. “Scanra,” he says, simply. “The army and the King’s Own have lately been clashing with Scanran forces around the border. Putting agents in clan houses is…difficult.”
Lindhall’s mouth twists; he tries to hide his distaste. “I’m no spy,” he says, simply.
“I wasn’t going to ask,” Myles says. He pours out another cup of tea. “No, I wanted to ask about what you know of Scanran magic.”
Lindhall frowns in thought. “Ritualistic,” he says, after ransacking his memory. He leans forward, propping his elbows against the table. “Myles, it’s been decades since I left Carthak—I’ve never even completed my training in Scanran methods.”
“I know that,” Myles replies. “But you’re the best source within Tortall that we have who might tell us what to do to fight Scanran magic.”
Cautiously, Lindhall offers, “Fiefs like Trebond have been defending the border for years.”
“We think they’re making a push,” Myles counters, his sharp eyes still watching Lindhall carefully. “And shamans are entirely different when encountered in skirmishes than in open battle.”
He exhales. “Rituals, as I said. A Scanran shaman is very good at battle magic…very flexible…” he licks at dry lips and adds, “There are two kinds of Scanran magic. There are the long rituals—an apprentice must train for years, mastering chants and runes and rituals and undergo rites to be dedicated to the gods at the correct times…Sacrifice is important. The most powerful magics are bought with blood and bone.” His back flares with remembered pain, and he realises he is clutching the edge of the table. “And there are the quick and dirty methods. Whistled magics, carved rune staves, used to bring about immediate effects when triggered or cast. Rituals are harder to use on the battlefield, but if someone can plan enough to use them, they can be nastily effective.”
“Oh?” Myles leans back in his chair, still attentive.
“There are rituals for the hanged god,” Lindhall explains. “The god of the crossroads and battle. Rituals to send the battle-madness on men; rituals to blind enemies and cast them down with fear.” He smiles, tiredly. “Nasty things an army wouldn’t like to face.”
Myles drums his fingers lightly on the table. “Would you know how to brief any of our university mages on how to counter one of those rituals?”
Lindhall considers it. His hesitation isn’t born out of any attachment to his homeland; he’s long left Scanra behind him, and he doubts anyone in Harvikstead remembers him, nor he them. He’s drifted for years and years like a ship; driven where the winds blow him, and now for the first time, it feels like he’s ready to put down roots. No, it’s something else: it’s been years, he wants to protest again, and his education has never progressed beyond the point where he knows how to disrupt a ritual or break one. “I can tell them what I know about Scanran magic,” he says, at last. “Perhaps together, we’ll find a way to counter it.”
Myles nods, seriously. “I’d be grateful.”
Title: Scanran Magic
Rating: PG
Event: Fantasy Fencing
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 615 words
Summary: Myles approaches Lindhall about Scanran magic.
-
“Tea?”
Lindhall freezes in the middle of taking off his overcoat, and then smiles. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he says.
“I didn’t think you were,” Sir Myles says, with an enigmatic smile. He has, Lindhall notes, begun to make himself at home, and he’s brought a pot of tea with him, which is about enough for Lindhall to forgive the unexpected intrusion. He is, after all, exhausted.
He crosses the room to join Myles at the table. “What is it about, then?” he asks. The tea is autumnal; redolent with the taste of crisp, fresh apples and some light spices Lindhall can’t quite name.
Myles’ expression grows sombre. “Scanra,” he says, simply. “The army and the King’s Own have lately been clashing with Scanran forces around the border. Putting agents in clan houses is…difficult.”
Lindhall’s mouth twists; he tries to hide his distaste. “I’m no spy,” he says, simply.
“I wasn’t going to ask,” Myles says. He pours out another cup of tea. “No, I wanted to ask about what you know of Scanran magic.”
Lindhall frowns in thought. “Ritualistic,” he says, after ransacking his memory. He leans forward, propping his elbows against the table. “Myles, it’s been decades since I left Carthak—I’ve never even completed my training in Scanran methods.”
“I know that,” Myles replies. “But you’re the best source within Tortall that we have who might tell us what to do to fight Scanran magic.”
Cautiously, Lindhall offers, “Fiefs like Trebond have been defending the border for years.”
“We think they’re making a push,” Myles counters, his sharp eyes still watching Lindhall carefully. “And shamans are entirely different when encountered in skirmishes than in open battle.”
He exhales. “Rituals, as I said. A Scanran shaman is very good at battle magic…very flexible…” he licks at dry lips and adds, “There are two kinds of Scanran magic. There are the long rituals—an apprentice must train for years, mastering chants and runes and rituals and undergo rites to be dedicated to the gods at the correct times…Sacrifice is important. The most powerful magics are bought with blood and bone.” His back flares with remembered pain, and he realises he is clutching the edge of the table. “And there are the quick and dirty methods. Whistled magics, carved rune staves, used to bring about immediate effects when triggered or cast. Rituals are harder to use on the battlefield, but if someone can plan enough to use them, they can be nastily effective.”
“Oh?” Myles leans back in his chair, still attentive.
“There are rituals for the hanged god,” Lindhall explains. “The god of the crossroads and battle. Rituals to send the battle-madness on men; rituals to blind enemies and cast them down with fear.” He smiles, tiredly. “Nasty things an army wouldn’t like to face.”
Myles drums his fingers lightly on the table. “Would you know how to brief any of our university mages on how to counter one of those rituals?”
Lindhall considers it. His hesitation isn’t born out of any attachment to his homeland; he’s long left Scanra behind him, and he doubts anyone in Harvikstead remembers him, nor he them. He’s drifted for years and years like a ship; driven where the winds blow him, and now for the first time, it feels like he’s ready to put down roots. No, it’s something else: it’s been years, he wants to protest again, and his education has never progressed beyond the point where he knows how to disrupt a ritual or break one. “I can tell them what I know about Scanran magic,” he says, at last. “Perhaps together, we’ll find a way to counter it.”
Myles nods, seriously. “I’d be grateful.”