born—that he was made to weave black magic. It was in his bones.
Baumgartner hissed, severing Jan's thoughts.
"What is it, friend?" Jan asked, patting his familiar.
The snake released a strange, high-pitched mewl. Jan's hackles rose; he hadn't known snakes could make such sounds. Most warlocks chose bats, hawks, owls, or other flying beasts to be their familiars, but Jan had chosen a snake. While the other warlocks could spy from above, Jan's familiar would creep below, more dangerous than any winged creature.
"What's wrong?" he asked again. Baumgartner was coiling and hissing.
With snapping twigs and stomping boots, the answer revealed itself.
Ten men emerged from the forest, five behind Jan, five before him, trapping him on the road. They held clubs studded with nails, pointed sticks, and chipped daggers. Unshaven and dirty, they wore random patches of fur and dented armor.
Outlaws, Jan knew, and hungry ones by the looks of it.
"Hello there!" Jan said, amusement tickling him. The road to Burrfield had been long and somber, but this encounter promised some entertainment.
"Good day," said one of the outlaws, stepping forward. He seemed to be their leader, and Jan guessed that he was of noble birth. He was taller and broader than his friends, hinting at a past affluent enough to provide steak dinners, and when he smiled, he revealed no missing teeth, which was more than could be said for the others. His sword was rusty and chipped, and his breastplate dented, but both were made of costly steel; they had once been the weapons of a knight.
"These are hard times," Jan said, "if knights have sunk as low as to wander Teasel Forest with footpads."
The outlaw-knight nodded, his smile vanishing. "You have good eyes, friend, if you could spot my background; my name is Sir Corlin Morno of Queenpool. These are hard times, and they just got harder for you. Empty your cloak's pockets, and we'll let you live."
The outlaws raised their weapons, greed and bloodlust filling their eyes. Jan's smile widened. This would be fun.
"Are you sure, dear Sir Morno?" he said. "The pockets of this cloak contain strange things... marvelous, wondrous things to be sure... but dangerous, friend. Are you sure you want to see them?"
One of the outlaws, a squat man with one eye and a studded club, growled. "I say we kill him."
Jan shrugged, one eyebrow raised. "That's certainly a possibility."
Sir Morno shook his head, eyes dark. "We are not murderers, only hungry men. Empty your pockets."
I like this! Jan thought. "Very well," he said and complied. Out of his pockets, he pulled a bat skull, a ball of cobwebs, and a pickled cow's eye.
"What the—" Sir Morno began when Jan tossed the items into the air.
With a quick spell, the items exploded above, raining ash and sparkling black magic.
"A warlock!" an outlaw cried, but it was too late. The black magic seized them, twisting them, knocking them down. They screamed and writhed as Jan watched with a smile. He uttered a few more words, and the outlaws shrunk, sprouted white fur, and twitched their whiskers.
Within a few moments, it was over.
The outlaws were mice.
Jan moved from one to another, stomping his boots. The mice could not flee; his magic held them in place. Squeak! Squeak! His boots kept stomping, making mice pancakes.
He raised his boot over the last mouse—Sir Morno, the outlaws' leader—then paused when he heard Baumgartner hiss.
"You're right, Baumgartner," Jan said and patted the snake. "You deserve a treat."
He lifted the mouse and held it up. Baumgartner slithered down Jan's arm, gulped down the mouse, and sighed contentedly.
"Yum yum," Jan said and patted the snake. You don't find fun like this in the Coven.
He kept walking. Soon he saw Burrfield ahead.
* * * * *
As he walked down Burrfield's streets, Jan saw that the town had barely changed. Iron lanterns still lined the cobbled roads, smelling of the oil that would light them at nights. Fort Rosethorn still
Baumgartner hissed, severing Jan's thoughts.
"What is it, friend?" Jan asked, patting his familiar.
The snake released a strange, high-pitched mewl. Jan's hackles rose; he hadn't known snakes could make such sounds. Most warlocks chose bats, hawks, owls, or other flying beasts to be their familiars, but Jan had chosen a snake. While the other warlocks could spy from above, Jan's familiar would creep below, more dangerous than any winged creature.
"What's wrong?" he asked again. Baumgartner was coiling and hissing.
With snapping twigs and stomping boots, the answer revealed itself.
Ten men emerged from the forest, five behind Jan, five before him, trapping him on the road. They held clubs studded with nails, pointed sticks, and chipped daggers. Unshaven and dirty, they wore random patches of fur and dented armor.
Outlaws, Jan knew, and hungry ones by the looks of it.
"Hello there!" Jan said, amusement tickling him. The road to Burrfield had been long and somber, but this encounter promised some entertainment.
"Good day," said one of the outlaws, stepping forward. He seemed to be their leader, and Jan guessed that he was of noble birth. He was taller and broader than his friends, hinting at a past affluent enough to provide steak dinners, and when he smiled, he revealed no missing teeth, which was more than could be said for the others. His sword was rusty and chipped, and his breastplate dented, but both were made of costly steel; they had once been the weapons of a knight.
"These are hard times," Jan said, "if knights have sunk as low as to wander Teasel Forest with footpads."
The outlaw-knight nodded, his smile vanishing. "You have good eyes, friend, if you could spot my background; my name is Sir Corlin Morno of Queenpool. These are hard times, and they just got harder for you. Empty your cloak's pockets, and we'll let you live."
The outlaws raised their weapons, greed and bloodlust filling their eyes. Jan's smile widened. This would be fun.
"Are you sure, dear Sir Morno?" he said. "The pockets of this cloak contain strange things... marvelous, wondrous things to be sure... but dangerous, friend. Are you sure you want to see them?"
One of the outlaws, a squat man with one eye and a studded club, growled. "I say we kill him."
Jan shrugged, one eyebrow raised. "That's certainly a possibility."
Sir Morno shook his head, eyes dark. "We are not murderers, only hungry men. Empty your pockets."
I like this! Jan thought. "Very well," he said and complied. Out of his pockets, he pulled a bat skull, a ball of cobwebs, and a pickled cow's eye.
"What the—" Sir Morno began when Jan tossed the items into the air.
With a quick spell, the items exploded above, raining ash and sparkling black magic.
"A warlock!" an outlaw cried, but it was too late. The black magic seized them, twisting them, knocking them down. They screamed and writhed as Jan watched with a smile. He uttered a few more words, and the outlaws shrunk, sprouted white fur, and twitched their whiskers.
Within a few moments, it was over.
The outlaws were mice.
Jan moved from one to another, stomping his boots. The mice could not flee; his magic held them in place. Squeak! Squeak! His boots kept stomping, making mice pancakes.
He raised his boot over the last mouse—Sir Morno, the outlaws' leader—then paused when he heard Baumgartner hiss.
"You're right, Baumgartner," Jan said and patted the snake. "You deserve a treat."
He lifted the mouse and held it up. Baumgartner slithered down Jan's arm, gulped down the mouse, and sighed contentedly.
"Yum yum," Jan said and patted the snake. You don't find fun like this in the Coven.
He kept walking. Soon he saw Burrfield ahead.
* * * * *
As he walked down Burrfield's streets, Jan saw that the town had barely changed. Iron lanterns still lined the cobbled roads, smelling of the oil that would light them at nights. Fort Rosethorn still
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