The Strange Tale of Mr Valens; Part 6

The baleful Witch of Tellawick had woven her snares of shadow, whispering ceaseless evils that could command even the waters’ course. Her traps fell like an unending tempest upon the deepest borders of the forest, and when word reached her of these strange wanderers setting forth, she veiled the desolate roads of Palefor in the blackest sorceries. Long ere Valens and his companions drew near, the treacherous design of that Moraveth-born witch had already taken root.

First she whispered unto the pure current that fed fair Sebra, and sent the dark tide of her enchantments flowing into the lake’s unsullied realm. From the lips of the Witch of Tellawick fell words no mortal ear had ever heard before, words steeped in night, that poisoned the stream and cast a shadow upon the crystal face of the waters. “Mundra rutta, mundra dorne, unda veynoth famine” that is to say, “Death to the vale, death to the water, and death to all sworn friends.”

In the vale of Bogascallough, the Witch of Tellawick, knowing her enchanted words had waned in power, began to breathe her wicked designs across the distance. The poisoned stream that reached the lake beguiled Valens and his fellowship, leading them astray and drawing forth their journey sooner than fate had first ordained. This baleful daughter of Moraveth whispered not only unto the waters, but to the soil and to the birds as well though not to all winged kind, for only the ravens hearkened to her voice. And every raven that flew forth at her bidding was fated to find itself hung by its feet in the Crow Market of Moraveth.

In the lowest depths of that shadowed realm lay the land of Moraveth, whose soil had long harboured the most fell sorcerers ever to walk the turning of the world. Some were ancient as the Witch of Tellawick herself, others but newly set upon their path of craft. So dire was this land that even the women of Gaveya seemed pure beside its brood. And if some baleful soul would brew a venomous draught, or if one of its witches, sullen and ill-tempered, sought to weave a spell, she would make her way to the Crow Market, where all things might be found upon the laden stalls. Yet be not deceived by its name, for far more dreadful wares than ravens were traded there at times the heart of a Sillek Frog, or the mouth of a Norfala Larva, and for but a few gold coins more, it was no rare thing to come upon the ear of an Inkalatar Clover.

And everywhere, the crows and ravens that had defied her hung in grim display. Yet think them not dead, for could you but fathom it, they would have longed dearly to be so. To fall into that market was a fate far worse than death, for these hapless birds were torn asunder for the blackest of enchantments, and their deepest dread was to be riven limb from limb. Thus, not one dared in thought or breath to break the word of Tellawick; their only deliverance lay in obedience, and in following the darkness wherever it led.

Over the air she ruled with her crows, and over the earth she bent the will of the Bagarra Beetles; yet for the waters she had no need of any go-between. Her own lips poured forth the most venomous of whispers into the clearest of streams. At times she would murmur fair melodies into the emerald swamps deep within the gloom. Ere Valens and his companions set forth, she called to the river’s ear with words wrought of the highest magic, yet now in a voice of gentler strain. Think not that Tellawick knows naught but the spells of darkness; if her heart so willed, she could render all waters pure and loosen every rein.

This was, in sooth, the very gift that set Tellawick apart from all other sorcerers of the realm. In all the lands, but two souls were known to wield the art in both its courses: one was the Witch of Tellawick, the other Umma Ledasir. At least, so runs the measure of our present knowledge. All others of the craft could bend their secret skill to but a single end either to the work of good alone, or to the weaving of malice and guile. For the spells of light do bind all who learn them within the bright garden of their radiance, while the spells of darkness do lock all who dream them fast in the cold prison of night. Once thou dost walk the gardens of the light, thine eyes grow blind to the strangest shades of the dark; yet should the reverse befall thee, thy mind shall never grasp the shining secret before thine eyes, and thou wilt have no choice but to cast all living things into the chill and baleful snares of the shadow.

To wield the fierce wrath of the good as a veil of shadow was a craft none but the Witch of Tellawick might dare. For though Umma Ledasir was born in the blackened lands, she was the gentlest soul those soils had ever borne. Not in mercy alone was she famed throughout all realms, but in mastery of her arts as well; nor was she in any measure lesser than Tellawick in the splendour of her skill. It was she, amidst the weight of her many labours, who had placed those sprigs within Valens’s satchel. Yet when the matter turned to dominion over the waters, not even Ledasir’s gracious might could draw nigh to the baleful power of Tellawick.

Yet of late, Umma Ledasir had been stricken by a malady most relentless and without remedy. Neither the physicians who came from the four corners of the realm could bring her cure, nor could the most gifted of the Gaveya Women find healing for this pitiless affliction. Thus dawned the hour of the Witch of Tellawick. A weakened Umma, and a handful of mad wanderers preparing for their quest, now roamed the ridges of Malahirol in unguarded plight.

All these turnings of fate were assuredly no mere fruit of chance. For on the last Wednesday of each October, the darkest sorcerers of Moraveth would gather, setting in the village square a cauldron vast and black. Upon that day, the price of all things taken from the Crow Market was borne by the Witch of Tellawick herself, and every ingredient rare beyond hope at other times was supplied in full, wanting not so much as a single measure.

It was yet but Tuesday, and the Crow Market stood thronged with a host greater than ever before. The venomous fang of the Hoflammed Serpent, the piercing tip of the Lamoner Thorn, the dried black heartwood of the Tiller Tree, and the antler of the Toremon Stag these were among the rarest treasures to be found in all the realm, yet here, and many more besides, lay in abundance upon this day. For the young sorcerers of the land, it was nigh unto a festival, granting them both the long-sought chance to display their own craft and the boundless, costless bounty of every substance needed to essay even the blackest of enchantments.

Such bounty was no common custom; the Witch of Tellawick was lavish only when some desire of her own was to be served. And on this day, she bore a request of the most singular weight for the sorcerers of Moraveth. It was the darkest of spells, the deadliest of poisons, a working so dire that even its makers would sicken beneath its power a craft by which the witches of Moraveth had spread their dread renown across the whole realm. In other lands, folk dared not even whisper its name, for none could tell the price it might demand. In the days of King Slintolos, to utter that baleful word was itself forbidden under pain of doom.

A mighty fire was kindled in the very heart of the village, and even the logs cast into it seemed to falter in their will to burn. The deepest abyss of darkness, the most fell of enchantments… Grey clouds of ash began to shroud Moraveth, and suddenly there came forth a young sorcerer, bearing in his grasp the veil of Ledasir. For the Spell of Tenarabus, every ingredient was now gathered. All the witches of Moraveth stood well prepared for the working, yet when their eyes beheld the veil of Ledasir, they were struck with wonder and disquiet.

For though Umma Ledasir was little loved by the witches of Moraveth, none among them bore toward her a hatred so fierce as that which dwelt in the heart of the Witch of Tellawick. Thus did a sudden doubt seize upon some of their number. For the Spell of Tenarabus was no common weaving indeed, many a sorcerer in the realm had not only never taken part in its making, but had lived their whole lives without so much as beholding it wrought.

Then Tellawick raised her voice unto the witches of Moraveth whose eyes had begun to glimmer with doubt, and she spake thus: “Let none who waver tarry here, for there is no place in this square for hearts that harbour hesitation. Aye, this is the blackest of all enchantments, and in the end it lays a heavy doom upon the very souls that weave it. Yet in the realms of shadow there is no place for grey; therefore must this spell be wrought upon Umma, and its power be loosed from hence abroad. But if the hearts of those who fashion it be clouded with doubt, how shall the soul of Ledasir be sealed, and her tale brought to its close? Therefore I bid the doubtful depart, and let them fear not, for no shame shall follow those who forsake the square this day.”

Some of the witches of Moraveth drew aside and, one by one, began to depart. Yet many still lingered round the fire, their eyes alight with a grim and eager curiosity. Those who remained were enough for the Witch of Tellawick, for seven wise sorcerers sufficed to bring the Tenarabus to its dread completion. The cauldron had begun to boil; the witches gathered close, and with one voice they cried aloud: “Tenarabus ala forte illa mortem illa morte”…

A leaf of Marlsalot, a slender reed of Kargı… Where is the mouth of the Norfala Larva? A sprig of Yosmalen shoot, a shard of Blue Crow’s fang, a morsel of Sillek Frog’s heart… Is it complete now? Nay, not yet there is need of a flask of Tenebir’s water, and a few drops of the Hoflammed Serpent’s venom. Now the draught’s final piece should be whole. Ah, stay, foolish witch we had near forgot… Cast in also a root of Mondathir, and a fragment of the Palefor Apple. And when at last this tulle is thrown into the brew, the deed is done and the wanton Ledasir is unmade. Then all together they cried, “Tenarabus ala forte illa mortem illa morte” that is, “Let this be a cursed death; yet if it be not so, still death, still death.”