The Reign of Magic. Wolf Awert

now Nill’s exceptionally keen eyes had spotted a black dot between the mirages and the hazy, dusty heat. The dot jumped around like crazy and steadily grew in size. Heat and dust devils had always made it hard to see anything in the distance, and Nill waited patiently until he could make it out more clearly.

      The wind seemed to die down, but its restlessness was replaced by an invisible presence that began to fill every nook and cranny. The last grass stalks that had escaped the sharp rams’ hooves in some shady corners bent fearfully towards the ground, and Nill felt as if the earth itself was trembling under mighty steps. Although they could not see what was nearing yet, the dogs began to bark madly.

      The elders’ faces grew solemn, until someone uttered what they all feared in secret.

      “This is magic. The raw, wild power of a mighty druid that announces his arrival like a wave. My father told me about this. He experienced this often, when he was still a young man.”

      The other elders nodded. Everybody had a father, grandfather or uncle in their family who had stories of the druids to tell. Those mighty sorcerers of nature who always turned up where they were not expected, sweeping the land, always searching for something they called the Heart of Magic. These druids stood outside the society of Pentamuria and were persecuted, cursed or treated with the highest respect by the various rulers of the world, depending on their respective plans. There was no consistent role written for the druids in the history of Pentamuria, and nothing indicated that this would ever change.

      “I’ve only ever once met a druid. More than twenty harvests ago. Was looking for my herd, it got lost in the storm,” remarked Kren, who constantly rubbed his nose with his thumb. “Nothing good ever comes from it.” He did not elaborate what happened when he met the druid, and nobody asked, for now was not a time for stories.

      “If we’re lucky, he’ll just pass through and only asks for food and drink.” Olfa scratched his head. The worry in his voice made what he said sound strangely unfinished.

      “And if he doesn’t just pass through?” his wife asked from the darkness of their hut’s open door.

      “Then he has come to kill someone, or to take them. Most often they take children, but I’ve also heard they take the eldest.” Kren was known to always presume the worst.

      Each of these sentences was accompanied by a moment of silence and hung in the air on its own, as if it had to wait for the previous sentence to be blown away by the wind. But in truth the voices had to gather the strength before they had the courage to speak out loud.

      “They are immortal.”

      “You are talking nonsense. Only the Gods are immortal.”

      “No one has ever seen a dead druid,” ranted Cramas Clumpfoot, but then fell into a whisper. “There are no graves, there are no women and there are no druid children. Druids are always men. Nobody knows where they come from and where they go.” He absent-mindedly brushed a few wood chips off his apron that had fallen when he had left his hut.

      “I have heard that witches abandon their children, and those children then become druids.”

      “Foolish talk! Even witch-mothers are mothers, and mothers don’t just abandon their children.” The old wives shook their heads at such lack of judgment from the men.

      “Perhaps the druids simply take the children from the witches,” Kren speculated.

      Some nodded appreciatively, others shook their heads.

      Nill pretended to gaze disinterestedly in a different direction while his keen ears followed the conversation closely. He knew every single voice very well and did not need eyes to ascertain who was speaking. Esara had never spoken to him about druids, and so he did not really know what to make of them. But someone who was able to rouse the wind, cause nature to become restless and the village folk to gather in scared little groups was certainly worth a careful look. Much to Nill’s disappointment, everyone had heard of the brown men, but no one knew anything in particular.

      Meanwhile the dancing dot had become a dark figure that was swiftly coming closer.

      Even from this distance Nill’s could see how bulky this man was. It seemed as if the air around him had thickened. It was like a veil that fluttered around him in swift flurries like a billowing cloak. But he was not sure. It could just be billowing dust.

      The dogs’ barks were now accompanied by gabbling from the geese and nervous clucking from the chicken. The closer the stranger came, the quieter were the dogs. One by one they shut up, tail between their legs. The chickens ran nervously around, looking for a safe hiding place. Only the geese stayed where they were, hissing hoarsely.

      Through the hazy air and with the sun behind him the silhouette of the burly body seemed as one with its baggage, making the colossal figure seem even larger than it was. Very slowly the gray backpack became distinct from the brown body. A single small metal cauldron had not been packed into the bag, and instead was strapped to its outside. The man had well-filled carrier bags hanging from both sides, attached to his shoulders with a wide cord, knocking against his thighs with every step. His legs were covered mostly by a knee-length skirt that was slit open in front and in the back. The skirt’s creases performed a strange dance with numerous items that hung loosely from his belt. The man walked barefoot and his calves, too, were bare. But this was not uncommon. Most of the villagers went without footwear.

      Although the stranger had by now almost reached the first huts, Nill could still not make out a face. Anything not covered by the long, shaggy hair was instead hidden behind a thick, matted beard. His chest was bare and only partially covered by the long, reddish-brown hair and beard. Nill could not help but marvel at the man’s light tread. The druid, like any wanderer who reached the village, must have been traveling for a long time, bearing his luggage and his own weight, yet in spite of this his feet barely seemed to touch the earth. Where could such levity come from?, he wondered, for each step touched the ground with the heel, rolled across the entire sole and left the dust with the toes.

      Nill had no time for further thoughts, because the stranger had arrived at the outermost huts. Although he politely took his time, the men gave him nothing but silence and hostile glares. The women had retreated into their houses, barely daring to glance out of the dark little windows and door-hatches, their children huddled around them. The village had gone quiet. The silence was broken only occasionally by the howl of a dog that had not managed to dodge a nervously aimed kick in time. The stranger continued his walk calmly, stopping for short breaks at a few houses or peering curiously into the workshops and stables, yet he never stopped for long.

      There were not many houses between the outermost edge of the village and the well Nill was sitting on, because the place itself was small. The druid’s eyes lingered on the boy for a moment as he passed. His lips twitched as though he meant to say something, but the mouth stayed silent. It was over in a heartbeat, too short for the man’s pace to lose rhythm. Nill kept his eyes on the druid, bursting with curiosity.

      The fellows surrounding Brongard, the Reeve’s son, had gathered at the market square and stared at the stranger with wide eyes. They were too old now to hide behind their mothers’ dresses, yet not courageous enough to play the hero. The Reeve himself stood in the middle of the square underneath the sacred Judgment Tree, where all energies joined together, and greeted the newcomer. “May the luck of the day guide you, stranger. Visitors are rare in this part of the world, yet welcome. I hope you will enjoy your stay here.” He gave the merest hint of a bow, so cursory that the gesture crushed the politeness of his words. A Reeve answered to none but his lord, the King of Earthland, and only in questions of higher magic sought the council of the archmages. The knowledge of his own importance gave his features an expression of pride and grandeur. “I shall take the liberty of having some food prepared for you, and shall fetch a pitcher of my own wine from the cellar. If you would follow me into my home?”

      The druid grasped the top of his flat knapsack in a fluid motion, twisted his fist and was suddenly holding a large pot in his hand. “I thank you, Reeve, for your invitation and for your hospitality. I am afraid