The Reign of Magic. Wolf Awert

ask, spread a quilt under that tree over there.”

      With these words he gave the Reeve his pot as though he were a servant, laid down his backpack and carrier bags and settled in the shade of the Judgment Tree, from whose branches a black, ruffled crow descended, landing on the druid’s shoulder. The Reeve held the pot, staring into it with a strangely absent gaze, as though still thinking of what to do. Then he called over his son, who promptly took the pot to his mother in the house.

      While a quick meal was being prepared in the Reeve’s house, the druid was playing with the crow, which evidently belonged with him. “You’ve rested long enough, my old friend. It’s high time you make yourself useful.”

      The rough man’s voice was unexpectedly gentle and melodious. The crow on his shoulder abruptly lifted its head and flew off with an annoyed caw. The beard in the dark face formed a wide grin. “Lazy chap!”

      After the Reeve had taken care of bread, cold meat, fruits and honey and the water had finally begun to boil, the druid’s head turned slowly in Nill’s direction, who was still sitting on the well at the edge of the square.

      Nill felt something plucking at him, which seemed to say, “Come on now.” But he stayed put on the well. The plucking became stronger and more commanding. “Get down from there, come now.” But Nill had always reacted to orders with pig-headedness, and this time was no different. My place here is my place, and where I’m sitting, that’s where I sit, Nill thought, looking over to the Judgment Tree.

      The young fellows did not dare move. They could feel the silent battle that was happening, and in their mind the victor was already chosen. The dust had vanished and the breeze had stopped in the moment the druid had sat down. The heat of noon was back and pressing down on them.

      The plucking in Nill’s spirit had stopped and was now rather a gentle pulling. The voice – if it even was a voice – was no longer calling, but instead luring. There were no more words, either, only quiet sounds. Wisperling? Stonesel? Nill was certain they were bird sounds, but he did not know of which bird – it sounded nothing like the ones he knew.

      Nill began to laugh and shouted: “If you want something, come here.”

      These loud words broke the silence like a stone that breaks a vase. The villages muttered anxiously, the druid made a small gesture with his hand and the crow dived, flapped once over the well to stop the fall, sat down opposite Nill and cocked its head. Nill gazed into the one eye the crow was showing. He had often had birds join him on the ground, but never had one been this large. From head to tail-feathers this crow must have been around one and a half forearms long. He held out his hand. The crow took three steps backward. Come here, flap onto my arm, Nill thought. The crow’s head jerked up, but the bird itself stayed put.

      “It doesn’t work that way. Wishing won’t be enough for crows. They’re far too clever and have far too strong a will.” The voice was calm and clear in Nill’s head. “Come and eat with me.”

      Nill hesitated for a brief moment but his inquisitive nature got the better of him. He slipped down from the well and ambled over to the sacred tree, taking care to walk slowly, then sat down in front of the druid.

      Now, for the first time, he could make out the druid’s eyes. Nill was disappointed. He had expected huge fire-wheels or unfathomable depths. What he saw were two small, button-sized black circles, peering out from underneath the thick hair.

      “What are you called, lad?” the druid asked, reaching into one of his many bags and throwing a handful of herbs into the hot water. Where the lid covering the pot came from, Nill had not seen.

      “Nill.”

      The druid’s expression remained unchanged as he said, rather off-handedly, “That is an uncommon name. Mine is Dakh-Ozz-Han.”

      Nill bowed his head in a silent greeting.

      The druid looked up from his water. His eyes searched for the Reeve, who was standing ready to receive more instructions.

      “I thank you, Reeve. You are a host, and a better one could not be found. I am happy that these traditions, while they have become scarce, are still honored in this village. Still, I must ask you to please go and leave us alone.”

      The Reeve gulped, gave a short bow and retreated with a frown on his face, joining the other villagers in watching the strange lunch from afar.

      Nill had kept his eyes on the Reeve, but now turned his attention back to the druid. This man’s presence had a certain oppressiveness about it. It was not the shroud of condensed air Nill thought he had seen from afar. It was his smell. The cloak emitted a cloud of scents of an intensity Nill had never encountered before. Heavy smells, dimming the senses, yet among them light aromas such as the smell of fresh hay, some night-flowers and the gently pungent, bitter scent of beli-bush leaves. Or was it something else entirely?

      Only now did Nill realize that the wild man’s cloak was woven from bearing muag-cows’ underbelly hair. It was a precious thing, worthy of royalty, yet the druid had let it become dirty with earth and the remains of old leaves.

      The druid tore the bread into two pieces, laid one to the side and began plucking apart the smaller half with nimble fingers. He ripped stringy stripes off the meat, wrapped them around the bread and then dipped it first into a white paste and then into a fiery red powder. Then he put it in his mouth.

      He used a wooden bowl to drink from the hot water with herbs.

      “Don’t you want any? Aren’t you hungry at all?” he asked Nill.

      Nill gaped at him.

      He had never seen anyone eat so slowly and intricately. The people he knew tended to eat quickly. Usually while walking or working. And even at home, where time was not an issue, the hunger dictated their speed. Nill reached for the bread slowly.

      “Dip your bread into the honey first, eat that and follow with some drink. You’ll see, you will like it.”

      Nill knew about honey. He had seen the thick, sticky substance a few times and even tried it once, when Esara had been given some as a thank you for a rather large favor.

      This part of Earthland was no bee-haven. There were too few strong trees, and the earth-bees built nests too small to be worth taking. If ever honey was available, it was brought by the merchants and was a delicacy for everyone.

      The druid reached into one of his many bags and pulled out two long strips of meat, one of which he gave to Nill. “Here, try this.”

      Nill knew about jerky, too. He had eaten ram and grollahen before, but this meat came from a different animal. The druid simply hung his strip into the water-pot before eating, but Nill knew how to eat jerky properly and he had strong, shining teeth.

      He pulled out his dagger, bit the meat, pulled the strip tense and cut it off close to his lips.

      The druid laughed heartily. “A sharp blade you have there, my boy.”

      Nill did not know whether to react with an annoyed, unmoved or friendly face. He did not care much for being addressed as “my boy,” but the admiration for his dagger felt good. On the other hand, great warriors show no feelings. In the end, his joy won.

      “Where did you get that knife?” the druid asked.

      “I forged it.”

      “Very good!” the druid said, satisfied.

      Nill did not quite understand what the druid found so “very good” about his weapon, but he did not want to ask either. Dakh-Ozz-Han offered no further explanation.

      After a few, long moments of silence the druid said: “I am looking for Esara the truth-teller’s house.”

      Nill jumped. “What do you want with Esara?”

      “Don’t be so nosy. Don’t you think that’s a matter between Esara and me?”

      Nill