Sorcerer from Another World

They took their time choosing their clothes. 

Morgana wore a dress with a tight waisted skirt in the shape of a bell. It was like crinoline; stiff and structured to hold out the skirt that had no place on a warrior. It did form her body into a shape pleasing to the eye. Why or how I found it pleasing, I didn’t know. Her top was revealing of her curves of her breasts while only bearing her neckline and shoulders.

She was going to put on her chainmail but I created a metal breastplate that fitted her perfectly. I engraved the face of a wolf like the Cù-sìth on the breastplate. She was beautiful and noble. 

She was covered with a black cloak, small red feathers at the trim. She slipped on a pair of black leather bracers and boots. On her head was a headdress with two red feathers like two small antennas. The dress could be revealing but with the breastplate and cloak was a mix of formal women's wear and warrior’s armour. 

On Morgana’s comment Iris wore traditional Druid wear. Iris had made it when she was twelve and adjusted it to her new body since. 

It consisted of a headdress which was a woven band hanging on low hanging loops were jewels like starlight, a moss coloured cape with golden weaved celtic markings, underneath she wore a burgundy tunic that left her arms bare and, at her waist a belt with a bronze owl-faced buckle which held up loose fitting trousers that descended to a pair of boots.

Her robin nestled on top of her staff. She looked dignified as a true and proud druid.  

We walked out together.

The warrior escort was wary but polite. He explained that the council meeting usually occurred at dawn but the events of last night meant half the people expected including us were asleep.

Galen had decided to delay until noon and had ventured beyond the wall leading a small band to blitz raid the Unseelie camps.

A light shower of rain fell, dripping through the thatch roofs. The dirt and grass were already soaked leaving patches of mud on the pathways. The trim of our dresses or trousers were already stained with the muck. The fort was already abuzz with activity, the people determined to go about their lives despite the ever-present threat of laying siege.   

What would be enough to stop the break the siege? In the stories there were smart protagonists who would come up with an amazing plan and execute them overcoming a dramatic obstacle before their ultimate success.

I had no plans; I knew how to listen to people, and I was fast gaining skill in killing people with magic. Somehow learning WW1 started in 1914 in school didn’t leave me prepared to face real warfare. 

The Unseelie would not listen, that much I was sure of nor would listening to them end their attacks. How many of them had to die before they retreated back from whence they came?  

We couldn’t stay here too long. We were in a trap, and sooner or later the status quo was going to shift.

There were many warriors hurrying about in groups of three or more. They were coloured in the blue paint of those brave enough to die fighting. The equipment had no standard form but were all relatively similar either designed by the same hands or under a common motif. 

They carried a cheap brittle iron. It was with little thought that I repaired some of the weapons. Nothing drastic, but they wouldn’t break after a swing anymore.

The people of the fort could be divided evenly in two. Those who were well clothed, fed and in optimistic spirits and the rest who made up the majority including the villagers of Yolin’s hill whose clothes were ragged, their supplies low and grim determination marked their expressions. 

Everyone kept their heads low and kept to their groups. They clung tightly to their sacks of grain and the ropes on their pigs and goats. I could almost smell the fear. I wondered how many of them would be alive in the weeks to come.

The clothes on my back came from these people, the food I ate and the house that gave a roof over my head. Unlike any person on earth, I had the power to truly live as an individual and not even feel pain from it. I could alter my body as such. 

However, for the first time in a long time I was noticing the actions of others and how they made my little experience of the world. I felt gratitude towards these people, whether they deserved it or not was not important, giving back and keeping them alive did matter.   

A few folk including Gainor bowed low when we passed. In our wake they talked excitedly amongst themselves. Is this what it feels like to be a celebrity? No, this was something deeper.

Galen’s roundhouse was bustling with people moving in and out of the large building. Warriors came out marching with purpose and people in fine grabs with gold pins and bracelets. It seems Galen was issuing orders and gathering council already.

It was built under a huge oak tree, whose branches stretched out and covered the building.

We were led into the house. A cluster of people, men and women stood inside standing around a round table in the shape of an incomplete circle. It had a large hole in the centre where there was a cauldron. I recognised Galen, Meredith, Bomdall and, to my displeasure, Shamus.

“The host stands fifteen thousand strong with more coming every day.” Galen reported.

“Whoever is behind the Unseelie gathering is determined to crush any organised resistance. We have enough provision to last us to winter but they have thirty times our numbers, Chieftain.” Tara explained the situation concisely.  

“Good timing, Sorcerer and Lady’s Morgana and Iris. As you heard, the situation is bleak. I hope you have an idea to improve our chances?” Galen asked, but was too stiff to make it sound like a plea. 

“My meetings are usually at dawn, I expect one of your house to be here. Is that understood?” He added.

“Yes, Cousin.” replied Morgana. “It won’t happen again, please excuse our tardiness.” 

I blinked in surprise. Since when was Morgana polite? I half expected her to start giving orders and take over the village already. Further, when I saw Shamus I expected him to have followed through on his threats. Did Galen not care what I had done to his Uncle? 

“Husband, I believe introductions are in order?” a stern-faced woman beside Galen said.

“This is the Sorcerer Damian. He who rose from the dead or so the tales are saying.” Joked Meredith. “This is my Aunt Morgana. Who I only learned existed yesterday. And the one Bomdall can’t take his unfeeling gaze off of is Iris, a druid if you can’t tell by the clothes.”

“We all know about our visitors, Meredith. I meant, introduce the council to our guests.”

“Oh.” Meredith blushed.

“Well, this is my wife Rebecca. You’ve met Bomdall or so I hear. Shamus and Rospal to represent the crafters. Neil and Naomi for the farmers.”

Rebecca’s emerald eyes stared at Morgana, she was a slender woman with auburn hair who was clad in a fine, green linen dress. Rospal was a broad-shoulder woman with long fingers, and was paying more attention to the needle and thread in her hands than the meeting. 

Neil was a heavyset man, his eyes darted over our group with curiosity. Meanwhile, Naomi, a short haired woman, with a missing finger, kept her gaze on Galen and nodded in agreement with whatever he said. 

“Lest I forget anyone. This is the poet Carol of the Gloaitine saga and her apprentice Geoffrey.”

The poet, an older woman with many grey streaks through her braided hair, carried a metal model of a tree with little silver bells that symbolised leaves. The apprentice, a young man with hair as dark as coal and round eyes like warm honey. They both wore a white feather cloak. 

A dog stood at the heel of the young man. It was large with a grey coat that was thick and rough. It had a long straight tail that almost scraped the earth. It stared with gentle, dark eyes.

“Please, take a seat and we will continue.” said Rebecca, interrupting my observations. 

“Thank you.” Morgana said. 

“Ah, sorry.” I replied and took a seat. “A pleasure to meet you all.” I added. 

Iris repeated what I said.

“Now where was I?” Galen said to himself. 

“We were discussing, the host marching upon our fair hillfort.” Rebecca reminded her husband.

“I led a scouting trip this morning and… we are strong and my warriors are capable. My mother and her father and going back seven generations have protected Ferisdarm and the outlying lands. My great-grandmother beat back a raid of giants. And we’ve held for weeks against numbers greater than any seen in living memory with most of our fighting force away helping Arthur the Roman.”

Galen choked on his words and stopped. 

All eyes at the table including my own watched with sympathy. 

Here was a man whose world was ending and he still believed in the traditions and people who were facing their final hour. 

Galen’s hand tightened into a fist. 

“I have about five hundred able to fight and less than fifty trained and experienced in battle. We had prepared enough food to last us through the winter and we have plenty of iron and other prized goods.”

“But we won’t survive the next few days.” Meredith concluded.  

His fist touched the table and he looked to the ground, “There is still hope.” Galen claimed defiantly. 

“You are out of options.” Meredith argued.

“It is perhaps time to look to other powers for help. More established ones.” Bomdall advised. 

“You think this sorcerer will save us! We need real power, do you think the Romans beg strangers for help.” Meredith continued to argue. 

“Be quiet!” Rebecca interceded. “Galen has led us all thus far, who here would be alive today if not for his aid?”

“Please, I have done no more than what I am able.” Galen replied with sincere humility. In fact, I judged that he felt he should have done more.  

“Nay Galen, If not for your valour in the face of death our warriors would still cower behind the walls and die with their backs to the enemy.” Meredith said.

“Together we survive.” the Druid Bomdall declared, his expression was as stiff as bark despite the warm words. 

“I have heard the reports about Sorcerer Damian. Furthermore, I trust my instincts. He is a good person. Master Sorcerer, thank you on behalf of all of Ferisdarm. We could have lost a great many more warriors if not for your aid.”

“He does not deserve your gratitude, Nephew. He is a spy and a Unseelie friend!”

The gazes of the room locked on Shamus then darted to me.

“What say you, Sorcerer?” Galen asked.