Sorcerer from Another World

“Telling stories are we?” Morgana said with good humour.

I got her up to speed on Gainor’s antics and she nodded along showing none of the surprise or confusion I felt. In fact, judging by the faint smile, she was pleased. 

“He is right to treat you with the respect you deserve, Master. The more people who know and fear you the better.” Umbra said, listening in.

“Is that why you have been adding to the rumours?” Morgana said, raising her eyebrows with mock surprise. 

“You’ve hardly denied them yourself.” Umbra bit back.

“Nor will I.” Morgana affirmed.

Iris rolled her eyes at the pair, “I can tell a story Helen told me from her birth land.” she said, her voice crackling a little with nerves. 

I gesture for her to go on, “Please do.” 

I was gratefully for the change in conversation. 

“In the lands of Clut, south of Alba there is a tale of treasure…”

“Treasure?” I asked.

“A pot of gold at the bottom of a pool.” Morgana interrupted with a mixture of patient reserve and happiness. 

Morgana passed me some wine and some to Iris. Umbra served herself. We drank and we toasted. The warmth of liquor in our veins seemed to mellow some of the tension. 

Iris continued, “So it is so, and many attempts have been made to retrieve the treasure.” She paused for dramatic effect. “But none have succeeded.”

I inched forward, eager to hear more. A few days away from modern civilization had starved me of storytelling entertainment. 

“The Chieftain of Crawlford, the land where the pot of gold lay, gathered all her followers. An old woman, my mentor’s mentor mentor, who was from the village remembered the last attempt made to find the gold and warned the Chieftain of its guardians.”

“The Chieftain ignored these words and ordered her followers onwards. They dammed up the waters then moved to empty the remaining pool of all its water. One of the followers heart their bowl clink against the pot when they were beset by the Crimson Duo - the fearsome Squirrel and Robin 

“Powh!” went the Squirrel.

“Mwah ha ha!” laughed the Robin voiced by Morgana.

“The Chief Hut of Crawlford is in flames!” They chanted as one as did the lovers. 

“The followers left in a hurry to save what they could. When they arrived the hut was standing strong and dry. When they returned to the pool the dam was broken and the waters cascading over the falls once more.” Iris told. 

“The folks of Crawlford agreed to not interfere with the pot again for another generation.”  

“Oooh!” I said in my spookiest voice, while waving my hands and wiggling my fingers.  

We drank some more finishing off a second cup each. 

Morgana poked Iris’s cheek, “How about the one with Clavile you learned?” 

Iris’s head spun back around to me, “Yes!” She said and began to tell her next tale. Her words slurring only slightly. 

“The underling of the great Unseelie Lord Maradon, was Clavile the Unseelie Lord of Pacts and Secrets.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “Umm….” She elongated.

“Wilma Roberte made a pact with Clavile during the greatest ever the fair of Kilmere … people from far and near were drawn to barter, fight and play sports … the store of liquor was so abundant it could refill a flowing river. 

“Fortune tellers, bards who sang ballads and minstrels entertained townies, farmers and fisherfolk alike from the honourable chiefs to the lowly cowards. All crowded to Kilmere by common purpose to partake in the fair.” 

“Wilma was of uncommon strength and courage. She was as likely to wrestle a bear as she was to brew and smuggle the finest whiskey you have ever tasted. She was known as bold, daring and infamous. She distilled in the hills beyond the valley where Kilmere was built. She was well-liked enough, but cared for neither human nor fae.”

“Her prowess during the fights of the fair were legendary and that day was no different. On that day, she beat the Adom the Cat he who was unbeaten for ten years from Northmost point of Morein to the southernmost tip of Divtel that the Romans first docked.”  

“He was called Cat because his back never hit the ground.” Morgana explained. 

“It was said that Wilma owed her triumph not to her personal strength, but by forging a pact with Clavile.”

“And so the story goes, she found success in every fight, battle and trade she ever did everafter.” Morgana interrupted. 

I waved a finger, “But, Clavile never forgot their deal.” I guessed.

“So, when Wilma’s hairs were grey and her time near. Clavicle came to collect his price early on a lonely spot at the top of the nearest highest hill. They fought. Fearless, Wilma drew her sharpened axe and challenged Clavile. First, she drew a circle and if Clavile could push her out of the ring he could take that is owed plus secret method by which she brewed her whiskey.”

“Clavile, ever greedy, agreed.” Morgana said with relish.

“All of Clavile’s tools failed to unseat slippery Wilma. Spear and axe shattered and his shield knife was taken from him. Neither he nor Wilma of Kilmere gave in. Clavile’s magic was useless against a woman whose secrets he did not know. The great strength of a Fae Lord faltered before Wilma the Tipsy Brute.” 

“Finally, Clavile sacrificed his pact with Wilma to greatly weaken her and strengthen himself. He rose up on great wings and spewed ethereal flames that would burn the spirit of Wilma, but not the body. Using his own shield, she endured the heat and when he took a breath she threw his knife back.”

“The hilt caught him dead between the eyes. He dropped low and crashed into the circle's edge. There the two struggled and with a mighty punch Wilma knocked him clean out of the circle. Clavile at last had enough and fled the hilltop. Never returned to Kilmere.” 

Gulping the last dregs of my cups I muttered, “The end,” for my own amusement. 

“Proving once and for all that it was by her own strength she triumphed.” Iris interpreted. 

“Or that the powers of the Unseelie can be turned against them.” Morgana speculated. 

“Both.” I said diplomatically.