Princil's Magic : Ch.10 : Festival At Bricas (Part 3: The End Of Harmony: Section 2)

    Heaven had somehow turned into hell. The pleasure of the all encompassing warmth of the Goddess had slipped into petty human jealousies and lusts. The animal natures of men and women had risen. Women turned to fear, jealousy and loathing. He saw a woman bite the cock of the man she was sucking, until blood ran down it. Using her teeth as a weapon she punished him, as he screamed and pulled her black hair tightly, forcing her to disengage. Only minutes before they had seemed to be happily and lovingly engaged in the acts of sex! Their anger was up now and the woman clawed back with sharp fingernails drawing blood. Other men came forward, holding her down while the man she had injured beat her face, further spoiling her beauty. Then they pinned her down and took turns to rape her as she screamed out. What madness was this which had gripped them all?

 

    Aribor felt the lusts and the feelings of violence as the Shalirionites did, but perhaps because he was a sorcerer he was able to retain enough detachment to think and to wonder what these unusual feelings were.

 

   Aribor knew violence! His past was violence; his homeland was violence, lust and cruelty. Now he and the sorcerors had come to this city of Shalirion, another untouched corner of Shalirion, in which he found innocence and love, beyond his expectation, all the good things he had never known in the past. He found he wanted those things now, and having found them, he found  them suddenly corrupted. This was too much coincidence! He wondered he had not thought of it more swiftly. The reason for this sudden change could only be the Black Sorcerors, his fellow Grumandrians. They had struck sooner than he thought. How could he not have recognised their magic? So relaxed had he become in his sexual heaven that he had not even recognised the hallmarks of his trade.

 

    He recognised that his own mind had been influenced to exaggerate his emotions. Quickly he restored the barriers he used when he sensed a threat. Something was affecting him. Was it a spell, a mist or perhaps something imbibed? That could well be the cause! The festival goers all drank from the same source! They took  ‘wine’ from the huge bowls in the middle of the Palace hall. They passed the chalices between them. Perhaps his fellow sorcerors had managed to poison the ‘wine’ to create paranoia and fear, jealousy, greed and lust. Some chemical or a spell upon the liquid? Was it too late to undo the damage which had already been done. Many had injured each other. If he did not act now more of these innocents would die or inflict senseless injuries upon each other. In an instant the sorcerer considered his choice. Whether to remain loyal to his countrymen and their King? Quickly he was aware that he had already made up his mind, before he had even been aware of it. Years of loyal service thrown away in an instant, but this was not the first time he had been tested recently.

 

    He cast a search for spells upon the nearest ‘wine’ bowl. There was no spell to obstruct him. The contaminant must then be physical, a chemical additive rather than an influencing spell. That made his task more difficult, but perhaps he could cast spells which countered the physical effect of the ‘wine’ upon these people. The woman he had defended himself from lay dazed upon the floor nearby, where her head had hit the floor. He leaned forward over her, feeling no more anger towards her as his own emotions were now controlled. Placing his hand upon her forehead he began to speak a spell of calming, the banishment of anger. The power of his sorcery was immediately evident. The calm settled upon her immediately. He could see her eyes, no longer filled with fear and hatred, although the sore head remained for now.

 

 

     Aribor cleansed his own head of the magic mist which he now sensed. It had slipped upon him unawares, and led him down the path of lust, jealousy and hatred, which he could see acting upon the Shalirionites. He searched for spells which might have caused this while he sat motionless amongst the growing chaos. There were none he could sense yet, but he knew his comrade sorcerors. Each had their own specialities, their own methods. The sorcerer Grells was a master of drugs, which could affect the mood of men.. He experimented on prisoners whenever opportunities arose, turning them mad sometimes, or more lucid and rational if he wanted confessions. His magic was of a more chemical nature than any of the sorcerors. Aribor suspected this might be his work. Some fluid might have been slipped into the wine which the Goddess worshippers shared, by a sorcerer in disguise. Grells had been often looked down upon by some other sorcerors who worked with purely magical methods. Aribor had sometimes thought so himself, but he could see the power and cruel effectiveness of Grell’s work before him, if it was indeed Grell’s work. The Shalirionites fought and abused each other for the first time in their soft harmless lives, hating each other.

 

     Aribor was at a loss to understand how Grell’s particular brand of sorcery might be countered. An ‘antidote’ in the wine vats perhaps, but what was the antidote? Was there one, and how could the now dangerous Shalirionites be persuaded to drink such, while they were in the middle of fighting and abusing each other. Perhaps the evil effects of the drug would dissipate as time went on. Perhaps just more harmless drink might be an answer if he could get the maddened Shalirionites to drink such a fluid.

 

    Aribor was not much used to magics which countered stress and tension, paranoia, anger and terror. His magic had mainly flowed from the creation of pain, unease and sexual ecstasy.  Now he sought for calming magic. He needed to halt this madness, to counter it. He had found a place and a people of some perfection, submitting to group bondings, which he could only have imagined in his dreams before, only to find it turning from heaven into hell before his eyes! He needed to restore perfection, even more for the sake of his own psyche than for these poor festivalgoers, turned from sharers into jealous animals, filled with hatred and cruel lust.

 

     He delved into the folk magic of his own people. Simple magic he had been taught as a young wizard by his father and uncle before him. The tale was one of ancient tribal origin and there would be no way he could remember the exact words. But perhaps he could find the spirit which would reflect calm into the minds of these people, the spirit of communal togetherness and belonging. Words came to him as he concentrated. “Father (the father of his people) bring us together, make us understand, bring us your peace!” The words were a jumble – he spoke in unfinished phrases, but the intensity of his prayer came forward and he was enveloped in a calm which came from his own ancestry. He delved deep – he could feel the forests and fields of his homeland, deep pools in forests, people holding hands, the pulse of his ancestors’ heartbeats, the calm of nature around them, the warmth of the sun, the care of nature. Words came from the old languages of his people.

 

     He felt a swelling up, another force, or one which was the same? “Mother?” he cried out loudly! The Father he spoke to became Mother or was joined, supplemented by Mother! He understood something of this. This was not his own mortal mother, nor was the Father his own mortal father. His own race contained a Goddess in their distant past, not only the Father. He knew these people of Shalirion worshipped a Goddess who was like a mother to them. It was to her that they held ceremonies, many of them sexually involving, this festival being one of them. He felt an even greater calm, as the Goddess of these people joined the Father of his ancestors. His people had prayed to the same Goddess perhaps many, many generations before, or perhaps his supplication to the Father had awakened the local Goddess of these people? Perhaps it was all the same?

 

    A strong power entered through him, and, without much further effort on his part, her magic poured through him. He became a vessel, and waves of calm and care and love poured through him and into her people. The effects were immediate. He reached out for the nearest person, a woman dazed by the beating she had received, and then a nearby man, who had had to fight for his own life when attacked by that same woman. The helpless beauty, scratched and stained, was being raped by evermore Shalirionites, wielding unsatiated penises. She seemed no longer beautiful, but still they came. He touched the men and calm spread into them. Like lambs they ceased their wild acts and moved away, their feelings of care and love restoring, shaking their heads and weeping in their confusion, but acting in their more normal ways. The raped woman felt his touch too and she relaxed. He walked around, spreading the healing calming power he now felt.

 

     As he restored calm to these people Aribor could see their perplexity. They looked at the evidence of their coarse nature – the dead, the maimed and injured, and the scratches and bruises on themselves and the majority who had managed to come through the grotesque incident without serious harm. They had no ordered memory of the selfish and lustful emotions which had flared up inside them. Only the confusion of ugly dreams remained. Their shock was obvious to see. They began to think again. Their previous normal life memories were back inside their heads. How could they heal the injured? Would they need food or drink? Would food or drink help them all to recover?

 

 

    He could not find any more of the people of Bricas to heal. He had been to everyone in the hall. Still the magical power flowed through him. He had tapped a source of magic far stronger than he might ever have expected. Aribor felt pleased as the success of his work became apparent. He knew he was doing something good and worthwhile. It was as if the Goddess smiled upon him as she did her work, his ancestors’ God also. He had lived his life to this point as a wrongdoer, a man of evil, sorcerer of the black arts. He had become used to being feared for his talents, by his victims and his enemies. He had held the respect of his brother sorcerors and of the warriors of Grumandria, and he had been hated by many. He had even hated himself, and the respect he had for his own talents had been touched by shame.

 

     People he had calmed followed him as he helped the others. “What can we do to help?” they asked him.

 

Aribor tried and succeeded in saving many souls at Bricas.

 

   “Who are you?” asked the lady in the white robe – one who he remembered enjoying earlier, before everything turned sour. She had been abused by her own countrymen because she was so pretty.

 

    “I am a foreigner,” he said evasively. “I do not come from these parts.”

 

    She looked at him, her faculties fully returned. “I can see that. Your accent is foreign, this is not your language. You are from Animar, a barbarian, and yet you speak our language well!”

 

   “Our languages are from the same root,” he spoke knowledgeably. “It is a small matter to speak to you.”

 

    Any protection he might have attempted to disguise himself from identification among these people he had not renewed in the experiences he had gone through. What did any of that matter now. These people were no longer his enemies. He had cast himself off from his own people. His fellow sorcerors would soon discover his betrayal of them, if only by his absence. Probably they would realise how he had engaged the Goddess to the protection of the Shalirionites. They might well be angry with him and seek to hunt him down.

 

    He understood now that he could live amongst these people if he wished. Shalirion was an open land. Travellers from distant parts, whether of Shalirion, or further, were welcomed. The protection of the Empress was given to all who asked for it. Animarians were recognised as ‘barbarians’, but they could be allowed to live here. The sea and the culture and ways of Animarian Kingdoms were what kept barbarians away.

 

     “Why are you helping us?” some of them asked, when the word spread that it was a foreigner in their midst who had calmed and saved them.

 

     “I am trying to put right what has been done to you by my brothers!” To other questioners he answered, “It is not me who helps you. I am merely the vessel for your assistance. Your Goddess is the one who helps you!”

 

     When all in the hall were touched it was time to venture out and see what occurred there. The doors had been shut! He feared they were locked. Would they be able to get out, and would they be safe outside? In the hall was the work of Grells, but what of the other sorcerors? What handiwork had they come up with? While the power of the Goddess had flowed through him he had felt her assurance, but he was beginning to worry about what lay outside. He expected traps. The minds of his brothers were complex and varied. Their inventiveness was well known to him.

 

    They pushed the closed doors and found they would not open. Of course the sorcerors would seek to compound their terrible magic. This could be no surprise to Aribor. He cast his own magic, to increase the force on the door, finding no simple physical impediment to opening it. The door was sealed by spells alone. This was good news, because Aribor could probably counter such magic with his own. As he cast in his mind for the spells and the best approach to dispel them, he felt the support of the Goddess, actively working to save her people, joining the magic he used. Soon they had dismantled the magic of sealing and the doors opened to the pushing of the people of Bricas. “Beware you people of Bricas,” Aribor shouted. “There is magic here. Do not surge forward. Look what is ahead of you! There may be more spells and more dangers.”