Published in Every Day Fiction April 3, 2024
Read flash fiction Evils of Sorcery originally published in the April 3, 2024, post of Every Day Fiction.
This short fantasy story began as a contest entry for the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild “Guild Prize” on the theme of Secrets.
At Rodor’s signal, the executioner swung his axe. It cut through flesh and bone and buried in the wooden block with a vibrating thunk. The sorcerer’s head landed in the dirty street.
Rodor gestured for guards to remove the body. He would be glad to return home, far from the smell of pigs in this dust-choked village.
Beside him, Gareth winced and turned away.
The magistrate clapped his friend on the shoulder. “He was guilty.”
A troubled expression haunted Gareth’s freckled face, but he nodded. “I know.”
He was a gentle soul. Perhaps overly compassionate, but the only one to laugh at Rodor’s jokes. The one who shared his boyhood secrets. His constant companion, even during such distasteful duties as today’s dispensation of the king’s justice.
He gave his friend’s thin shoulder a tender pat. “Let’s go home.”
#
They rode at a sedate pace across the field. Weed-scented stalks brushed their mounts’ bellies, grasshoppers whirred from their path, and summer heat pressed heavy on Rodor’s back.
“Can magic be used for good?” Gareth’s musical voice interrupted Rodor’s near-doze.
“No.” Startled, Rodor looked at his friend while considering more carefully. “No. Magic is a curse that corrupts the soul.”
Gareth opened his mouth, then closed it again.
When he said nothing more, Rodor squinted at the sun, low in the western sky. There would be roast venison in gravy, warm rye bread, and stewed apples on the table, awaiting their return. A good meal would erase his friend’s strange melancholy.
He glanced sideways at Gareth. “Race you.”
A cheerful grin replaced the seriousness that had haunted Gareth’s face. Without replying, he chucked his horse’s sides and leaned forward in the saddle.
Rodor flattened himself against his mount’s stretched neck, feeling its powerful body build speed as sweat gathered on its brown hide. He glanced over his shoulder at his guards struggling to keep up and laughed.
His horse stumbled. Air rushed past his face as he somersaulted. His impact with the ground jarred him to his bones. His vision blurred. Then terror hit him harder than his fall when he saw the horse’s hoof above his rib cage.
Pain stopped his breath. His gaze sought Gareth, now kneeling at his side, tears flowing. The horror on his friend’s beloved features confirmed what the agony in Rodor’s chest indicated: his life was done.
Gareth laid one hand over the injury. He muttered something in the ancient tongue of sorcery. Rodor expected the touch of evil to feel cold and dark; instead, warmth spread from Gareth’s hand, healing the broken ribs, the punctured lung, the crushed organs.
Rodor sat, feeling his chest, his arms, his legs. No bruises. No bleeding.
Gareth stared at him, eyes enormous in a face drained of blood.
Rodor stared back at the sorcerer he had called friend. A criminal.
His guards caught up, gazes darting between the two men.
The magistrate pointed at Gareth. “Arrest him.”