Tales With Tott

The forests in the distant north of Ancett’s fledgling kingdom were quiet and still. Few lived this far from the southern ocean, where the tangle of untamed trees and undergrowth slowly made way for the pine-decked slopes of the mountains. Small deer picked their way among bracken, nibbling at leaves and the summer’s second offering of new shoots, and birds chattered in the canopy above. It was too early in the afternoon for the local wolves to roam.

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Of course, the tranquility and beauty of the setting were among the last things on the mind of the woman who ran through the trees. Incurna’s clothes had once been fine but were now worn and tattered—not with age but with hard use, and ill-care. The long skirt of her dress had been kilted above her knees in the name of easing her passage as she made her rapid flight through the forest, but the precaution made little difference to the thorns which tore at her, skin and cloth alike.

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She panted heavily as she went—the chase had worn on far longer than she had believed herself capable of running, and the crowd who pursued her were now close enough that she could hear their distant cries and protests. She spared a moment’s concern for her horse, abandoned to its fate beneath the scree slope she had climbed out of sheer desperation. On foot she stood little chance—the forests were unfamiliar territory, and her body far more suited to walking grand halls than this desperate escape through the wilderness. 

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Incurna’s passage slowed. The ground beneath her was uneven, and sloped gently but steadily as she continued north. The sharp, continuous ache of over-exertion bore deeply into her side. Fine as they were, the soft slippers on her feet offered no real protection against the uneven forest debris she ran across. She stumbled, reflexively clutching at her skirts as she righted herself, and somehow found the will to carry on.

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Just as she began to think she could run no further, the trees started to thin a little. A minute more and she had passed the last of them, emerging from the shady woodland onto the shores of a wide lake which barred her passage. Water stretched on and on to the far side of the valley, nestled between the foothills of the northern mountains at its back. She would be an easy target no matter which way she chose to skirt it, left or—

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An old, wizened woman stood a short distance away to the right, midway between the shore and the trees. The crone watched impassively, apparently unsurprised by Incurna’s sudden arrival. 

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The sounds of pursuit, faint until now, began to grow louder. Voices calling and hounds baying in the distance. Incurna glanced back at the forest from which she had emerged, shuddering. They would find her within minutes. She had nowhere else to turn. 

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The situation was hopeless, desperate—and yet, after staring wide-eyed at the old woman for a moment Incurna threw back her head and laughed. It was bitter and mirthless; the tears which rolled down her cheeks had nothing to do with humour. 

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“You can’t ever say a thing straight, can you?” she asked the old woman, shaking her head. “All these years… were you waiting for this?”

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Incurna looked at her surroundings. The mountains were tall and proud, the lake wide. Were her circumstances otherwise she might have stood awhile, marvelling at the beauty of it all. 

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A horn rang out, somewhere in the trees behind her. It was followed by the screaming whinny of a terrified horse.

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Incurna glanced once more at the unmoving crone, then closed her eyes. She began to chant; strange, unnaturally low words which didn’t seem to match her previous speaking voice. As she spoke she wove her hands through a series of gestures, then reached down to a pouch tied onto her belt and withdrew a large conch shell. Its surface glittered and shone far too brightly to simply be a reflection of the weak afternoon sunlight.

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Her eyes opened and the chant halted, power tangible in the air. Incurna hesitated, and glanced once more at the mountains before swallowing heavily and returning her gaze to the lake before her. She watched the water steadily as she brought the shell to her lips and kissed the surface. 

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Where before it had glittered, now it shone, brighter and brighter until Incurna was forced to close her eyes. The skin of he hand grew red and blistered from the heat which rolled off the shell in waves as Incurna began to chant once more. Finally, her words almost turned to screams of pain, she pitched it into the lake then fell to her knees, cradling her injured hand. 

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She kept her head level throughout, unable to look away as the shell arched over the lake. Where it struck, the water crackled and hissed as the ripples rang out, then sank around it into a writhing, bubbling vortex. The impact site was lost as the shell sank lower, dragging the water down as though it were a sheet of some strange fabric, stretched and distorted by an immense weight. 

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For a moment there was silence but for Incurna’s muted whimper of pain and the hiss and froth of the water. Even the breeze which had once rustled the leaves of the surrounding forest had died to a dead calm with the start of her chant. Then, soft at first, a humming grew in the air, beginning with seemingly nothing before growing to a whine, then a shrill note which screamed across the lake. 

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Incurna’s hair whipped around her head in tangled ringlets as the wind picked up with unnatural speed and strength, stronger and stronger until the branches of the trees behind her rattled and moaned in protest. Her skirts billowed as the knots which had kilted them at her waist failed against the onslaught.

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Light bloomed at the centre of the vortex, blindingly bright for a moment before the hissing, spitting water frothed and boiled enough that it turned to steam, boiling rapidly and sending great clouds into the air, faster than any law of nature ought to allow. They formed and settled above the vortex, then began to roll outwards, a thick fog which diffused the light but did not lessen its glow.

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The crone watched on, silent and unmoving as Incurna raised an arm to shield herself from the light.

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“Why don’t you do something!” Incurna cried, turning to stare at the wizened figure of the old woman. “They’ll be here soon! You want them to kill you too? Do you really expect them to spare you when they’re this mad with vengeance?”

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Her words were almost inaudible, lost amid the screeching note from the lake. It was impossible to tell if the crone remained silent because she did not wish to reply, or if she simply hadn’t heard Incurna’s plea.

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Incurna didn’t wait long. The sound was deafening, the light blinding, and the wind grew only stronger. She staggered to her feet once more, bracing herself against its onslaught, and risked a glance back at the woodland behind her. Was that movement already, some way distant into the trees? 

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Too late. Too late to stop, or second-guess herself, or wait for any more answers which would not arrive. Incurna shook her head as she threw off her last doubts, and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. 

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She straightened herself as she exhaled, facing into the wind and slowly raising both arms in front of her until they were level with her shoulders. The pouch at her side began to glow, as did a row of sparkling beads around her neck. It would have been impossible for any onlooker to tell what they were made of—they glowed too brightly, radiating energy. The skin beneath them began to blister after a moment, much like her hand, but this time Incurna was too deep in her magic to even notice.

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She was chanting once more, words that tumbled over one another and merged into a long, cacophonous string of syllables which echoed unnaturally, as though she were stood in the centre of a cathedral, or a cavern deep within the depths of the world.

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Figures in the woodland approached: armed men and women whose faces bore an array of expressions. Some were angry, but most had turned to fear. Hunting dogs strained at their leashes, desperately struggling to flee the scene. One or two pulled hard enough that they freed themselves, bolting into the forest to escape the overwhelming display of magic.

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The lake still broiled and screamed, shrill and almost deafening. The steam billowed out in a vast plume over the growing mist which surrounded the vortex, and spread to the shores seemingly untouched by the gale which blew on, bowing the trees low and buffeting anyone who tried to approach. Only the crone and Incurna herself were able to stand without bracing themselves against something. 

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Just as the group seemed to come to some collective decision, raising weapons and letting surprise give way to rage, the vortex in the lake inverted. Even through the spreading fog the waterspout was visible. A twisting arm rising higher and higher until it was easily twelve feet tall. It span rapidly, the top flattening into a disc which arched down until it hung in the air before Incurna, a perfect mirror of water.

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She turned then, one last time, to see the crone’s unwavering expression. There was no recognition in those blank eyes, and Incurna did not wait for any, returning her gaze to the mirror as she ended her chant on a final, screeching note which chimed discordantly against the shrill scream of the water. Before the sound could fade, she stepped into the disc of water and inhaled.

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The shockwave from the resulting explosion uprooted trees along the entire lakeside. Her pursuers were thrown back, tumbling over one another into the chaos of splintering wood and debris, brief screams of terror inaudible against the deafening crack which echoed across the whole mountain valley.

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When the dust and fog settled, the surface of the lake was still and calm once more. The crone placidly made her way south along the shore, picking her way between logs and roots, and large stones thrown up from the lake-bed. Until the wildlife returned, her soft footsteps made the only sounds save the gentle lapping of the waves along the shore.

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*

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In time, the stream which flowed out from the lake, and grew into a mighty waterway as it wound its way down to the ocean, came to be known as Incurna’s river. The stories could never quite explain why.