Incurna's Request
By the time Richard had picked his way down the moss-slick, uneven staircase and past the burnt out cottage, the last of the day had faded into darkness. He was forced to navigate by magelight—a weak and wavering one at that, thanks to post-battle fatigue.
Branches and roots loomed out of the darkness, often catching him unawares.
It was a miserable journey, burdened by the distasteful trophies in his arms and slung on his back. He heartily believed he would never feel so grateful as he did in that moment he finally emerged into the small clearing where Triumph awaited him. It was over.
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The horse nickered softly as he approached, looking up as he carried the glowing sphere over to his abandoned campsite and dumped the foreign packs down in the gloom. Ah, yes. The fire had long since burnt out in its alcove, safely contained by river stones and damp earth. The ashes were warm yet, but offered no real light or heat to the night air.
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“Yes, alright, I didn’t leave you that long,” he mumbled as Triumph nosed his shoulder, nudging the horse away and fumbling with the straps on his wristguards. He shucked them straight onto the ground moving on to his jerkin.
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It wasn’t going to rain during the night, was it? The sky looked clear enough, having finally escaped the trees. Richard wasn’t entirely sure he had the energy to care, in any case. It was a blessing from the gods themselves that he had set up his tent before curiosity had seen him venturing further into the woods. He wouldn’t have had the strength to raise it now.
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Urgh. Being awake was too much hassle. Deciding that the discomfort of sleeping in his clothes—and without an evening meal—could be tomorrow’s problem, Richard wasted no more time on idle thought or action. He left the assorted pieces of his armour where they had fallen on the grass, and dragged himself into his tent. He was unconscious almost before he laid his head down to rest.
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*
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Dappled sunlight filtered through canvas to reach his aching eyes—or was it curtains, loosely gathered at an Inn’s windows, and fluttering in the cool morning air? Judging by his headache and general malaise, he would have said he’d spent the previous night drinking himself into a stupor and then fighting every other fool at the bar on his way out.
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The rustling of leaves and the disgracefully cheerful trill of birdsong helped him remember the actual shape of his regret. He’d done battle, and thanks to the fatigue of his march, fallen asleep without even checking on his injuries. Now they were making themselves known. Very known.
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His back throbbed, stiff and bruised from a blow somewhere midway down. Ribs too, he noted, along with his shoulders and sword arm. A lucky blow had apparently clipped his forearm between the jerkin and wristguard, to judge by the hot line of sharper pain he could feel in that area. He’d have to wash it in the river as soon as he could manage, and offer thanks to the god Menan in every temple on the way back to Ancett that it had been shallow enough to close up on its own. Some grand destiny he would have had, if he’d bled out in the night.
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Then again, he mused, staring up at the shadows of the leaves which danced across his tent, If I really am immortal, perhaps luck had nothing to do with it. The Crone would have known if I was fated to die from this.
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It was a strange thought, and the more he lingered on it the less comfortable he felt. Still, fortunately or otherwise, he had plenty of more pressing problems to distract him. Hunger and soreness were chief among them, and an urge to be rid of battle grime a close runner up. The ache in his legs probably stemmed more from the march than the battle, but it made rising no less difficult for that fact.
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The river—icy cold and swift—made a poor bathing spot, but it had the dubious benefit of shocking him into full wakefulness. It had never made sense to Richard that channelling magic instead of using his own should leave him so much more tired the following day, but there it was. Some things about life apparently defied sense altogether.
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Including myself it seems, he thought as he set off north into the woods again an hour or so later, picking his way far more easily this time, and hefting the sword of the foreign commander in his hand. A hearty breakfast had done much to clear his head, although weariness still dragged at his body. If any more strange soldiers lurked in the woods he would likely have a harder time driving them off. It wasn’t a comforting thought to have.
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Part of him still wondered why he was doing this; intentionally seeking out the water elemental when she had only barely tolerated his presence before. He’d escaped the first time, by anyone’s accounts. If anything, he ought to be counting his blessings and heading south at top speed. Certainly the news of the strangers on Ancett’s northern border needed to be reported to the king.
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And yet there he was, pushing his way through the woodland once more. But there had to be something in the Crone’s words. He’d been told Incurna would favour him, hadn’t he? Granted, she’d already allowed him to walk away from her shores—an honour she apparently hadn’t bestowed upon anyone else—but the thought of marching away now rankled.
He’d come seeking answers, and while he might not have found the sort of vaguely timeless sorcerer hiding out in a cottage which he’d halfway been anticipating, the reality was more intriguing, not less.
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Above all, to leave now reeked of cowardice. It just wouldn't do.
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*
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There was no denying the beauty of the lakeside. Even the odd, tangled knot of trees which grew down to the shoreline in so many places had a certain charm about them. Birds seemed quite at home in the branches, and here and there he saw squirrels scampering above him, leaping and playing. Despite the earliness of the season, apparently the woods hummed with life.
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For all that, it was quiet on the lakeside. Something about the open water seemed to swallow the sounds of the forests around it, leaving only the breeze and the lap of water along the shore. His feet scrunched against the shingle as he approached the water’s edge, unnaturally loud.
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If he’d been expecting Incurna to rise out of the water at his approach, he was disappointed. Nothing moved beneath the lake’s surface. For several minutes he waited in silence, before finally giving in and clearing his throat.
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“Incurna, spirit of the water! I have returned!”
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His words were met with silence. Somewhere in the distance a bird took to the air, soaring above the water with a screech as it flew away.
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Richard frowned, and took a hesitant step closer. He’d been in the water when she arose the day before, but he didn’t particularly want to repeat that experience if he could help it. Surely she had heard him?
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“Great spirit!” he called again, somewhat more hesitantly. “Oh…powerful one.” Gods, he felt a fool.
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More silence followed, and after a minute or so’s waiting he took another step closer to the water, peering into the depths as best he could. “Incurna of the Lake, I ask that you make yourself known!”
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This time the surface rippled and rose, but it was only a seeming of Incurna’s head which emerged from the water, scowl just about visible on her transparent face. As before, it was formed of moving water dredged up from below the surface. Silt from the lake’s bed swirled in eddies within her.
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“Now what.” she said, with evident irritation. “Why are you here, mortal?”
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Richard felt unaccountably like a schoolchild caught napping. “I…I have completed your task,” he said. “The intruders are no more.”
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It was all he could do to stand his ground as she glared at him. He’d seen how easily she could manipulate the surface of the lake, throwing up vast walls of water as if it were nothing. Crone’s prophecy or otherwise, he couldn’t shake the sense that he walked a knife’s edge in her presence.
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“Indeed,” Incurna replied. “I assumed as much when you wandered past my shores again last night. Why have you returned to them? Were my wishes for solitude not clear? Begone before I dispatch you as you did those men.”
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“Forgive me but I seek answers, Wise Elemental—”
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“I am no preening moorhen, mortal. Witless flattery will win you no favours. Nor am I a Crone, bound to the land for an age or more to answer the petty passing concerns of every superstitious fool who wanders by. Begone! I have nothing more for you but pain and death should you linger.”
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Richard blinked. He hadn’t really been sure what he’d been expecting when he finally worked himself up to returning to the lake, but this…this wasn’t it. It was wrong, somehow. Someone had made a mistake somewhere. She was meant to ally herself with him, surely?
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And yet, there was no confusing the anger on Incurna’s watery face, or the way the currents churned faster and faster within her, now strong enough that he could see small fish and other watery creatures caught up in the vortex. The water around her head-seeming frothed and writhed.
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“Very well,” Richard said, swallowing heavily. He wanted to stand and argue, but Sir Aldan's voice echoed in his mind, pointing out that it was unbecoming of a knight to fall to such disagreeable behaviours, particularly with women.
Richard wasn't quite sure if a lake technically counted as a woman, but it changed little, either way. There was nothing more he could honourably do, even if it chafed to admit defeat so easily. His first loss, and it was to water.
“If that is what you desire, I shall leave you to your solitude. Doubtless Ancett’s wilder regions harbour other such long-forgotten entities who would be less troubled by my presence.”
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Bowing, he turned, pointedly walking up the shore with his back to the lake. He grimaced as he glanced down at the sword in his hand. Why exactly had he brought it? Oh, certainly he’d heard of people offering goods to elementals and lesser gods, but something about the gesture seemed remarkably pointless the more he thought upon it. She’d openly admitted to drowning people before. Presumably some of those poor souls had been armed. Doubtless she had quite the collection of blades, slowly rusting beneath her waves.
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He had reached the tree-line when a sharp slap sounded behind him, spray spattering his back and legs. Despite his intention to leave he couldn’t help but turn and stare.
The shoreline was soaked, water draining back into the lake with a clatter of shingle and rushing foam. Incurna had risen halfway out of the water, currents broiling and frothing inside her usually transparent form.
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“Forgotten? I am forgotten?” she cried, watery fists clenched into knots of spray. Her voice echoed across the entire valley, loudly enough that clouds of birds took to the air, fleeing the area. “My name was cried in towns far and wide across the kingdom! My deeds were common knowledge! I was once feared by all men, a guard set to watch over my waters until the end of time, and you dare to claim I am nothing?”
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“It is no mere claim,” Richard said slowly and shakily. Clearly Incurna was unstable, perhaps from decades of solitude. If he misspoke now, it might be his last deed. And yet, for all that, the longer he stared at the furious apparition before him, the calmer he felt.
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Almost without thinking he added: “In truth, were it not for the Crone’s message, I would not even have known your name. There are no stories about you which I have heard, and I have heard many. From towns the length and breadth of Ancett proper.”
He rested his arm on a nearby tree and continued, marvelling at his own…daring? Folly? In that moment it was hard to discern between the two.
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“When I arrived in Fordly, I was told only that these woods are haunted by vengeful ghosts.”
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There was a brief moment in which Richard wondered if he had signed his death sentence with those last words. Incurna boiled, water frothing in a wide ring around her body, churning through her as quickly and violently as if it sped through rapids instead.
Then—abruptly—the tempest settled. The ripples gradually died away. Incurna’s watery body settled into near-transparency once more, watching him with apparent serenity.
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“I suppose I ought not to be surprised,” she said calmly, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “Mortals have always possessed such short memories, and it has been a great many seasons since any were last foolish enough to stray close to my shores. No legend can last forever. It is of no consequence. I care not.”
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Richard swallowed. Somehow the sudden calm was even more unnerving than her ire.
“Very well,” he said. “Then I shall take my leave of you, and permit you the solitude you so desire.”
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He bowed, and took a step back. The sooner he escaped this mad elemental the better, surely. Clearly the ‘favour’ spoken of by the Crone had been the fact he had escaped alive, and with news of potential invaders which would be invaluable to the king.
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But: “My, you are fickle, are you not,” Incurna said as he turned away. “Exactly as I suspected. Mortals will do anything to preserve their short lives, bowing and scraping no matter how haughty they first appear.”
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He halted mid-step.
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“This is why I do not waste my time with your kind. You thought to win my favour with honeyed words and metal trinkets, and now you flee, having won nothing but my scorn.”
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It was bait. It had to be bait. People had tried that one on him before—hazing of that kind happened to more or less all boys when they first arrived at Ancett. Lads from small towns or country villages were simply too naive to know how the city worked. You learnt to shrug it off fast. It was practice, in a way. Enemies flung taunts across the battlefield all the time, so if you couldn’t handle being duped into pointless errands, or resist the temptation to quarrel over petty slights, you had a poor future as a knight.
He knew this and turned around anyway, oddly calm as he spoke:
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“Then tell me, Incurna, self-proclaimed Goddess of this remote and forgotten Northern Water, what have I to gain by continuing to seek your favour in this fashion? I realise now that, as foretold by the Crone, I have benefited from it already. A threat to my kingdom is ended by my hands, one which could have slipped past had you not alerted me. I leave with important news for my king, and sincere gratitude for your help.”
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Even as the words fell from his lips he found himself surprised. The visible signs of Incurna’s ire were fading already, water clearing of bubbles, and the currents which formed her slowing to a more gentle pace. To his surprise she rose further from the surface of the lake, foregoing a human form below the waist and and instead allowing the water to fountain around her as if she wore wide skirts.
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“Well well,” she replied, tilting her head slightly in an unnervingly human fashion. “You are indeed an unusual specimen. It has been an age or more since I last met someone content with their subservience. Most men are greedy, grasping creatures always seeking more. Always reaching for what does not belong to them. Tell me, what is it that drives you, if not an eternal quest for more power? What makes you content to serve a king who owes you nothing?”
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Richard bristled. “You know not of what you speak, spirit. Matters of the land—”
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“I know everything of the land!” Incurna shrieked, growing until she towered over him, frothing and spraying at every corner of her form. “I once walked these hills freely as any woman; roamed from the mountains down to the very shore of the Sigil Sea; gave my loyalty to one who did not deserve a pinch of the power or respect I lent in his service! Do not speak to me of kings and loyalty! Do not claim to know more than I!”
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The air shook with her voice. Waves rose up across the lake, pounding at the shoreline. Suddenly Richard understood its strange shape: the trees lining the edge of the water were inundated, whipping back and forth from the force of the water. Only the small bay where he stood seemed immune, the rest caught in storm-high waves which tore at the earth. He thought of Triumph, left to wait in the clearing below the lake’s run off and the falls, and sent a prayer to merciful Kypta that his horse be safe from the effects of Incurna’s rage.
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In fact it took a moment for the meaning of Incurna’s words to sink in, such was his awe at her fury. When it did, he dropped the sword in his hand from the shock, gaping at her as it clattered onto the shingle.
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“You…you were mortal once,” he said, knees shaking. His body seemed made of jelly. “You— You were the Sorceress of the North!”
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Incurna halted abruptly, and with her the lake. Waves froze in place, as crisp and still as a woodcut picture. She shrank down, releasing whatever hold she had on the surface. It had not been without its cost. On the far side, Richard could see more than one tree listing sharply into the water. Doubtless several had fallen.
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“I have not heard that name in many a year,” she said, with odd, unnatural gentleness.
“Yes, mortal. I was once referred to as such. I was the greatest sorcerer in the land. More powerful than any before me, and doubtless any after. Unmatched in my lifetime as a mortal woman.”
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Richard swallowed heavily. “Then it is you who I set out to find,” he said, eyeing the destruction warily as he bowed. “It seems I was mistaken. You are not wholly forgotten in Ancett—just your true name. Stories of the Sorceress of the North are recorded in the great archives at Ancett palace, along with records of spells you created which are still used by many today.”
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He straightened with a cough, unsure of what to say. Incurna watched him, impassive and curiously silent for a creature which had just ripped trees from the ground with the strength of her ire.
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“Sorceress,” he ventured, when the silence had continued long enough that he felt confident she would not break it herself. “I have travelled many miles and days to find you, scouring these northern regions—”
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“Enough!” Incurna said, dismissing him with the wave of a watery hand. “I care not for this frippery, or whatever petty quest you have occupied your meagre time with. You think yourself the first mortal to seek my aid? Too many have sought me out with nothing but greed for my knowledge and power. What interest have I in granting either to one of your kind? Do you think me a fool?”
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“I think you once were as human as I am now,” Richard said, setting his jaw. If he was going to speak his mind—and it seemed he was—there was no sense in doing it by half. “Great power you might possess, but you were born every bit the squalling infant I was, bound in swaddling and utterly dependent on the care of another. Nor is it only your favour that the Crone saw in my future. What ‘petty quest’ could drive me to hunt down half-forgotten legends on the very edges of Ancett’s borders? I seek advice, not power.”
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Incurna swelled slightly as he spoke, water frothing anew at her edges although the rest of the lake remained calm. When she spoke once more it was with evident irritation, although not the anger of her previous replies.
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“Pah! I care not for your motives or desires. If you expect to gain my wisdom freely you are sorely mistaken, whatever drives you.”
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“Then name your demands, Incurna, Sorceress of the North and ally to the Ancett of centuries past. What price would you ask, in exchange for some measure of your great wisdom?"
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Incurna stared down at him from atop her column of water. She regarded him in a manner which put him in mind of the king surveying a petitioner in the palace’s great hall.
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“There is a price you could pay,” she said at length, just as his neck began to ache from looking up at her. “A trifle, in exchange for a small pearl of knowledge. Bring me tokens, mortal, from the land and sea I can no longer reach. Return with them and I will consider your petition, if they are of sufficient value to me. You may consider this a test, if you prefer. Now, begone! I tire of your presence and this conversation.”
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She sank abruptly, water cascading back into the lake as though it fell from a bucket. The tension in the air snapped. Sound returned to the clearing so suddenly that he realised they had been stood in near silence for most of their encounter. Birdsong and breezes; the skittering of animals in the trees: for the first time since he had stepped out onto the lakeside Richard heard them all. The sounds of any normal woodland. Incurna had retreated, then, taking with her whatever power she held over the lands surrounding her lake.
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Despite her clear absence, Richard bowed deeply before stooping to grab the sword and retreating along the path. He had a lot to think about. Not least of all what gifts a lake would consider worthwhile.