The Long Stupid Trek through a Magic Forest. Chapter 1, Part 1: The Enchantress

Author's Note: I am in the early stages of this draft, still writing the next chapter, so I am not looking for grammar correction. Please look for comprehension (i.e. what's the vibe you get from each character, what lore you are able to gather, and what you think this story will be about), opinions on characters, tone and pacing, and what you think of the general narration style. Thank you.

The sun had barely crested its peak, the morning dew was barely five hours dried, and Tes Burgens had barely fallen back asleep for her third morning nap when the loud clatter of trumpets blasted through the creaky wooden shutters of her bedroom window. At first she thought it was work and rolled over, clutching an old quilt to her ears to block out the noise. Marlene, the tavern keep, used to insist that she make it to work in the ungodly morning hours. But after 365 wasted mornings trying to wake the enchantress before noon, the crone had caved and hadn’t been back in the last ten years.

No the reality was much much worse and Tes realized it much much too late.

It hit her all at once, Tes’ eyes shot open and she threw off her covers. She snatched an old dress off of her floor and threw it out the back window into the open arms of the sycamore tree that grew alongside the back of her house.

The sound which startled her awake was trumpets and there was only one person in town that had a fanfare to announce his presence.

She quickly pitched herself out the window after her dress and scrambled along the thick branches to the roof of her house, and sure enough there he was. Standing in the dirt road in front of her home was the royal caravan and in a litter held by three men (one had clearly abandoned his post or had been abandoned post haste) was a perfectly inbred young man of just a day under eighteen years, glistening in silver robes and every gold ring the poor town of Ignavia had. The prince himself and at his side—

Tes gulped. She couldn’t see the scars that marred his face and dug crevices into the flesh all over his body (neither the ones so old they were as pale as ghosts on his deep bronze skin nor the ones so fresh they were still purple with bruising) but there was no mistaking the size of the man. Under his silver armor dented with what would have certainly been a thousand more wounds was the man so terrible that people of the coast called him Dolor in Vir— Suffering Incarnate.

“Dolores,” the prince whined, “We have the right house, right?”

The bringer of suffering turned to the prince—his face just a shadow under his helm—and he nodded once then twice.

“Hmmm…” his eyebrow(s?) furrowed in the most intense concentration the face of the young prince had ever held. The creases around his nose became cavernous and his eyes slits. “Play that song again!” he announced and the trumpeters raised their horns for another round. And when the song ended with no response from inside the prince’s head fell back, “UGH! Fine! Dolores.” The man made of more scar than clean flesh turned again to his liege. “Go search the house or whatever.”

The mountain of a man stepped forward, raising his battle axe off of his back. The noon light glinted off the blade and illuminated the splatters of blood that had collected on the trusted weapon after so many years. His motion was smooth and quick and he swung the blade into the front door like a knife through butter.

“Tch. Tch.”

The master of death turned back towards the prince.

“Well that’s a little excessive,” the prince huffed. “She’s a sorcerer not an ogre. You can leave that with me,” the prince held out his hand expectantly, “Or does my big bwave soldier need to hide behind his big stwong axe?”

The beast slayer took in a deep breath, erecting him to his full seven foot height, and lumbered back to his liege. He raised the axe into the air, and dropped the blade into the roof of the litter breaking the balance of all three litter bearers and bringing them to their knees. The axe stood handle up in the air, fixed in the wood. “That’s a good boy, now hurry on. And leave this one’s legs in tact this time.”

Tes’ lips pursed and her grip on the thatching of the roof tightened until she could feel her heart beat in her knuckles as what can only be described as the sound of every pot ever made in existence smashing to the floor echoed from inside her home. Legs of chairs, cast iron pans bent into pretzels, her wardrobe, half of her bed all crashed out of each one of her windows with a shower of broken glass. She felt the foundation of her house shift an inch to the left and the roof creak sideways. Then finally Dolor shuffled out of the doorway.

“Well?”

He shook his head.

“Hmmm…” the prince’s brow furrowed deeper, “well now what? This is the last sorcerer in the kingdom. And I can’t very well lead myself through a magical hellscape now can I?”

The trumpeters eyed each other nervously as the widowmaker paced the front edge of the house. Tes leaned back on her roof too late, the shadowy helm tilted upwards.

“It’s my coronation and as my first act I am to retake what was stolen from us. I need that throne, and I need her to part the magic in my way or whatever it is the sorcerer is supposed to do.”

Dolor disappeared around the side of the house.

“I don’t know, what do I look like a nerd. I’m sure it’s very magical, now where was I…?”

Tes could feel the man’s footfalls inside the house, with every heartbeat they came closer.

“Ah, yes. More than five centuries forced to stay on the coasts of what should be our empire, just because of a little magic mucking up the forests…”

A moment later the tree began to shake and Tes stumbled backward as a simply enormous hand leaped towards her.

“And now they say that the circle of influence is expanding again and we have to retreat even further away from the forests. POSH!”

With her eyes fixed on the man, her feet missed the edge of the roof and suddenly Tes was rolling out of one of her bushes and her neck felt like fire.

“Oh…” the prince cleared his throat.

THUMP! The shadow of Dolor loomed over her.

“Well lovely,” the prince clapped, “the gangs all here, we can head out.”

“You don’t want to do this.” Tes’ voice was thick with magic, it dribbled out of her like honey and the trumpeters leaned into it swaying with absolute contentness. “You want me to stay here. You want to leave my house and maybe…I don’t know…pay for the damages.”

The prince’s eyes went dim for a second, and Tes allowed herself a satisfactory smile, but he quickly shook himself out of it, “Aren’t you cold? Dolores fetch her a dress. It’s not proper for a woman to embark on a journey in just her chemise.”

The fifth horseman of the apocalypse dropped the dress she had left on the roof onto her shoulders with a grunt.

“Ah, good foresight, my man.”

“The day’s almost over,” Tes protested, “We should just wait another day.” The magic was so thick now it was molasses pressing into the lungs of everyone around her but the prince who was even less fazed than before. While the trumpeters and even his litter bearers nodded along with her he just blinked at her words. Was his willpower that strong? She drew in even more magic, so thick was her voice that her vision darkened at the edges and leaving only his snobby little face left in sight, “You don’t need me, why share the glory? Leave me and take the throne for yourself.”

“Ha!” he laughed. “You know I thought the same thing too—I know I must be so humble to admit my faults to a lowly commoner—but it’s like this prophecy thing and you’re the last sorcerer we have so…”

No he was just too thick. Magic can’t alter what’s not going on.

She turned to Dolor, a shiver ran down her spine looking into the shadow of the helmet. “I—I.” Her voice stopped dead in it’s tracks. “I—ack!” She grasped her throat, clawed at it, fell to her knees gasping for air. It was as though the magic had thickened in her throat and it was quickly choking her to death. Dolor kneeled down to her level but the shadows were closing in now, he was just the halo of light around his helmet. Whack! His palm slapped against her spine and the air shot back into her lungs almost more painfully than the choking.

“Are you alright?” The prince asked.

Tes could only nod as she scrambled to her feet.

“Well then, no time to waste, the ceremony starts at noon.”