Scene 1 from Rogue God, by Rick Waugh.
The forest hated humans.
At least, so it seemed. Being a warren of hungry monsters and deadly plants, bubbling with chaos magic, gave it a certain feeling.
Cantor slipped through it, finding the spaces, sensing the dangers. He had just enough of his own magic to do so, just enough skill to dissuade what he couldn’t avoid. A quick shuffle of his feet, perhaps a short melody, and whatever threatened him would understand that he wasn’t there, wasn’t a threat, or wasn’t edible.
It was tiring. Hard enough hiking miles through the woods without the constant need to be aware, to keep moving, to avoid, to manipulate, to stay patient enough to deal with it all without resorting to violence. But it was the afternoon of a long day, and he was losing it.
A particularly nasty cedar tree lay just ahead; he could feel its anger vibrating, hear the rustling of branches.
“Sin’s wages!”
He stepped toward the edge of the path, to move into the undergrowth. It was passable; the thick canopy restricted the light, limiting the growth, at least a little. Still difficult to traverse, a tangle of mossy logs and tough, thorny branches, full of lesser dangers that liked to remain hidden from the larger monsters. But it was easier than trying to persuade the tree to leave him alone.
Movement. A man-wolf crept out of the forest, crouched at the base of the tree’s massive bole. As tall as a human, all dark brown fur, curving fangs and razor claws, the wild ones such as this were little more than sacks of anger and hunger.
The creature looked up. Their eyes locked. The wolf’s head lowered slightly, its long pink tongue slipping out of its mouth, anticipating fresh meat.
Cantor’s patience snapped.
“Enough!” He pulled his sling off his belt and grabbed a round rock from his pocket, dropping it in the weapon’s pouch. He spun the cord three times around his head, released the free end. The stone streaked through the dappled green light to crack against the thick, rough trunk, right above the wolf’s scalp. The creature’s head spun, took in the gouge the missile had made in the wood. Turning back to Cantor, it saw the sling already spinning again, another rock weighting the end. Glaring, the wolf sprinted off into the woods.
Which Cantor didn’t see, as he was diving away from the sharpened spikes the tree shot at him, in its fury at the attack on its trunk.
“That wasn’t very nice,” observed someone.
Cantor came up onto one knee, watching the tree warily; it was moving a little, but no more darts flew toward him. He slowly rose, scanning the woods, but sensed no other imminent danger.
“I’m over here.”
His eyes found the owner of the voice. A pixie, not much bigger than Cantor’s hand, sat primly on a branch to the side of the path, legs crossed, his long pink hair gathered in a tail, delicate wings folded on his back.
Cantor frowned as he brushed dirt and twigs off his robes, tightened the strap that held the bag holding his guitar; he liked to have the instrument, even on trips like this where music wasn’t the job, but it was annoying when it banged around and got in the way. “Not nice? The Shambles aren’t a nice place. The wolf was thinking I’d make a meal. Besides, I missed it on purpose. Just trying to scare it.”
“Sure. Still not a good idea. You’ve been walking along, singing, using magic to keep the creatures away, or to avoid them. But then you take a shot at one and break a piece out of a tree? You trying to make everything even angrier than usual?”
Cantor could feel the weight of the forest’s regard all around him. He raised his hands, scanned the gloom. “Look, friend….”
“Ellis is the name.”
“Ah, Ellis. Cantor. Look, Ellis, I’m tired. Walking through the woods in the Medials is hard enough. In the Shambles, it’s like things never stop coming.”
“If you can’t be civil, they won’t.”
Cantor dropped his hands, walked over to the pixie. The minstrel was a tall man, rangy but solid, dressed in brown, both wool and leather, in robe, trews, tunic and boots. His hazel eyes were almost level with the small creature where it sat on its branch. “Maybe, Ellis, you can go argue with Shaman Bellows, who’s been telling me I have to go see the guide, the angel. The new angel. Maybe you can talk to the angel and tell her to get out of my head, because she’s there all the time, whether I’m awake or asleep.”
“That makes her the woman of your dreams, doesn’t it?”
“No, she’s the woman in my dreams, whom I’d rather not have there. She’s a chaos blasted angel! My ‘spiritual guide’. And she keeps blathering away in my head that I need to come see her.”
“Oh, blather, is it? The spiritual guide is blathering? That’s how you take the message from the gods?”
Cantor reached up, rubbed his eyes. He really needed to control his temper, his mouth. The Shambles were not the place to get carried away. He took a deep breath. “Well, she doesn’t exactly sound like an angel is supposed to sound, at least not the way I’ve been told.”
“Ah. Well, yes, she’s an odd one, if she’s the one I’m thinking of. You’re headed in her direction.”
“You’ve met her? How is she odd?”
“Oh, you’ll see.” The pixie’s eyes scanned the woods. “Better get going. Everything around here’s still grumpy, and that wolf might come back with his friends.”
“What do you care?”
The pixie shrugged his small shoulders. “Dunno.” A small grin. “It all looks interesting.”
“Glad to provide the entertainment.” He faced the path, gathered himself, reached out with his internal sense. Yes, that tug led ahead still, the pull he’d been experiencing for some weeks.
He scanned for more feelings of anger, of hunger in the woods, but found nothing; no new danger lurked nearby, just the tree he’d struck. He looped through the forest to avoid it, then went back on the path.
The pixie buzzed up beside him. Cantor eyed the little creature as it hovered. “Really? You’re going to follow me to see what happens?”
“Like I said, this all looks interesting.” The small creature moved ahead of Cantor, turned and flew backwards, facing him. “I saw you singing to those centaurs back there, and you danced past the Blackberry Collective. I don’t know why sentient plants are such suckers for that.”
“What about it?”
“You have some shaman powers already.”
“Yes. That’s supposedly why the angel called me. She’s going to finish the job and give me all of a shaman’s abilities.”
“Hopefully, in a way that leaves you alive and sane.”
Cantor stopped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just the usual. You know how it is. When the angels transform humans into shamans, mages, chaordics, it can go badly. Chaos magic does weird things to people, and it’s unpredictable.”
“Tell me something I didn’t know.”
“Sure. I already did; like I said, this angel isn’t normal, and she’s very new. I’m not sure I’d trust her with my sanity.”
Cantor’s head drooped. “Sin’s wages.” He stood there for a moment. “And everyone wonders why I don’t want to do this. ‘Go get some magic’, they say. ‘Be a help for your people.’ ‘It’s your destiny.’” He closed his eyes. “What a pile of crap.”
The pixie giggled. “Can’t disagree. So why come?”
“Because Shaman Bellows won’t shut up about it, and the angel won’t leave me alone, either. One’s in my ear, one’s in my head.”
“Interesting effect. Just think, what if you could compose music like that?”
“I think people like the way I compose and play music just fine. I don’t need to be stuffed full of chaos magic to do it.”
He set off down the path again, sensing, watching. The sun was still high in the early spring sky, though only the glow was visible through the thick canopy of evergreen and leafed trees, the wide, gnarled limbs and trunks. The air was redolent with the smell of forest and moisture. Ivernia’s west coast was wet, the storms bumbling in from the sea; the clouds collided with the mountains that ran down the center of the continent, dumping their freight on the slopes, forests and swamps below. No rain had fallen today, but it never dried completely, and the damp air and ground, the deep cover of leaves and needles, made for a quiet space, broken only by the wind, the rustle of leaves and branches, and the occasional scuttle of small feet, or the cry of some creature off in the distance.
“So,” said Ellis, flitting beside Cantor, “what are you going to do with your new power when you get it?”
Cantor shrugged his pack and guitar a little higher on his shoulders. “No idea. Nothing special. Whatever happens, I’m going to continue doing what I’ve been doing. Traveling around, making music.”
“That’s it? Not going to help humanity?”
“Not particularly. I don’t want more power, I didn’t ask for it. So I’m going to do what I’ve always done, and help myself.”
“Ah, I see. You mean, help yourself to other peoples’ stuff?”
Cantor halted again, glared. “And what do you mean by that?”
The pixie waved a hand. “Oh, pixies hear things. Pixies see things.”
“Maybe,” said Cantor slowly, carefully, his teeth ground together, “pixies should stop being so nosy. Maybe pixies should leave.”
“My, so grumpy. Look, you could have found an elf, instead, who wouldn’t have provided any conversation at all, being as you’re a human.”
Cantor’s hand clenched on his sling. He restrained himself from pulling out a rock, and growled, “I’d like that a lot better. Silent companionship.”
“But….”
“Goodbye.”
The pixie fluttered a moment longer, then muttered, “Fine,” and zipped off through the forest.
Cantor watched the creature go, breathing slowly, calming himself. He straightened, resettled his load.
Time to get this over with. He grimaced. Why, in the name of chaos, can’t everyone and everything leave me alone?
He marched off down the path.
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