Book I, Ch. 2— The Werelight (& other spells)

NALA SAGA : An Orcish Epic

Hello, and welcome back to NALA SAGA: An Orcish Epic.

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Chapter Two

The WERELIGHT (& other spells)

“Beautiful night!” said Gran Akha.

Gran’s voice was full of reverence, as she gazed up at the moon.

“Uh huh,” said Nala, only half-listening.

It was night, so not much light came from the sky. The light came from other places.

The cookfire burned red beneath the bubbling cauldron of stew. It looked like slop, but smelled like salvation.

“First meal’s done!” Gran said.

Nala looked up, and watched Gran dip two fat soup mugs into the cauldron to fill them.

The mugs were homemade, like most things in Nala’s house. Both cups were crafted from the same streaky clay, and both cups had the same lip for sipping on soup. But that was where the similarities ended.

Gran’s mug looked elegant, and was glazed a smooth gradient of dark green and bright blue. It turned teal where the colors crossed, and it had two handles. The mug was so symmetrical, so balanced and beautiful and easy to hold, it could have been sold in the market.

Nala’s mug was Nala-sized. She had painted it herself, and it was covered in spatters of every color she could get a hold of. That was way back when she was a kid.

Well, a little kid— back when she was nine, a lifetime ago. Eleven felt so much older than nine.

“Smell’s good,” Gran said.

Nala agreed, but she was in a bad mood, so all she did was grunt, “Ngg.”

The full moon was right behind Gran, silhouetting her. She used a pocket rag to wipe the lip of Nala’s mug clean, before handing it over to her.

“Here you go!” Gran said, then served herself. “Let’s eat as we walk. Come on.”

“Can’t we just wait?” Nala whined.

“Up!” Gran said, blowing on her mug to cool it. “Up, I said! We’ve got a long walk now.”

Nala didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. She didn’t like being rushed.

But once they were walking, it didn’t take long for the soup to be cool enough to eat. And once she’d eaten, Nala’s mood did brighten.

“Better?” Gran Akha said, smiling.

“Huh?” Nala said, mouth full.

Gran gave a look. “Who knows you better than me? I know when you’re hangry, Nala.”

Nala smiled, and shrugged. Rather than answer, she took a gulp and put a little hop in her step.

There were other colours, too. There was yellow light from the moon, descending to the clouds, to the edges of all things.

Nala imagined that she could feel the moon’s light, illuminating each of her own shape’s edges. The moon was her favourite of all the goddesses, in all the old stories.

The stars were out, but those endless pale twinkles gave no light at all. Not really. What light did make it down was a whisper of blue, a distant note beneath a tapestry of purple and gold.

“So bright,” Gran Akha said, looking up at the moon.

Nala got an idea that made her smile. “Hey Gran?”

“Mhmm?”

“Can I have a werelight?” asked Nala.

Gran smiled, nodded, and held her soup with one hand.

Nala loved this part.

Gran put her palm on Nala’s forehead.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

Nala did.

“Alright, young lady,” Gran said grandly. “Nine breaths, if you would.”

Nala began, but—

“No no, start over,” Gran said. “Too fast. Back to one.”

Nala rolled her eyes.

“None of that,” snapped Gran. “Come on. Magic works two ways, so—”

“I know, I know.” Nala sighed, but stood still.

Gran raised one eyebrow. “Are your eyes closed?”

Nala shut her eyes.

“Good. And now… Nine breaths. Slow. No rushing.”

Nala huffed, then started over.

One…
Two…
Three…

A swell of (mmm) something swelled up from the ground.
Four…
Something rang inside of Nala…
Five…
…the way a bell’s ringing can ring another bell…
Six…

Swelling…
Seven…
Blooming…
Eight…

Gran’s hand came away, but the energy still bridged them.

And then, on Nine…

Nala opened her eyes.

The werelight was lit,
Hovering in front
Of Nala’s head,
Bobbing just above.
It was a floating ball
Of heatless flame.

The dim-but-bright light
Followed Nala’s will.

It was the color of moonthread.
It flickered, quiet.
The moon was bright, and when
Those two lights met,
The mellow flame flew,
Through every color
On its way to the end of the air.

Nala smiled.

Her dark green skin was a canvas
Of opposites, and for a moment she
Was free from her sticky daymare,
And happy. At least, for a moment.

“Wish I could do that,” Nala said as she wilted.

“You will,” said Gran. “One day. Patience, Nala.”

“I don’t wanna be patient,” Nala didn’t say.

But it was like Gran could read her mind.

“Patience pays,” Akha cooed.

“Not always,” Nala told her nearly empty mug. The werelight’s many colors danced in the goop that coated strips of carrot and cabbage.

Nala walked away, and this time it was Gran Akha that followed.

“What about your werelight?” Nala asked.

Gran shook her head. “It’s bright enough for me. Besides, I’d rather save it for when it counts.”

Nala grinned, and gulped. “For the Telling?”

Gran nodded.

Orcs had a special way of sharing stories, and this was called a Telling.

These Tellings were illusion spells, usually done on a stage, and cast out to every listener.

And at each season’s festival (in Orcshire, at least) there was a chosen Teller. This year, that chosen one was Akha Dagmur.

Gran Akha had been a sorceress of some renown, and even infamy, but she never did big magic anymore. Nala only got to hear stories.

She’d seen her Gran do petty spells.
Greensinging…
Cut stitching…
Little things like that.

But Gran Akha took pleasure in the mundane kinds of stories.
Magic-less poetry, stick-fires, things like that.

But now, this night, Nala was going to see a proper Telling.

And though she’d never seen her Gran weave tale-spells, Nala got the feeling she was going to be impressed.

“You excited?” Nala asked.

Gran’s eyebrows went up, webbing her faces with creases of excitement.

“Been a long, long time since I’ve been in front of a crowd. So… Yes. Excited. At the very least, I get the feeling this will be a night to remember.”

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As they walked, the moon bobbed, ducking behind trees, and stealing brief peeks of the scene.

They came to a sharply slanting hill. The grass grew patchy, and the trees thinned. As the orchard receded into the distance behind, the valley unfolded below and before them.

The werelight flickered over purple grass.

As they passed, a crow cawed from its branch.

Nala flinched.

“Just crows,” Gran said.

“Yeah,” murmured Nala. “Just crows.”

Its murder answered. A flutter of feathers followed overhead, close enough to make Nala yelp. The werelight went upward, blinding some of the crows, enough to send them shrieking skyward.

As the crows ascended through dense purple leaves, a swarm of bats fluttered awake.

“And bats!” cried Nala.

But Gran just laughed, completely unafraid, utterly casual.

The bats stippled the moon on their way to the crags and caves of the north. There were no trees or flowers there. Not even grass grew on that stony northern range.

The crows descended westward, down into the valley, flapping toward the torches of Market Town.

“Come on,” said Gran, all playful, light. “Let’s follow the crows into town.”

Nala could see the whole valley laid out below, clear as a map…

She saw the waste mounds, and the many fields of the grainwitch. She saw the butcher’s hut, and the tanner’s.

The two huge horse ranches dominated the landscape, beset with barns so big they seemed like massive cedar cathedrals. Way down in the heart of the valley, campfires were roaring under the glittering stars.

“I can hear it from here,” Nala marveled, both impressed and put off.

“Suddenly,” admitted Gran quietly, “I feel a little nervous.”

Nala looked up at her Gran, and the werelight cast flowing light on Gran’s face.

“You’re gonna do great,” said Nala.

Gran laughed nervously.

Some furry creature flitted (noisy) by.

Nala flinched, eyes fixed on the sound.

She recognized it as the critter from her daymare.

Blood matted its fur on one side.

Its little family caught up to it. It was the only parent of the pack.

The wind rolled through the leaves, and (hhhhHHHhhhh) startled the critters. They scampered away, gone as quick as they had come.

“What is it?” Gran Akha asked. She looked where Nala was looking, but the creatures were already gone.

Nala nodded. “Uh-huh. Sorry, I… Sorry. It was nothing.”

They went on.

Nala thought about the boy from her daymare. Had he cooked the creature that he’d caught? She wondered if he knew how to cook. She hadn’t, until a moon or so ago. Something told her they were about the same age, so…

She wondered if he’d cooked it wrong, and gotten sick. Nala did that once, not so many days ago, and if he didn’t have enough pract—

“Look,” Gran Akha said softly.

Nala snapped out of it.

They’d been walking, but the time had disappeared, almost like she’d blacked out, and her body had been moving independently of Nala’s will.

The pair was now strolling across the flat bottom sprawl of the valley, with the hills and the orchard and Mount Wraithwood now far behind.

“What is that?” Gran asked.

“What’s what?” Nala asked, then she looked where her Gran Akha was looking.

Market Town’s lights looked different now that they were up close.

The moat was high and the gates were up.

Both bridges were open, and swollen with the weight of a hundred Orcish bodies, orcs of many colors, and ages, and sizes.

But Gran was pointing at a big blob of something, a sprawl that crowded in around the gated town of Orcshire.

Nala scratched her head, and the werelight curved like a finger of light.

Nala said, “Wait, is that…? Are those tents?”

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