R. A. Baker

 Under the calm of the star-filled sky, the wrinkled hag shuffled a crooked cane in her gnarred hand, taking small steps so she didn’t tire before she reached the guardhouse. Though she lived just inside East Taren, it took her half the night to reach the border of West Taren.

    “A dangerous journey for an elder,” East Taren townspeople whispered among themselves as she passed, night after night. “The West Taren savages would find a tired old lady traveling alone an easy target.”

    Her keen ears occasionally caught the idle chatter as she passed, causing her to snicker to herself, knowing the gossips saw only her bent back and feeble walk, and therefore assumed her magic was feeble as well. No brigand who crossed her path and challenged her lived to make that mistake a second time. Just two nights ago, she had cast asunder an entire band of rogues. Lying at her feet, they had begged for mercy. She gave them none.

    In need of money, she had reluctantly agreed to train an ignorant guardsman of West Taren—an Unnatural. Even though her pupil showed no talent, she had kept her promise, teaching the fool the ways of magic. What she taught, however, were inferior spells that lasted but seconds, ones creating smoke and sparks and little more. An East Taren child might have shown him such cheap, trivial tricks for free, but her pupil knew no better.

    Ignorant of magic, as all West Tareners were, he shamelessly overpaid for such worthless lore — ten silver pieces a visit. Tonight, she intended to collect more than silver; tonight, she hoped to collect power beyond imagining.

      Her eyes, milky and clouded with age, squinted ahead. There stood the guard, nervously awaiting her arrival. She despised Unnaturals, and this was the second one she had agreed to teach. At least the first one had potential. This one was useful only for the money he paid her and as a pawn, to be exploited as she desired. The guard suspected nothing.

    The old woman thought about the success of her deception and cackled. The guard, as he always did,  mistook her disdainful amusement with him as enthusiasm for the next lesson. He glanced around anxiously, then hurriedly escorted her into his small guardhouse, containing two wooden stools and lit with only a single lantern. The old woman knew the risks the guard was taking and thought him all the more foolish for doing so.

    She loathed the dusty, cramped quarters almost as much as she hated the guard, but she drew comfort in the knowledge that this loathsome project was nearing its end. After so many cycles, the guard was ready. Her magic had slowly crumbled his judgment, like rust ate away at unkempt armor.

    Directly outside the guardhouse was the Great Lake of Lamec, and precisely in its center lay the Lake Stone, the talisman from the heavens. The waters glistened and glowed from the mysterious power of the Stone. Soon she would obtain its power.

    “For this lesson,” she told the guard, “I want no silver.” Upon seeing the predictably puzzled look on his face, the old woman went on. “I ask only that you take me by boat to see the Lake Stone for a closer view.” She waited awhile to judge the look in the guardsman’s eyes. “I wish to touch it.”

    As she expected, the guard rambled on about how no one was allowed near the Stone and of his responsibilities to guard it. Growing impatient, she cut his pitiful babbling short with a hard tap of her cane upon the stone floor. The guardhouse was suddenly silent.

    “Do you not want to continue with your lessons, man? I offer you a chance to save your money, and you insult my generosity with this nonsense.” The old woman leaned forward so close, the uneasy guard feared the hag would kiss him. “This is no bandit or vandal who stands before you, guard,” she whispered hoarsely. “What possible harm can I, a bent old woman, do by touching the Stone? Even the King himself of this marvelous capital city would grant my simple request if he knew of it. Perhaps I would do better to go to him instead.”

    The old woman smiled; her teeth were brilliantly white. She backed away, sat on a stool, and waited. The guard looked uncertain, unsure. Not willing to make eye contact, he simply stared at the floor. The old woman was confident in what he would say next. Starting with the guard’s first lesson, she had gradually developed a link to touch his mind with hers. Now, he unwittingly exposed his thoughts for her to manipulate and exploit as she pleased. Her grin slowly widened. She had access to his very soul—and thus access to the Lake Stone. She knew the guard feared her as much as he feared getting caught near the Lake Stone—a crime the West Tareners punished with death.

      “Very well, witch,” the guardsman scoffed. He laughed as if he couldn’t care less, but the worry in his voice, and in his mind, betrayed him. “If you wish to forfeit your payment just to lay your wrinkled hands on a rock, then so be it.” The old woman waited for him to continue. She knew he was going to add something else. Something foolish.

    “However,” the guard added hesitantly, “such a special request demands a special lesson.”

    The old woman was ready with an answer. “Of course, my friend. Did you think I would not reward this favor?” The witch tossed up her gray head and shut her eyes in apparent concentration. A long moment of silence passed.

    “I know,” she said at last, “I will teach you one of my most treasured enchantments. Would you like to learn the wondrous magic of flight?” Of course she possessed no such power, or she would not have needed a boat to reach the Stone, much less any help from the ridiculous sentry.

    The guard did not notice this breach in logic, and though he struggled to conceal his excitement, it shone in his eyes, brighter than the smoky lantern that lit the room. “That would do nicely,” he agreed. “I have always wanted to fly like the birds of the air. Let us begin the lesson.”

    The old woman pointed at the guard, wagging her finger and shaking her head like a mother showing disapproval to a misbehaved child. “In all the time you have spent with me in study, I have always collected my payment first. Tonight will be no different.”

    The guard frowned. “Very well, but I pray that you do not take long with this folly.”

    “No longer than it takes you to ready the boat.”

    In a short while, they boarded a small boat, used only by guards when patrolling the lake. The woman was pleased that her plan, so long in the making, was working so well. She cast hidden glances at the guard as he nervously rowed toward the center of the lake. He had never told her his name. She revealed a cold smile. It was Platus. She loathed the guard’s hypocrisy almost as much as his West Taren blood. He spoke of duty and responsibility, and here he was peddling away his loyalty to his King for personal gain, like the well-dressed hustlers of Argat, who would sell their own daughters for profit. He was more of a scoundrel in his shiny, medal-adorned guardsman’s uniform, than all the ragged thieves in Taren. That is why most West Tareners possess no magic, she thought. Their corrupt, lazy minds were not suited for the discipline.

      Slowly, the boat neared the Lake Stone. The witch could feel the waves of perpetual heat gushing from it, like a mystic fountain. It was such a waste, she thought, that this treasure fell on West Taren land.

    Finally, they reached the marveled Stone. The old woman stared in awe at the size of it. From a distance, it resembled a shrunken pearl set in a giant oyster of water, but up close it was immense. Though most of it was submerged, its dry upper half rose higher than three men and more than thrice as wide. It looked smooth in some places and rough in others. Small holes, connected by fine cracks, pocked its surface. In the darkness of the night, she could detect a low glow emanating from within, shining faintly through the cracks. That was the source of its magic, she decided. Somewhere underneath its dull, scarred crust was the core of unimaginable energy—energy that could make her the most powerful being Taren had ever seen. She would become a goddess.

    The guard hissed at her side, “Do it now old witch, or we will be seen!”

Annoyed at having her thoughts severed, the woman looked over and spoke harshly to the guard for the first time. “Be quiet, pawn!” Her eyes narrowed with hate. “I will do this in my own time. If I move too slowly for your taste, you may swim back!” Without waiting for his reaction, she turned her back to the now wordless guard and refocused on the Lake Stone. Its strange, silvery glow grew brighter, as if it anticipated this moment as much as she did. So seductive. Entrancing! The Lake Stone was meant for her. The old woman knew it.

    She could bear the delay no longer. She leaned forward with outstretched hands to receive its touch. The warmth of the Stone warmed her night-chilled skin and made it tingle. She trembled. The long cycles of pretending to be a lesser mage finally were over!

    A blinding flash of light engulfed the boat, spilling outward until it illuminated the entire lake. Night became as day, and a strange humming filled the air. The old woman was alight from the strange fire coming from the Lake Stone. She shattered its outer shell, allowing the power to flow into her without hindrance or restraint. Like daggers, silver-white beams of flashing force bored their way into her trembling body. Fear suddenly gripped her. She could not remove her hands from the burning stone. She could not move at all. The old woman shrieked.

    Deciding to take the sorceress’s advice, the guard had begun to swim back to shore. He turned to look back and saw the little patrol boat explode in silver flame. His eyes widened in terror when he saw the Lake Stone. It glowed like a fiery coal and was belching out metallic, glittering smoke. “What have I allowed to pass?” he cried out loud.

    A jab of pain shot into the guard’s head. He struggled to keep swimming despite the agony. In vain, he tried to ignore it and concentrate on staying afloat. Then he heard the sound of laughter — hysterical, screaming laughter. At first, he swore it had to be the witch, but that could not be possible, for he had seen her perish in the strange fire.

    The madding laughter persisted. It echoed in his head and made the pain worse. Just before he succumbed to unconsciousness, the guard realized that the insane laughter was his own.