The Alchemist and the Sorceress

“Go on, Thom! Tell us another!” the patrons shouted as one. 

Such was the life of a storyteller, Thom thought as he took another generous swig of his ale. The crowd were never truly satisfied. Not until they were all drunk and under the table, that was. 

“Alright, my dear fellows,” the man bellowed to the crowd, his voice booming across the room. One could almost feel it shaking the cups and bowls on each table. 

“Old Thom will have to work double for his ale tonight,” he continued once his audience settled down. “Very well, let’s see what I can do,” he scratched his chin theatrically as he pondered for a moment. 

“Ah, yes!” he exclaimed. “I know where to go next. But are you brave enough to follow?” 

“Yes!” the exalted shout came soon enough. Although the question was rhetorical, the crowd insisted on chiming in. 

“Have you ever heard the tale of the alchemist and the sorceress?” 

“No, Thom. Tell us!” 

“Alright. But it’ll cost you a pint or two,” Thom said with a wink. 

He had barely finished his sentence when a well-dressed man from the first row of tables threw him a silver piece. 

“Hmm,” Thom said. “Thank you, Jaahn. Generous as always.” 

Jaahn raised his tankard in salute. 

“We all know there’s magic in this world, don’t we?” Thom addressed the crowd in his well-practised storyteller’s voice. 

“Yes!” 

“All sorts of magic. We’ve heard the tales from Aros and Citadel. Some of us more fortunate have often been to these marvellous places. Righ, Jaahn?” 

“Right you are, old Thom,” the merchant replied with a self-satisfied look. 

“There’s frost magic,” Thom continued. “Like the winds of bloody winter in the endless oceans to the north. There’s fire magic, born in the belly of the world itself. There’s light - the magic of those religious folks from Citadel. And then there’s darkness…” 

Thom paused, looking around the room. The silence was as dense as freshly harvested honey. All eyes followed his every gesture. He had them in his hand. 

“Darkness, my dear fellows, comes from death. Those who practice the dark arts - necromances - as I’m sure you’ve heard them called, are not to be taken lightly. They feed off life itself and in turn, breathe death into the world. The good ones even find ways to cheat the life out of the gods themselves. And the better ones still would never reveal their true nature unless they wanted to.”

Thom spread his arms as if to embrace everyone in the room - inviting them closer, bringing them into his world. 

“This is the story of two such individuals, who started life as normal people, like you and me. But were ultimately seduced and twisted by the dark arts.

“Long ago - long before even old Thom’s time, there was a young alchemist who fell in love with a beautiful sorceress. After many sleepless nights, the boy confessed his feelings to her and was delighted to find out she felt the same. Their love grew quickly, like fire in a dry hay field. The young couple formed a bond so strong that not even the gods could come between them. 

“They settled down and sought to build a life together. The alchemist brewed his potions, earning a decent living for a small town. The sorceress continued to study her magic until it was time for her to become a mother. 

“A boy was born into their household - the happiest day for both. The husband and wife had a child to nurture and a future to strive for. Life seemed to take off wonderfully for the young family. 

“But as it often happens in these tales, fate had other things in mind. In the first winter after the birth, the boy became sick. Despite their best efforts, the cold wouldn’t go away. No amount of potions or magic seemed to help. The frost had taken over the boy’s lungs and it didn’t want to leave.

“The situation grew desperate. Neither parent knew what to do. One thing was certain - they had to try something, otherwise their son wouldn’t make it until spring.

“The sorceress remembered the scrolls of dark magic she had come across when she was still a young apprentice. She had read of spells that could transfer life from one creature to another, and even bring back the dead. Her curiosities had been quenched quickly by her then-teacher. ‘Be careful, child,’ he had said. ‘The dark arts are powerful indeed. But anyone who dabbles in them risks losing themselves in the act.’

“She had decided not to touch dark magic all those years ago. But now it was different. This was no longer some foolish youthful curiosity. Her child’s life was at stake. And as we know, my dear fellows, no mother would stand by idly and watch her child suffer.

“In her desperation, the sorceress dug out an old dusty tome she had long forgotten. ‘The secrets of life transfusion’, its cover read. And so, she started learning the rituals it held within. 

“When she felt ready enough, she set about attempting the ritual. As powerful a sorceress as she thought she was, dark magic was entirely new to her and she was taking a great risk she did not yet realise. 

“To save her son’s life, she decided to syphon her own life forces into him. As the ritual began, it seemed like it was working at first. Her son’s raspy breathing eased into a steady rhythm. The cold was leaving his body. But it soon became apparent our sorceress had overestimated her powers. 

 “She felt faint, weakened by the effects of the spell. Though she could not see it, her face withered and paled. 

“To her husband, watching to one side, it was obvious that she couldn’t hold for long enough to cure their boy completely. She would have to stop, lest her own magic kill her. But the love of a mother is a truly miraculous thing. She continued despite the pain. She was resolved to carry on, even if it meant her end.

“Her husband couldn’t bear the sight much longer. He saw the life draining out of her with green fluorescent light. He saw her body shrivel to the bone. He saw his beautiful wife’s face transform into an ancient artefact before his eyes. He knew enough about magic to understand what she was doing wouldn’t be enough. She would kill herself in the process and at best buy their son another month of struggles.

“With her slipping away, he decided to act. He pulled her from her trance. As she came to her senses, the sorceress realised she had failed. That night, she wept next to her son’s crib. 

“The alchemist tried to console her. He told her that they would find another way - that he would continue treatment with his potions and would cure their son. Even though he didn’t believe it, he needed his wife back. To bear the loss of a child was hard enough. But losing everything all at once would mean his end. 

“The child did not survive that winter. The young couple were crushed by their loss. The alchemist closed himself off from the world. The once cheerful man had become but a shell of himself. 

“His wife learned to mask her shrivelled face with illusions, pretending everything was fine. But her scars ran deep - deeper than the surface of her body. In the months and years that followed, resentment became her only solace. She turned her hatred towards the very world that had taken her son away from her. That feeling festered and grew beyond the bounds of what was human. It poisoned the heart and mind of her husband too. Together, they vowed to make the world suffer, just as they had suffered.” 

Thom took pause, finishing the rest of his ale. Silence filled the room once more. A silence that was broken only by the occasional sob from the crowd. Around the room, Thom saw people shaking their heads - some teary-eyed, others deep in thought. 

“What happened to them, Thom?”

“Well, this story took place some 150 years ago. Long enough for any human life to pass and come to its natural conclusion. But legend has it these two are still out there in the world. They roam the land from town to town, settling in each place for no more than a few years at a time. The alchemist stirs his potions and sells them to the locals.

“But there is a dark secret that has kept them going all these years. The alchemist’s wife puts poison in each potion they sell. Just a small dose, of course. Not enough to kill, but just enough to drain the life out of each unfortunate soul that buys from them.

“The alchemist and the sorceress live - if you could call it life. They roam the lands without real purpose, bringing sickness and death wherever they go.” 

Thom regarded the nervous crowd, letting the end of his story sink in. All the patrons seemed deep in thought and filled with angst.

“Do you think they’ll come to our parts, old Thom?” Flin, the innkeeper’s boy asked with trepidation in his voice. 

“Have they not been before? Are they not here now? Will they not come tomorrow? I don’t know, dear Flin. I just tell the stories.” 

The boy nodded, somewhat disappointed by the old man’s answer. 

“Come now, everybody!” old Thom tumped on the table in front of him. “Don’t think too much of the tales of an old fool. My mouth is dry - in need of ale. Give me enough time to finish a fresh one and I’ll tell you the story of the princess and the dragon-slayer - a favourite of yours, I hear.” 

The crowd cheered as the innkeeper poured old Thom another pint.

That’s right, old Thom nodded to himself, from crying to laughter - never let your audience settle in one place. Such was the life of a storyteller. 

* * * 

Flin had been up since dark, scrubbing the floors, clearing the tables, and preparing the inn for any early risers. The boy had cooked old Thom’s breakfast first, just as the man had instructed the evening before. 

“Two eggs, a piece of bread and an extra slab of bacon to go with my sage tea in the morning,” the man had said. “All to be served at dawn, as the rooster sings.” Strange fellow, that Thom was. And his stories stranger still. 

Flin entered the common room with a steaming plate and a kettle filled with sage tea. He saw a familiar figure at the far end of the room. 

“Old Thom! You’re here just in time for breakfast,” Flin said, hurrying towards Thom’s table. 

“Old Thom?” Flin’s voice shook as he stepped closer and saw the figure more clearly. 

“Old Thom, can you hear me?” No answer came. 

Thom was slumped in his seat, head bowed down. Unmoving. His hand was on the table. Between dried-up fingers, it held a note, which Flin was now close enough to read: 

Some stories are best left untold. 

The town woke up that morning to the sound of a rooster song and the scream of the innkeeper’s boy.