Mages of the Red Tree

Introduction

The dead were his only company.

Mulling over soil and corpse, the night as his blessed cover, Ravelm went about the gruesome task of lining up the deceased. All fifty-eight of them. Each corpse, possessed by rigor mortis and the bite of the same frost that coated the barren earth like a coffin lid. If it were not for the cold, the scent of this expansive murder would have drawn pests and made the air thick with its sickly-sweet scent, yet... such was a mercy that winter loitered just above, threatening to shed heavy snow over the dark, skeletal forest. Biting and unkind to such life.

As the wailing wind swept among the unforgiving trees, they cracked and popped quietly, muting the light scuffing of leather boots and the sound of a corpse sliding over the ground as it was moved to the end of a long row of people. This was accompanied by the sound of Ravelm's panting; he who'd been at this task for several hours. It was needless to say that he was tired, sore, and stiff from prolonged exertion in the harsh mountain elements. Wiping his brow of perspiration, he perused his handiwork thus far and identified what remained, experiencing a sense of relief when he realized that the end was in sight.

Encouraged by this, Ravelm pressed forward and urged his tired self to complete the last of the physical labor with the promise that he would soon be seated before a hearth with a dark lager and some hearty stew.

Long strides brought him to the final few corpses resting beside the wheel of an old wagon. Some minutes later, every elder, man, woman, and child were side by side, arranged as neatly as possible. Due to the peculiar nature of their deaths, the people had been preserved during their final moments of daily life... their bodies made as dolls as some had perished standing, some lying, some sitting beside a fire or at a dinner table, walking, talking, bathing... None of them displayed signs of anything irregular prior to their moment of death and their spirits... placid. Showing no signs of distress.

With no visible marks on their bodies, Ravelm could all but assume it was the work of a death mage or some otherworldly beast, capable of killing fifty-eight people simultaneously without lifting a finger. Although Ravelm was something of a courier of the dead, he had never seen something like this. Their cold, lifeless, milky eyes fostered unease and hesitation, and it was not them that instilled that fear and unease so much as it was the total peace present. After a genocide, and a recent one, to boot.

Standing at the feet of the most recent attendee, the dark-skinned elf contemplated these nameless people and the details until the soft hoot of an owl drew his attention to its gentle feathered form floating forth from above and behind. This brought him happiness. As he had done many times before, he extended his arm to make a perch where the beloved bay owl could land. As its ghostly form arrived and perched, he noted a small roll of parchment tied to its leg and reached out to collect the note and to unroll it. The note read:

Please, make haste home; M.

Concerned, Ravelm squinted and read it a couple of times then rolled it up and tucked it into the pocket of his travel-worn chausses.

Demanding his attention, the owl chirped and scooted further up his arm, transferred to his shoulder, and viewed him with its strange but wise eyes. This prompted him to bring the back of his fingers up to pet the bird's breast while lowering the arm that had received it. After a couple of strokes, the owl bumped its forehead against his hand and the elvish man chuckled, gently petting the bird's head instead. "It is good to see you again, sweet thing," he commented gently. It made a single chirp and fluffed its feathers in protest when he withdrew his attention.

Ravelm's attention was now needed by the deceased.

Skimming his ruby gaze over the frozen forms of the townsfolk once more, he said, "please forgive my quickness this night, my friends. I will see you off with proper coin but I can do no more than that. Time is not in my favor." For a moment, he lowered his head to grant them a moment of silence, loathing that he could not do more. The urgent letter and snowstorm haunting the night sky prompted him to clip his process.

Once a sufficient amount of silence passed, he produced a pouch of coins from his belt, loosened the strings, worked the mouth open, collected the first piece, and moved toward the corpse on the farthest end to begin gifting one to each person.

These coins were imprinted with a calla lily and a sprig of juniper on one side and inset by a smooth disc of carnelian on the other, whose edges were socketed against the third side for a firm fit. To indicate that they were enchanted, they shimmered a vibrant green hue, and when placed, appeared to melt the frost in a small area around where they contacted the individual.

Once each of them were affixed with the gifts, Ravelm retreated an arm's length away and secured the pouch to his belt. Taking a deep breath and expelling it slowly, he cast his long, snow braid over his shoulder and rested his right hand over his heart, fingers splayed. After a period of thought, he invoked a soft, unintelligible prayer, and a brilliant black flame burst forth from between his hand and heart. A flame that made no sound, cast no heat, and did not harm its wielder.

Accustomed to such magic, the owl did not startle and take flight. Instead, it remained content to watch from its vantage point on Ravelm's shoulder with wide, alien eyes. For each word that passed the elvish man's lips, the flame wobbled and increased in intensity until it looked ready to burst from beneath his hand, casting a strange, rippling green glow in the immediate unlit area. The more powerful it became, the hazier his ruby eyes appeared, slowly consumed by an opalescent glaze until he too looked deceased and faraway. The final verse of the spell died in the crisp, winter air when he cast the raging tendrils onto the nearest corpse. He then watched as the corpses burned one by one, leaving naught but ash at the end as the magical flame devoured both body and coin.

Ravelm watched with a sort of peace and neutrality throughout the process. Hazy, unseeing eyes perceiving more than the fire. The hand he used to cast the spell remained alight with the strange fire until it was no longer needed. When he terminated the spell, the fire that permeated from his hand vanished like smoke, snuffing out the black fire embers nesting in the ash of its most recent host. The milky glaze over his eyes dissolved shortly after and he blinked, focus returning fully to the present. Satisfied that the spirits of the deceased had been ferried to the Otherworld, he turned away from the gruesome scene and expelled a soft huff, mist unfurling from his chapped lips.

"Very well then..."

Moving to the skirts of the empty village, Ravelm reclaimed a thick, wool, and fur-lined cloak from a low-hanging branch and secured it around his person, cautious not to upset his owly companion. The hood was almost twice as large as normal, purely to accommodate the owl, so it was easy to tuck the creature in without disturbing it. Once certain that the wool was sufficient to rebuff the bitter wind, he began the long and cold trek to the lodge two hours north, knowing that the snow would fall long before he reached a warm hearth, ale, and stew...