The First Spell

The Escape

Among the small hills that separated the Eastern Steppes from the Elven Forest, there lay a picturesque valley. The slopes were covered with birch forests, and a swift stream crossed the bottom, flowing into a lake full of fish with a noise and then out of the other side into the wild. Thousands of insects hovered among the sea of flowers, and herds of deer often galloped between the trees. The Elven Forest teemed with the enormity of animals that roamed its vast area. For hundreds of years, no one had seen a real elf, but they had lived in stories since the memorable war of wizards. It was mid-autumn, and life in a small village belonging to the kingdom of Marloth was marked by harvesting and smoking fish. Winter was approaching as relentlessly as the previous year, and the king raised taxes with the same ruthlessness. Marloth was at risk of war, and all signs in heaven and earth indicated that it could be a lost war. A man with a bow in his hand knelt on a hunting platform high among the trees at the watering hole. He had long dreadlocks tied at the back with a piece of thong and a beard braided in two short braids, in the Viking custom or so he thought, remembering something similar from a computer game he had played in another life. He remembered the day he arrived in this land. Jumping into the energetic gates that appeared when he accidentally cut the spell print with a knife, he did not think he would survive. In that moment, he was stunned by the adrenaline coursing through his blood and didn't think clearly. He dodged a terrorist bullet and landed in the middle of a wheat field. A sweeping scythe cut his jacket and sweatshirt from waist to neck, splitting his chin to the bone and spilling hot blood down his neck. The scream from a man dressed only in linen pants caught the attention of a dozen other reapers. Shocked, Patrick staggered, and as his sweatshirt parted, Eddie, the mascot of Iron Maiden, looked out from his bloodied t-shirt. Now, after more than a year in this amazing world, Patrick smiled at the memory of the impression his unexpected appearance and demonic Eddie had made on these simple, uneducated people. They hailed him as a great wizard, and the village leader, gentle as a lamb, offered him a bed in his hut. His daughter eagerly taught him the Marloth language, and he equally eagerly taught her another art, though they kept it secret from the mayor. The village leader, though gentle, was a man twice as big as the newcomer.

The land in which Patrick found himself was a vivid depiction of many computer games. Dressed in long robes, wizards, and knights armored in steel, fortified castles were all part of the image. Elves, dwarves, werewolves, and dragons came to life in the stories told every evening, although no one living could boast of ever having met one of these legendary creatures. At first, Patrick was afraid that in this world, devoid of modern medicine, most diseases and wounds would be fatal, but he soon became convinced that the skills of local healers were of decent quality. Each province of the kingdom had anywhere from a few to a dozen healers. They lived in larger population centers and twice a month, they would tour nearby villages. The only inconvenience was that the wandering healers did not appear in their small village too often, and it was a four-day journey on foot to reach Three Logs, the nearest large village with a healer. Overall, the availability of healers' help was greater than in public healthcare in his homeland.

Marloth was ruled by King Einar from the family of famous white magicians. He was a strict but just ruler, and the people of Marloth lived a pleasant life under his rule, except for the taxes. His son, Prince Kirsthan, was a born warrior and an indomitable adventurer who sought adventure more often than knowledge. He loved horses and swords more than magic wands, which was a constant worry for his father. News from the distant capital rarely reached the small village where Patrick had lived for over a year, but rumors of the war that was sweeping the known world could be heard there.

Koval snapped out of his memories when a herd of four roe deer passed by his hideout on their way to the watering hole. The distant war had not yet concerned them, and the mayor's family was hungry for fresh meat. He drew his bow, aiming carefully. Despite many exercises, he still often missed from more than twenty paces. He chose a young hind who was limping slightly on her hind leg, as she was walking a bit slower and was an easier target. He aimed at a familiar point that led straight to the heart, held his breath, and released the string with a clang. The doe let out a painful grunt, jumped high, and then fell to the ground with a thud. The rest of the herd dispersed in terror.