Gennady's Tale

Chapter 1

“Clubfoot! Clubfoot!”

Gennady stayed low as he ran into the undergrowth, trying to put as much distance between him and his father as possible. The man had come home blind drunk, as always, and would beat Gennady to a pulp if his father caught him before the drink finally sent his father into a drunken stupor. He’d been drinking more than usual lately, ever since Huckeba—Gennady’s elder brother—had married some poor girl from the neighbouring village and moved into her shack with his in-laws. Someone had probably reminded him that his son was a cripple, a disabled boy in a world that cared nothing for disabled boys, and he’d gone home to take out his frustrations on his son.

He gritted his teeth as his ankle started to hurt, a grim reminder of why everyone—even his parents—called him Clubfoot. It wasn’t a real clubfoot, he’d been told, but it was bad enough. Gennady could barely keep up with the women, let alone the men. He was weak, too weak to handle anything from farm work to the late-night drinking and fighting that occupied the men when they weren’t working the fields. There was no way he’d ever be allowed to marry, let alone have children. His father would probably disown him, sooner or later. There was no way he could pass the family’s tiny shack to a cripple. Gennady’s younger brother would probably kick him out even if their father didn’t. And no one would say anything about it at all.

The bitterness welled up, again, as the shadows grew and lengthened. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t chosen to be a cripple. He wasn’t one of the idiots who tossed axes around for fun and accidentally cut off their own legs. He hadn’t done anything to deserve being the runt of the litter, the laughing stock of the village ... he hadn’t. His bones ached as he stumbled to a halt, gasping for breath. The louts had beaten him yesterday, chasing him from the vegetable gardens and into the forests surrounding the village. No doubt they’d hoped he wouldn’t come crawling back. Gennady himself wasn’t sure why he hadn’t simply walked away and allowed the forest to kill him. No one in their right mind ventured out of the village after dark. The night belonged to the other folk.

He stumbled to a halt, sweat trickling down his back. His father’s voice had stilled. Gennady knew what that meant. The old man had probably gone back to the shack, to take his anger out on his mother instead. He felt a pang of guilt, mixed with relief that it wasn’t him. He knew he should be ashamed of himself for letting it happen, for doing nothing, but ... he couldn’t help it. He’d been beaten down so often that he knew he had little sympathy to spare for anyone else.

Why should I, he asked himself, when no one has any sympathy for me?

He warily looked around. Few people came this close to the Greenwood, save for the lonely, the lost and the desperate. The tangled branches and undergrowth up ahead were impassable, even to a strong man with an axe. No one in their right mind would try to get in, not if they knew what was waiting for them. The other folk lived there, in a realm so overgrown the sun never shone. They’d kill anyone foolish enough to enter their world. Gennady forced himself to start moving again, giving the Greenwood a wide berth. There were times when he thought he could hear voices, urging him to walk into the alien realm. He knew if he did, he’d never come out again.

Birds flew through the forest as he trudged onwards, despite the growing pain in his ankle. He forced himself to keep scanning the ground, noting mushrooms growing near the taller trees. They didn’t look ripe, not yet, but they were edible. If he was desperate ... he promised himself he’d come back later to pick them to take home for his mother’s stew. If he could get them home, without having them stolen by one of the village louts, his mother might be pleased.

No. He knew better. She could never forget what he’d done to her, simply by being born.

It wasn’t my fault, he told himself. It wasn’t his fault that the village woman had cracked jokes about Gennady’s mother lying with the other folk, before his birth. It wasn’t his fault that her husband had come very close to kicking her and her cursed child out of the shack, throwing them into the cold to die. I was just a child.

The thought didn’t comfort him. How could it? He was a cripple. There was no place for him in the village, no place anywhere. It was only a matter of time until he was exposed to the elements and left to die. The village couldn’t afford to feed useless mouths. Gennady knew, all too well, that his father only kept him alive because he was good at scavenging. He had to be. There was no way he could kill a wild pig or catch a bird or do anything useful for the village. The day he stopped bringing home mushrooms or herbs or anything else along those lines was the day he’d die. He knew it with a certainty that could not be denied.

He flinched as he heard something moving in the undergrowth, something big. A wild pig? A boar? Hogarth, the strongest lout in the village, wouldn’t dare tangle with a wild boar in the forest. Even the count who owned the village and the surrounding region of the mountains would hesitate to don his armour to hunt a wild boar. Such a creature was strong enough to pose a threat to anyone, save perhaps a sorcerer. Gennady hadn’t met many sorcerers. He’d been kept firmly out of their way the last time the roving wizards had visited the village. He hadn’t cared. Sorcerers could be childishly cruel at times.

The sound grew louder. Gennady turned and inched away, resisting the urge to run for his life. The boar—if it was a boar—would give chase, if it thought he was scared. It was all he could do to saunter away, despite the sense of unseen eyes studying his back and trying to decide if he’d make a tasty meal. Gennady had to struggle to breathe, despite a suicidal impulse to turn and walk towards the boar. It would be over quickly, then his family could pretend he’d never existed. He knew what happened, when someone was exposed and left to die. Their families never mentioned them again.

He sighed inwardly as the sound died away. He moved towards one of the paths, towards one of the few safe walkways between the villages ... as long as one wasn’t a tax collector or someone else who might be quietly murdered a long way from civilisation. Gennady had met a couple of tax collectors, overweight men gloating as they skimmed what little they could from the village ... one had laughed, openly, as the villages sweated to meet their dues. He’d insisted he was exacting revenge for everything the villagers had done to him, once upon a time. Gennady wanted to be like him, even though he knew it would never happen. No one would be scared of him. He’d just vanish, somewhere in the forests, and no one would give a damn ...

... And then he noticed that someone was walking down the path.

Gennady froze, convinced his father had found him. His father ... or one of the village louts. It didn’t matter. He’d get a beating no matter who found him. He peered through the trees, breathing a sigh of relief as the walker came into view. Primrose. A girl who’d smiled at him, once or twice. The only person who’d ever been nice to him. He found himself staring, despite himself. Primrose was beautiful, with brown hair that seemed to glow with light and health. She wore the simple smock that all village women wore, as she was now old enough to wed, but she made it look like a dress. Gennady was smitten. He knew he wasn’t the only one. Every boy in the village—and the surrounding villages—wanted to pay court to her. He was surprised she was alone, outside the stockade. The custom of kidnapping brides might be outdated, yet it persisted. Primrose would have no choice but to stay with someone brave and bold enough to take her, marry her and bed her before informing her parents. She would be his ...

He found himself turning to follow, shadowing her, as she hurried down the path to a small clearing. He wanted to call out, to tell her he was there, but he couldn’t find the words. He could never talk to Primrose, not when she was the only village woman not to mock him for an ugly gnome. The others were cruel, but Primrose ... she was sweet and kind and simply wonderful. He dreamed of impressing her, of convincing her that he was the one, yet ... he knew it wasn’t going to happen. There were boys in the village who owned—or would inherit—entire shacks, tracts of land, even a handful of sheep. What did he have that could compete? Nothing. Primrose’s father would laugh in Gennady’s face if he came courting. Of course he would.

Primrose didn’t look back as she made her way into the clearing. Gennady followed, frowning inwardly. It didn’t look good. The clearing was small, too small. It wasn’t a place to rest, when walking through the trees. It was a place for meetings between lovers ... he felt ice shudder down his spine as he saw Hogarth beneath the trees, a look of cruel anticipation on his face. The brute was waiting for Primrose ... Gennady shuddered again, realising he was looking at an ambush. Hogarth was waiting for her and ... Gennady’s mind shut down. He couldn’t face what was coming. The thought of Primrose being married to Hogarth ...

He felt sick. The village louts were big and bad, but Hogarth was the biggest and baddest of them all. A walking slab of muscle, too dumb to count past ten without taking off his boots ... and sadistic enough to beat up anyone who got in his way, even the older villagers. Gennady had felt Hogarth’s fists often enough to know the bastard took delight in hurting people, in picking fights with people who couldn’t fight back. Bitterness threatened to overwhelm him again. It just wasn’t fair. People like Hogarth had everything. What did intelligence matter when it could be smashed down at will? Why ...

His stomach churned as Hogarth stepped forward, took Primrose in his arms and kissed her. The sound was loud, possessive. Hogarth held her tightly, his arms inching down... Gennady felt envy, followed by hatred and fear. Primrose didn’t look happy, from what little he could see, but what could she do? Hogarth was both admired and feared by the entire village. She probably didn’t want to marry him, but so what? If Hogarth asked for her hand in marriage, her father would give Primrose to him. What else could he do?

Hogarth looked up. Their eyes met.

Gennady froze, suddenly unable to move. He was too scared to try, too scared to even think as Hogarth pushed Primrose to one side and bounded towards the undergrowth. Hogarth was the kind of person who’d make it hurt all the more, if Gennady tried to run ... not that he could. Hogarth could run like the wind. Gennady would start limping within a few seconds if he tried. He heard Primrose say something, but it was too late. He hoped she’d have the sense to run away. Hogarth would beat her for interfering with his fun if she tried to stop him.

“Clubfoot,” Hogarth snarled. “You little ...”

Gennady whimpered, trying to raise his hands to protect himself. But they felt as if they were too heavy to move. Hogarth was too close, his face a mask of hatred. Gennady stumbled back, too late. Hogarth punched him in the chest, the pain making him retch as he doubled over. A second blow—a fist, a knee, he didn’t know—smashed into his face. He thought he felt his teeth coming loose as he hit the muddy ground, instinctively trying to crawl into it. But it was impossible. A hand grasped his neck and yanked him up. He found himself staring at Hogarth’s face. He knew, with a certainty he couldn’t deny, that it was going to be the last thing he saw.

“Little filthy spy,” Hogarth said. He drew back his fist. “You wretch ...”

Gennady barely heard him. The pain was all-consuming. He would have curled into a ball if he wasn’t being held, dangling from Hogarth’s hand like a cat might carry a mouse. It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t fair. The thought pounded through his head, bringing stabs of pain and grief and something with it. He couldn’t think. He felt as though he was far too close to the Greenwood, to the other folk. Blue sparks flashed at the corner of his eyes as Hogarth tightened his grip. The world seemed to blur ...

“This is it,” Hogarth said. Gennady believed him. He was going to die. He was finally going to die. And it wasn’t fair. “Goodbye.”

His fist started to move. Blue sparks flashed, a surge of twisted power flowing through Gennady and into Hogarth. The bully screamed, his face contorted with pain. Gennady stared, unsure what was happening as the blue light grew stronger. His awareness came in fits and starts. There was a blinding flash of light. He was flying through the air. Pain, pain, pain ... and a sense of power that almost overwhelmed him. Primrose screamed, the sound dragging him back to himself an instant before the darkness swallowed him. Gennady opened his mouth ...

... And the world went black.

He tried to think, but it felt as if he was trapped in mud. Darkness crawled around him, as if he was on the very edge of going to sleep but somehow unable to shut down. He heard voices mumbling, their words growing louder and louder ... he heard his father’s voice, the shock yanking him out of the unnatural slumber. The real world crashed around him as he opened his eyes, realising in horror that he was lying on a blanket in the hovel. His mother stared down at him, her stern face unreadable. For a moment, Gennady thought he’d dreamed everything. But the throbbing power within him was undeniable.

A face came into view. A man, a stranger ... short black hair, clean-shaven ... Gennady winced inwardly, fearing the mockery that would be directed at someone unable or unwilling to grow a beard. And dressed from head to toe in black ... sorcerer’s black. Gennady started, trying to sit up but unable to do even that. Cold terror washed down his spine, mocking him. He had to show proper respect or ... he’d wind up being cursed or ... or something. And yet, his body refused to obey. The dull pain was threatening to drag him back into the darkness. He felt as if his body had turned to mush. Maybe it had. There was a sorcerer standing over him.

He felt his heart twist as his father stepped up beside the sorcerer. The man looked as if he’d sobered up the hard way, his hands twitching as if he was in desperate need of a drink. Or to work off his frustrations by hitting someone. Gennady frowned, inwardly, at the look in his father’s eyes as the old man stared at him. Fear. Real fear. It both attracted and repelled Gennady. It felt good to have someone be scared of him, for once. It felt good to have someone grant him respect, even through fear. It felt good ...

... And yet, it didn’t.

The sorcerer removed a gourd from his belt and held it to Gennady’s lips. Gennady didn’t want to sip, but he had a feeling he didn’t have a choice. The liquid tasted unpleasant, worse than the brackish water he’d been forced to drink over the winters, yet ... he felt an odd surge of energy flowing through him. His body tingled, jerking uneasily as he lay back down The discomfort would pass. He knew it would. He was far too used to pain.

“Gennady.” The sorcerer sounded odd, as if he’d learned the language by rote. It was very clear he’d been born and raised somewhere very far from the Cairngorms. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Gennady saw his father pale. He’d forgotten the honorific. The entire family would be cursed if he didn’t fix it, quickly. “Yes, My Lord.”

The sorcerer nodded, sternly. “How much do you remember?”

Gennady forced himself to think. He’d been in the forest. He’d seen Primrose. Hogarth had attacked him. Hogarth had nearly killed him. He’d ...

“Power,” he said. Blue sparks seemed to dance in the shadows as he remembered Hogarth screaming. The brute had deserved it. And worse. Gennady liked the thought of making Hogarth suffer. He’d done it. Yes, he’d done it. “I remember power.”

“Yes.” The sorcerer smiled, very briefly. “Power.”

Gennady swallowed, hard. “What happened?”

“Magic,” the sorcerer said. Behind him, Gennady saw his father flinch. “Gennady, you’re a magician.”