Summer to spring the following year, year 565 of the Varakarian Cycle

  Kharg slowly began to embrace the teachings as the weeks passed. At first, they felt completely contradictory to what he had been taught before. But little by little, he came to see the shamanic way as a complement to what he already knew. He even gained some insights into his understanding of southern Elemental Magic from it.

  The early lessons felt simple, but their impact was profound. Fire wasn’t just a flame. It was alive—fierce and untamed. Hrafun taught him how to speak to it and coax it to respond to his commands. The flames obeyed, mirroring his growing confidence, but the lessons came with a warning. If treated carelessly, fire could destroy as easily as it could serve. He found that respect was not optional, it was essential.

  The wind, however, was a gentler teacher. It carried distant whispers and forgotten tales, flowing through the world with boundless freedom. Kharg spent countless afternoons in the grove, standing still with his arms open and eyes closed, letting the wind weave around him. Each gust that ruffled his hair or filled his lungs deepened his sense of connection, to the spirits, to the earth, and to the vast world beyond his sight.

  The days began with the elements surrounding him, fire crackling softly in the hearth, wind stirring the branches of ancient trees, and the solid earth humming with a quiet presence beneath his feet. Kharg learned to reach out to these forces under Hrafun’s careful instruction, calling on the spirits that dwelt within them.

  The shamanic spells he learned were, in some ways, similar to the elemental magic he already knew. But there were differences as well. He had to empower the shamanic spells through life-force, whereas elemental magic required him to use mana. His mana pool was a resource that could be increased through usage and practice, whereas his life-force depended on the health and state of his body and was not something he could expect to grow much. Similar to the elemental magic, the simplest shamanic spells could be empowered by drawing on ambient power around him. But many shamanic spells required higher levels of power.

  The life-force was drawn through his blood, and his left lower arm had plenty of pale scars by now. Hrafun would often heal them, but not always. The concept of healing was fantastic however, he had never experienced anything like it before. And from what he knew, there was nothing within the art of elemental magic that could achieve any form of healing.

  Once he had progressed enough in his knowledge of shamanic Elementalism, Hrafun steered him into the field of Animalism. His initial training with the elements had served to give him a general understanding of the shamanic concepts and forms of magic, eased by his previous knowledge of elemental magic from the south.

  Hrafun’s first lesson in Animalism was to dispel Kharg’s preconceptions. The name was misleading, he explained. “It is not merely about animals,” he said as they sat by the fire one evening, the air heavy with the scent of pine resin. “It is the magic of flesh and blood. Healing is its most common expression, but it also grants strength, speed, or endurance by borrowing the essence of beasts. The grander arts, taking the form of an animal or calling upon its powers fully, are far beyond you for now. As for spells that calm, command, or bond with living creatures, those draw on both Animalism and Spiritism. What we begin today is only the first step.”

  The first lessons took place inside Hrafun’s tent, lit only by the glow of a small firepit. The air was heavy with the scent of dried herbs that hung in bundles from the roof poles. Hrafun sat across from Kharg with a clay bowl between them. “All life has power,” the old shaman said, placing a curved knife in Kharg’s hand. “Blood is the vessel through which that power flows. You must learn to feel it.”

  Kharg hesitated only briefly before drawing the blade across his lower arm. A few drops of blood fell into the bowl. “Close your eyes,” Hrafun instructed, “and reach out to it. Do not think of spells or weaves. Simply feel. The power is there, if you will only listen to it.”

  The task proved more difficult than Kharg expected. He sat for long stretches in silence, straining to sense something more than the sound of his own breath. Yet each day he returned, repeating the ritual, letting the blood drip slowly into the bowl, focusing on its presence as Hrafun quietly watched.

  A few days later, Hrafun handed him a curved iron dagger, its edge duller than the ritual blade. “Bone carving,” he said, setting a piece of antler in front of Kharg, “is one of the finest ways to shape a totem. But it takes practice. You will work the horn and bone until your hands know the weight of the blade. Only then will you carve something worthy of a spirit. Practice this when you are not busy with other learning.”

  The work was awkward and clumsy, leaving Kharg with shallow cuts on his fingers as he struggled to guide the blade, yet it became part of his daily routine alongside meditation.

  When a fortnight had passed, Hrafun brought in two snow hares caught by the hunters. They were calm under his touch, as if lulled by an unseen bond. “The power of animals flows the same way,” he explained. “Learn to sense their strength, their vitality. The healer who cannot feel the life he works with will never master this art.”

  The tent’s air was thick with the scent of pine resin and dried herbs when a young warrior pushed aside the flap. His breath came fast, and his cheeks were raw from the wind. “Hrafun,” he said, voice taut, “the hunters have returned. There are wounded.”

  Hrafun rose at once, the carved staff in his hand seeming an extension of himself. “Come,” he said to Kharg, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

  Outside, the camp stirred with grim energy. A small group of warriors was just returning across the trampled grass, their furs darkened with blood. Two leaned on makeshift crutches, while another had his arm bound in a crude sling. Behind them trudged the others, faces hard, spears and bows still in hand.

  The leader of the group, a broad-shouldered man with a split lip and an arrow shaft protruding from the rim of his shield, stepped forward to meet Hrafun. “We were tracking a herd of elk,” he said, voice rough from exertion. “They had just crossed a hollow when the Lynx tribe rose from behind the rise. They loosed arrows before we saw them.” His mouth tightened. “We charged, drove them back. No one fell, neither ours nor theirs, but we took wounds before they broke away.”

  Hrafun’s eyes moved over the group, calm but intent. “The Lynx grow bolder,” he said softly. “Did they take any of the elks?”

  The warrior gave a short nod. “A few. We took one down ourselves, but most of the herd scattered. They knew the ground too well.”

  “Bring the injured to my tent,” Hrafun said. “We will see to them now.”

  As they guided the wounded inside, Kharg followed, heart thudding with a mix of dread and curiosity. This was no lesson set in the safety of a firelit tent. The smell of sweat, blood, and snow-wet fur clung to the air as the men settled onto the furs, stoic but pale. Hrafun crouched beside the first of them, loosening a rough bandage to inspect the gash beneath.

  “Watch closely,” he told Kharg without looking up. “What you learn here matters more than a dozen bowls of blood in ritual.”

  Kharg nodded silently, kneeling beside him as Hrafun began to clean and dress the wound, his hands steady and deliberate. This was the first time Kharg truly felt the weight of what these lessons meant, not just power but also the responsibility to return life and strength to those who risked both daily. As the worst of the wounds were bound and the warriors finally rested, Kharg found his mind lingering on every motion of Hrafun’s hands. The lesson stayed with him long after the night had quieted.

  * * *

  It was slow, painstaking work. But as the days passed, Kharg began to feel something subtle, a pulse and a quiet hum that seemed to linger in the bowl, different for his own blood and for that of the hares. It was faint, yet undeniable.

  Only then did Hrafun take the next step. They started visiting the sick and wounded in their tents. Hrafun taught Kharg the rudiments of diagnosis, how to read a fever in the pallor of the skin or the sluggishness of a pulse, how to recognize infection by smell or discoloration, and how to feel for swelling in a broken limb. Kharg quickly realized that this training was unlike anything he had studied before. It was intimate, grounded, and visceral, far removed from the abstraction of runes and weaves.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Magic can heal,” Hrafun told him as they cleaned a hunter’s deep gash, “but unless you know what the wound is, you will not know how to help. A poorly chosen spell can drain a man’s strength instead of restoring it. A shaman must understand the body before he tries to mend it.”

  When he began to grasp the basics, Hrafun introduced him to herbal medicine and alchemy as natural complements to magic. They roamed the tundra together, searching wind-swept hollows and sunlit ridges for herbs. They gathered red-veined moss to clean wounds, bitterroot to dull pain, frost-leaf to reduce swelling, edram to help bones mend, kelventari to soothe frostburn, and thyme to fight infection. Hrafun taught him to recognize each plant by sight, texture, and smell, stressing that a shaman must know the land’s gifts as well as its spirits.

  Inside the tent, Hrafun demonstrated how to prepare the gathered materials. Kharg learned to grind dried moss into powder using a stone mortar, to steep roots in simmering water until their essence was drawn out, and to mix them with rendered fat or melted beeswax to form salves. “Medicine is patient work,” Hrafun said, stirring a clay pot over a low flame. “It rewards those who know when to wait and when to act.”

  As their lessons progressed, Hrafun brought out small pouches and jars filled with strange reagents, including crystals of ground mineral salts, powdered bones, dried owl eyes, and vials of wolf’s blood taken during the great hunts. “These are the tools of alchemy,” he explained. “It is a whole discipline of its own. Some shamans neglect it, thinking it too laborious. But a wise shaman knows that alchemy and shamanism together are stronger than either alone.”

  Their first lessons focused on simple healing brews. They prepared decoctions to lower fever, salves that helped flesh mend more quickly, and tonics to restore a weakened hunter’s strength. “We will leave the rest for later,” Hrafun said as Kharg carefully ground frost-leaf and bitterroot into a fine paste. “There are potions to sharpen the senses, strengthen the body, or protect against cold and fire. Some can even allow a man to see in darkness or move without tiring. But these require more skill, and more trust from the spirits.”

  Kharg found the work both tedious and fascinating. Hours vanished as he ground herbs and minerals into powder, watching their colors change as they mixed with oils or water, their scents rising with the heat. The work followed a quiet pattern. Gather the herbs, prepare them, infuse their essence. He soon realized it was as meditative as it was practical.

  “Alchemy,” Hrafun said one evening, as he poured a dark green mixture into a clay vial, “teaches patience, precision, and humility. A potion cannot be rushed. If you can master that lesson, you will already be a better shaman.”

  By midsummer, something else surprised him. The grime, the sweat, and the constant dust and smoke that had bothered him in the early weeks now barely registered. Where once he had fussed over staying clean or fresh, he no longer gave it thought. The spearmint leaves he used to chew each morning were long gone, but he hardly noticed their absence. Somehow, without meaning to, he had grown used to the harshness of life here, and it no longer felt like hardship.

  The training days became relentless. Mornings began with meditation and healing exercises under Hrafun’s watchful gaze. By midday, Kharg drilled with quarterstaff and spear among the warriors, enduring bruises and aching muscles. The afternoons were devoted to carving practice. The work was painstaking, and Kharg’s hands soon bore the proof, with cuts, blisters, and aching fingers, but he persevered without complaint.

  The evenings, after their frugal meal of roasted meat and tubers, were reserved for alchemy or foraging expeditions. They walked the tundra under pale skies or beneath the flicker of the northern lights, gathering herbs whose names Kharg repeated to commit to memory. Hrafun quizzed him constantly, testing his recall of each plant’s properties and uses until the knowledge became second nature.

  Summer waned, and the days grew shorter. One evening, as the half-moon climbed into the sky, Hrafun finally deemed him ready to attempt his first true healing totem. They selected a piece of elk-horn polished smooth, from which Kharg carved a plaque small enough to fit in his palm. Hrafun drew three simple runes on its surface with charcoal, explaining their meanings. “These are the runes of mending, vitality, and blood. They are enough for now, we will keep your first healing totem simple.”

  Kharg carved the runes himself, the iron dagger awkward but steady in his hands. His first attempt ended in a fractured plaque. The second was better, but the lines were clumsy and uneven. Only on his third try did he produce a plaque Hrafun accepted with a curt nod of approval.

  That night, under the pale half-moon, they built a small fire in the clearing near a circle of standing stones close to the camp. The plaque was laid upon a flat rock beside the flames. “Now you will give it life,” Hrafun said quietly. He stepped back, leaving Kharg alone before the totem.

  Kharg took a deep breath, drew the dagger across his lower arm, and let his blood fall upon the plaque. The runes darkened as the drops spread into the grooves. Remembering Hrafun’s lessons, he began to chant, his voice unsteady at first but growing steadier with each word. The sound was low and resonant, carrying through the still night air.

  “Focus on your intent,” Hrafun murmured from behind him. “Not just to heal, but to commune with the spirits to give strength in the healing. Picture the life flowing back into those you will aid.”

  Kharg closed his eyes and poured a thread of his life-force into the plaque. The sensation was unlike drawing upon mana, as this was deeper, more finite, a piece of himself flowing outward. A shiver ran through him as the blood upon the plaque seemed to sink into the carved runes, and a subtle thrum resonated through the horn.

  When the final word of the chant faded, Kharg opened his eyes. The plaque felt heavier, charged with a quiet power that had not been there before.

  Hrafun stepped forward, examined the totem in the firelight, and gave a single approving nod. “It will serve,” he said simply, handing it back to Kharg. “This is a modest totem, but it is yours. Learn to use it well, and it will teach you more than I ever could.”

  The following days were devoted to learning how to use the totem, with Hrafun guiding every step. They began with the simplest of tasks, easing pain. Hrafun nicked his own palm with a small cut and held it out. “Feel the life beneath your hand,” he instructed. “Use the totem to soothe, not to mend. Relief comes first.”

  Kharg knelt beside him, holding the plaque firmly in both hands. Closing his eyes, he reached for the totem’s subtle pulse and pushed a thread of life-force through it, shaping his intent toward comfort rather than repair through the invocation Hrafun had taught him. The first attempt drained him more than expected, leaving him light-headed, yet Hrafun flexed his hand and nodded. “Better. The sting has gone. That is the first lesson, to ease suffering before all else.”

  Only when Kharg could repeatedly dull pain without exhausting himself did Hrafun move him to the next stage. This time, Hrafun took the curved dagger and drew a shallow slice across Kharg’s own forearm. “Now, staunch the bleeding,” he instructed. “Command the blood to hold fast, to heed your will. A healer who cannot stem the flow of life cannot save it.”

  The work was painstaking. Kharg felt the pulse of the totem thrum as he called to the spirits, willing the blood to slow and stop. Several times he failed, the crimson still welling despite his effort. But on the fourth attempt, the bleeding ceased. He looked down at his arm in quiet astonishment, the clean wound no longer weeping blood, as Hrafun gave a small approving nod.

  Only after mastering this did Hrafun allow him to attempt the final step, mending flesh. A boy with a small cut across his knuckle became the next patient. Kharg steadied himself, summoned the totem’s power, and willed the wound to knit closed. The result was imperfect, leaving a faint line, but the skin sealed, and no blood flowed.

  Day by day, Kharg practiced these steps, easing pain, staunching bleeding, and finally closing minor wounds. Each use of the totem left him slightly weaker, the cost of life-force unmistakable, yet he grew more confident with every attempt. As the work became familiar, he began to sense the subtle harmony between his will, the totem, and the spirits that answered his call.

  One evening, after successfully healing a shallow cut on his own palm, Kharg turned the plaque of elk-horn over in his hands, feeling the faint thrum within. It no longer felt like a lifeless object. It was a partner of sorts, responsive to his intent and ready to aid him so long as he treated it with the respect it deserved.

  Hrafun watched in silence before finally nodding. “Good. Healing begins with understanding, not power,” he said. “You know enough now to mend minor hurts and ease suffering. That is all the healing you need for the time being. It is time to turn to another path, Spiritism.”

  As the autumn snows began to fall, the tribe packed their tents and set off to hunt the caribou that would sustain them through the winter. Yet even during the long trek across the tundra, Hrafun allowed Kharg no respite from his studies. They walked a little apart from the rest of the hunters, their breath misting in the cold air, while the old shaman began to speak of Spiritism.

  “It is the art of reaching beyond flesh and bone,” Hrafun explained. “Through Spiritism, a shaman communes with the true spirits—the ones that walk unseen, not bound to living bodies. All around us are spirits, though most men never know how to look for them. Some are ancient, so old that even we do not remember where they came from. It was with them that the first compacts were made, the pacts that protect us still. There are the spirits of our ancestors, though most travel to Valhalla or Helheim when their time ends. But some linger, as do those cursed to undeath, twisted shadows of what they once were. And then there are the elemental spirits—some of whom can take form in the physical world, though the art of summoning them has long been lost.”

  Hrafun told him that their studies would now focus on two essential practices, Spirit Travel and Spirit Warding. The first would teach Kharg to peer into the unseen world, the Dreamworld, and perceive the spirits around them. In time, he would learn to find the spirits of those he knew, to know where they walked in the waking world, and eventually to send his own spirit into the realm of dreams.

  The second practice, Spirit Warding, would prepare him for the dangers that came with such journeys. “A shaman must protect his spirit as he would his body,” Hrafun said. “There are wards that turn spirits aside, compacts that shield the mind from intrusion, and charms to guard against the life-draining touch of the undead. These, too, you will learn, for no shaman should walk unguarded in the world beyond sight.”