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Short Story Contest - Summer 2022
Voting Thread
We invite you to read the entries to the Summer 2022 Short Story Competition, provided below. There are many good stories, but you may only vote for one in the poll above, which will close July 31st automatically. Participation is already a win, and links to the originals for RPXP purposes have been provided in the Discussion Thread!
I leapt away in momentary fright
But no face I saw, for the shadow was my own
Karl Edward Wagner – Death Angel's Shadow
Historical Note: Adalbert was a French mystic who pretended to the priesthood without the blessings of the Vatican. Adalbert claimed to be able to see the future and read people's thoughts, telling those who came to him that they had no need to confess, since he knew what they had done, and that their sins were forgiven. His "miracles" gained him the admiration of the people and he began to give away parings from his nails and locks of his hair as powerful amulets. He was later charged with, and ultimately convicted of using the names of the “seven arch-angels" during his performances of ceremonial magic. Among others, that of URIEL, with the help of whom he had succeeded in producing his greatest phenomena. In the year 745, Adalbert was convicted of blasphemy and sentenced to be perpetually imprisoned in the monastery of Fulda, only a year after it was founded in the lowlands of Hesse. Adalbert died there a short time later, the manner of his death was purposely excluded from all historical records.
Summary: Michel, a young acolyte struggling with his lessons at the monastery, was assigned to bring Adalbert his meals. On his first such visit, Adalbert had piqued Michel's curiosity and imagination by hinting at the spiritual powers behind his conviction.
That evening, he wolfed down his mutton stew with fervor and rushed back to the kitchen to retrieve Adalbert's tray. His load was even heavier this time, as he set the tray in front of Adalbert. "I brought you some bricks from the ovens to heat your bedding."
Adalbert smiled gratefully and began arranging them. "Stew, is it? Mutton?"
Michel nodded curtly, and waited with a touch of impatience for Adalbert to position himself in front of the tray.
"You wish to ask something of me?" Adalbert didn't look up from his stew.
"Yes. How is it that angels answered your call and did your bidding?"
Adalbert took another bite of stew as he considered his answer. "The charming version of the answer to that is that I was blessed at birth by the arch-angel Gabriel with mystic powers and was later brought relics of great sanctity from across the earth by another."
"The charming version?"
"What I used to tell everyone who asked that question before the inquisitors broke me."
"And the truth?" Michel raised an eyebrow expectantly.
"Is very similar to the church's accusations. I studied some demonology in my earlier days, enough to compose my mystic prayers and a properly aligned circle of protection. You see lad, the demons and angels were one and the same before Lucifer's fall. They are still close enough to the same."
"Close enough for what?"
"To invoke their presence, to compel their obedience using carefully corrupted prayers of exorcism, to protect yourself against their wrath using the mystic circle; all based on the usage of their true names."
"But why would you do such a thing?" Michel felt a chill in his spine, but also a sense of exhilaration.
"The power, my boy! Such power. You see, God warns against the trafficking in unclean spirits, but says nothing of angels. Apparently this was too small of a technicality for the church to accept. They wanted my blood for my self-proclaimed sainthood: nothing more." Adalbert tossed the spoon onto the tray bitterly to punctuate the end of his rant, and then glanced up at Michel as if a new idea had come to mind. "All of my notes are in a leathern satchel with some other personal effects. I don't know why the papal guards failed to seize them, but they made the journey with me here. If you were somehow able to determine where they were kept and bring them to me…"
"Then I would be betraying my order for someone I just met." Michel finished the man's statement for him. "I'll see you for breakfast tomorrow."
As he descended the spiral stairwell, Michel's mind was racing. If the papacy hadn't realized what was in the satchel, chances were that the priests of his order had not, as well. The tower he was navigating right now was normally used for storage, not keeping prisoners. On a whim, he set the tray down at the next door and tried the key. It swung open and he raised his tallow candle high. The dim globe of light showed him a few barrels, a neatly stacked pile of grain sacks, and a worn leathern satchel haphazardly tossed into the corner. Michel rifled through it quickly and retrieved a thick roll of parchment.
A week had passed now, and Michel had been studying Adalbert's notes with every spare moment of his time. That they were in Latin made the task more difficult for him, but he had managed to choose a specific being for summoning and picked out ten pages to focus on that contained the name Uriel.
After leaving Adalbert's supper one night, Michel stopped by the empty storeroom again. He emptied the contents of a sack he'd brought and lit five more candles from the one he'd already been holding. He then drew a broad circle on the floor using a piece of chalk and began inscribing symbols at the five points of the pentacle star he'd drawn within. He filled a tiny brazier with coal, got it burning with a small quantity of pitch, and then threw some incense on it. Michel moved to the center of the star and began reciting Adalbert's mystic prayer, invoking the name of Uriel, an arch-angel renowned as protectorate of nature.
Mid-way through the prayer, the flames in the brazier began changing hues as each of the different incenses burst alight. As the prayer reached a crescendo in its carefully guided rhythms, the flames turned suddenly dark and gave a loud pop. Standing in front of the brazier now, was a most impressive looking man. From the expression on his face he appeared quite displeased, then a little surprised when his gaze took in Michel and the rest of the room.
"For what purpose have you summoned me, youngling?" Uriel inquired in a resonant baritone.
"I… I…" Michel stuttered, not really knowing how to answer the question. To see if I could he thought to himself, but didn't want to say as much.
"Is there some service you wish me to send my legions of seraphim to perform for you?"
Michel berated himself inwardly for not having thought this part through. "A sack of gold and a fast horse awaiting me in the stables would be a good start," he began as if thinking out loud. Perhaps he could begin a new life with no master but himself, no lessons in mathematics, and all the fresh air he could draw into his lungs.
"So greed, then, is your motivation." The look on Uriel's face was heartily disapproving. "I will not help you in this," he answered flatly.
Michel fumbled with a second scroll, the one with the corrupted prayers of exorcism that was supposed to cause torment to the summoned being when its true name was incorporated into the reading.
"Read not the scroll of compulsion!" Uriel's voice boomed in the small chamber. "You have yet to incite my wrath, youngling. Do not overstep yourself further."
Michel's hand was shaking so badly that he had difficulty making out the Latin phrasing, anyway. Slowly, resignedly, he lowered the parchment back to his side.
"The first speck of wisdom you've displayed this night." A ghost of a smile touched Uriel's lips as he relaxed his stance. He had been ready to spring upon the impudent whelp and punish him severely at his first utterance from the scroll. The foolish boy had placed himself inside the circle of imprisonment instead of the brazier. Not that the hastily scrawled circle would have held Uriel with all of its flaws of inscription. The boy's skill in Latin truly was wanting.
Abruptly, Uriel threw back his head, staring at a point in the ceiling. "I sense an old nemesis. There is a debt unpaid that will be settled this night." With that, the arch-angel launched himself into a great leap that carried him through the ceiling as if it were nothing more than illusion.
Finding himself alone once more, Michel tossed the parchments into the brazier with hands shaking so badly they would barely obey. As he fled the storeroom, the warm wetness where he had soiled his robes in fear began to chill his skin further.
The next morning found him at Adalbert's door with another meal tray. As he set it down on the landing to enable the working of the key, he smelled the warm, metallic scent of blood wafting from beneath the door. A sense of foreboding dawned upon him as he recalled Uriel's final words the previous night. He steeled himself for what he would find beyond the massive door and then pushed it forcefully open.
Michel dropped to his knees as they buckled beneath him. He didn't even notice the pain as they impacted the stone flooring, for he was already retching loudly. He'd heard the expression "drawn and quartered," but had never thought to witness such a scene.
The door cracked open, a pair of cautious eyes peering inside. In the room’s center, a large water reptile was floating, its slimy scales shimmering with candlelight. Close by, the wizard stood unmoved and proud, his gaze fixed on the beast.
‘Enter!’, came the command, and Garm stepped in, hesitating. ‘Clo-ser...’, followed, on a tone of sweetened malice. The goblin dared a few more steps. Then, suddenly, the large jaws opened, and the crocodile jerked towards the door. The wretchling panicked and fell...
‘Hah-hahahaha!’ cascaded over his head. ‘It is in my power, completely!’ boasted Halagren. Then, turning towards an imaginary opponent, he gloated: ‘Albur, old fool, you found the pattern, but were afraid to use it at its true potential! You made a deal instead for a few crumbles of what could have been all yours...’
The goblin managed to get up, and stood in waiting, still shaking.
‘Is everything ready?’ the wizard said, harshly, descending from his moment of triumph.
‘Yes, Master,’ came the meek answer. ‘They are all sound asleep, surrounded by our bow-hands.’
‘Good...’ said Halagren with a self-satisfied smirk. Then, piercing the reptile with his eyes, he plunged it into slumber. ‘The dragon, I will take care of.’
Outside the window, oblivious stars blinked over an unsuspecting valley. For miles around Mount Everdome, nature and villages lay tired and content in the perfumed coolness night brought. That extra month of summer kept spirits high and helped fill the barns and pantries. All thanks to Albur, the wise man, and his gnome friends. It was them who taught the bringer of cold, the frost dragon, that milk comes from cows, and tastes just as good. And it was Albur who revealed to the young sky lady the secret of ice cream, showing her she can make it herself, with help. A little ice cream, to be satisfied, were previously life had to fall before the wintry appetite.
Since their agreement, they met each year for a month, in a spacious mountain cavern, and labored on the culinary treat. The wizard told stories, the dragon listened enchanted. Her even, peaceful breath blew over the milk pots the gnomes gathered, while they kept stirring. Now and then, there was something to throw in for flavor, as tiny sprites wondered inside the cave carrying fruits and flowers.
A month’s worth of ice cream in storage, Eydiss would spend the next half of a year in gentle flights over the land, laying or raising blankets of cold with a soft-most touch. She would return to the cave, each time, to enjoy a new gem of her treasure and the story fragments her memory and the ice cream surprised her with.
But that morning she didn’t awake. No one in the cave did.
The rock chamber was sunk in a gloom of unnatural sleep. A mass of goblins swarmed about, carrying arrows struck bodies out, and more milk pots in. In their midst, darker than darkness, Halagren stood majestic and ominous, his gaze anchored onto the dragon’s body. It was his ice cream now, his summer – and everyone else will pay for their share!
Barely noticeable, a light shook and a hum took over the cave. Minions scattered... Soon after, eyes appearing from hideouts. Garm stepped out first to affirm his status, then rushed behind his master’s cape. Halagren sneered. It was only that she snored.
~ Done playing catch, Eydiss jumped happily from the cows dream to a knights’ tournament. A feast of colors, of shouts and neighs swirled around her, so vividly. People waved at her from the crowd, among the many ribbons the wind fluttered. A handkerchief stood out, let fall by a graceful, lace-adorned hand. She advanced towards it. A knock. She turned. A knight had crossed his lance with ...hers. She was a knight too! The way cleared, her would be opponent at a far end. The horses started to run. A mass of metal and determination, the other knight drew nearer, nearer. Then her horse took off. And in an instant she was high above the multitude, the castle walls, the country… ~
The wizard’s magic coursed unimpededly along her body’s channels. It was as he predicted. A dragon… It was only a giant lizard, and magic flew through her as through a gecko. And to think of all the warnings and doom sayings. ‘Ha!’ scoffed Halagren under his breath. Ramblings of cowards and weaklings. He knew the truth. And there was proof.
~ The dragon girl was gliding now above heavenly waters. Cloud wisps and tows rolled underneath her, ever entwining with threads of her shadow. There was warmth - pale, harmless - and light all around. The sun she could guess somewhere above. She flew, or she was carried rather by a soft breeze of a feeling - of origins, of belonging. Ahead, far in the distance, a point felt like home. And she knew there a nest, and parents. Would she see them again?
More dragons broke out of the clouds pattern, and spiraled forth and around her. They seemed familiar and yet strange. The cold scales wheezed and drew on the sky artful arcs, bright, blue, her own shape twisting and sliding among them... Soon, she lost track of everything outside their play. Unnoticed, clouds and rays begun to change form... ~
The wizard's eyes grew with surprise, and ill joy lit his face: The dragon's energy had joined his. It moved with his will, and echoed deep in the well of unbridled magic within him. 'Yes... Yes!' It was like he had always felt - he was capable of that power! 'It was... destiny!'
Swollen with pride and the promise of great wealth before him, Halagren followed the energy pattern with renewed pleasure. The streams ran along the well known reptile paths, stronger or paler, twisting or flickering, as if playing… ‘What? Flickering?!’ Halagren focused harder.
~ Of sky foam and sun honey, a citadel’s shapes had slowly grown under her spread wings. And Eydiss saw the other dragons descend and diminish, and change… They looked now like some gnomes she knew, running in front of her. They turned their faces at times, but she could not see features. They called, but all she heard was a tinkling of silver bells. Yet she thought they meant: ‘Hurry up! Follow us! This way!’ She was running too, now, as with little gnome legs. A sharp turn – the wide street left for a narrow alley… ~
‘No!’ What is this… ‘Not that way!’ He tensed. And with his will’s effort, magic again went where it was supposed to.
~ A wall… Where did they go? Eydiss stopped and looked back. She heard a voice calling her from the street: ‘Back! This way!’ But it was not a tinkling… and she had this sensation that something was looking for her back there... Now a bell sound! She ran that way. A door opened. A corridor, stairs, then another door. The gnomes were in a courtyard where alleys crossed. A man was with them. An old man that she recognized: ‘Albur!’ He smiled, as if saying: ‘You’re safe.’ But he spoke not. Yet as if reading his mind Eydiss saw, from a distance, doubles of them all running somewhere behind, on main streets. ~
It all seemed under his control, now. But doubt plagued the wizard’s mind. He felt like the life streams tried to escape him, and spent more effort to keep them in line. Then... they again flickered and still managed to run in a way he could not predict.
The great beast moved. The dark critters froze. ‘Master?’ tried Garm. But there came no answer. The wizard’s brows had lowered and his desire now lit a face which began to contort.
‘No!’
~ The old man led them around a few corners, up to a tall house with many windows. A knock of his staff, and the wall turned like a book page. A forest now opened ahead. ‘Stay close!’ a thought came. And they continued into the darkness, Albur ahead as their light. Behind them, the citadel’s sky darkened also, as if with thousands of hungry birds... ~
The old sayings came out of memory to pester him. Halagren just shook them off and drove on. So what if the pattern was changing. He’ll follow it and still be in command. Yet he felt… he began to feel like the effort was pulling at his being, straining his life force. His fists clenched.
His vision began to cloud. The beast’s scales now reflected a light far greater than the few lit torches could bestow. ‘Snuff… them… out...’ came through his teeth, and he closed his eyes. ‘He does not need them. It was a matter or mental control, anyway.’
‘You… will do… as I say!’
~ From the branches above, suddenly, a net of wings and beaks descended upon them. ‘Spread! Now!’ rang the silent cry and they all jumped in some direction. She followed one of the gnomes, then took a left when he went right. She ran. ~
The life streams, they went all over the place… Halagren followed one, jumped to another. They didn’t listen! They split and forked, so, so many of them, into patterns so complicated that he could no longer perceive fully…
The wizard felt as if the cave’s floor ran from under his feet. He was exhausted, almost. And the dragon turned and groaned more in her sleep.
The goblins began to snick towards the exit, carrying a few pots of ice cream among them.
He heard that – his dream of wealth’s last breath.
Despair washed over him, but a deep rooted hate raged up and quickly chased it away. He felt it filling his brain with renewed strength. His fingernails pierced his palms. ‘One last time!’
~ The wood-ways grew narrower and more entangled. Light bruises shot hurt in her small body, and every four or five steps she now stumbled. ‘Go on! Go on!’ tiny tinkling sounds echoed towards her from afar, and ahead she could guess a guiding glimmer. She somehow knew that all others were safe, but her… Something black, something menacing seemed to have caught her trace and was getting closer, ever closer. She jumped over that root raised to trip her. But pressure of some sort lay upon her, making her land much quicker and almost throwing her to the ground.
Just then, a firm hand caught her arm and pulled her forcefully forward. In her legs she felt strength arise and a gentle wind of a whisper gave her a few yards’ push: ‘Go on!’
Something from inside her had caught on that call’s intent. She felt it, and felt as if starting to grow and change as she went ahead. And the wood walls bowed and made way for her.
A shriek sounded behind, or a howl. She was too far now, anyhow, for it to matter. And too large. But what she started to catch glimpses of, through the trees, was her match. And was waiting for her...
The way cleared more and more, towards the scenery of a great mountain face. A few more thumps, and the flap of wings raised her into the air. Might gathered in her claws, and – some willing, some pushed by that energy from inside – she threw herself towards the danger looming right in front.
But as she drew close at great speed, she saw what it was – a cave entrance. And at its bottom, barely perceptible now in the light of the place, she noticed Albur and the gnomes. They smiled, she felt, as a warmth growing into her heart. And then… they vanished…
She continued inside. Her dark vision switched on.
A great dragon’s body lay sleeping across from a short black stalagmite, as it seemed. But the dragon – the dragon was her! ~
Eydiss awoke. And she was hungry. She looked around. The stalagmite had fallen and was trembling. Her eyes looked past that, but she could not see the gnomes or the wizard. There was spilled milk and a strange stain covered many of the ice cream pots. A sudden feeling told her that something very wrong happened... Movement. She turned abruptly.
The black rock was trying to crawl towards the exit. One step, and she caught it under her claw. In that moment, she recognized the dream feeling, which echoed of all the evil deeds she could but guess. She roared. Halagren turned to lolly. One flip of her wrist.
‘Yeah… she knew it would taste bad.’
Gone the bitterness, she felt empty. It was a while until she even looked at the cream pots. Sadness haunted her hearts’ outskirts, and she knew not why. Nor would she willingly guess… In the end, she did approach them, and – at a touch – understood.
At first she felt like bursting, Everdome turned into a volcano of hail and snow – nature’s wrath! But she remembered the wizard, the kindness he taught her treat mankind with…
So she just mourned, crouched at the feet of her good memories – her big eyes lost in the cave’s emptiness. Days passed. Weeks perhaps.
When ready, she flew out, drank a cloud’s worth of rain and sealed the cave and the past in thick ice.
Weather changed, as it was due to happen. Yet the cold season remained forever as mild as in the times of Albur and his friends. She made sure it was so.
The luchador billing herself as the Violet Beekeeper pulled off her veil and shed her costume in the privacy of her dressing room, which was nothing more than a corner of the pine-walled gymnasium cordoned off with reed curtains. She pulled on a shirt and overalls, thinking more about seeing her baby at home than her recent victory.
All Robbie Pringle knew of honeybees was from the yellowing New Encyclopedia Americana (Volume Hi to Kn) she had found in her parents' barn years ago, which had occupied her pack ever since. The description of queens and waggle-dancing and precisely engineered wax combs had seemed fantastic and romantic, and she still loved to re-read the entry.
She walked out onto the deck of the Ozarks Lucha Libre League gymnasium. The summer aroma of pine and cow manure was a relief after the mustiness inside, although she instantly began to sweat in the still heat. The deck afforded a commanding view of the mountainous landscape surrounding the only village she had ever known, an oval of thatch-roofed wood lodges on a small plateau. Beyond the buildings, sere bluestem pasture stretched across the hills, dotted with cows grazing amidst stunted shortleaf pines. It was comfortingly familiar to Robbie, but she could not help wishing she could see the land as it was in the old stories. Long before she was born, before The Collapse, they said the pines of present-day Weedmine grew thick as water reeds and taller than a person's house, such as could now be found only in scattered hollows. According to songs some old timers still sang, living was both easy and high in the summertime, when people enjoyed hot fun. But in Robbie's experience, summer was a mostly brown and oppressive period to be endured, after the greens and yellows of springtime had passed.
The old days had also been the time of bees. But their disappearance had presaged The Collapse, and the colorful flowers and sweet fruits of legend were soon to follow. She sighed as she tried to bring the flowers of her picture books to life in her mind, visited by industrious bees.
"Rise and shine." Robbie turned and smiled. Her eyes swept the frame of the man beside her, shorter and slighter than hers. Eustace Marsh, the brilliant apothecary, depended on his wits in the luchador ring, as well as his often ill-fated concoctions. "It's like, I have to devise a utility belt. Shoulder pouches were a bad idea for impact-sensitive stun pellets." He tenderly swept a lock of black hair from her forehead, then the two joined hands and descended the steps to the track below.
As they walked, Robbie said quietly, "I had another of those dreams."
"What, like, the frog man?" Eustace's voice was tinged with amusement.
"Frog-headed god, yes." Her serious tone held a warning.
The wild-haired man fell silent as the two passed Bo Moseby's Trading Post and Dancing Bear Show, where old-timers were rocking in chairs on the front lawn and singing along with Bo's tinny old squeezebox. Just beyond the Post, an artery split off the village loop to wind its way down to the iron mines and the rest of the world. But the pair continued around the oval toward the next spur that would lead up to the Pringle longhouse. When Eustace responded, it was with carefully composed interest. "Like, this frog god was…training you in wrestling moves again?"
Robbie looked sharply at his face, scanning for any trace of irony. But all she saw were the sincere blue eyes of a man who Knew What Was Good for Him. Relenting, she continued, "I remember them when I wake. It's a big reason why I won the tournament."
Eustace glanced at her sidelong. "So…an actual god showed you how to grab a much larger man by his…by pinches of skin, raise him above your head, and throw him into a turnbuckle?"
Robbie replied matter-of-factly, "The Hovering Stinger, yes." They passed the last cottage before her turnoff, a child's face in its window quickly disappearing. Beside the junction where Robbie's spur began its climb, a wooden statue of a woman with a cow's head towered above the grass. While Eustace stood impatiently, she opened an outer pouch on her pack. Extracting a handful of pine nuts and dry hay, she set her offering in a stone bowl at the statue's base and started it burning with a small flint kit. "Thanks for this day, blessings for tomorrow." It was a simple prayer for a simple people. In the last century, life in small human villages like Weedmine was pretty much the same one year to the next, with few people aspiring to anything outside their birthplace. The notable exception being the luchadors.
Her respects paid, Robbie took her husband's hand again and started up the spur. Unheeded in the road a dozen yards back, a figure watched this ritual and smiled to itself within its brown hood, chewing thoughtfully.
The late morning sun had finally risen above the mountains, and Eustace had long since descended to his shop in the valley. The smell of toasted pine-nuts and cheese wafted out the window of the longhouse, where Robbie's parents and grandparents were still tidying up after breakfast and looking after her Bowen. The cowshed was only about twenty yards from the house, its wide front door swung outward into the yard. Robbie hurried across the reddish earth and into the shade of the barn. A cheerful lowing greeted her immediately. She cooed sweetly, "Good morning, Ice Cream!"
The riding cows of Weedmine were leaner and smarter than their counterparts in other places, serving as companions to the villagers as well as mounts and sources of milk. The female in the first stall was striking in being pure creamy white all over. A fat pink tongue licked Robbie's face, who laughed before leaning away. "Let's get you to pasture."
But just then a shadow stirred in the corner of the shed. "Robetta Pringle?" The voice was dry and creaky. Her heart pounding, Robbie's head shot around, her features furious. There were rapid footfalls and a loud thump.
"Aha-a-a-a, one point to the Violet Beekeeper." This oddly bleating declaration was followed by a coughing fit. From her kneeling position atop the stranger, Robbie's eyes grew round. His heavy hood had fallen back, revealing the head of what appeared to be a very old man, but with small horns rising through his white hair, and yellow eyes with slotted pupils that wandered first one way then the next.
Too shocked to think of anything else, she demanded, "What do you want?"
The man cackled and wheezed, then declared, "Aha-a-a-a, I was there, you know. Looked 'em right in the eye and kicked 'em in the giblets." There was a pause, followed by a plaintive, "Can't breathe."
Despite his jarring appearance, the stranger appeared frail enough, and probably was not a threat. Robbie stood, then pulled him to his feet. "Well?'
The goat man took a rasping breath, watching Robbie carefully. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he said as if reciting something long rehearsed, "One hunnerd an' twenny years ago in Kansas, the Swap Brothers led the humans and the old gods against an alien invasion and saved the planet." His eyes regained their focus. "I was there. Kicked 'em square in the giblets."
Robbie covered her mouth, trying to hide her grin at this repetition. "So you said." Anyone growing up in Middle America knew the story of the Rumble for Earth. It was the reason so many kids aspired to be a luchador. The man scowled at the interruption but before he could respond, Robbie blurted, "You were there? That would make you, what, one hundred and thirty at least?" Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Are you a god? Or a liar?"
The man spluttered, "A-h-a-a-a! Not a god! A luchador. I just happened to got good genes. Well, an' then there's my goat pills." The latter admission was mumbled slightly. His rambling gaze locked onto hers once more. "But you met a god, din't you? Ol' Kek's been seein' you in your dreams."
Now Robbie was truly shocked. She fumbled for words for a moment before replying, "Kek? Wait, how do you know about my dreams?" She stepped toward the goat man again, glowering.
But the man held out a hand to forestall her, his eyes rolling back once more as he started to recite, "An' it were foretol' that after one hunnerd an' twenny years of peace, Old Woman would choose a human champion to receive The Gift, on behalf of all her Grandchildren, and Kek the River God would prepare her to win the prize." He trained one eye on Robbie to see if she was paying attention. "That's you. The chosen."
Robbie's gaze drifted toward the longhouse, where her grandparents were busy looking after Bowen. The goat man stamped one foot testily, "A-ha-a-a-a, not them!" His voice dropped into a reverent whisper, "Her!"
More confused than ever, Robbie replied hesitantly, "Her? Me? Um…what prize?"
The stranger moved closer and stared up piercingly into Robbie's eyes, before whispering dramatically, "Bees!"
Robbie had one hand on the head of her cow as she peered at the entrance to the mines. There was a raised wooden walkway here, as the landscape around the mine entrance was boggy. On either side, dragonflies hovered and hunted amidst the reeds.
"Everything looks normal, doesn't it?" Ice Cream lowed supportively. The goat man had explained that during The Collapse, Kek had sequestered a honeybee colony in a secret plane, for when the world was ready for them again. One passage to Kek's plane could be reached via her village's iron mines. But though like all children growing up in Weedmine she had spent many happy days sneaking around the tunnels and caves, she had never seen anything suggesting a magical portal to another plane.
She descended the final twenty yards to the cavern mouth, Ice Cream clopping along beside her. Taking one deep breath, she stepped into the familiar torchlit gloom. Except there was no immediate fork to the left or right as there should have been, and no echo of pickaxes or voices. Merely a single opening straight before her, glowing an eerie blue. She stepped closer to Ice Cream in dismay and placed a hand on the cow's sleek flank. If her bovine friend was spooked by current events, she did not betray it.
Drawing courage from her friend's presence, Robbie proceeded into the passage. Only a few yards forward, the way opened into a large chamber carpeted with ankle-high toadstools radiating pale blue light. A trail wended through the field of fungi, ending at what looked like a solid wall on the opposite side of the chamber. "Weird. Maybe there's a lever or something over there."
She took a few steps into the room, and the mushrooms to either side began to glow brighter, prompting Ice Cream to whine. Robbie looked back over her shoulder. "It's ok! I think it's beautiful." But the cow bucked her head and didn't follow. "Look, I'll show you." As Robbie walked further along the path, more mushrooms flared, and now her senses started to pick up what had been bothering her friend. There was an oscillating tone that she supposed might irritate a cow's more sensitive hearing. But to her it sounded musical and soothing, and she smiled at Ice Cream and tried to wave her on.
In the cow's ears, the noise was actually grating, and in her eyes the toadstools flickered in a way that was not at all pleasant. She didn't back away, as her protective instincts for the human girl were very strong. But panic rose in her breast as Robbie started to sway steeply, and she bugled in alarm when her friend suddenly fell to the path and lay still.
Ice Cream stomped her hooves and lowered her head threateningly. These mushrooms were wrong. But she knew how to make them go away. Shoving her muzzle into the mass of fungi, she began to rip them from the ground with her teeth and chew noisily.
Robbie opened her eyes in flickering half-light. Nearby was a low, repeated groaning and an arhythmic clomping. She sat up painfully from a rocky surface. As her eyes regained focus they met a distressing sight. The cavern where she had passed out was now barren except for scant mushroom stubble illuminated in a new glow coming from the exit archway, but stumbling around the room was her cow, frothing blue at the mouth and with bleary pink eyes. "Ice Cream! What have you done?" She stood and rushed to her friend's side. The cow burped. A memory returned of a field of blue mushrooms and a sensation of growing fogginess in her brain. Realization dawned. "Oh, no!" Ice Cream wobbled and collapsed onto her belly. Tearing up, Robbie knelt and lay her head on the cow's flank.
"She will live, Robetta." The voice was resonant and feminine. Robbie looked up, her pulse quickening. Framed in the archway was a tall figure with the body of a human woman but the head of a shaggy gray cow. Long lashes framed gentle black eyes, and imposing bronze horns spread from her head.
Robbie whispered hoarsely, "Horath?" Struggling to find further words, she shuffled backward several feet on her hands and knees and bowed her head, trembling.
The creature entered the cave and crouched beside the stricken cow. "Ice Cream is severely intoxicated." Robbie looked up and beheld her goddess hold out a handful of pine nuts and hay to her friend, who nibbled feebly at the fodder until it was gone. "This was your offering to me after your victory in the ring. These seeds and fibers have I blessed, so that your friend will recover from the consequences of her own sacrifice."
The wrestler rose to her feet. "Thank you, Gray Lady."
The goddess gestured to the exit archway and said serenely. "Your quest lies through there, but Ice Cream cannot go with you."
The next room was about 20 feet in all dimensions, and lit by torches along the walls. Facing away from her in the center was an iron statue of a muscular four-armed man on a low stone pedestal, clad in a unitard. With her pulse rising, Robbie walked around to the front of the statue at as far a distance as the room would allow. Carved on the front of the pedestal were the words Linus the Golem, and clasped from behind by four thick iron arms was her husband. He was gagged, and his eyes grew wide when she came into view. "Eustace!"
He gave a muffled shout, and Robbie ran forward, only to receive a ringing backhand slap from an iron fist that sent her stumbling backward to fall into a heap. Dazed, Robbie shakily stood. The wall just beside her looked to actually be a stone door, with no visible hinges, knob, or lock. Above the portal were carved the words Oil Linus and as her head cleared, Robbie saw that there was a small alcove beside the portal, in which sat a metal oil can.
Robbie called, "I think if I oil the statue, it will let you go and we can get out of here. If I can avoid getting my teeth knocked out." At that, Eustace tried to yell even harder, but she grabbed the oil can from the alcove and turned to dash back to the golem. But as soon as she touched the can, Eustace screamed. The arms were tightening their grip.
The young luchador crouched slightly as she studied the metal man to try and discover a place where she might squirt some oil. Eustace started to squirm frantically, his face turning purple as he yelled wordlessly. The arms continued to squeeze. Robbie ran around behind the statue and jumped on its back, hooking her left arm around its neck. But the golem paid her no heed as it continued to exert crushing force.
Robbie managed to get her feet between the arm joints on either side and hoist herself up into a standing position. But she could see nothing that looked like a hinge, a seam, or even a hole. As she leaned over the monster's shoulder, Eustace's eyes rolled up toward her and he cried unintelligibly, "Mmz Nnn Lmm! Nnn Lmm!"
Starting to tear up in desperation, Robbie looked down at her husband, and noticed that the rag that bound his mouth was in fact very loosely tied. Dropping the oil can to the floor, she fumbled with the knot with trembling fingers and soon had the rag pulled free. Eustace gasped and gritted his teeth at the pain, then hissed, "Oil Linus! It spells Illusion. It's an illusion, I think. Just…walk through."
Robbie nodded and jumped down then ran to the door. It still looked like a slab of solid stone. Behind her Eustace cried out and began choking. She placed both hands on the door and pushed, and nearly fell forward as they sank right through. Immediately the golem's four arms dropped to its sides. Eustance landed prone, struggling for air.
The door vanished, and Robbie was bathed in amber light from the other side. There was a loud humming, and a voice familiar only from her dreams said, "How about that, looks like you made it! Hurry along, now, I got places to be. Some of them all at once."
Robbie emerged from the mines, Eustace partially slumped on Ice Cream's back by her side. The world had changed. Nodding purple bells and delicate white sprays of blossoms dotted the wetlands on either side of the track. Further up the trail as the bogs gave way to drier uplands, the grasslands were a rainbow riot of colorful umbels, spikes, and star-shaped blooms. As they started up the path, there was a growing drone behind them, and suddenly the swarm burst from the mine entrance, a blizzard of buzzing sulfur and amber bodies blotting out vision on either side as it swept past the trio before dispersing across the landscape. But although the volume of the droning ebbed, it did not fully subside.
Near the top of the path boisterous voices were clear above the buzzing in the grass. Cresting the slope, an even more wondrous sight met their eyes. In the very center of the Weedmine oval, a short, stout tree with gnarled, spreading branches stood, its foliage dotted with small white flowers. Villagers young and old stood with mouths open, or pointed and shouted to each other. Bo Moseby stood at the railing of the Trading Post, calling to anyone he thought hadn't heard yet, "It's an apple tree! Seen them in almanacs. An apple tree!" Bees criss-crossed among the blooms, and in the center of the trunk was a large hollow, with the busy insects steadily flowing in and out.
Ice Cream lowed excitedly and Robbie patted her head with a smile, then reached up to hold her husband's hand. Eustace leaned down and whispered hoarsely, "What did He say to you?"
Robbie studied the apple tree. "Kek?" She adopted a folksy accent. "Bees'll make a hi-larious gimmick in the ring. And remember, kid, there are no forbidden fruits. But I wouldn't eat too much in one sitting." The young lovers mulled over the words of the god amidst the new sounds and smells of summer.
A Ranger’s Summertime Tale [1,516 Words]
Through the forest we creep in a line abreast formation, the early morning mist weaving around us, making us appear as apparitions, naught but the bodiless spirits of our ancestors’ ancestors, who lived in these woods when time was young. All clad in the subdued tell-tale greens and browns of the Far Wood on a late summertime’s day, we move as one. The branches of the trees hang heavily with their load of leaves, baked a dark green color by the late summer’s sun. Our leather armor all be silenced, so not a sound do we Rangers of Wēalas make as stealthily, our prey we hunt. So quiet that even the crickets of the early morn and hum of the other insects seem a scream by comparison.
The birds of the forest, clad in colorful feathers of all shades, look down upon us; they are our unknowing allies, for they do not take flight. So used to us and our presence are they that just a natural part of the forest are we. And so, they continue to sing of the simple things, of the seeds, worms, and other creatures they will eat today and feed their always hungry nestlings, who are of an age they will soon learn to fly or perish, for nature is a harsh mistress, where failure means death. Such it is with us this day, failure would mean death, the death of our loved ones and the death of our culture.
There be a light dew on the ground; the beads catching the first golden rays of dawn. The webs of the spiders catch it too; they shimmer in the colors of the rainbow, like the sparkling gems the Gnomes mine in the mountains far to the west. The temperature starts to fall this high in the hills in these northern climes of late summer. On this particular morn, the forest air is chilly, although the afternoon promised uncomfortable warmth and humidity. Lucky for us our training allows us to pass unheard. A hundred warriors and ten and not a sound is made. Our woodland cloaks and camouflage help us pass unseen, blending in with the shadows and dark greens of the deep woods. The bushes and underbrush seem to open a path for us, and yet ‘tis not near so easy. Each step must we take with care; our precise movement learned from years of practice, passed from parent to child.
Every summer ‘tis like this. The armies of the great kingdoms fight twixt themselves and we of the Far Wood are caught ‘tween hammer and anvil as the saying goes. Thus, defend our lands, our families, and our livelihood we must. This year, campaign started later than most, for the spring was abnormally wet with frequent, heavy rains and the summer abnormally hot. And now, when farmers start their yearly ritual of bringing in the crops, the shearing of sheep, and slaughtering of livestock for the onset of winter, a hungry army finds its way onto the borders of our lands. Intent on harvesting the fruits of violence and rapine.
We reach the edge of the deep forest and sight our prey, still many paces away. ‘Twas naught but wishful thinking that this army would simply pass us by and leave our lands undisturbed. Thousands of them there are and loud, marching and talking as if invulnerable. The dust cloud they raise we saw days ago and knew; this summer would be like others and sting our neighbors we must to deter them from taking what is ours. We ready our yew bows and sight down our long straight arrows, knowing innately where our quarry will be when we loose our steel tipped shafts of certain death. ‘Twas not many minutes before our Captain, Lord Elilidyr, orders fire.
Almost as one we fire our bows and they arc towards our unsuspecting foes. Like a rain of dark fate, our arrows find their targets and the startled men scream as our darts find their marks. Lord Elilidyr, how lucky we are to have him. I have heard tell that his father thinks little of him. If ‘tis so, then his lord father mustn’t know the character of our Captain. He is brave and true, tall with dark hair upon his head and chin, wise beyond his years, a Half-Elven warrior of a great House, and yet humble. He harkens back to the great heroes of old the skalds sing of in the ballads, chanted in fine noble courts in lands far away. Shaft after shaft we loose and put a terrible hurt upon our frantic, scattering enemy.
Who are these strange men who come to do harm on our land and people at their haughty king's behest? Why do they leave their homes? If not for them, I would be home with my younglings, readying to break our fast, much where I’d prefer to be and all the men and women with me feel the same no doubt. ‘Tis times of simplicity that true warriors crave. Tch, but that is naught but a butterfly’s dream when sandwiched twixt realms at eternal war.
Retreat comes the order, and we withdraw into the forest, taking care to leave no trace, like guardian spirits of the wood and our homeland. Soon we hear it. ‘Tis unmistakable, the crunch and scraping of awkward men following us. Men untrained in walking in our wild woods with steps becoming caught on knobby roots and tangled thistle. There are many hundreds of them by their sound. So loud are they I can close my eyes and track them with naught but my ears. Easily could we outpace these iron-clad men scrambling through our thickets if ‘twas our intent. Into the darkness of the copses, coverts, and thickets would we all simply melt. Rather, just a few hundred yards from them do we keep ourselves, and noises we make that we would never make another day. But hear us they must, for a further surprise has our captain in store for these encroachers.
The birds that were our allies burst from their perches and nests as we noisily lead our prey deeper into our woods, luring them on with the thought of revenge on us who just moments past inflicted so much death upon them. Then the panicked and pained screams begin anew. They find the clever traps we left. Traps that maim and some that kill. But those maimed require two to care for and carry back from whence they came. Feet get punctured by stakes cleverly buried and hidden in shallow holes. Legs broken, bare arms lacerated by devices made of saplings bent under pressure, with cruel barbs that shred the flesh, triggered by tripwires. Our hearts go out to suffering, for we are not murderers by nature, yet these men would steal all that we have and leave us little to sustain us through winter’s wrath and think the less of it.
Soon there are many less enemies with which to contend, and we turn upon them as one. Our terrible, sharp and bright swords, axes, and steel tipped spears ready. The work is close and brutal. The woods now are deep, thick, and room to maneuver is scarce. But we are used to this. We train here. This be our environment. Our enemy is unprepared for our attack and in foreign surroundings. In truth, they have no chance. That was our plan. Quickly, I turn to my men, “Let no strike be wasted!” I scream.
We meet back at our rendezvous point by a clearing where a stream sparkling and singing on its merry way turns from its travels from near straight south towards the west. There we regroup and take count. All ten of my folk are present and I let Lord Elilidyr know. He smiles at me, though rather sadly. ‘Twas brutal work we did today, and he took no joy from it. True warriors rarely do.
Soon the count comes back. One hundred and ten we took and the same number returned. Naught but some minor wounds to show for our grim morn’s work. As the rush of battle that pumped through our veins subsides some have shakes, others simply sit where they stood, exhaustion taking hold. There is no shame to it. Most have the hollow stares following the taking of life. All have felt it before. But we must be wary, so we get us up and picket a guard. Then each troop leader meets with Lord Elilidyr and his command group, and we plan our next ambush, ‘twil be a busy summer’s day of more battle to come.
And yet, mayhap, if we wound them enough, they will leave us alone. Like a hive alive with stinging bees the honey may’nt be worth the price and this would once again be a time of joy and festivals in our small country; lives would be spared, ours and theirs as well. Such is our hope. Such is why we Rangers of Wēalas carry on our duty, in the summertime.
The End
I’ve known him for all my life and - I have to admit - at times he knows me better than I know myself. Intuitively he pushes the right buttons to make me act and react like he thinks I should. My best friend and yet my worst enemy. My inner critic-perfectionist-procrastinator-people pleaser- dysfunctional defense mechanism. He helped me endure the bullies - although I think he was in part shaped by them. Well, at least it got me through high school and medicine afterwards. Pushed me through surgical residency and into two burnouts. My family was the main reason for a switch to a different career with a better work-life balance. He followed me all the way, gently guiding and whispering. “Do this. Don’t do that.” Or the more sneaky one “It won’t be good enough. So why bother?” Which off course devolved rapidly into “I’m not good enough.” Especially since the divorce.
Constantly pushing me to make other people happy, ignoring myself. Telling me “Come on, just a bit further. Yes, you can do that too.” While my workload was high enough for three. Burnouts ensued. The last one so deep that I just wanted to drive my bicycle against a car. You know, nothing serious but enough to stay at home to get some rest. And should I die…Meh… The houseloan would be taken care off, my family would get some insurance money. At least there would be no more work, no more hassle. It’s an awful feeling, being so helpless, so stuck in dismal patterns, in a work environment where higher management only cares about the numbers and not the people behind them.
I’m a doctor, I know the signs and symptoms. Hell, I’ve been through several burnouts, so I should have been able to get out early before it devolved into something more serious. But my inner Me, my Vizier, is a crafty bastard. Ever so subtle raising the pressure and like a frog I had no idea I was being cooked alive.
I feel better now. My second wife helped me pull through even though the stress of a blended family with five kids could be high at times. I love her with all my heart. And our kids too, even though they can sometimes annoy the hell out of me.
A better and caring workplace too. It helps. Yet still, he persists. It’s so easy to relapse. I recognise the pitfalls earlier, but that doesn’t mean I can avoid them entirely. I’ve learned to read my body’s signs, but he uses them. Pain in the chest can mean “Stress, avoid at all cost.”, but also “This is something you have to do, have to talk about. It will be painful, but you will feel better afterwards.” No personal growth without pain apparently.
One of my dreams of the last years is to write a fantasy book. I’ve written tidbits and always he interferes. “Why bother? You can’t create an entire world.” And if that doesn’t work, there are the old, but reliable adagia. “Just play the computer-read a book.” Or “That’s a cool advert on RPGX. Write an app for that!” So I do.
When the short story competion appeared, I said to my wife. “Why not? It has to be easier than writing a book.” Guess what? The great procrastinator intervened and inspiration struck everything but me. A blank page staring right back at me. The thought of betraying someone close to the protagonist alien to me. “Why bother? Go play a game.” A well known litany. “It won’t be good enough anyway.”
Yet here I am. My name is David and I’ve done it.
Selene grimaced as the judge entered the chamber. Overhead the witchlamps gurgled steadily, casting the stone room in their greenish light. While not the first trial she had been to, not even the first as the accused she had to admit, this was the first where she couldn’t see the light of day. Most of the countryside had notions about the purity of sunlight bringing out the truth. Not here. Not in Brimhaven, where the honesty of stone prevailed.
Her shackles shifted, clinking loudly, as she stood and faced the dais and again when she bowed to the judge. With a nod of his own, he bade her to sit. Selene inspected the man who now controlled her fate. He was large, with the kind of muscles only gained from a life of labor but now beginning to ebb with age. He had favored one leg heavily as he walked to his seat. Injured then, perhaps what caused his switch to a more administrative role. His dark hair matched most of the town, but the pale skin singled out his previous profession. A miner. She wondered how this room felt to him compared to the mines.
Papers shuffled and he cleared his throat. “You are Miss Selene Alwyn? Correct?”
She nodded.
“Good then we can begin. My name is Flint Pernelle, and I am the magistrate for this town. You stand accused of theft, vandalism, and sacrilege. Three days ago, you entered our town and rented a room at the inn. Yesterday morning the shrine of Saint Chaol was found ransacked. The statue had been defaced and several items were missing. These items were found in your rooms at the inn. You claim that you had no knowledge of these items or of the vandalism upon the shrine. Do you understand these charges as they have been levelled against you?”
Selene nodded again. “Yes, sir.”
“And you maintain that you are innocent of any wrongdoings?”
“Yes, sir”
Flint laid the papers flat on the table before him. “If you confess, I am prepared to be lenient. None of the damage is permanent and the stolen articles have been retrieved. Admit your crimes and I am willing to commute your sentence to a week or two of prison detail in the mines. Fail to convince me of your innocence and it will be a few months…”
Taken aback, Selene couldn’t hold the tone of incredulity from her voice. “Months! For messing up some statue? I don’t know if this is some kind of scare tactic to convince me to confess to a crime I didn’t commit, but that is insane. I feel sorry for whoever did do it. Such draconian punishment is despicable.”
The magistrate’s face had remained impassive as she vented. “Miss Alwyn, Saint Chaol is one of the founders of this town. It was he who found the ore veins that still feed this town all these years later. There is nary a single soul in this town that doesn’t trace their ancestry back to him in some fashion. So let me tell you that when I say these charges are serious, they are profoundly serious. With that in mind, I will give you one more chance to recant and admit your guilt.”
Selene positively bristled at his final remark. Through clenched teeth she barely managed not to scream into his face. “I will not admit to crimes that I did not commit.”
Flint sighed and leaned back into his chair; his fingers interlaced upon the table in front of him. “Very well, do you have an alibi for the evening in question? You were noted as having arrived at the inn late that evening, amply late enough to have wreaked your havoc upon the shrine and then scurried back.”
Selene’s mouth went dry as she considered her next words. “I had been collecting moonflowers. They only bloom at night and I had never seen wild ones before. The bundle of them I gathered were stuck between the pages of the large notebook in my things.”
He looked down at her condescendingly. “Yes, we found them during the search, but a handful of dry flowers do not an alibi make. Speaking of which however, you mentioned not seeing them wild before. Just where are you from? Wild moonflowers are only slightly less common than rocks around here.”
“From Lightharbor, in the north.” Selene’s head tilted upward slightly, and a note of pride slipped into her voice. “I am a scribe by trade and have accepted a position at the library of the Grand University in the capitol.”
“Hmm. That still doesn’t explain why you’re here in Brimhaven. Don’t most folks just take a boat down the coast for a trip like that?”
Somehow, Selene’s face turned even greener that the witchlamps above her. She could feel her stomach roiling at just the thought of her last attempt at seafaring. She fought down bile as she responded. “Can’t. Seasick.”
Flint chuckled sympathetically. “I’m not overly fond of the water myself. Now back to the other night. Did you speak to anyone that could vouch for you? Anybody that might’ve seen you head off?”
“I waved to the innkeeper’s wife as I left, but she was dealing with her fussy babe, so I don’t know if she saw me. Wouldn’t really matter anyhow. As you have already pointed out I would have still had time. My only other encounter before I got back was some little white pup on the path. Once there I had a bath and then went to bed. The next morning everyone was in a tizzy over the shrine, and by lunch I was enjoying the pleasantries of one of your cells…”
“Yeah, that’d be the runt that follows Birch, the innkeeper’s boy, around most days.”
Selene’s eyes narrowed at Flint’s words. “You mean that cretin actually cares for an animal?”
Flint looked shocked at Selene’s contempt for the child. “Now he may be a bit rambunctious, but he’s just a lad. Never hurt nobody. And he genuinely does love that dog.”
“All I know is that when I got here, he carried my things to the room and then immediately started digging his grubby little hands through them. AND. He has attempted to catch me changing no less than 3 times, including while I was in the bath the other night. I heard him open the door, and the little creep ran when I called him out.” Selene’s eyes widened and her face darkened. ‘Where did you find the stolen items in my rooms?”
With a quick consultation of his papers Flint replied. “Tucked between the wardrobe and the wall, in a small sack.”
Selene barely restrained herself from shouting as she stood. “Next to the gods cursed door!” She let out a mirthless laugh. “That little bastard wasn’t trying peek at me in the bath. He was trying to stash his loot.” She snapped her fingers. “You said the shrine had been vandalized, yes? Exactly how?”
Flint’s face had become surly as he listened to Selene. “Someone used paint to mar the statue of Saint Chaol, as well as to write obscenities all over the shrine.”
“If he hid the loot in my room, I bet he still has the paint stashed somewhere too.”
With a quick gesture from Flint, one of the room’s guards quickly exited. “If any evidence is forthcoming then you will be set free, Miss Alwyn, with my apologies.”
Only a handful of minutes passed before the door the guard had taken opened once more, and he reentered. Barely keeping a smile from his face, he made a slight bow before Flint. “Sir, on my way out I ran into the boy’s mother dragging him by the ear towards the shrine. She found the paint in the boy’s rooms after his dog made a mess of it. She wanted me to tell you that Birch is going to have to scrub the shrine clean and then she’ll hand him over to you for further punishment. She also asked me to inform you, Miss Alwyn, that she intends to fully refund your coin and then some.”
Flint held out his hand and the guard passed him a key. He then crossed the room to where Selene had reseated herself and began undoing her restraints. “I am a man of my word, Miss Alwyn. You have my deepest apologies for your overnight stay in our jail and for these proceedings.” The shackles clicked open, and Selene rubbed the discomfort from her wrists as flint continued. “I know you arrived with one of the caravans and I assume you intended to leave with the next one. However, if you wish, I can arrange to have you on the carriage to Whitehall this evening, free of charge. From there you should be able to obtain passage to the capitol quite easily and can put this whole mess behind you.”
Selene nodded. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
“Good, everything will be arranged. The carriage usually leaves just before nightfall. It should be shortly after lunchtime now if these cursed lights haven’t gotten me turned around again. That should give you enough time to gather your things from the inn and have a nice meal before your journey. Again, I cannot express deeply enough my apologies for this incident.” Flint gestured towards the same door the guard had left earlier. “Now if you would excuse me, I have some less scandalous matters to oversee before I decide young Birch’s penance.”
Selene squinted as she stepped out into the midday sun, colors seeming overly vibrant after her time beneath the witchlamps. She hurried to the inn to rest her eyes, passing the little white, and now blue, dog along the way, but was almost overwhelmed as she entered. The innkeeper prostrated himself before her, apologizing profusely. He handed her a small bag of coin as well as a larger one apparently stocked with provisions.
Now she sits and nibbles the fresh bread and cheese as the carriage makes its way towards Whitehall. Her only companion on this journey is an old woman snoring in the opposite corner. With a flash of inspiration, she takes out her notebook and quill. Her pen moves quickly across the pages despite the bumpiness of the ride. A short while later, she finishes with a slight flourish and turns back a few pages to read it over before it gets too dark. A slight smile graces her lips as she reads the first line.
“Selene grimaced as the judge entered the chamber…."
She rubbed the memorial stone slowly with a rough thumb, each name etched into the marble slab a dedication to a hero. Each name, one of those who fought and died to make the city-state free long ago.
Nazreen wondered, reflecting on the founders and their militia long ago, if there would be a monument to those she led to free the city from its warmongering rulers nearly a decade later. A leader was as good or as bad as those under them, and Nazreen knew that each of her fellow freedom fighters did their duty.
She was a follower herself before that day. It was a terrible circumstance that forced her to spread her wings and bring them to their destiny. It hurt that many didn’t make it out of their greatest victory alive, unable to see the tyrants who survived the battle sway from the gallows. Despite the cloudy weather overhead, there was peace in the quiet park nestled in the center of the city.
And an air of melancholy, one she couldn’t shake. Maybe she was just biased from her sorrows, but something didn’t feel right.
“Nazreen”.
His gruff voice caught her attention. She whirled around to see the grizzled veteran smirk for once in his life. She’d only known him for the past couple of months. Both mercenaries were only recent transplants into a rebellion brewing for years and a revolution since that spring. It was odd not to see him in his ethnic armor, nor his swords at his hip.
A cold breeze blew past the two of them. It is late autumn now. Time flies when your next day could be your last.
“Sanjuro”, she inquired, forcing a soft smile back. “Here to pay your respects too, hmm?”
Something out of the corner of her eye shifted. The worn cobblestones of the free city shifted. She didn’t recall the plaza having so much rubbish strewn across it. Weird. Surely the citizens would’ve shown this site more respect, in lieu of the history she and her comrades had recently written? Or were they ready to forget those who fought and died to fend off its attackers in the past?
Sanjuro's smile shrank, a look of concern growing on his oily face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost”. He was always good at reading expressions like an open book.
Nazreen grimaced. “More like I’m haunted by them. Tell me truly, comrade – did I truly do the right thing?”
A dry, short chuckle left his throat. “Truly? You led them to their destiny and this burned-out burgh’s freedom. Sometimes, heroes die. They have no–”
His voice grew muffled, like words behind closed doors. In his place, another voice spoke. A woman’s. Clear as crystal, yet deeply rich. “This isn’t how it happened.”
Her voice.
Nazreen stared at him. “Pardon?”
“Did I stutter?”
“No”, she grumbled. “I just didn’t hear you”. She struggled for an excuse.
“Hard of hearing now?” He blinked. “Is your head well after–”
“It’s as well as ever”, she scowled, raising her voice. “Now, repeat yourself”.
Sanjuro scoffed. “A ‘please’ would suffice. I fear for this generation if all like you lack basic respect. But we both know why you are called Vipertongue. So, I shall repeat myself”.
Something in her peripheral vision made Nazreen double-take. Was that a spreading fire on the ground? It’s daytime there shouldn’t be–
“You should be dead”.
Those words, hissed with a feminine voice, hit her like a mallet to the chest. Staggering back a step, Nazreen tried to save face. She was, after all, the one who led the finishing blow to the city-state’s corrupt rulers. Why would she be so meek now? “Excuse me?!”
He said the words again, but his voice wasn’t his own. It was deeper, feminine, of an accent she hadn’t heard often in those lands. It was the same voice that had just threatened her. “You should be DEAD, mongrel”.
The world around her shifted much more drastically this time. The strange contraption, a grand pillar in the basement, appeared before her. Was she still in the park? She was hallucinating. Losing it. She had to be. Sanjuro was still before her. The memorial stone was behind her. Maybe she was just having another traumatic flashback. This was all in her head. Right?
No. He was there behind her, not some stone. Hunched over, clutching the tourniquet of soft linen around his chest. She turned her head back. She had to disarm this device in the darkness of the room. This infernal contraption had forced her field promotion. The one that wiped her leader’s base, let alone a sizable chunk of the rebellion, off the face of the planet.
All was oddly silent. Only Sanjuro’s heavy breathing, trying to power through the sucking chest wound beneath the gauze. Only the strange hum of the machine, and the pale glow of its array of crystals intricately set into the exposed inner workings. Not the sound of her breathing and, to her surprise, not the pounding of her heart.
A metallic click. A jolt of fear, realizing she’d just made a grave mistake.
“You should have died instead of him”.
The explosion of the light that did not warm. The sensation of being swept off her feet, like loose paper on the streets on a blustery day. That odd pang of determination granted by her heirloom, the cloak wrapped around her from the force of the blast. Somewhere, a gruff gasp.
Silence.
Screaming.
Her screaming.
Soft warmth, out of place for what just happened to her. A choking feeling. Coughing. Muffled voices. Someone was shouting, but the words made no sense to her. A headache. She could barely move. Her hand felt around, bumping into something hard, cool, and smooth. A sharp sound moments later. Glass breaking on the ground. What was the ground?
Where was she?
Her eyes burned. She couldn’t see.
Her tears were both blinding and choking her.
It was the inn room, far from that accursed city. No longer free. Never was. Never would be. They died for nothing. She helped ensure that oppressive law led to oppressive chaos. The city of Hawkstone was as it had always had been: a cesspool.
He died for nothing.
The words from the next room over finally clicked. The stranger told her, in rather unkind words, to shut up. The sun had barely begun to rise from the window. The smell of stale rotgut lingered in her room. She must’ve drank herself to sleep again. What better way to chase the prior night’s moonshine, to drink herself to sleep and to cry herself awake?
She should have died then. The blessing of her cloak that let her survive the blast had become her curse. She had awoken from the night terror, certainly. Though the dawn would rise for others in the sleepy frontier town, all this day would be to Nazreen was a waking nightmare.
Those words lingered in her head. That she should have died instead of him.
Maybe that wench was right all along.
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Last edited by Aethera; Jul 16th, 2022 at 03:59 PM.
Jul 16th, 2022, 03:54 PM
