Tag: magic

Black Calliope

by smithaw50, posted in Uncategorized

 Orphaned and abused, Eric and his little sister Diane decided to run away when (once again) the foster parents opened the doors to their rooms and helped themselves.

    In the aftermath, sore and wrathful, Eric came up with a plan.

    That night, as the foster parents slept, they did everything right.

    When they left they took the knives with them.

The hot nights on the run took their toll, and thievery was not their strength, so they took to begging, and took what came with it as summer turned inexorably into winter.

*******************

   The winter night was foggy when Eric and Diane were done begging on the streets.

    Diane had been pushed down, and Eric was punched when he tried to defend her.

   The day only got longer as their feet were sore trying to catch up with what dignity they had left.

   Today, there’d been enough money for them to eat. 

   The cook and waitress brought their meals to the alley, not wanting them to stink up the place.

   They were too hungry to care.

                                                        ***************

    Eric knew the ground would be wet from the fog, so he lined their sleeping space with the rags they found to keep out the dampness, and pulled Diane close to keep her warm. 

     Her frailty was a liability in the streets, and offers had been made, but Eric was a staunch defender and had to grow up fast. Diane’s nature wasn’t as hardened yet, but she came to see the practicality of her brother’s way of thinking. 

     She didn’t have to worry, she just had to do what he said.

     Over time, her reluctance to harm others slowly dissolved into quiet, feral self preservation.

     They were safe here in the abandoned amusement park. 

     There was only one security guard who only left the booth to stretch his legs, and he had no idea they were there.

      Next to their sleeping space, a broken, rusted calliope with warped wood and chipped painted animals, splintery benches for those with no desire to grab the brass ring, and pitted, pockmarked clown faces stood as a sad testimony to happier times Eric and Diane had never experienced.

      She imagined what it would be like to ride one, just once.

      Settling down, and settling against each other for warmth, her brother’s arm around her, Diane was soon asleep. 

      And though she seldom dreamed, she dreamed tonight.

                                                           ******************

      The ponies…didn’t look like that.

      She walked toward the calliope, its lights diffused by the fog.

      It began to slowly move, and the grinding noise made her stop and cover her ears.

      As she watched, the music started, its speed matching the slow wheeling. At first it sounded more like a dirge trying to be festive.

     The music…is not right. I have to tell the ticket man.

     There was no ticket man.

      I can get on for free?

      She moved toward it again, taking her hands off her ears as the music brightened and the horses began to move.

     It looks like fun.

     A voice called her, but she didn’t recognize it.

     I can ride for free now.

     The voice again, but she couldn’t see who was calling her.

     A pink horse with a white mane was in front of her, and its bright blue eye seemed to follow her as she got closer.

     The stirrup’s rust scraped her bare sole as it wobbled, but she managed to get into the dusty saddle.

     Again the voice. Louder this time. Closer.

     But the horse was moving now, and she grabbed the frayed reins as she looked around, and the voice faded. 

      As the horse ran and leaped in its slot, Diane began to laugh, and all the other children on the other horses began to laugh with her.

      The horse moved even faster, and the voice fell farther behind.

      That was good. She didn’t like when it called her. 

      It knew her name, and that scared her.

      She was glad when it was gone.

      And laughing, she let go of the frayed reins, and threw her arms out and her head back, and let the bright, festive, frantic music take over.

      Free of the daily, earthly darkness, she screamed with delight.

                                                     ****************

      Eric woke up, realizing Diane was no longer with him.

      He called her name and got no answer.

      He got up to search for her, and called again and again.

      But the fog was thicker than before, getting denser as he walked toward the calliope. 

      He saw her just before it obscured his vision.

      She was getting on one of the faded, broken, warped, dilapidated horses.

      He saw her hike herself into the saddle, and began to run toward her, calling louder.

He stopped when he saw the calliope was moving, then started running again.

One last time he called, the tears welling.

      He saw when she took the worn reins into her frail little hands, and her body spasmed and jerked her nose and eyes began to bleed, and she threw her arms out to her sides, and screamed.

      The scream faded as the calliope rumbled low as it circled faster and faster.

In helpless fright he watched as each time the horse passed him, Diane became translucent, and began to dissipate into the fog.

He was still on his knees, sobbing into his hands as the night shadows and quiet returned to mock his grief.

Alone in the Library Garden

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101

      Ziun was still restless after spending his first week at Novice Hall.

      He was there because some magic user his mother knew saw that he was gifted with a seed of magic, though she didn’t know what kind.

      She told them the school would discover and nurture his talent, so his parents sent him there, where he quickly learned he was not an exciting exception of talent.

      It stung how quickly they bundled him off, but once there he was relieved as the courses progressed because he didn’t stand out, enduring the frustrations they all did at trying to develop and control their gifts..

      But this night….

      He supposed it was homesickness. 

      Donning his robe and slippers, he quietly left the others to their sleeping happens, noxious as some were, and walked down the shadow filled hall.

      The ensconced torches cast soft, dappled ambers, and created some shadows of their own. 

      The moon’s saffron beams were molded into coffin shaped rhombuses by the floor to ceiling windows that lined the east wall. 

      Ziun took a moment to admire the beauty of it..

      At the end of the hall were two floor length doors with glass that opened into the garden, and from there to the path leading to the library.

      There were stories about the library being haunted, and parts of it that were closed.

      He decided to put his walk to use and see what there was to see after hours.

                                                     ****************

      The door sentry was asleep. Even worse, he was sitting with his spear across his lap when he should have been standing watch and holding it.

       It was just as well. He would have brooked no argument and sent Siun back to the Hall to fight his insomnia on his own.

       He found the garden path, paved with stones that were uneven as the earth beneath and between them battled for sovereignty. Siun took his time lest he trip of stub a toe that would make him curse, wake the guard, and get him into trouble he wasn’t looking for.

      As he walked the path, he noted how quiet it was outside too. 

     There were no small creatures rustling the underbrush, no nightbirds, not even an owl.

     No plaintive, haunting howling came from the surrounding hills. 

     No deer bellowed in the night at catching his scent.

     No wonder the sentry fell asleep. 

     No sense of foreboding came over him to make him wary, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t be vigilant. Unpleasant things could surprise someone, especially in such a lush garden.

     Stopping for a moment, he decided to try out a sensory spell to see if anything was hidden that meant him harm.

      A warmth spread over him, starting from his hands, and he closed his eyes.

      The warmth left him, pulsing into the high garden trees and over the flower beds, slinking along ivy vines and curling up tree trunks like rambunctious squirrels. 

      Nothing came back to him, and he opened his eyes. 

                                          **************

        As he continued walking around the library, heading toward the back of it, the garden began to change from lush to wild, as if the gardeners didn’t get to it as frequently.

       The moonlight had shifted to where it was now more toward the front of the library, so now     the garden in the back was darker, and Ziun’s arm hairs stood up, though he still saw nothing that threatened him.

       Turning a corner to go back to the hall, he passed an open window a little above his head.

       It had a lit lantern that sat on a small stack of books with others next to it.

       One of them was open to the middle. He couldn’t see the title from where he stood.

       Thinking it might have been another late night student, he waited to see if anyone emerged,

 but no one came.

       “Is anyone there?” 

       The lantern light flared and brightened.

       Ziun. You’ve come at last.

       He shivered. “What?”

       We’ve been waiting for you.

       “Who? Who are you? Why were you waiting for me?”

       He wanted to step back, but found himself walking toward the window. 

      Standing just beneath the sill, he saw the light flare again and felt what he thought might be a hand against his cheek.

       To help you.

       “Help me? Help me to do what?”

       As he stepped away the hand went from his cheek to the front of his robe, seizing him, pulling him back.

      The light in the lantern went out, and more unseen hands lifted him into the library as the window closed behind him, and the light flared to life again, and he saw all the spirits looking at him.

       One stepped forward, placing a spectral hand on his cheek.

       He saw the nails, and dared not move.

       Set us free. 

The Runes of the River Souls

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101

Chapter 1: Execution
The last thing Niah remembered from her life before now was how cold the water felt against her skin, and inhaling the blackened river water where they threw her bound body.
The fools believed its scum-covered, shadowy hue to be the souls of the wicked it had claimed through the years, bound by the current and unable to escape.
Over the years, the town elders oversaw and executed outright blasphemers, whores, and witches, no matter how mild or defiant. She had seen some of them dragged screaming and cursing to their deaths, made ‘examples of’ disobedience to the whims of the very ones who consorted with them, putting their cracked masks of piety back on their besotted faces.
When those events had run their course, they turned suspicious eyes to the healers, their small homes and herb gardens routinely searched and robbed of whatever things of meager value they owned.
She’d been one of them, and now it was her turn.
They broke down her door, shattered her flower pots, and burned her garden, all the while shouting false accusations over her pleading screams of innocence.
********
There was no reasoning with these inbred townspeople, but they thought she’d been tortured long enough. Her voice was sore from a raw throat that had been screaming in pain for almost an hour.
They only gave her moments to regain her breath, if not her wits, before they carried her down to the river and threw her into it. if she floated she was guilty, but if not, she was innocent.
She floated at first, then began to slowly go under, the scent of vegetative decay strong in her nostrils. The water had a thickness to it from the years of whatever loamy growth covered it like a second skin.
A brief tug on the rope around her waist sent another shock of pain through her, and the weight of her underclothes, now soaked and slippery with black detritus, was getting heavy.
Taking what she thought would be her final deep breath, she disappeared from their sight beneath the flow. She managed to still her thoughts and rising panic as she worked at the ropes on her wrists, hurrying to make anything in the knot loose.
Her thoughts racing with what might be coming for her in the murky water made her had to calm down or pushing herself back up for air would soon be impossible.
Thanking a deity she wasn’t sure existed, she sloughed off the rope on her wrists. Her skin was raw, and a small tendril of blood slithered out and up, curling in on itself in a slow, serpentine dance.
Her body jerked, telling her she was losing time as she involuntarily took in some of the water mixed with her blood. The coppery, briny taste forced her to place the last of her strength into her legs and push off with all her might, not knowing if she’d break the surface.


Chapter 2: Reclamation
She broke the surface, gasping loud, tears and slime blurring her vision, and she wiped them both away as she clumsily tried to swim to the riverbank. She made it, crawling and spitting and crying with gratitude that her nascent efforts were successful.

On the other side none of the townspeople remained.

Did they give me up for dead?
The setting sun was hazy behind graying clouds heralding a storm.
Of course they left me. They want to be indoors when it gets dark. How long was I down there?
Alone on the riverbank, the sky full of sunset shadows and leaden clouds, she clambered to her knees and tried to stand, but the shock of being bodily thrown into freezing, black, rushing water, and the close brush with death combined to make her fall back down and sleep.

Chapter 3: Redemption
When she woke, the rain clouds covered the first of the evening stars. They were distant from her touch, indifferent to her plight, but the evening breeze slipped around her like a lover’s arms.
She coughed up some black water, and found herself covered in the skimmed
slime.
It was most dense on her forearms, and streaking down to dapple her hands, so her first thought was to rinse them off. As soon as the thought came she smiled at the folly of it. Washing up in dirty water…
But something was different. Something was different.
She’d never felt more alive.
It was a curious thought, but there could be no other explanation.
She stopped a moment, the river loam giving way to ankle high grass as she left the river behind. It felt like her skin was drying in the breeze, but it didn’t feel normal.
Putting her arms out in front of her, she saw the black mucus seeping into her skin, and her fingers starting to glow with an eldritch light.
Everything in her wanted to scream as the light crept up, engulfing her, heating her face, drying her eyes and clearing her vision, and knowing it without any formal recognition of it, she knew she was now the thing they feared.
The men were feasting and dancing, the women gossiping and dancing, and the musicians played so lively and well. The Elder’s house was bright and festive, and the wards he’d carved himself on the gate and into the doorframe stood sentinel against the black magic Niah now held.
As the vision faded she heard the whispers of the river souls calling to her: Welcome, Niah. Greetings, Daughter. Sister, we’ve found you at last.
They assailed her mind with violent visions she might inflict on her accusers.
“Not tonight,” she said. “Let them think me dead, carried off by the current and over the falls.”
And with that, as the first drops of rain steamed and sizzled against the blackness on her arms and the runes of magic from past river souls were etched into them as she walked, she saw her desecrated home sitting in the field like an old dog too stiff to greet her, and with the most small and casual wave of her hand, she opened the door and lit a fire in the hearth.

Empty Alms

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

  “One coin to tear the veil between worlds, my friend,” the blind beggar said. “I’ll tell your future for a coin or two. The more you give, the bigger the tear, the more I can see what will become of you.”

     He was always around, this beggar. 

    The weather didn’t matter, nor did the amount of people on the streets.

    For him, there was only darkness, only the shimmering specter of the void.

    Or so it was told to me.

     “My sight for this world was shut off so I could use what remained in the next, you see?”

     He grinned at his own bad humor, but the explanation in and of itself made sense.

     It wasn’t something I’d want for myself.

     “Do you have anything to spare for me, sir?”   

     “I do.” I put the coin in his cup.

     A moment later he gasped, and blood trickled from his mouth.

     He licked at it, then smudged it with the back of his hand.

     “Why are you bleeding?”

     “I bleed for you, good sir. Your end is violent and sad.”

     “But why? I’ve made no enemies.”

     The beggar laughed. “Don’t be foolish. We all have them, real or imagined. You see, their hearts are poisonous and rotten, a briar patch alive with shimmering, wriggling clusters of worms. 

     “Their dark thoughts stoke the bonfires of dread nightmares, and so I say for you, sir, a violent end.”

     “Is there no way to avert it?”

     He shook his head. “It is an ending, sir. How does one avoid the end of a thing?”

     “Perhaps another coin…”

     He shook his head, put his cup away inside a pocket somewhere in his robe, and looked at me as if he could see right through me. 

     “You don’t have another coin. My time here ends. Be vigilant, sir; you’ll not see me again.”

     As he turned to go away, I felt a warm, light stream on my chin and wiped at it.

     Blood. 

     Why is there blood in my mouth?

The Moaning Trees

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

Mark me here, children, and take a look at the forest around you. 

  For time untold, whoever once lived here used the trees for gallows, and every type of body was hung there: men, women, children, foreigners, criminals, those who practiced magic, or were believed to be doing so, and those who renounced it when the tables turned.

   Rabid and diseased animals were not spared, butchered where they were tied to the trunks.

   And as the spirits drifted and the flesh rotted, the tree bark grew paler, and the spring blossoms stopped growing.

   Tree roots grew twisted, with a reddish tint to them, and the pale bark flaked away as the corpses dried and swayed in the wind like old companions in rocking chairs on a porch.

   The last explorers that traveled through and briefly tried to settle here wrote that the soil was infertile, the turned earth littered with the broken bodies of predator and prey alike. 

    An odor of decay became omnipresent, a patina of corruption clinging to the air like sweat on a hot body.

    And when night falls, children, one can hear the trees moaning. The stories and songs say it’s the cries of the condemned mingling with the screaming pleas of tortured bodies long before they die. 

    In autumn, the wind stirred leaves echo the sound of snapping necks and fluttery sighs of death.

    On nights of the full moon, the very trees seem to wail as the collected burden of their grisly growth overwhelms them. Others say the weeping, restless spirits cry as they wander, lost to time and memory.

   And when the seasons change, children, the spirits of those condemned in that time return to tell their stories to one another, again and again.

   Every night, no matter how fierce the weather, now empty the land, if you listen you can hear  the cries for mercy, then the raucous, mocking laughter from the hanging mobs that cheer on the savagery.

     Other nights, when the moon is new, among the trees you can hear the laughter of children as they run after each, their footsteps rustling and cracking the detritus beneath them..

    Daring campers have fled, hearing snarls and low, deep growling as their bodies were rolled over by unseen paws, their faces probed by wet, cold blots feeling very like the noses and tongues of canines they couldn’t see, and their chests suddenly heavy with weight they couldn’t get off before they woke up screaming, as if an animal had settled on top of them.

     Still others shared a sense of dread, waiting in thick silence as something watched them, but despite their risks in calling out, nothing was there. 

      No one answered. 

     All things considered, children, it’s best to avoid the moaning trees and travel the long way around these arbors of evil and grief, if you can. 

     You see, they have long memories, and don’t mind sharing them with you. 

Night Jackals (Enclave of Paradise short story)

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

Chapter 1: Chased

  In the razed city he called home, now full of booby trapped debris and mines placed around by the infiltrators from Above, the Enclave was a lot more dangerous now than it had been since the rebellion failed. 

     The place had a name of its own once, but he’d been born into the time of war and had been too young to say it.

     Now, it seemed no one remembered it. 

     They called it the Enclave of Paradise, as sarcastic and bitter a name as they could get without being openly profane, though he saw no reason they shouldn’t be.

      At the moment though, Chase was panting for breath, running from the night jackals who were hunting him in a pack of four. 

     He could hear them spatter and splatter through the chemically laced ‘rainwater’ from Above. 

     The Night Jackals were new. No one had seen them come, and no one noticed them until their numbers were sufficient, 

      Then they went on a few tentative hunts, feeding mostly off animal strays. 

     They picked off people walking alone or drunk. If they happened to be both, it made for an early night when the alcohol hit the jackals’ bloodstream

.

     He had a flashing thought that was supposed to be, of all things, humorous: They’re chasing Chase.

    He dismissed it as not funny, and turned to see the pack of four coming for him. 

    What was even more chilling was the fact that they ran completely silent, with no warning. It happened so fast that it was effective in keeping down the neighborhood population.

    The Night Jackals were killers in their own right, relentless, patient, and silent as Death’s reaper.

     His gun was charged, but he’d lose ground for sure if he stopped to fire it, and he was no good at running and shooting simultaneously.

     Chase’s breathing grew labored.

     The jackals closed, beginning to yip as the excitement of the pending kill gave them adrenaline. 

     You’re not gonna make the gates, Chase. Take cover in the rubble. 

      He muttered a curse. The rubble was where the traps, bandits, other ferals, orphans, street people, and who-all-else-knew what was in there.

      Still, it was now or never. 

      He changed course, and the jackals grew more cautious. They were clever animals, Chase would give them that much, but that’s as far as he wanted to take it. 

      He measured the jump into the pile of metal, stone, and glass.

      Ready? Three steps.

      Set? Two steps.

      Now! 

Chapter 2: Trapped

      There was no cover, but he fell into a hole and gashed his arm on something spiky.

      The thwarted pack of jackals growled in frustration, losing sight of him, but not his scent.

      He realized, only after he bit his lip and wiped the tears of pain from his eyes, that he trapped himself.

        He heard one of them climbing, carefully, picking its way up so as not to cut itself.

        It had the luxury of time. 

        Chase went to pull his gun, but his arm was shaking and he couldn’t land a grip on the handle. 

        He couldn’t see it, but the other three jackals circled the heap to find another way in on the ground. What he did know was that he was losing precious seconds bumbling his firearm.

       He gripped his right wrist in his left fist and breathed deeply despite the flaring pain along his forearm and biceps.

       The jackal now scented the blood that ran from Chase’s wound.

       It growled deep in anticipation of the feast, then slipped, losing its footing.

       Chase heard it yelp, and the others answered.

       After a tense silence, he heard them climbing, picking their way up once more as their paws struck tin. 

       He couldn’t stay there now even though he had the gun. Times were hard and they were hungry; they’d attack him as a pack even though space was tight.  

       Looking around, he saw nothing he could shove to dislodge them again.

       Another low growl came from above, and a drop of blood fell on his gashed arm.

       The alpha was staring at him, its paw dripping. 

       Having nothing to lose now, he screamed and fired.

                                                                      ***************

      Singed, the jackal barked, retreated, then growled low again.

      The other three cleared the top, and Chase circled as fast as he could, still screaming, still firing.

      He hit two of them in the face. One fell back down the heap as it died, and the other ran off with its lower jaw destroyed. 

      Two left. 

      The Alpha peeked over again, and snarled, 

      Chase felt his arm going numb and his fingers tingling; he had no idea how he was still holding the gun, or how long he’d be able to keep it. 

      The Alpha’s face disappeared again, and while Chase watched, the night jackal behind him jumped.

      Chase crashed into the opposite wall, the gun falling out of his hand.

      It became a race for throats, and Chase barely won as the jackal’s neck twisted in desperation beneath his hand. The scent of blood seemed to increase the jackal’s strength, and its eyes went from gold to red as it thrashed to make its escape. 

      Chase managed to turn it on its side, lest the claws scratch his almost useless right arm. 

      Putting his full weight onto the jackal’s ribs, he squeezed its neck to limit movement. 

      It seemed to take a long time for it to die; had his right arm been good, he would’ve broken its neck. As it was, he was so focused on killing it he forgot about the Alpha. 

      Powerful jaws clamped his bicep and the fangs sent a fresh wave of pain through his arm as he cried out.

      His arm jerked back and slammed the jackal’s head into the wall of junk surrounding them, hoping its head would get cut open, but instead it lost its grip and fell stunned to the floor. 

      Chase took the opportunity to stomp the other one’s ribs into its lungs, and it died with a loud yelp.

      Hurriedly, Chase looked for the gun; he’d fire it left handed if need be, but he didn’t see where it had skittered under a pile of rusted tin and busted garbage bags the rats had opened nightly.

      The Alpha was recovering. 

      Chase kicked it twice in the head, dropping it. 

        His right arm now hung useless at his side.

        He had to finish this now. 

        The rats were gathering after scenting fresh blood, some of them already at the dead body Chase made. 

        He grabbed the Alpha by its tail and slammed it into a side wall of horizontal tin panels, cutting it. 

        The noise from the jackal was loud and piercing, hurting Chase’s ears, but he swung it twice more, slicing is back open.

        Past the point of fighting, the jackal whimpered, its eyes turning red as Chase pushed its neck onto a rusted tin panel and scraped its neck back and forth in a sawing motion. 

       More chittering rats came as jackal blood spurted over Chase’s clothes and face. 

       A wave of exhaustion came too, and he found himself fighting to stay conscious.

Chapter 3:  Escaped

        Chase vomited.

        The scent of blood and guts, the increasing boldness and numbers of the rats, and the fact that he almost died were beginning to take their toll.

        Standing near a wall of rubble, he swatted at a rat that jumped on the wound in his arm. Slapping it off hurt it more, but it had to be done before the rat got its teeth and claws into him. 

        He just needed to get out, but couldn’t climb now without making a path through the rats. 

        For now, they were still concentrating on the jackals, but they were sniffing the air at his rising fear, and he had to kick the closest ones away to keep space around him. If they started to climb his body, he was lost. 

        Taking a breath, he carefully scanned for a handhold; he’d have to start with his right arm to see if it could take the stress. The climb wasn’t long or steep, but it would take effort. 

        The light coming through the holes in the ground above Paradise was starting to move west, and Chase knew he couldn’t afford to lose the light. 

          A movement in his peripheral caught his attention. 

          The rats were growing sluggish, even beginning to stand still.

          What’s happening to them?

          Clearing his mind, he went back to his search, and saw a space just above his head between two cast off doors that he could slip his hand through. If they held his weight, he’d use them to search for the next one.

           The rats began chittering. Some had fallen on thier sides, and others on their backs.

           The jackal’s guts….something’s wrong with them.

            He grabbed the end of the door above his head, the gash in his arm sending pain that made him bite his lip and breathe heavily through his nose as consciousness feinted to elude him again.

Once more it passed, and he pulled at the door. It held.

He put his left hand in the gap, and stood on his toes. Moment of truth.

Taking another deep breath, he pushed off, finding a foot hold somewhere below just as a rat jumped onto his leg. In desperation he swung his leg back and slammed his boot back into the foothold, and the rat fell.

Chase pushed up on his arms, and began to climb, giving vent to a growl of effort that sounded a lot like the jackals.

He put his left hand in the gap, and stood on his toes. Moment of truth.

Taking another deep breath, he pushed off, finding a foothold somewhere below just as a rat jumped onto his leg. In desperation he swung his leg back and slammed his boot back into the foothold, and the rat fell.

Tensing as a couple of pieces dislodged and fell along with it, he kept still.

When nothing more crashed down on him, he  began to climb, giving vent to a growl of effort that sounded not unlike the jackals.

Chapter 4: Freed

He lost track of everything but the next handhold and foothold.

Time faded, and the pain in his shaky right arm eventually numbed with adrenaline, but was still bleeding since he couldn’t bind it. It was slow, but it was there.

He was working against both as the last of the light faded and the adrenaline wouldn’t last.

Among the surviving rats, some began to pick the carcasses of their dead, and others tried to find a way up the pile to Chase.

He took a glance up, and liked his chances, but the rats were just as determined.

A beam of bright light lit the precarious catwalks above his head, and he muttered a mild curse of frustration as he lifted up enough to be able to reach the top.

Search party or patrol? Friend or foe?

He heard the sound of boots drawing close.

“He came this way.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? We’ll give it five more minutes. I don’t want to be down here when it’s dark.”

Chase knew the voices. “Over here, guys.” 

The sound of boots came faster.

The yipping of night jackals could be heard in the distance.


Spending the Night

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

He was twice cursed: once to walk the night, and twice, to feel every cosmic shift of the stars, to hear its spirits calling, crying, and keening all around him.

He saw the roiling atoms of life grind and flow to make the very dark that cloaked his hands with frost, and burned his skull with eyes of fire.

Even the spirits paused in their wanderings to let him pass.

The damned saw him in all his splendor, the gems and gold that bedecked and dripped from his limbs, and the exalted blessed fled from the sight of his malformed, wretched nakedness.

And when he wished it, all fled from his presence, leaving him to hear his own feet crunch, splash, shuffle, and run, feeling the pain of never resting, even when the silence of a universe devoid of gods and magic mocked his tears where the trails scraped like small claws and tasted of brine, and he would beg for death’s peace.

Death would reveal himself, shake his silent skull ‘no,’ and disappear. Again.

And step after he weary step, he wandered on.

And wanders still.

Vision Aerie (1: The Caul of War)

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

Years later, standing there alone in the center of the sizzling, stinking, fire strewn rubble, I was left without a sense of peace or resolution following the enemy’s defeat.

As the sun set in the very shades of the blood we spilled, those who gathered round to gawk at the remains of their invaders likely felt a sense of ‘closure,’ but the only thing that closed for me that day were the gates of any celestial paradise to my immortal, trembling, wailing soul, and I left them to bury their dead, and loot what they desired, reminded once more of the calling that followed me, and the curse that followed the call.

***********

I was in their world, even then, and while not quite understanding what was wrong, I knew that something wasn’t right.

The spirits were all around the onlookers staring into my cradle. A swirling mass of black shapes and shadows, they too turned their gazes on me, peering as they assessed the threat.

I stopped pulling at my face and returned their silent scrutiny, looking past the smiling, cooing, babbling faces that were a hair’s breadth away from having their souls snatched from the land of the living the way a cutpurse steals the gold of the unsuspecting.

*************

The onlookers were now cheering, surrounding my body, kissing my cheek soiled by ashes and blood, pounding my back, and offering hands to shake that I ignored.

I was a foreigner here; I had no tribal marks, nor spoke their language, but their grateful smiles convinced me that I’d helped win the long, protracted war against the invading hordes that seemed to continually plague them. As the cheering continued, despite my reluctance, in my own relief I began to return their smiles, and in a rush of pride foolishly, foolishly roared my hollow victory to the equally hollow sky, or so I thought.

But the gods that dwelled in hallowed halls had just begun to make the path crooked as they played with my life.

**************

The spirits around my family and their friends all turned their attention to a dark haired, dark eyed woman who took my infant fists in her hand, and leaned over to get my attention.

Everything went still, and with three of her long fingernails and a practiced motion she lifted the caul from my face, letting it dangle for a few seconds while she cleaned my face with the damp, warm cloth in her other hand.

My face was cold, and I suppose blue, because she set the cloth aside and rubbed my cheeks with her soft palms as she turned to reassure my mother I would live.

When she took the caul, it was not a tearing off, but more like an extraction of something inside me, like lovers releasing a long, hard hug.

She put it somewhere on her person, and the spirits began to disappear from my sight, as grim and deathly silent as they’d manifested.

*****************

As the sense of relief at their liberation swelled, I found myself lifted and carried on shoulders that bobbed and dipped not unlike the ocean. Whether it was from drunkenness or weakness. I couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter, but I bunched some fabric on shoulders in my fists and held on, not knowing where they were taking me.

Inevitably, the toll of the fight took my consciousness as its prize, and the last thing I remember was a pair of large hands peeling me off the revelers’ shoulders, and lifting my prone body into the air.

********************

I woke up in my own bed.

Covered in bruises and scars, I didn’t understand what happened at first, handed back and forth between dreams and reality as I was, and not being able to tell the difference.

What was it about that war that I needed to be a part of it? What was inside of me that it needed in order to end?

How much did I really want to know the answer, to remember what I did, what my birth caul had to do with it, and what was the price of that knowledge?

At the core of me now was an emptiness, cold and black, devoid of anything remotely like desire to repent or apologize for whatever it had been.

Let the blood and madness flow, then.

The Passing: A Touch of Menace (Chapter 31)

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101

“Zephyr, how do the Cancelers know what you are?”

Hannah knew you would have to come to them and asked me to accompany you. As she saved my life, and for the love I bore her, I agreed.

“But you sacrificed your body.” I would’ve questioned him on when Gran contacted him, but she was capable of things far beyond my understanding then, and now. How much had she seen beforehand? How much had she known?

When he came to me, he’d been in such a frail state, his age so apparent, his feathers so faded and old looking, I thought him all but dead. I should have known better; Gran had always said death was a gateway to another realm, and nothing more, and his next words confirmed her proverb.

A small thing to lose at this time of magic warfare. In some ways, it’s better, but by all means, Little Mother, defend yourself. My power will only strengthen from now on, to your benefit.

Tyrel came and stood beside me.

I wanted to take his hand; he seemed so lost and resigned to his fate at their hands, I wanted to hold him, reassure him, but anything I said would mean nothing, especially now that it was known his people had no power over me. Still, I was grateful he was there, for we were now at a crossroad.

“What do you want, child?” Centerpiece asked.

There was no point to further delay, or an attempt to deceive; I forced myself not to drop my gaze as I answered. “To find the Traitors Guild, and bring them to justice for their part in the purging.”

A moment of silence, then some spluttering laughter, and an amused smile from their oracle, standing nearby.

“You? ” Centerpiece asked again. “And just how will you do that if the king protects them?”

I felt my face heat even as I said it. “By using the magic you couldn’t take from me.”

Tyrel hid a grin behind his hand, and the oracle stopped smiling as the Council’s laughter abruptly stopped.

“To what purpose, Tina?” another Canceler asked.

Tyrel stepped in front of me, and I let him, understanding what was at stake for his future. He needed to redeem his error with bringing me here to keep in their good graces. Mercifully, they were going to let him try.

“We’re not entirely sure their powers are completely gone,” he said.

This piqued Sarai’s interest. “How so?”

He looked at her. “The spells aren’t destroyed or broken when they enter the Void. We believe the Traitors never fully cooperated, and found a way to extract the spells, fix them, and reuse them against us.”

They looked to the oracle. “Sarai, is this possible?”

She closed her eyes for a long moment, then came back to herself, looking like she snuck back into the house after being told not to go out.

“I don’t sense anything amiss in the spirit realm, Lord Sydon.”

“They could be using one of you to hide what that something might be, or they might be using a turned Canceler to shield the magic from you, or a powerful familiar like Zephyr.”

A long stretch of silence began as the talked among themselves and I stood there shivering, not just from the draft in the hall, but for Sarai’s focused gaze and the fact that our mission would actually be starting in a matter of hours.

A long silence ensued for those of us tied and shackled as they talked amongst themselves; clearly they weren’t used to feeling threatened. Tyrel was fidgeting, and I had my own creeping doubt, but I decided to go for it anyway.

“If it comforts you, Councilmen, send Oracle Sarai with us.”

She hadn’t expected that, and glared at me; if they ordered her to go she could not refuse.

Tyrel looked at me too, his expression letting me know I’d made another big mistake.

Lord Sydon, formerly Centerpiece, at least made a pretense of considering it, but he decided to let Tyrel be responsible for our fates.

“Will she be of any use to you in your search, Canceler Tyrel?”

Given his predicament, I was surprised when he actually told them yes; she glared daggers at him too.

“Zephyr?” I needed his insight, and got more than I needed.

She is fond of him, Little Mother; she will compete with you for his attention.

“But I’m not competing for it.”

You don’t have to compete, because you already have it.

I’d suspected that, but to hear it spoken was something else again…

“And if I have to summon Abdiel against her?”

I will not contain him, or interfere with your will for her.

“You leave at first light. We are adjourned,” Lord Sydon stated, giving a slight nod in my direction as they rose and filed out.

I fussed with my hair and clothes until Sarai finally took her eyes off me, taking Tyrel by the arm and leading him away so I’d be alone.

“It’s going to be a long trip, Zephyr.”

Indeed, but the spirits grow stronger, and take comfort that Abdiel and I will watch over you.

It was a comfort; he’d said if I needed Abdiel and his brood he’d release them.

I didn’t want to be put in a position to take Sarai’s life, but it wasn’t up to me.

The Passing: Balancing Powers (Chapter 30)

by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101

I had questions for Zephyr, who told me he could shield us all. I wasn’t sure what happened when the spirits were occupying his body, drawing from it, leaving him weak to the point of death. His spirit, joined with theirs now, was gaining strength at an alarming rate.

He smothered their voices as they tensed in the presence of so much power, but he shielded them from it too. Where and how he got such power, and what it meant for me, I didn’t know, but intended to ask him.

There was no time to now.

My nerves had been firing faster the closer we came to the palace, and I all but cast a spell when under the watchman, but somehow Tyrel and Zephyr had combined to keep him from detecting my magic.

It would be all but impossible now that we were to face the Canceler Elders directly. As they entered the room I felt their eyes rake over me, assessing with an unnerving calmness, as if they could instantly flick me away like a bug.

The took their seats in such a cold and stony silence that I half expected frost to coat the architecture. There was no one else in the Hall at first, and no preamble to the fact they intended to get to the matter at hand.

The man in the center seat, fully garbed in a dark red outfit that looked suited a jester more than a judge, addressed Tyrel: “Canceler Tyrel, who is your prisoner, and why have you brought her to us?”

“Her name is–“

“More importantly, ” a voice spoke from the right side of where I was standing, “why is she not bound and gagged properly?” A woman, clothed in diaphanous black pieces of cloth that somehow covered her, slinked from around one of the colonnades. She was slender, tall, and bald, and had large, sapphire blue eyes that gripped me in an icy thrall as she looked at me, but spoke to the Council.

“This child is awash in dark spirits. But there is one, known to me, who holds them at bay and calms her emerging power. And she is alone in the world.”

That last part, spoken with no inflection of any kind, made the reality that much more stark. I was alone in the world, as far as my flesh was concerned. So much so that I was attracted to the nearest male to me, still at best an unknown, at worst an enemy.

I checked off a list of sorts: An enemy leading me to danger, the spirit of a dead bird, and me, a keeper of dark, unfamiliar spirits testing my ability to keep them from wreaking havoc on the living was all that stood between worlds bent on destroying each other. It was a frayed, thin strap to hang the fate of the world on so weak a warrior. Having shouldered the burden, though, I now had to carry it.

Plans be damned. They can’t afford to kill me now. I stepped forward to speak to them and plead to be heard, but they panicked, and I stepped into pulsating, writhing bands of power that brought me to my knees as they bound me tight.

I felt pain all over as Zephyr cried out inside my head, which I now held in my hands.

If I’d ever been a threat, I wasn’t now, and if I wondered about the Cancelers’ abilities to contain my magic, I didn’t now. I hurt everywhere. But then it began to subside, almost as abruptly as it had beset me.

The looks on their faces told me something unexpected happened. Three of them stood up, looking at me with something between fear and contempt, and the woman who was on my right side recoiled, not quite sure if she was up to taking me on or not. One who is known to me… she knew of Zephyr, then. Another piece added to the puzzle of magic around me.

Tyrel stood open mouthed at first, then hung his head in resignation; he was in deep trouble now. Zephyr’s cry hadn’t been one of pain, but power, strong enough to counter their own, on their turf, and in their home.

Zephyr was known to the Cancelers.

Had I just been betrayed?