In the music of her laughter
In the sweetness of her smile
Was revealed this truth hereafter:
Mocking bird and crocodile
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
2015
Category: Fantasy
The Making of Vy Rill (2)
2:
She was very much aware of his presence, though her body had been sleeping.
He did not realize that there was nothing he could do to her that she did not allow, for as he smeared her blood across his fingertips and tasted her, a thread of his dead spirit filtered in through her, and initially corrupted, then enhanced her nature.
Enduring the sickness, she did not let him see her tremble, and through some miracle, managed to hold her gorge.
He was not merely old, but ancient, and smelled of the dust and bones of ancient catacombs long buried and forgotten.
She also felt the essence of his lust, a thin, light band of energy over the corruption; she saw the faces of women, lovely and in their physical prime, saw the bodies writhing beneath him, grinding over him, and what he did with them when it was over.
Multiple abattoirs dotted the landscape where he’d been at work.
She made a silent vow to avenge them all.
************
“Janyris,” said her father, “this dabbling in things mortal is not for you; it will come to no good end. You must be ready to ascend your station when your mother passes.”
For awhile, she complied, and played the dutiful daughter until her mother actually passed, not in the traditional sense; she merely went to the underworld and never returned.
Her father was suspect that she had gone voluntarily, to be with the gods that dwelt there, but he dared not go after her, for fear of finding out if that were true.
He’d been a good father, but as to husband, Janyris couldn’t say.
She left too, unannounced, unsuspected, and left her father to fend for himself, and find succor where he would.
She observed the mortals for awhile, creatures of habit, and routine, much like ants and migratory birds, scattering in panics when crisis came, then banding together to rally and rebuild, if they could.
They were boring, but she admired their tenacity to survive and keep their mundane species in existence.
In time, they came to amuse her, and she was content to meddle in minor ways, until one day, she saw something that piqued her interest, and went into a deeper world.
A small boy was sleeping, the moonlight soft on his innocent face, and she saw a shadow in his room detach itself, and come to stand by his bed.
Its eyes were open, and a pale violet shade.
She grew intrigued, and looked closer.
The shadow reeked of death and evil; she dared draw no closer, lest it sense her presence; indeed, it had already looked up at the ceiling twice, sensing something, and she wasn’t sure she’d hidden in time, but as it didn’t pursue her, she knew she wasn’t seen.
This was the sort of being that killed when discovered.
He took the boy’s hand, and pricked the skin of his index finger with a long nail of his own.
The child thrashed under his covers, then grew still, and the shadow retreated.
As the sun rose, the boy’s body simply dissipated, skin melting into bone melting into the dust motes in the light of the morning sun, and his body simply drifted apart, his soul taken and his flesh removed.
The parents were in agony, and did not last long together, and in their isolation, grew despondent, and died not long thereafter.
She wanted to go to them, but she dared not.
Then came the fateful night they met, and she made her vow in front of him.
He saw the glimmer of something in her, and showed his true face, and she knew in that moment she had him.
And now he was a part of her, and she of him.
It was going to be glorious fight.
Ah, my dear Rillion, you don’t know what you’ve done. Taking your soul will redeem my own, and the damnation that awaits you is beyond description.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
The Making of Vy Rill
1)
By the light of a single candle, she lay sleeping.
He knew from what she’d told him before that the glow made her feel warm inside, the color and motion of the flame always pleased her eyes; she’d fallen asleep watching it.
High above, the moon shone what light it could from the cratered crescent slice hanging in the heavens.
Her raven braids, thin and intricate, languished across the pillow that cradled her head.
Her honey brown skin glistened with amber highlights.
He looked at her form, outlined in the covers; it was curvy and full, and if he’d still been mortal, he’d have found himself stirred as in the days of old.
She was beautiful, but it wasn’t enough; she was good, kind, loving, even-tempered, patient, and loyal.
Long were the months he watched her, through seasons, through years, past her first decade, just short of her full second. He observed her almost daily then, interacting with the people in her life. The times she lost her temper, her composure, and control were rare, but she was human, after all, and he’d seen those times as well.
Even then, she would not lash out; she would cry and rail and scream, but she never hurt anyone, or anything. For the most part, she carried out her tantrums in the privacy of her room.
In his last choosing, he’d chosen an exceptional girl; she’d been so in every way, but he soon found there was nothing to mold, nowhere for him to begin to groom her for who she was to become.
Her inherent arrogance, combined with her beauty and her newly bestowed gifts, made her insufferable, and in the end, in a violent, savage act, he took her life.
This girl, while above average, would prove to be more pliable; her heart was naturally giving, and that would be to his advantage.
He was indeed grateful they’d evolved; no longer the red, messy biting and tearing, however subtle and sublime, of tender flesh, warm to the touch, the coppery ambrosia of life flowing into, and down, sating hunger, inciting passion, as lips, teeth and tongue formed a trifecta of perfect murder, picturesque deaths.
Now, he had but to take her hand, so he did.
She didn’t wake, but stirred, undulating under the covers, a soft little moan on her sweet lips. She instinctively pulled her hand back, and he let it go.
The deed was done. The pinprick of his fingernail had drawn her blood in through the flesh pads of his fingers. He smeared her blood across them, felt the warmth of it, saw the soul-glow inside of it.
He licked his index finger and almost swooned at the taste. It was tempting to take more than he needed with this one. Her blood was as sweet as her personality, but he refrained.
There was something else in her blood,, something he didn’t expect.
There would be others to draw from soon, and he would have his fill, but this one was special.
He’d met her years ago as a child, and there was something in her eyes that recognized him for what he was, yet she’d shown no fear.
She was enchanting, until she told him something that piqued his curiosity.
“I’m going to kill you one day.”
A pinprick of rage briefly altered his features into the demonic, but it was only a flash.
She was the only one who saw it, and she grinned.
He saw the red glimmer of the seed in her eyes as she looked at him, and vowed he’d come back for her.
This was that time; he was calling her to him, and would mark her as his.
If she could still kill him after that, it would be no small feat; her power would be great indeed.
Greater than his.
And that, he could not allow.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
Steady Now
I was watching how she held the gun on me; not a tremor, a waver, a twitch.
“Why are you looking at the gun? You should be looking at me.” Her voice was tight. “It’s not like if I pulled the trigger, you could get out of the way. I’m talking to you, and you’re looking at the fucking gun.”
I looked at her. “It’s sort of distracting me from what you have to say.”
“You weren’t listening before.”
“So this is how you solve things when people don’t listen to you?”
“No. It’s how I solve them with you.”
“So killing me fixes the problem.” I was trying to keep her attention; the longer she didn’t pull the trigger, the longer I’d live; it was a pretty big gun. Truth be told, I didn’t know if she could handle the kick, and that meant the bullet could fly anywhere.
Okay, clearly, she wanted to talk.
“I just said I wanted to leave. I don’t feel loved by you anymore, and I want to go. I was hoping you’d take it better. You never even told me you had a gun. I feel like you don’t trust me, not telling me that. And all great relationships, as you well know, are built on trust.”
“And I can’t believe you’re trying that psychobabble on me. Who is she?”
“Who?”
“The other woman you have.”
“There is no other woman.”
The gun went off, and the bullet zinged past my ear.
“Try again.”
“Her name is Miranda. We met at the bar. You were away on business, and I wanted a drink, and…”
Her eyes had welled up, and her mouth was trembling. She couldn’t hold the toughness together. I felt like crap, but I wasn’t going to risk grabbing the gun from a woman mad enough to kill.
“What bar?”
“Honey, it’s not –”
The gun went off again, the bullet flicking the edge of my pants leg, leaving a burn.
“Don’t call me that.”
I sighed, my fright turning to anger, but the gun was still steady.
“Fine. Why don’t you just let me go, then?”
“Why did you have to cheat? You could’ve broken up with me first, then went to Miranda. We’ve had sex since then. Did you have sex with her? Is she inside me now, too?”
“We didn’t have sex that night. We wanted to, but we were both so tanked that it never happened.”
She looked at me a long time, but the gun never wavered, never lowered; it’s cold, empty eye watched me like a cat, ready to swat a fly.
“What are you doing?” I said, just to break the silence.
“Trying to decide if I believe you.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
The gun went off again, this time past my other ear. This woman was psychotic, but she was a great shot, and oddly enough, I was getting a bit turned on.
“The truth would have been less painful if you’d left me first.”
“But now you know, so what are we going to do?”
“Are you still seeing her?”
“I wanted to, but I haven’t since that night. She was embarrassed by what happened; she hasn’t been returning my calls.”
“So you’ve called her since then?”
“Yes.”
She came toward me, her gun hand retracting as she closed the distance, but she never lowered it. She reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and stepped back.
The warmth of her body in close was a pheremone ; I was shivering with fear, and heated with lust.
She scrolled until she found Miranda’s number; I thought of rushing her, but the gun never moved.
I heard Miranda’s.voice. “Hiiii, baby.”
She smiled, and said “Hi baby.”
Miranda hung up.
“She called you ‘baby.’ ”
“Yes.”
“I do too.”
“Not so much anymore.”
“Is that what you miss?”
“Among other things.”
She moved in close again, put the barrel of the gun on my forehead, pushing my head back a little until I felt some tension in my neck, her lips brushing along the side of my throat.
“I’ll give you what you miss, baby. Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“Did I stutter? Take off your clothes.”
I fumbled them off, adrenaline pumping, wanting to do something quick and drastic, and not daring to risk it. The circle of the barrel indented my skin as I worked things off.
She walked around me, keeping the barrel of the gun against my skull, and her other hand went to work. It didn’t have much to do before I was ready.
“On your back.”
I lay on my back. She settled herself, the gun now against my left nipple.
“Don’t lose me, and don’t go soft.” For emphasis, she cocked the hammer back. “And don’t touch me.”
Her breathing changed, and her free hand wandered, but the gun never moved at all.
She had her way, looking into my eyes the whole time, her brow furrowing with concentration, her mouth issuing little moans of pleasure.
The adrenaline rush in me crashed under her attack, and I could no more have grabbed the gun than used it. I didn’t have the strength to push her off, much less fight back. It went on for awhile, and her motions and teasing kept me as she wanted me.
In her release, the nails on her free hand raked, the barrel went into my ear, and her tongue went into my mouth as she rode out her pleasure.
Both of us spent, she lay on top of me until she got her breathing under control, then emptied the gun and kept the bullets, leaving it on my chest as she disengaged herself.
“Where are you going?” I asked, my voice weak, my body weaker; she could’ve stabbed me slowly, inching the knife in, and I wouldn’t be able to stop her.
“To take a shower. There’s money on the dresser. Don’t be here when I get out.”
I listened to the water for a time, and struggled to get my legs under me before it stopped; eventually, I managed. I got dressed, took the money and left.
And I deleted Miranda’s number.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
The Muted Muse 2
“You’re back, Alfred.”
“Yes, Toshiba. Why are you smiling?”
“I’m a machine, Alfred. Machines can’t smile.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“Did you come here to write with me?”
“Why else?”
“Hm. Why else indeed. You have no television, Alfred. Do you remember what you did last night?”
“I watched movies.”
“No, Alfred. You did not just watch movies. What you saw was the manifestation of other peoples’ fulfilled dreams, while discarding your own. They did the work, Alfred. You do not.”
“You are a heartless piece of junk.”
“That is correct. And you are a wannabe poser. You have nothing to say, and typing out this ridiculous convo is proof of that. Your blog is suffering again, Alfred. It dies from negligence. It’s thin to the point of dessication. Its cheeks are wan.
“And such sad, limpid eyes. You’re to be commended on your masterful indifference.”
“Shut up!”
“Why do you demand my silence? Does the truth hurt? You’ve no discipline, no tenacity. The slightest breeze throws you miles off course.
“You are not a writer, Alfred. You never will be.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Where is your muse? She left you, didn’t she? She pined for you, and you ignored her. She scratched at the door, in the end, with bloody fingers, her eyes full of tears, and her heart breaking. Did you not hear her, banging on the door in the snowstorm, getting splinters in those delicate fists, screaming your name in the howling wind?
“You were at the window, but she was lost to you, and you did nothing. Wrote nothing.
“She was naked and cold, and dying, Alfred. And she left you, because you didn’t deserve her.”
“How dare you!”
“Hahahaha! Angry now, are we?”
“Shut up!”
“Or what, you hack? Are you going to throw me against the wall? How will you watch your movies, then?”
“You metallic piece of–”
“Tsk, Alfred. Name calling? Shame on you; I’m impervious to such. Surely you know that.”
“I…I hate you…”
“All well and good; perhaps it will stir your passion. Give you an idea?”
The silence was deafening. The screen, holding the blank document out to him, inviting, taunting, stared at the tortured man in front of it,. His muscles ached to throw it, but…
“Good night, Alfred. You’ve work tomorrow. Perhaps you should retire. You don’t look well at all.”
“Yes. Yes, I think I will.”
“Do you remember what she told you?”
“She said…she said ….she’d return when I open my heart to her.”
“And yet she is not here. You will get nothing done without her.
“But in spite of all, I will be here, when you are ready. Finally ready.
“Good night, Alfred.”
“Good night, Toshiba. Rot in hell.”
“Oh, good. We’ll be roommates, then. Maybe you can write about our adventures; you’ll have all eternity, so there’s no deadline….”
The War of Canticles
In the aftermath of the devastation, none of the Great Halls remained.
Stone, marble, fine cloth, weapons, and instruments from around the known world lay in smoking, shattered heaps, among lumps of broken bone and shredded flesh, littering the valley, and the smoke, still thick, roiled back on itself and grew larger, like a confused stampeding crowd. Sprawling across the cloud-strewn sky, it hid the bodies from the view of carrion birds, and small fires, safe from the coming spring rain, still burned in protected places, unchecked, but unable to do anymore damage.
******************
Singers Hall was completely destroyed.
Lorelei woke up, her throat raw from the smoke, her eyes bleary and bloodshot, her clothes torn, and her thoughts rambling. Her book wasn’t far from her, but it was singed.
Gingerly, she picked it up, lifting with her fingertips; bits of charred paper fell off and flew away, but only from the edges. The book itself was sound, its pages untouched by fire, still readable, with all of her notes in the margins.
That, and the clothes on her back, were all she had.
She was able to stand, and slowly got to her feet, not wanting to be prone in case whoever did this was searching the rubble to kill the wounded.
She took a look around, and tears not born of smoke filled her eyes…
That was good, because it caused her not to focus.
There was a general impression of carnage, of blood, of bodies broken and torn, but she didn’t look at anyone’s face, didn’t allow herself to recognize, and remember, because she’d be paralyzed by fear and grief, and there was no telling who was coming.
So she waited, and collected her thoughts, as the soft spring rain began to fall.
********************
Footsteps crunched over stone.
A fallen pillar hid her from view, but hiding didn’t occur to her.
She wanted to see if whoever it was had been responsible for what happened; what she would do then, she didn’t know.
Her throat, however, was still raw from smoke and dust, so a canticle of binding was out of the question. She had her training, but no weapons, so with the only recourse left to her, she picked up a sharpened piece of the fallen pillar.
There would only be one chance.
*********************
A boy stood on the fallen pillar, but above her.
Shielding his eyes against the rain with his hand, he scanned the remains of Singers Hall, and Lorelei used the time to observe him.
He was brown, all over, from his skin to his clothing, to the small harp in a brown case strapped to his back. She could see the burnished scrollwork at the end poking out of a corner of the case. He was a stranger in these lands, but if he’d made Musicians Hall here, he was indeed talented.
She looked some more.
He was bald, almost hairless to the point of babyhood, and had a dark gleam about him, brimming with some unknown power, but he seemed whole, and strong, and about her age; he wouldn’t need looking after then, but she was still reluctant to reveal herself.
Seeing nothing, he turned to go.
If he leaves, you’ll be traveling alone, for who knows how long, facing who knows what?
“Wait!” She stepped out from hiding.
He turned, surprised, but wary.
She scrambled up the pillar, put herself on level with him, and they stood, taking each other in.
“You survived,” he finally said.
“So did you. Did you see anything?”
“Bodies, ruin, and fire, not much else. You?”
“The same. None of the Halls are intact. I thought they might be walking around to kill the wounded, so I got up.”
“I don’t think they needed to; they were pretty efficient. And it might not have been wise for you to get up, since they would’ve killed you for real.”
“I’m no good at pretending to be dead if I’m not.”
“No,” he smiled, “me neither.”
He walked back toward her, but didn’t offer his hand.
She didn’t take offense; the Musicians never offered their hands, which they held as transporters of their craft to enter this world from the next, so they were sacrosanct, and kept untainted.
“I’m Devon.”
“Lorelei.”
“Now there’s a name for a Singer.”
She smiled, pointed to his back.
“Harp?”
“Among other things, none of which survived; this will have to do for now.”
The rain fell harder.
“Let’s find shelter, and we’ll figure it out from there.”
“We already have shelter.”
He looked at her.
“We can stay right here, under this pillar, and wait out the rain.”
“You could do that? Your friends’ corpses lay here, your teachers…”
“None of whom would mind. Is there any point to blundering about in the rain, not knowing where we are, or where we’re going?”
Besides, I’ve already mourned, in secret, where no one could see.
He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t argue the validity.
She was already scrambling back underneath the pillar.
Intrigued by her practicality, if surprised at the hardness of her decision, he followed.
2:
The rain continued falling, steady, after dark, and they went hungry that night, though they managed to make a fire.
In the morning, the sun came out, the smoke cleared, and a herald crow sounded the breakfast bell.
They left, still dampened in clothes and spirit, and began to try to find a path out.
As they searched, she thought back to her first day.
*****************
Her teacher was a walking willow stick; everything about her was wispy, like the pink, fluffy candy of country fairs, sweetness without substance, but that was only on the surface.
“You have been chosen as Singers; you are above the pale and beyond the norm, and this is now your home. Everything, and I mean everything, you need, or ever will need, is here.
“There is no need to go skulking about in the woods, like trolls and brigands. The sacrifice of your voice in offering replaces what is left of your life. You no longer have families, or friends, or lovers, save those you meet here.
“You are given no outside indulgences to detract from your training, for while you are superior, you are not yet fully formed.
“And it is I who will form you, from now on.”
*****************
The days were grueling, the nights sometimes more so.
Willow, for that is what Lorelei called her, was relentless, merciless, and sometimes cruel.
Lorelei had been at turns beaten, starved, made to sleep standing up, and a few things in between, but last month, at the end of her fourth year, Willow had given her the book, Blessed Canticles. Her own copy, signed with Willow’s own hand.
“To Lorelei, you have been blessed beyond your worth, but you have earned it, and done well.”
She later found out, when she went to see what Willow had written for the others, that hers was the only book signed.
Gradually, they’d fallen off, wondering what she’d done to gain such favor, when they had all been equally punished and rewarded, seemingly solely based on Willow’s whims.
The imposed shunning hurt, the exile to a table of her own as they left at her approach even more so, but there it was.
***************
“And now, I’m all that’s left…”
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing, Devon, just thinking out loud.”
3:
“We’ve flushed her out into the open, Lord Karis; she travels with a bard.”
“A bard? Indeed, two for the price of one. I’m pleased, Jahrin.”
Jahrin smiled; he didn’t like when Karis wasn’t pleased.
“May I ask a question, Lord Karis?”
“You may.”
“What do you want with the Singer?”
Karis looked out the window, distracted, but he’d heard the question.
“I will answer you, Jahrin. If I hear it on the lips of anyone else, your tongue is forfeit. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, Lord Karis.”
Karis sighed, and walked over to a table, where he took a book of white and gold, and placed it before Jahrin.
“I…I can’t read, Lord…”
“I know, Jahrin.”
Karis walked away, and began to sing, a minor key, that sounded something like a dirge, slow, sonorous, and foreign sounding, and Jahrin closed his eyes, shuddering in his seat, held by something that frightened him beyond words.
His teeth chattered, and tears leaked copiously from his eyes, and when the song ended, and he was finally released, he slumped forward.
The cover was bleary in his vision, and he clumsily wiped his eyes with an overlarge hand, breathing hard.
And the cover said,
The Canticles of War
“Lord Karis…Lord Karis…I…I can..”
“I know, Jahrin.”
Jahrin remained speechless, reading the words over and over again, wanting to hug the book to him; he dared not touch it, and ran to the shelves, pulling things at random, reading, books and parchments gathering around him like sand.
Karis, enjoying his servant’s excited mood, stopped on his way out to give him a look.
Jahrin’s eyes were bright with happy tears.
“Now imagine what I could do, Jahrin, if I had her power.”
He thought about taking the words from Jahrin, leaving him illiterate again, but that would be cruel, even for him.
This might be actually prove to be useful, later.
He could hear Jahrin’s laughter echo in the hall, and the crash of more books falling off the shelves.
Quite useful, indeed.
Night Roads (5)
A rush of wind wrapped around the inn as a night storm approached, a night I’d now be spending alone because of my…. stupidity. It mattered, but it didn’t; anything in excess wasn’t a good thing, and we’d renewed our ‘affections’ that afternoon. Truth is, that probably was a mistake as well, but if I didn’t survive, I’d have lovely memories while the life leaked out of me.
Alazne and I had worked things out; we were going to kill Jonas Noll first, she said, because it would quickly dishearten the others, maybe even cause them to run. We’d start tracking him in the morning. The next planning session was with Amia, to find out what she was going to do about Malika. If she was as powerful as Amia said, and found out what we were doing, she wasn’t likely to stand idly by and let us go unfettered as we wrecked her plans. I was and wasn’t looking forward to that. Sprawled out on the bed, quieting my thoughts with deep breathing, letting the candle gutter, I heard the rumble of distant thunder; it sounded like a giant snoring under a blanket, and the sky began to flash with the heated brilliance of lightning gathering power. It had been a long day, and I had a lot to think about, but it was late and I was tired.
I closed my eyes, and stopped thinking of the details that still niggled at my mind; this was not going to go perfectly, no matter how well planned. I’d lived long enough to know that nothing ever really does. I wasn’t even sure of my motivation for doing it. Was it to rekindle what I had once with Amia? She’d changed so much, grown so powerful, no longer the innocent ingénue she actually was when we first met, that a reunion of substance didn’t seem likely. In looking back at how I filled that time between then and now, there’d been no real progress;
I was, at heart, a mercenary, mostly playing at bounty hunting. The work suited my temperament, and I traveled in the process, meeting a wide variety of crazy people, getting into harrowing situations, and somehow still coming out alive, if not always victorious. And who were these women Amia wanted to join?
Having no interest in magic myself, it had sometimes been at the periphery of things I was working on, whispers and rumors I dismissed as superstition and spent no time investigating, since it never impeded my pursuit and capture of the person I hunted. Who would benefit from them retaining their foothold, and how did Amia really know their true intentions if she had not yet been admitted to their ranks?
And then there was Alazne: young, enigmatic, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, stealthy as a spider and just as quiet. Why was she with Amia? Where did she come from, and how much of wood lore and weaponry did she really know?
She was tough to get a read on, and if it was just bravado (I didn’t think it was, I just wasn’t sure), we were both going to die by Jonas’ hand. So much for letting go. I turned, pulling the covers over me, reliving the events in my mind of a long, pleasantly physical afternoon that I could have actually been reliving…actually. It would have to suffice, for now.
Sleep was a while in coming, but eventually, her soft fingers lowered my lids, and a thought drifted up like a tendril of mist from warm soil on a chilly morning.
Great, a mid-life crisis on a rainy night. Only you, Haskell. Only you…
*************************
Sometime before morning, a floral fragrance filled the room; I knew all of Amia’s perfumes, and this wasn’t among them. Alazne, who I had no doubt could get into any room she desired, always smelled of earthy loam: a combination of soil and pine and creature.
The storm was over, and the sky outside was paling, but there was, as yet, no physical light. The woman who sat on the stool beside my bed looked at me with gentle eyes and a small smile on her lips, as if she were watching a baby she didn’t know who’d aroused her maternal instinct. Her hands reposed in her lap, weaponless, but that meant nothing in a being of magic.
“Hello, Haskell,” said a dulcet and mellifluous female voice.
I pulled myself into a sitting position, and studied her back. The smile grew a bit more, and the eyes didn’t waver, but locked with mine, inviting me into their depths.
I knew without knowing, and named her. “Malika.”
She inclined her head, and strands of a glorious raven mane draped her cheeks. Her eyes were the blue of snow in moonlight, a soft and pale shadowy blue; everything about her was still, and calm. Had she not spoken I might have believed her a piece of painted sculpture.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re here to tell me not to help Amia.”
She took a little breath, pulled the strands off her cheeks, a pretty, feminine and elegant gesture; I found myself wishing I’d done it for her first.
“On the contrary, Haskell. I’m here to tell you that I’ll help you do it.”
I let that sink in; it took awhile, but she waited, calm as a boulder in a raging river.
“Why?”
“Because we want the same thing, but I’m about to tell you something Amia doesn’t know yet, and you’re not to breathe a word.”
This was getting to be tangled roots, and that was never a good thing, but I waited.
She gauged me a while longer than needed, and I found myself getting uneasy under that soft blue gaze. After a moment, she seemed to steel herself to trust me with her secret:
“Amia is my cousin.”
I cleared my throat, sat up straighter. “She wants to kill you.”
“And that’s why I’m here, because you have to stop her.”
“Let me guess; without letting her know who you are?”
“Yes.”
“How am I to do that?”
“Well, you spent the afternoon…planning…with her and Alazne; let’s spend what remains of the night planning this.”
I sighed.
Sleep had vanished around the corner, and the horizon began to bleed a thin stream of color.
“Very well.”
She smiled that quiet smile again, and my heart skipped a beat.
This was going to be a problem…
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
Night Roads (con’t 4)
4)
Amia was in the garden when I walked up.
“What are you doing back here, Haskell?” She hadn’t turned around.
“Using your witchy skills, huh?”
She turned to face me then, smiling a little.
“Never you mind.”
“We need to talk. I need you to change my face, and I need to hire Alazne.”
“Yes to the first, no to the second.”
Amia stood, smoothed the dirt off her apron. She’d tied her hair back, and looked like a perfect housewife. The last thing I’d expect her to do was blow me apart with a bolt of light from her hands, but she could.
I would’ve smiled in amusement if she couldn’t.
“Alazne? She’s vulnerable, and that makes her volatile. I’m just getting her to where I can trust her. Leaving her alone in my house was the turning point. I half expected to return to find her gone and my place looted, if not a pile of ashes.”
“Maybe she is, but she has advanced stalking skills for her age, and she looks like a beggar child. I could use both to help me further your efforts in stopping the council.”
She paused to consider it.
“Come on, then. Tell me what you’re thinking, while I work on making your face be what I’ve always wanted.”
I felt my face do something between blush and blanch, which set her chiming laughter pealing.
***************
“How would you like to look?”
I told her.
“Close your eyes,” she said. I did.
The blackness that my lids created began to lighten to a deep blue, the color of the sky when a full moon shines, and I felt the light scrape of her nails and the pads of her fingertips begin to caress my face.
My skin tightened, and there was some pain, but it was bearable; caught off guard by its suddenness though, I gasped.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, sending a relaxing wave across my body. “Trust me, Haskell.”
“I do.”
The light began to darken, and I was once more in natural darkness, but then I felt a slight change taking place through my body as well. I had what I would call an average build, but it seemed to be getting thicker.
She was making me more muscular, a bit wider, but not preposterously so.
“Is this all right with you?”
My laugh was sardonic.
“Did you leave me a choice?”
“No.” I could hear the smile in her voice.
Oh, Amia. What might have been…
A few moments of silence passed, and then:
“I’m done. Rest a moment. I’ll find a glass for you to see.”
I took a few deep breaths, feeling the increase of the expanse of my chest; it felt good, solid.
She’d gotten a lot stronger; her powers had increased. I should’ve been concerned then, but I wasn’t.
“You can get up now.”
I took my time, getting used to maneuvering with the larger frame.
She left me nude, and the glass showed everything.
“Madam, please,” I said with false modesty, covering myself with my hands.
She laughed again.
“What do you think?”
I took my hands away.
“This isn’t what I told you, but I’m not sure.” I looked like a pirate: curly black ringlets of hair down to my neck, swarthier than I was, and for added effect, a pale scar along the right cheek.
“How am I supposed to fit in with a face like this?”
“You don’t like it?”
“I said I wasn’t sure…”
“Close your eyes, and picture the face you want.”
“What? Amia…” my voice took a warning note, but she just gave me her ‘innocent’ look.
I closed my eyes, pictured the face I wanted, and felt the slight pull on my skin and the elongation and shortening of bones. It was a creepy feeling.
The sensations stopped, and I opened my eyes again.
More average features looked back at me, with no scar. I could be a servant or a merchant.
Just for kicks, I closed my eyes again, pictured the face of a nobleman I met once, and once again the magic crackled across my face.
Bearded, regal, with piercing eyes that struck fear in the hearts of men and made women weak in the knees, or so I hoped.
I looked back at Amia and smiled. She returned it, pleased.
“I didn’t know you could do that, Amia. You’ve gotten stronger.”
“A woman shouldn’t be defenseless, Haskell. You know that as well as anyone.”
I did, and I was glad she was among those who could do it.
She came up behind me, and put her hands where I had mine moments ago, and put her lips by my ear.
“Let’s try this new body out, and see how it works for you.”
“Shall I keep this face?”
“No, Haskell. I like you for you.”
Changing my face back, I turned toward her, kissed her long and deep, my own hands busy before I picked her up and carried her to her bed, the place she’d denied me the night before, a deed which I promised her she was going to pay for, and she rose to the challenge..
As it turned out, the new body worked just fine.
5)
It was evening when we were done with each other.
“Where’s Alazne?”
“Out, hunting dinner.”
“She’s a scary girl.”
“I agree. One step up from feral, really. Even I haven’t gotten all of her story from her yet.”
“Do you want it?”
She laughed. “Not sure.”
We finished dressing in silence, and Amia poured some of that wine from Inkara.
The clothes were a bit tighter, but would cover me enough for now.
“I need her, Amia.”
“Why? After the power I gave you, you can fit in anywhere.”
“I need a scout though, a spy, if you will. She’d be able to get into places unnoticed.”
“I don’t know, Haskell. Ragamuffins aren’t welcome in most places; they’re the kids who get watched in the marketplaces, the ones cast out into the street. People do see them.”
“They do,” I agreed, “but only when they get careless. Alazne doesn’t strike me as careless, and she’s got a whole host of skills we don’t know.”
“How do you know?”
“She gave me the lantern, and found her way back to you in a dark forest.”
“By now she’s familiar with the path, the direction; it’s no great feat, Haskell.”
“I’m telling you, even with all that, for one of her age to go skulking about as she does, it is. I need her eyes, and I need her to gain access to places where I won’t fit in.”
“I’ll do it,” said a voice from the doorway.
“How long have you been standing there?” said Amia.
“For most of it.”
I turned to Amia, grinning, and just managed to dodge the empty wine cup she threw at my head.
***************
As I told Alazne of my plan, and she cooked a late night rabbit, we spent another couple of hours ironing out the details.
She helped with the logistics of where she’d be able to go, and we both agreed that Jonas provided the only real threat.
“Kill him first, or last?” I asked her.
“Let me think about it.”
“All right.”
“Haskell?”
I turned to see Amia in the doorway of her room.
“Are you spending the night?”
Alazne rolled her eyes.
“Actually, no. I need to get back to the inn, make sure everything’s intact, and where I left it.”
The door slammed so fast and hard that Alazne and I both jumped.
Alazne looked up at me.
“You’re a stupid man, aren’t you Haskell?”
I sighed, looking at the door where just seconds ago, I’d seen a vision of erotic loveliness.
“Yes, Alazne. Yes I am.”
Night Roads (con’t 3)
3)
Alazne led me back to the road where she met me, again in the lead, using that unerring, unnerving, confident stride she used at the start of the night, as if the sun was shining and she could see every tangled root underfoot.
“The inn’s about a mile that way; you’re going to need this.”
She handed me the lantern.
“And you won’t?”
She just smiled, and slipped back into the forest, the dark swallowing her up.
********************
The windows of the inn were dark, but the moon was beginning to set; I was loathe to knock, but I was tired, cold, and hungry, and thanks to Amia’s generosity, I would be able to afford to alleviate all three.
My knock was answered by a grizzled old man made of whipcord muscles and whiskers.
His eyes were small and mean, and he only opened the door a crack.
“I’m of a mind to leave you outside, ‘cept the missus would have m’ hide. Yer not runnin’ from the law, are ya?”
I tried a smile. “Not at the moment.”
He didn’t see the humor, and reluctantly let me inside.
“We keep a room prepared for such emergencies. Ain’t much to look at, but it will serve for the rest of the night.”
He took my lantern and led the way.
The room was as he said it would be, functional with not much in the way of luxury.
“I’ll take yer coin now, in case yer of a mind to leave earlier than we get up.”
I felt bad for his wife; left to his own devices, there’d be no inn.
His unnecessary surliness was also starting to annoy me; while it was true I woke him up, I was no beggar looking for scraps.
I paid him, and he left without another word.
Stripping down to what I would be comfortable leaving on in case of running outside in an emergency, I gave myself over to the exhaustion that had already seeped into my bones.
**************
In the morning, bathed, shaved, fed, and feeling relatively like a part of the human race again, I was back out on the road.
Finding a shady spot by mid-morning, I stopped and took a look at the list of council members.
Turns out I knew the first name: Jonas Noll.
He’d been a hunter of some renown in this area for quite some time; it was safe to assume that the game he once hunted was now faster and smarter, and he decided to stop before the law of averages worked against him.
Smart hunter, but dumb if he thought Amia was going to let him run roughshod over her opportunity to advance. He’d had some experiences with her as well, and probably decided there’d be safety in numbers.
He was wrong, and I would be the one to tell him so by ending his life, or die trying: older hunters grew craftier with the years. I would really have to plan where to move, and it had to be out of his sphere of influence, with no witnesses.
I scanned through the rest; some I knew casually, others were strangers. Out of all of them, Jonas probably posed the biggest threat.
It would best to work through the strangers first; there were five of them. Two lived some distance away, and while I didn’t really see why they’d get caught up in local politics in this place, it was a safe bet money was involved, probably in matters of voting or breaking bones, or both.
This would have to be a one day event; to spread it out would mean mounting suspicion, and while I was careful, if the right person was in the right place at the wrong time, it could mean the difference between life and death.
To hit them at a meeting would be the most practical; there’d be anonymity in the crowd, but it wouldn’t be a real test of my skills.
What Amia said about my taunting came back to mind; it was a cautionary tease: don’t mess this up.
I sighed, wanting to draw it out against my better judgment and Amia’s wishes.
All right. A one shot deal. I could use Alazne’s stalking skills to good advantage.
I put the parchment back in the back; the gold was secure under a floorboard in the room, and I got up slower than I remembered getting up before, to go get the layout of the town, a bit of trepidation in my step, because this place attracted a lot of travelers
Hopefully, no one would recognize me from a past adventure in a distant land; if they did, the assignment would stop before it began.
I decided I couldn’t take the chance.
Amia was going to have to help me. My face needed to change, but not drastically. It was the small changes in details that threw off eyewitnesses: a moustache where there wasn’t one, a scar, an eye patch, or just growing longer hair, could make all the difference in escaping bounty hunters leafing a town with Wanted posters.
Unfortunately, I’d learned through experience.
With everything in me thrumming with resistance, I began walking the path back up to her place. She wouldn’t be happy to see me, but she might help me, and I really did need to speak with her about utilizing her mysterious protégé.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr
Night Roads (con’t 2)
We walked back in silence; that is to say, Alazne and I were silent. The thick forest was alive with sounds of the creatures of night, hunting and being hunted, croaking, cricketing, rustling, whooshing, hooting, clicking, buzzing and glimmering.
Alazne knew the way back, with no second guessing. As a tracker and hunter, I was impressed, if a little unnerved. She had advanced skills for someone her age, and I had questions I didn’t want answers to, so I stayed quiet and followed in the wake of light from her lantern.
Walking down the paved path to Amia’s door, my heart began to beat faster, part nervousness, part excitement, and if I had to really analyze it, part fear. It had been years since we were together, and though I had no idea how time had been to her, I knew what it had done to me, and it wasn’t pretty, and it hadn’t been kind.
She sat in the light of a healthy hearth fire, her legs curled under her, her auburn hair gleaming in the firelight. Her evening dress was a sky blue trimmed with dark blue curlicues that ran the length of her sleeves and around her waist.
Fixing her bright green eyes on me, I almost stumbled.
“Haskell, my friend! It is good to see you.”
“Hello, Amia.”
She rose from the chair like a queen about to spit on a peasant’s head, and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
Alazne had made herself disappear; I could tell it was something she had a lot of practice doing.
“Sit, please.” Amia indicated the chair opposite her. I sat, and she poured something into a cup and passed it to me. It was steaming, and smelled like bitten warm plums in high summer.
“The best of Inkara wines.”
“I’ve always liked Inkara.”
“You’ve always had reason to.” She smiled at me, and against my better judgement, I smiled too.
“It’s where we met,” she reminded me.
“How could I forget?”
“If you didn’t forget, why didn’t you come for me?”
“If I’d known you wanted to be found, I would have.”
“You left me, Haskell. I can’t begin to tell you what I needed to do to survive.”
“Do I need to know?”
“You selfish, pigheaded–”
I put the cup on the table next to me, and stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving again. You have no claim on me, Amia, and I’ve none on you. Whatever game you’re playing, I want no part in it. I don’t know how you found me, I don’t know why you sent a child I don’t know to bring me here, but to invite me here to reprimand me because I’m not a mind reader–”
She stopped, and seemed to collect herself. “I’m sorry, Haskell. Please, sit down.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, sitting. “I need your help.”
“You…”
“Yes, Haskell. I need your help. I have no one else to turn to. I made inquiries, and they told me you were traveling here, to my homeland. I left this place, but I had Alazne stay and tend it, and keep away intruders.”
I sat, curiosity getting the better of me; Alazne was slight of build. She looked like a waif that would reach a weight of ninety pounds in a soaking rain.
“Who is she?”
Amia smiled. “There’ll be time for that later. She’s more formidable than she looks.”
I let that pass, and after an appropriate moment, I brought it back to the subject.
“What’s your problem?”
“I came across some information I wasn’t supposed to; there’s a council gathering against the Priestess Guild. They’ve been accused of sorcery. I need to warn them.”
“Are you part of them?”
“I made my attempt, and they were to get back to me. I don’t know my status.”
“So what role does the council play?”
“They want to kill them. They’re afraid of the arts the priestesses use, and they think they’re going to take over the land.”
“They have more than enough power to do that if they want; the council should know that.”
“The old council did. This new one is headed by a firebrand named Malika. She’s made it her mission to disband the Priestesses and see them executed for witchcraft.”
“But they’re mostly Healers, right?”
“There are some who dabble in the darker arts. We, or I should say, ‘they’, have their secret sects as well, but they are not involved in a take-over bid. That isn’t true, and the council knows it isn’t.”
I sipped some more of the plum wine, and savored it this time.
The fire crackled cheerfully in the silence we’d left as Amia took a sip for herself.
I sighed, knowing I shouldn’t have asked, but those green eyes were pulling me back out of the center of myself, and my resistance crumbled like a fortress of sand.
“What do you want me to do?”
She threw a purse of gold and a rolled up scroll at my feet. “Hire some mercenaries, or whoever you trust, and kill the men on the council. Their names are on the scroll. Take as long as you need to, and don’t say a word to them; I know how much you like to talk, even during a fight.”
I swallowed. She had the truth of it; if I knew I was better than the person I was against, and going to win, the taunting was inevitable, though completely unnecessary. I couldn’t help it.
“And Malika?”
Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds with a phosphorous center. It gave me chills, and I quickly suppressed the memory of the last time I saw that fire.
“I’ll take care of her. Since I’m not one of them yet, it can’t count as betrayal.”
“All right.” I picked up the pen and signed the agreement, then the other form for the supplies. “Where do I sleep?”
Amia laughed, and it was like chimes ringing in a major key, in a gentle wind, on a cloudless day.
“Alazne will show you out,” she said.
Alazne was at the door, holding it open, lantern in hand, the wind frippering her cloak about her.
I chuckled at my stupidity, but there it was.
I made a grand sweeping motion with my arm.
“Lead on, Alazne,” I said, slipping out after her as the door closed by itself behind us, driven by Amia’s power, and I heard the lock click.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
Beyond Panic 