“This way, sir.”
The serving girl’s voice was tremulous as she led the man into a great banquet hall with high ceilings.
What illumination there was came from ensconced torches, but the fires seemed subdued, intimidated, as they made a futile attempt to eradicate the shadows pulsing in their wavering light.
On the dais were the thrones, and on the thrones were the dead king and queen, bedecked in their finest, cold as the fires were hot, and dead as the silence that permeated the place.
Their mouths and eyes were blood filled, their mouths in rictuses, as if they’d just eaten raw lemons.
Overall, the effect was one of scary clowns.
Their crowns reflected amber flares from the torch fires.
As they entered, the serving girl began to cry anew, and turned and ran, leaving the stranger alone to contemplate the bizarre tableau before him.
He looked at them a long moment, and was about to step closer, when to his right, two people entered and stepped up onto the dais.
A boy, and a girl, both finely bedecked as well.
They stopped before the dead couple, and bent to look at their faces.
Reaching out their hands, they touched the wrists to search for signs of life that long departed.
Satisfied there were none, the girl straightened first, and saw him, and touched the boy on the shoulder; he still preoccupied with the king’s face, straightened at her touch and saw her pointing.
They both looked at him with calm curiosity, as if he had a familiar face but they’d forgotten his name.
“Who are you,” the boy said.
“I am Trace.”
“What do you want here, Trace?” the girl asked.
“I’ve come to see who killed the king and queen. Are you their children?”
“We are,” said the boy.
“You don’t seem to be grieving.”
“We’re not,” said the girl. “They were awful to us.”
“And now you stand to inherit their thrones. Did you kill them for that?”
The boy stepped off the dais, the girl trailing, as they approached him, and stopped some five feet away.
“We have no intention of occupying the thrones of the dead; we’re leaving.”
“For where?”
“None of your concern,” the girl said.
“May I ask your names?”
“You may,” she said, “but we won’t answer you.”
“You’re here to investigate the deaths of our parents, and you don’t know our names?” the boy said.
“This is not my homeland,” Trace said.
The boy looked at the girl, and she nodded. “I don’t suppose there’s harm in it.”
“I am Kihari,” the boy said.
“Anjallay.”
Trace looked past them at the thrones with their occupants.
“I would say it’s a pleasure, but given the circumstances…”
Anjallay looked at them too. “Yes, the circumstances.”
“We’ll leave you to it, Trace. We’ll send the servants in to clean up when you’re done.”
“Where can I find you?”
“We’ll find you,” Kihari said. “Let’s go, Anjallay.”
Anjallay took Kihari’s arm, and turned to smile at Trace as they walked past, and out of the banquet hall.
Trace walked up the dais, walked behind the thrones, placed his right on the king’s, his left on the queen’s, and whispered his spell in the dark.
******************
Everyone was in high spirits; laughter, dancing, drunkenness, gluttony, groping under skirts, rubbing of raised crotches, moans and grunts from dark corners, and over it all, the light hearted music from musicians who large eyes betrayed they were fearful of the chaos around them, but dared not play badly for fear of the king’s displeasure.
A servant girl approached, buxom and golden haired, and the king’s eyes roamed over her as if she were a fertile field, which in his mind, she was.
The queen looked her daggers and ice at him, but he ignored her.
The dark wine shimmered in gleaming crystal glasses, and the queen took hers and poured it over the girl’s head.
The king’s eyes followed the rivulets wine running down into her cleavage.
She blinked, and though her face twitched to blubber, she dared not under the queen’s murderous glare; she curtsied, whispered, “Your majesties,” and quickly walked away.
“That wasn’t necessary, Milal.”
“As was your undressing her with your eyes, my ‘lord.’”
He turned to her, reached for her hand.
“You know it is you, and only you, that I truly love.”
She did not take his, and kept her eyes on the dance floor.
“I grow bored,” she said, and rose to leave, and could not.
Her eyes grew large, as she tried again, and barely managed to lift the folds of her gown.
“Is something wrong, dear?”
“I can’t get up…my legs…Natay, I can’t move my legs…”
Natay went to stand up to call out for an attendant, and found he couldn’t stand either.
“What’s happening?” He looked out over the floor, and the people, obsessed in their festivities, were oblivious.
He went to shout, and his throat seized, as if a giant had him by the throat.
He tried to turn his neck, but could not; from the corner of his eyes, he looked at Milal, and she was convulsing, her fingernails scraping, hands shaking as she trembled.
Her eyes began to bleed, and she went still, her hands going slack, fingers loose, and a pool of blood filled her mouth and bearded her chin, spilling in rivulets down the elegant gown.
Natay’s own eyes were growing dim, but unlike her, he didn’t convulse; a massive jolt of pain hit his chest, as if a giant had stepped on his exposed heart; his eyes and mouth spurted red liquid, and he gurgled and moaned, and his death rattle was loud on his trembling lips, which finally grew still.
*************
A scream ripped through the hall, loud and long and high, and as everyone turned to see the screamer, she pointed at the dais.
At first there was a ripple of laughter, mixed with some confusion, wondering if the royal couple was playing a joke.
An older nobleman called for the physician; he arrived quickly, his bag in his hand.
“You won’t be needing that,” the nobleman said, close to his ear.
The hall was quiet, except for the crackling torch flames.
The physician approached dais, his eyes searching, but his voice fearful, low so only they would hear his reprimand.
“If this is a jest, majesties, it is done in poor taste at the expense of your guests.”
He touched them both, and quickly drew back his hands.
Turning, his face pale, his voice thick with sadness and anger, he said, “Call the guard. The majesties are dead, murdered on their thrones.”
Amid screams and cries, the guards entered and cleared the room; it took a long time, but eventually, the hall was empty except for the physician and the Captain of the Guard.
“What should we do, doctor?”
“I know a man who can help; he’s in the next town. He will come tonight, if paid well. Send a messenger to get him.
“His name is Trace. He is a mage, and he will tell us who did this.”
“The king forbade magic.”
The doctor sighed. “He is not a position to refuse, and beyond wellness, Captain. I seek his murderer,” then he gestured, taking in the queen. “Their murderer.
“Send the messenger.”
The captain nodded, and they walked out together into the hall, where two guards with severe faces, pinched from the fear of things beyond their ability to see or control, kept vigil over the dead.
“And Captain, send him to me when he arrives.”
“I will, doctor.”
They parted in opposite directions.
******************
Trace took his hands off the backs of the thrones.
His palms were crisscrossed with keloidal scars that receded back to smooth flesh even as he looked at them; they always plagued him during a tracing.
The weakness he felt in his legs was dissipating, and he pushed himself away, not having realized he leant against the large, high backing for support.
The blonde serving girl was the only one who’d approached the dais in the time before the poisoning, but the queen did not drink her wine, yet was still struck, and struck first, by whatever spell had killed them.
It was a place to start, and Trace went to inquire of her whereabouts.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
The last of the notes rang out over the plain, a minor note, mournful and haunting, fitting, given the surroundings.
The Aaralyn Sisters, linked through holding hands, their auras overlapping, stopped their singing and pulled their minds back from the focused blast they collectively sent into the midst of the warriors bearing down on their surviving remnant.
In the waning state of their collective trance, they heard the bodies of men and horses falling, weapons clattering and clanging as they fell from the dead soldiers’ hands, or fell to the ground, tossed from too far away.
They heard the cries and gasps, curses and screams, as men, used to the power of their strong arms and cruel methods, fell like slaughtered bulls at a pagan feast before the power carried in the singing voices of women half their size.
In the moments that followed, as if from a dream, they opened their eyes.
Gradually, the effects of so great an incant took its toll: some collapsed, most began crying, some cheered, others embraced.
Singer Krista, the Elder among them, merely looked out over the carnage, and gave a deep sigh.
She had given everything, and in victory, felt as empty and afraid as when they began fighting.
The multi-sided attacks decimated their numbers, and there were things that now needed doing that took her beyond the immediate sense of relief and celebration.
The priests, the wizards, the witches, the sorcerers and sorceresses had all come a-killing, to take the voices, and power of the Aaralyn, because they dared not abuse it to rule the world.
The warriors were the last.
In not fighting, Krista knew now, the Aaralyn made the world think they could not.
They’d just proven the world wrong, though the cost was dear.
The sun was low in the sky, and the clouds were breaking.
In the distance, the birds began to circle.
“Is it finally over, Singer Krista? Do you hear anything?”
The speaker was young, new to them by two years, gifted, but untried, until now.
Krista turned weary eyes to her, and saw the young woman trembling, eyes wide, still fearful, full of nervous energy and adrenaline, but skittish now; the carnage had overwhelmed her resolve.
Had the battle continued, this one would have bolted, or died, but Krista could not hold that against her.
“We are all that remain, Singer Willow.”
Singer Willow embraced Krista tightly, needing something solid to hold onto, physically as well as mentally, and Krista returned the embrace, looking out on the carnage as the girl’s body shivered against hers, her quiet sobs muffled in Krista’s dusty robes.
She cries on me, for she believes me to be strong, but there is no one stronger to comfort me.
I hope the Victory Canticle is completed, or the last thirty years have been for nothing.
***************
By the time they returned to Singers Hall, the snow was falling, and they had just made it in before the storm.
Baths ran long, wine flowed freely, sleep ran deep, and as the days passed, the sick were tended, the wounded bound, the dead buried, and those who needed help to deal with what they’d seen and done received it.
In the weeks that followed, as the snow melted, and the roads were muddy and troublesome, but passable, and the sea more or less temperate, if cold, some packed to return home, renouncing the elite sect of Singers.
Singer Krista bade them farewell, and wished them the best, and released them to their destinies outside of the Aaralyn’s ranks.
It was not a calling for everyone, and those who tried to force themselves to be a part of something that went against their better judgment, went against their own souls, were counseled to voluntarily leave.
They forcibly expelled those who did not take that option, but continued to struggle.
******************
Singer Janis knocked on the door, and Krista bade her enter.
“How are you, Krista?”
“I’m tired, Janis, in more ways than I care to count, but we are here. The Canticle…?”
“It’s finished. I saw it personally, looked it over. We tested the incants, and they didn’t penetrate.”
“And the protection?”
“Made from the finest, by the best in the realm; it will be well protected.”
“I’m pleased.”
Janis turned to go.
“Stay a moment, Janis. I need to talk.”
Janis turned, surprised.
“All right.” She sat.
Krista sat up straighter, folded her hands in her lap.
“I’m disbanding the Aaralyn.”
Janis sighed, shifted in her own seat. “I was wondering…”
“You’re not surprised?”
“Not at all. I even understand why.”
“Why?”
“Our numbers are greatly reduced; we lost a lot of power in those battles. We need to replenish, and these young women can’t do that here.”
“Exactly. You do understand.”
“But they will marry common men; there’s no equivalent to our order among men.”
“True, but there is nothing to be done for it; the mothers will recognize the daughters who have the gift. We’ve had Aaralyn who’ve abandoned our ranks throughout history.”
Janis nodded.
“But as for the Canticle of Victory, I have a plan.”
And as the night unfolded, she told Janis about it.
**************
“Seems a bit dramatic, Krista, but all right; you know that even crystal can shatter at the right frequency.”
“That may be true of ordinary crystal; this isn’t.”
“How so?”
“All of the factions have contributed, but we put in the final piece, the key that unlocks the Victory Canticle to draw it out, without shattering the container, and its protector.”
“And what is the key?”
Krista smiled.
“She hasn’t been born yet.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me, Krista…”
“There is, but see it done, Janis. Please.”
Janis took that as her cue, and rose to leave.
“I’ll see it done.”
2)
Toward winter’s end, as the battle weariness began to fade, and the women began to return to a sense of life, if not normalcy, Singer Krista felt the time had come, and called a gathering in the ampitheater.
The Aaralyn came, curious, excited, and nervous, as they’d more or less passed the winter in idleness, left to their own devices.
Some practiced, some studied, some pursued hobbies, and there were the usual amounts of squabbles, clique fighting and infighting, but now they were eager to get on with things.
Krista and Janis had seen to the nobility that called on the Great Hall after the cleanup, seeking their alliance in gaining this throne or that throne.
Krista let it be known that having been attacked from all sides, they would take no sides, since they’d had no allies in their hour of need.
Soon, it wouldn’t matter.
The ampitheater carried sound, so there was no need for her to raise her voice.
When Krista took the stage, the ladies grew quiet.
“Welcome, Singers. There is no easy way to say this, but this will be our final gathering.”
There were some surprised gasps and cries, but the Elder put her hands up for silence.
“We’ve known this day was coming for some time.
“Look around you.”
She gave them a moment as they did.
“These are all that remain.”
She let that sink in.
“The time has come for us to rejoin the world.”
More cries of resistance peppered the air.
“Singers…sisters…we must be realistic; our times and purposes have been fulfilled, and the Aaralyn have emerged victorious.
“But we must ever be present in the world, lest these times come again.
“And for that, we need children, and for that, we must rejoin the world.
“My own time is past, my children long taken from this world at the war’s beginning, to break me. To stop me. And it almost did.
“But those of you who remain are young, fertile, and for the most part…”
She smiled.
“…beautiful.”
There was a ripple of laughter, as intended, and she waited until it passed.
“And then, there are the Canticles.”
They once more gave her their attention.
“The books have survived, and been copied. There are compendiums, hidden, and individual copies, the ones you received. The ones you used to ensure our survival.
“When we depart, you will have these books among you, so they will be scattered throughout the world as we know it. Guard them well, with your lives if need be.
“But as you leave to start your lives over, and start your families, there is one Canticle that will remain here, buried and unmarked.”
Murmurs of surprise filled the theater.
“This Canticle will be used to defeat any more factions that may gather in the future; it is the most potent of all. It will supersede all others, even those written by the factions against us.
“It was worked on in secret by the most gifted Aaralyn, centuries before most of your births.
“We had to search for it, and in the searching, we lost more of us, even as we were devastated in the killing that almost consumed us.
“The remnant of factions against us that survive already works its opposite to counter, but as yet have not succeeded, according to such spies as remain among them.”
She noticed them beginning to shift, and knew she had to close.
“This is the last piece that needs to be done before we go.”
She removed from beneath the podium an ornate teak box with bronze reinforcements and locks.
Opening it, she removed a faceted crystal, light blue, with an opalescent vapor slowly swirling about within it.
The women admired its beauty as Krista held it in sure hands.
“This is the Canticle of Victory.”
She placed it back in the box, and removed another; this one was black with silver reinforcements and locks.
From that, she removed a coiled serpent, wrapped three times, also of crystal.
Some of the women murmured at that, some looked away.
She then took the crystal out again, and placed it in the serpent’s coils.
The opalescent vapor in the crystal came out, and entered into the coils of the snake.
As it filled, the snake’s hood spread, revealing it to be a cobra.
Krista could sense the repulsed fascination, and indeed, as Janis said, it was dramatic.
Her audience gasped.
“The Canticle of Victory is now sealed, until the next time it is needed. It will be left in a mountain cave with nothing to mark it, the passing of time burying it further still, but don’t worry, Singers.
“Whoever needs to use it, they will find it. She will be told of its existence, and if she is the right one, at the right time, she will find it on her own.”
Another silence, but this one was heavy, as the Elder began to weep.
“It has been my life’s honor to fight beside you.
“Your bravery, though unrecorded, will live on in the fact that the world still exists, tattered and bruised though it may be.
“Our power, and our unity, did that.
“The earth you now walk is the one you helped save, and as we depart from here…”
She sniffled, and dabbed at her eyes.
“May your daughters be blessed to fill our Great Halls once more with song, and our world with peace.”
“We are adjourned.”
She put the serpent and crystal in the black and silver box, and sealed it with an incant.
Her attendant came, took it, gave a brief nod, and left to start toward the mountain cave.
Applause thundered, tears flowed, cries, songs, and ululations rocked the ampitheatre as the women hugged, kissed, and embraced each other.
Krista moved among them, smiling, blessing, and as the sky darkened and the theater emptied, the sun set and the moon rose, and the chill winds blew snow from the peaks, the age of the Aaralyn passed into history, faded with time.
And the final notes of their farewells soaked into the stars above, to disappear in the light of a new dawn.
**************************
When Singer Lisa arrived at the cave, the moon was high.
The horse was somewhat winded, but she’d explored the mountains often as she hunted, and she’d remembered to bring oats, carrots, and let it drink from the stream where she’d spent many an afternoon poring over her Canticles.
With deft movements she exposed the cave’s covering.
When a gust of wind blew sparkling virgin snow, she placed her scarf over her mouth and nose as she retrieved a lantern from another pack she’d fastened to the saddle.
This needs to be done quickly.
She left the pack with the box on her back; she’d endured its discomfort there for the sake of its importance for the whole ride; a few more minutes wouldn’t make a difference.
She slipped inside the cave.
In the narrow tunnel she had to bend, but it would open back up to where she could stand again.
She reached the space, allowing the lantern light to fill the space and her eyes to adjust.
A figure in a black robe lined with silver sat on a rock, and turned to look at Lisa.
Its eyes were blood red, and glowing, and its skin white as the virgin snow surrounding them.
It stood up, and in its left hand was a walking stick of old bone.
Its lips were thin, and flushed with red as well, darker than its eyes, but stark in contrast against its face.
Langorously, it extended its right arm, and the hand, with long fingers and hooked red nails, was palm up.
It spoke to Lisa in a woman’s voice, low, almost sultry, belying its bizarre appearance.
“Ah, welcome, Singer…” it tilted its head a bit, “…Lisa, is it? I see you’ve come to return my pet.”
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
I was dying.
Cold, hungry, thirsty, and weak, lost in the mountains, with no stars to guide as the rain fell, and fell, and fell.
I slipped, staggered, stepped into mud, cut my fingers, wrists and arms fighting for life on the sharp crags that seemed determined to defeat me.
When night came, I was blessed with a shallow ledge that had some cover above it, and I rested, sure that this night was to be my last, hoping too, that the indifferent god I served heard at least this one prayer, and granted me leave to depart.
He did not.
**********************
I woke before the sun, and the rain had stopped.
Not in a hurry to start another weary journey to get nowhere, I took a moment, in spite of my dire needs, to admire the grim, sodden beauty of the view.
Mist was everywhere, gray and somber, moving across the valley like spirits in purgatory, neither light nor dark, trapped in a slender slice of the bleak void where nothing laid claim to anything.
It wrapped around the mountains too, like soiled white banners, and as I rose and stretched, something cold seemed to touch me.
A patch of skin on my forearm grew wet from the contact.
I gasped, and turned, and there she was, insubstantial as the wind, and present as the rocks all around me.
“What?”
I dared not move, lest it shove me from the ledge.
I am no ‘what’, but ‘who?’
I could see the shape of her, white in contrast to the gray, but there was no face to speak of; I could see through where the eyes should have been, and what would have been her hair kept bunching and dropping across her what would have been her shoulders, all of mist, all rolling like the banners and spirits, spreading apart, and gelling together in a rhythmic cycle, as if hands were moving it, as if in tandem with a heartbeat.
Human shaped, but nothing close to human.
“Has my rest here disturbed you, spirit?”
No. Indeed, it has given me company through the night. You are far from home.
A hole again, where the mouth was, but the mist moved around it like living flesh, in the manner of a woman speaking.
“I do not know which way my home lies.”
Then I will guide you.
“I am too weak to descend, now. I won’t survive the journey down.”
Then I must make you strong.
“How will you accomplish that?” My voice grew annoyed; I just waste
If you but follow, I will make you strong. Come.
“Very well. You said that you were ‘who,’ not ‘what.’ May I know the name of my savior.
I am called Eri. It has been long since I last saw men here. They passed through in days of old, with instruments of harm. We did not let them cross, and they rest below these paths you trod.
“The mist in the valley below…”
The shape gave a single nod. “They are the souls of men, unable to find respite, desperate to attain peace, but their many victims pursue. The valley is ever shrouded with their hunting.”
I shuddered at the thought.
How many? How long?
The sun rises, and I will leave you then, despite my will to stay. I cannot fight the sun. Will you follow?
“Yes, Eri, I will follow.”
She engulfed me, and the coolness of the droplets that made her refreshed me; my bones were free of pain, and my muscles of stiffness. My vision sharpened, as did the contrasting shades of pewter and silver, iron and lead, metal and steel, and she appeared again in front of me now, and began to glide over the narrow path.
The sun began to glow on the eastern horizon.
I could feel my mouth smiling in amazement.
“Follow. We don’t have long.”
And I followed her.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
Move ye not the ancient stone
Things beneath best left alone
Wait upon thy freeing hand
So they walk upon the land
Once to fright us
Twice to kill
Thrice the darkened void
to fill
Stay thy hand
from ancient stone
Guard of spirit
flesh and bone
Me and thee
and everyone
til the rising
of the sun
Move ye not the ancient stone
Move ye not the ancient stone
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
The traveler was weary from her journey, and the midday sun, while not harsh, was still relentless, brightening the road she traveled, but heating beyond her ability to bear it.
A break in the trees looked welcoming; branches swayed in a natural breezeway, and she almost sobbed to see it. In matters of survival, even small, mean comforts seemed a luxury.
As she looked around for a place to sit, the sound of water flowing over rocks reached her, and as soon as she heard it, she made her way toward it, her thirst taking precedence over her need to sit.
Hoping against hope she was alone, perhaps she’d be able to take a cool dip as well, if the current was not too strong.
*************
The river was wide, but not very deep from where she stood.
Birdcalls trilled randomly, breaking the quiet, but not the peace of the surroundings.
In spite of her needs, she paused to admire the river’s beauty.
Its flow was steady, the surface of it clear in the high sun, the ripples and waves fracturing the reflected sun into shards of bright gold and butterscotch.
Dragonflies droned and hovered over the low grasses that grew on the banks.
A heron stalked the river’s edge on the opposite bank, treading, peering, treading, before it snatched a nice sized fish.
It worked the meal down, and spread its great wings, taking to graceful flight.
In the moment, she’d forgotten her tiredness and thirst.
“Tranquil, and brutal, but it is the way of things, is it not?”
She jumped at the sound of the unexpected voice behind her, and turned to see a woman, stunningly beautiful, in a long green gown the color of new spring leaves, her wheat blond hair in an elegant spill across her shoulders, and her eyes reflecting the clear tranquility of the river, changing colors along with the changing light.
*************
“I’m sorry, traveler. It was not my intent to frighten you.”
“Who are you? I have no money.”
“I am Soyala, and it is well you have no money, for I don’t require any.”
The traveler saw that the woman carried no weapon, at least not visibly, but she was not yet ready to let her guard down.
“What do you want, then?”
“To share the beauty of the moment with you; again, it was not my intent to disturb you, but to have remained silent when you saw me would have bred more suspicion, yes?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Then I will speak no further, sister.”
Soyala wandered to the water’s edge, and stopped beside the woman, and looked out at the river.
The silence between them grew comfortable, and the woman cast surreptitious glances over at Soyala.
“Do you live near here?”
Soyala turned to her and smiled.
“I live in here.”
“You live in the woods?”
“We live in each other.”
The woman took a step back. “You’re a witch, then?”
“Some would call it that. Some would say fae, some sprite, but I’m none of those things. I’m flesh and blood, no different from a dray horse in that respect; made of bones, blood, and organs, and all that makes us human.
“I am those things, and more.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It is not for instant comprehension, and of no ultimate consequence. You wanted to swim, and drink, and rest, and I have disturbed you.
“I will go.”
“How did you know that?”
“I too have traveled far, therefore I know a woman’s needs.
“I will go.”
“No. No, please don’t.”
“You fear men? Creatures?”
“Both.”
Soyala laughed. “Yes, one is much like the other, but men are cannier, and sometimes more ferocious. I will stay if you like.”
The woman wondered at Soyala’s words, but decided it was a matter best not pursued.
“Thank you.”
Soyala walked away, sat down on a rock, looked out at the river some more.
The woman doffed her dirty dress, and slipped into the water.
Soyala watched her from the shore.
The traveler was a good swimmer, confident, but not foolhardy. She kept her strokes broad and her speed low, enjoying the feel of pure water cleansing her beneath the skin, eroding her weariness not just of traveling, but also of life, healing the bruises of a beaten spirit, piecing together a broken heart.
Her salted tears dripped into the pure water, and changed them forever, but not at all.
******************
When she came out of the river, her dress had changed from white to sky blue, and it was clean, smelling of mountain flowers. There was also a basket of fruit, bread, cheese, and a skin of water.
The traveler looked at Soyala, a question forming, and then smiled, knowing she would get no answer she would understand.
“Help me with the dress?”
“Of course.”
The traveler smoothed the gown into her curves, loving the feel of the strange fabric against her skin.
“Will you be able to finish your journey now?”
The traveler looked back at the road, checked the sun which was past its zenith, the afternoon shadows imperceptibly lengthened.
“Yes, Soyala, I will. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For your…companionship.”
“Then you are indeed welcome, traveler. Come. I will walk you to the road.”
“That won’t be necessary. You’ve done enough.”
Soyala took the traveler’s hand.
“We can never have enough kindness.”
***************
The path was shading over, and the birds still trilled at random, and the sun still shone bright, but the traveler was reliving the strange encounter in her mind, pondering the meaning of Soyala’s enigmatic presence.
It is not for instant comprehension, and of no ultimate consequence.
“But it’s far more important than you know, Soyala. Far more important than you know.”
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
3)
The taste of her blood was bitter and cool on his tongue, and his jaw clenched.
It was in that moment he knew she was fully aware of what he’d done, and in his eagerness, he played right into her trap.
He made no sound, and she did not stir.
A contest of wills, then.
The aftertaste was sweet like raw honey, and his spine tingled as the sugar infected his blood.
His stomach roiled, but it was too late.
What did you do to me, Janyris?
**************
Her father stood there, mute, dumbfounded that she would walk out on him.
“Janyris, who will take care of me?”
“Mother has taken lovers from the Underworld; you have choices, father. Exercise them. I will not stay here tending you in your dotage, I don’t want her crown, and I have my own life to live.”
Her father’s voice was gruff from grief. “How have you come to be so selfish?”
“In much the same manner as you came to be impotent: gradually.”
“Your mother, it seems, was a whore at heart. They are voracious creatures.”
“Mother enjoys sex; that does not make her a whore. She married you, and had none before you. Whatever perverse delights you introduced to her, she took a liking, and has now chosen to indulge.”
He hung his head, remembering those long, lust-filled nights when his own voraciousness had exhausted them both.
“Go then, and return not. I will die alone.”
She gave him a pitying look, reinforcing his.
“And you will die unloved; that’s what truly sad.”
She closed the door on him, and jumped as an axe blade split the door, heard him roaring damnation at her, the power of his words seeking to bind around her soul, and she felt them hit, and soak in. Her heart twisted in her chest, and doubling over, she retched,
Staggering out into the sun filled day, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her gown, struggling to breathe, she began running, her father’s curse on her life pursuing her, running effortlessly alongside, filling her ears with mocking wrath.
**************
“Is that what brought our paths together, dear Janyris: I in you, and you in me, in a way far more intimate than physical love?
“We hold each other’s strings now, and the better puppet master will win this fight.”
He left.
What a tawdry, common life. No wonder she fled.”
He returned to his own tower, the effects of her blood still at work in him, not quite making him intoxicated, but doing things to him that he remembered distantly feeling as a mortal.
His walk was unsteady, and he was shivering, but he felt flushed with heat.
Rest, I need to rest.
He stumbled, and grabbed a lamppost, sagging, but trying to pull himself up.
In reaching out, he saw his skin was changing, the veins prominent and shades of bruises against his flesh.
The tower was too far away, and the sky was turning pale.
He saw lights begin to come on in windows, for those who had to start early.
If they saw him, if they called the authorities…
With the last of his remaining strength, he saw an alley up ahead, and as his vision blurred, he shuffled past a couple of vagrants already in occupancy.
No one will pay attention to me here, except these vagrants, but I’ve nothing to steal, and they can’t murder me.
There was cardboard, dirty, wet, and doubtless crawling with things.
The alley, being what it was, and where, reeked of things best not considered.
Covering himself as best he could, the infection took him under, and what it would do, for good or ill, he would not know until he was awake again.
It’s like a virus.
Then it came to him, her new name, partly what she’d done, partly to show ownership of her. It was a term used by the young when something was widespread in their world of technology.
Viral.
Vy Rill. That will be my name for her, and I will make her embrace it, and me, until fate claims us both.
The illness pulled his eyelids down; darkness took him under to let the infection have its way, and he had one final thought before he surrendered.
I will be a new creation.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
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
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
Beyond Panic 