War Against the Realm

by Sherri Beth Mitchell

  She reached inside the pillowcase and touched the silver strand of hair she had tucked away there. Somehow it comforted her.

  She heard footsteps outside the door and frowned as the lock clicked. A teenaged servant girl walked in, bearing a tray of food. But it wasn’t just any servant girl.

  It was one of her own children.

  The girl waltzed in and set the tray down on the small table in the room. “Here you go. Eat before it gets cold.” She looked at Emaree expectantly, her dark eyes and hair making her face look pale.

  Emaree’s eyes watered. She had not seen her child in years, but she knew that face. “Do you know who I am, child?”

  The girl nodded. “You’re the wife the others are embarrassed of. You are the one who did not obey the orders of her husband and thus was not truly faithful to him. You did him many great dishonors.”

  Emaree held her stoic expression on the girl. “I am your mother, child. I named you Mirelda.”

  The girl grimaced. “I know who you are, and I do not care. Because of me being your child, I have had to endure the life of a servant instead of living my own life as my many brothers and sisters do. You are a curse to me.”

  “They have poisoned your mind against me,” her mother stated. “I have done no wrongs. I have only brought about certain actions and reactions to protect myself in this mountain.”

  Mirelda laughed. “You think you have any sort of protection in here? Everyone here hates you, Emaree. You’re nothing but a sore spot on our backsides that needs to be gotten rid of. Hopefully that’ll happen sooner than later. From what I hear, Claw will take care of that when the time comes for you to take your last breaths.”

  Emaree gripped the bedsheet. “That is not true, Mirelda. Why do you say such things?”

  Sighing as though speaking to an ill-behaved child, Mirelda said, “Your death will come before long, so that’s something you will have to accept. No one wants you and we’ve made that plain and simple from the beginning. You mean nothing to me or anyone else here. Go ahead and start planning your afterlife in the Underworld…it’ll be here soon enough.”

  She whirled about and left the room, shutting the door and locking it behind her.

  Emaree was silent for several long minutes, trying not to shed tears over a child of her blood hating her so. When her composure was regained, she looked over near the door.

  “I know you are still here, so you might as well show yourself.”

  She waited patiently. At first nothing happened and she began to question her sanity. Then a figure appeared, wearing a cloak that was as white as a new snow. The person’s head was covered by the hood, and mistrust formed in the pits of her stomach.

  “Who are you and what do you want with me?” she asked.

  The figure reached out and placed a spoon on her tray. Then, the hood was peeled away from a young man’s face, framed by hair as white as his cloak.

  “I would tell you to eat this food that your daughter brought, but the poison in it wouldn’t be good for your health.”

  “There’s poison in it more often than not these days,” Emaree stated bitterly. “And why would a stranger care?”

  “Does the fact that we are unknown to each other mean that I am unable to have compassion for another person?”

  “What you call compassion, I call suspicious behavior.”

  He looked over at her and arched an eyebrow. “Would you like me to find the kitchens and steal you some food that you can eat without being harmed by it?”

  Emaree started to laugh, but then saw that he was serious. “Now you have my suspicion peeked and it has formed into curiosity. Who are you, stranger?”

  “An enemy to the witches of this realm.”

  “That would make you my enemy as well.”

  He walked over to the stool and took a seat. “Have you never heard the phrase ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’?”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that I’m a witch of this mountain.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he agreed.

  “So we are enemies then.”

  “You are being held here against your will, aren’t you?”

  Emaree nodded once. “Since the day I arrived.”

  “Then you harbor no love for the other witches?” Quentin asked.

  “What I feel for them is the opposite of everything having to do with that word,” Emaree answered vehemently.

  “Then they are the enemies of both you and I, which would make us allies.”

  “I am an ally to no one.” She threw off the blanket from over her legs and lifted her tunic to her thighs for him to see the horrible scars upon her body. “How can I be an ally when I cannot even walk on my own? What use am I to anyone in this despicable world?”

  Goddess Aldoa had been right in her prophecy: there was, indeed, someone here who needed him. He was meant to save this woman before him, though how he did not know. He gazed at her legs with a sad expression. He had to get her out of here. It was painfully obvious that in the mountain of Rohedon’s Realm, she was being abused in the worst ways imaginable.

  “You have magic,” he said. “Otherwise you would never have been able to tell that I came into the room with your daughter. Magic used for good would be a great benefit to many people outside of this realm.”

  “As I said, I can barely walk on my own. How would I ever be able to leave this place? Are you going to put me in your pocket and spirit me away?” she said sarcastically.

  Quentin stood and glanced out the window. What he saw made his heart skip a few beats: a giant black stag with golden antlers was standing beside a dark body of water and appeared to be staring up the mountain and right into that window. Quentin leaned forward, watching the beast watching him. The stag pawed the ground with its hoof impatiently and lowered its head at the water. In the dark color of the lake a shimmering light formed, and soon he was able to make out the frame of what looked like a mirror. As the image became clearer, Quentin thought he recognized the mirror. He glanced at the stag and nodded his head. The stag lowered its head to him, turned about, and went back into the dark woods lining the lake.

  “Yes,” he mumbled.

  “Excuse me?” Emaree replied.

  He eyed her over his shoulder. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  He needed a way to get Emaree out since the door was locked from the outside. Quentin had not dared to leave to search for a key for fear he wouldn’t be able to find her room again in the maze of halls. He transformed into a bird and flew out of the window and around the mountain to get a quick idea of its size and layout. There were many rooms like Emaree’s which had a window chiseled out of the stone. He flew into a couple of them, but they all appeared to be empty. As he was flying back towards Emaree’s window, he spotted movement through a window he had not yet checked. He landed on a tiny outcrop of rock just below the window and slowly lifted his head to look in. Two women were speaking in heated voices. He recognized one as Saris, Natosha’s twin.

  “While I understand she was trying to throw discord amongst the marriage of the Dead Queen it does not mean that I condone this pregnancy of hers,” she was saying.

  The other woman, who wore her hair in a bun so tight that it stretched her eyes, appeared to be livid. “This is unacceptable in every way, sister. She must be punished for this—I don’t care that she is the most powerful of us all.”

  “I agree that punishment is necessary, Clea,” said Saris. “But after much thought I have decided that the child may work out in our favor. We will need to let Natosha prove to us that she is worthy of our trust again. I have her locked in her bedchamber as of now, but we need to talk to her more. As a wife of Rohedon, even with her magic fading in and out, she will progress more quickly with this pregnancy than a normal person. Whatever we decide…it must be done quickly.”

  Clea put her hand on the doorknob and said, “Then let’s go talk to her.”

  Saris shook her head. “I n
eed some food on my stomach before I do anything else—I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “I could use a little something myself.” A wicked smile overtook her face. “Perhaps I’ll send Emaree a special drink. Making her sick always makes me feel better. And I still think she had something to do with our spell not working the other night. Those waters should’ve destroyed at least a portion of the enemy camp.”

  “Do what you want with her, Clea,” Saris said with a wave of her hand. “Keep her alive for a little while longer though. I want to make sure she suffers more before I let Claw take her.”

  “Such wickedness within you,” Clea said with a sigh. “This is why you are a true sister-wife to me. I’ll have the servants take her some wine immediately and then you and I shall eat before talking to Natosha.”

  “Have Claw take it to her. And tell him to make her enjoy it,” Saris added with a touch of malice in her voice.

  A knock sounded on the door to the room, and Quentin was unpleasantly surprised to see Mirelda standing outside of it when the door was opened.

  “Ah, Mirelda. Did you take food to your mother as I instructed?” Clea asked.

  “Yes, milady. But if you please, do not call her my mother. She is a traitor to my father and nothing more.”

  “I see,” said Clea with a smile. “Were there any problems?”

  “No, but I wanted to tell you something I found odd. A few minutes after I left her room, I walked back through the same hall to retrieve a spoon that had fallen off the tray I had carried to her. Yet the spoon wasn’t there anymore.”

  Saris arched a blonde eyebrow. “Wow, disappearing spoons…who would’ve thought?”

  Mirelda’s face reddened. “Well, that’s not the peculiar part. I retraced my steps, and as I was passing by her bedchamber, I could have sworn I heard voices in her room. And I’m not sure if it means anything or not, but when I delivered her food it felt like someone else was in the room with us.”

  Saris and Clea looked at each other sharply.

  His heart racing, Quentin stepped to the edge of the little outcrop and dropped off, catching flight out of sight of the window. He raced back to Emaree and flew in.

  “You can shapeshift,” she said, impressed.

  Quentin ignored the remark. “We need to go…now.” He shed his cloak as he spoke to her. “There is no key outside with which to unlock the door, and I cannot make you shapeshift into something else. But what I can do is put you onto my back. We’re going to have to leave through the window.”

  “But I can’t hold on to you with my legs!” Emaree said. “They are useless.”

  “As long as you can hang on with your arms, you’ll be fine. We haven’t the time to make a sling to hold you in.”

  He grabbed her hands and helped her to sit up. Turning around, he knelt down so that she could work her way onto his back. Once there, he grabbed her ankles and put them around his midsection. Glancing at the room, he couldn’t see any useful string lying about. He grabbed a sheet off of her bed and tore a long strip off. Using this, he tied each end around her ankles to keep her tethered onto him. A sense of urgency filled him as he grabbed his cloak and shoved it inside his shirt. There would be no way of wearing it while doing what needed to be done. Clutching the sides of the window, he heaved himself up onto the tiny ledge and peered around for a spot to start climbing. Just down and to the left, about thirty paces away, was another window.

  “Hold on tight,” he told Emaree, and edged out of the window.

  The footing was precarious at best, and with Emaree clinging to his back he had to grip the rock facing extra hard. The dark waters of the lake glinted like evil diamonds below and the hard-packed brown sand of its shores beckoned a fatal fall. One misstep and they would both die painfully.

  Rocks tried to pierce through his leather boots, and he soon had some nasty lacerations on his hands. The window he was moving towards slowly drew closer, though not as fast as he would have liked. He finally managed to get right above it, but there were no ledges, footholds, or handholds to get both of them safely down and into the window. Desperate, he tried to figure out another way, but there was no hope for it…

  “Emaree, wrap your arms around me beneath my shoulders—around my chest—and hold on extra tight. Don’t look down.”

  “Okay,” he heard her whisper.

  He took a deep breath…and let go of the rock.

  They dropped like a sack of stones. Quentin was barely able to grasp onto the edge of the window as they fell. His face hit the rocks hard, breaking his nose and cutting his face in several places.

  However, his weight combined with Emaree’s proved to be more than he had bargained it would be. One of his arms slipped from its grip and he instantly felt his other shoulder jerk out of its socket. He groaned, but held back a scream of pain as the girl on his back clutched him harder. His feet struggled to find placement on the rock facing. Chancing a glance down, he saw that there was a niche where his knee was. Grunting with the effort, he was able to lift his leg high enough to slide his foot into it. He had to hurry, for his hand was beginning to lose what grip it had on the ledge. He pushed with his leg with all of his strength and rose up high enough to lock his good arm into position. Using everything he had left, he hoisted them through the window and fell onto the floor with Emaree still clinging to his back.

  The door was hurriedly unlocked and Saris and Clea entered the room in a maelstrom of distrust. Both of their moths dropped open in astonishment.

  The room was empty. Their tortured sister-wife, their prisoner of many years…was simply not there.

  Clea ran over to the bed, yanking one side up off the floor to look underneath, and then scrutinizing behind it to see if she had hidden there.

  Saris, however, could tell that Emaree was no longer there. She was drawn to the window, but could see nothing of importance when she stared out.

  There was no half-starved young woman hanging off the ledge.

  There was no body lying crumpled next to the Black Lake.

  There was nothing at all.

  “Where in Eerich’s hells did you go?” she mumbled.

  As if in answer, a glint of gold caught her eye. Lifting her eyes to peer across the lake, she frowned as the Black Stag sauntered out of the trees.

  “Away with you, beast!” she called down to it.

  Clea came to stand beside her as the animal replied in his deed, booming voice.

  “Away with yourself, witch of the mountain…poison of the earth.”

  “Why have you come forth?” Clea said in a demanding tone. She despised the stag almost as much as Saris. On several occasions she had mentioned that she and Saris should go on a hunt for the beast and collect its head to hang in the halls of the mountain.

  “I am here to warn you,” said the Stag. “Leave your mountain and surrender the war.”

  “Can I tell you how unlikely it would be that we would surrender on the ‘dire warnings’ of an animal yelling to us from outside?” said Saris with her infamous eyebrow arched.

  “It is your decision to heed my advice,” said the Black Stag. “I cannot make you choose. But know this: you are choosing the death of many, and very possibly even your own.”

  “We will never die,” Clea shouted out smugly. “Our magic is too powerful to allow such a thing.”

  The Stag snorted, golden dust spewing from its nostrils. “If only your magic lasted forever.”

  “Shut up!” yelled Saris angrily.

  “Not before you have been informed that death is coming for you…for all of you.”

  Saris whirled away from the window, grabbed Clea, and left the room to have the mountain thoroughly searched for the missing prisoner.

  When the witches had left the window and he could no longer feel their presence, the Black Stag walked the shoreline of the Black Lake until he was directly in front of the window where only minutes before Quentin and Emaree had climbed into. He waited patiently, the late-evening sun
glaring off of his golden antlers.

  Quentin moaned and lifted his head.

  “Are you okay?” Emaree asked worriedly.

  “I’ll be fine…just gotta get up. We need to get out of here.”

  Using his good arm, he pushed himself up onto his knees and slowly stood up, gripping the window ledge for support. Emaree clung to his back, but was careful not to grip too hard around the shoulder, for no doubt she had heard the sickening pop when it had detached from its socket. The shoulder was shooting pain all up and down his arm, and both of his hands were bleeding. Warmth ran down his face and he knew his face probably looked pretty rough.