The guards were being consumed. They fought, but the Darkness was too great for them. The Queen had been trained in the Radiance. She held the Darkness at bay, though slowly worked its way toward her consciousness. Elder Kabonapa stood as stalwart as his Pillars, the Song of Metal on his lips as he funneled his Radiance toward the guards, bulwarking them against the Darkness.
Finyaka opened his mind to the Elder. Do you need my assistance?
I have this, take Sheekara down.
Enough is enough. Finyaka released a pulse of his flame and the tendril that was before him dissipated with a hiss. He pulsed again and the other four tendrils disintegrated. His voice rose in song as his body lifted into the air. The Song of Fire echoed within the room as he drew upon the Faith of his Radiance.
The Darkness cowered before him.
Unfortunately, Sheekara did not. The mage-priest intoned the counter-song of Air, accentuating it with the heinous power of the Darkness.
The tempest that collided with Finyaka sent him sprawling across the chamber. He careened off the marble walls and crashed into the galleries of the panicked nobles. His head spun. Someone kicked him as they ran by. He staggered to his feet. Sheekara's tendrils had spread throughout the chamber, and where they touched someone, that person had become a puppet of the Darkness. Sheekara's forces grew, but he had spread himself thin. Finyaka touched the minds of those who were still loyal to the Queen. Hold off his minions! I will disrupt the core.
By the Light what do think we are doing! That was Foinotai. She was currently holding her own against the Darkness possessed Doki.
We can hold! Kabonapa’s mind was as solid as his form. The Elder of Pillars had erected a wall of air around the Queen and her throne. Finyaka felt invigorated by the stoic Elder’s presence.
Save our people! The Queen's strength flowed into him and merged with his own. He drew upon it and bound into the air. He would reveal the Light of the Great Sun to Sheekara. As Finyaka evoked his Radiance, ready to unleash the power of the Great Sun, Matasa charged through the doors of the hall, poised to run Sheekara through with a bloodied spear. The mage-priest flicked out another tendril and caught Matasa by the throat, lifting him off his feet. The spear skittered across the floor as Matasa fought with the tendril that was choking him to death and attempting to consume him.
Many of the conflicts lulled as a voice like thunder resonated throughout the hall. “Boy! I have your cousin. Submit to me, and I will spare his pathetic life. Continue this challenge, and I will make him mine.” The tendrils squeezed tighter, chaffing at Matasa’s skin, trying to worm their way into his body.
Finyaka hesitated. Matasa, his guardian who had been there so many times, was going to die unless Finyaka gave himself to the Darkness.
Fight him! Fight him while his power is dispersed. The Queen’s voice rang in his mind. She was right. With Sheekara’s Darkness spread across so many individuals, Finyaka could defeat him. But Matasa.
“Onward!” shouted Foinotai as she resumed her fire attacks against a bloodied and burnt Doki. Bring him down! The Elder of Affirmation’s hatred for Sheekara seethed within Finyaka’s mind. She wanted Sheekara dead.
The conflicts were resuming. People were dying while he hovered in the air, uncertain. He thought of Nahrem, and an idea formed in his mind.
The Queen’s voice in his mind was strong, encouraging. I have faith in you and your plan. I give you my Radiance. His Radiance expanded, and he knew what he must do.
He lowered himself to the floor. "I will submit to you Sheekara, but first, let the others go and I will open myself to you and your Darkness."
“What!” the Queen yelled from near her throne where she and Kabonapa were fighting against some of Sheekara’s turned nobles.
“No!” cried Matasa as he struggled with the tendrils about his throat. “Don’t do it.”
“What is your game, boy?” Sheekara took a step forward, tendrils slowly began slinking along the floor toward Finyaka.
Combat raged around Finyaka. He needed to act, now. He discharged his Radiance and stood undefended before the encroaching tendrils, only his mind remained connected to his allies. “Release them, Sheekara. My defenses are down.”
Sheekara laughed, a horrid twisted sound that that brought all activity to a halt. “Foolish boy.”
Black, corrupted tendrils burst from Sheekara’s staff with blinding speed, encapsulating Finyaka in their oily taint. He let them cover him, probe him, try to insert themselves into his Radiance and his soul. He had felt their grip before, and he had burned it away. Finyaka knew the Darkness was nothing in the face of the Light. Finyaka floated in the calm that was his Faith as the Darkness assaulted him. He used his Faith to seize the tendrils and in turn, he began converting that Darkness to Light. The tendrils sizzled and popped, and where there was once the filth of taint, there now shone the glory of the Great Sun’s Radiance.
That Light moved along the tendrils, slowly at first, but soon with a mind-numbingly fast speed. Sheekara released those in his grasp, consolidating his strength. Blockades were flung against Finyaka, but to no avail, the golden light blasted through them as if they had existed. Soon Sheekara was engulfed in a blazing ball of golden Radiance, so bright that even Finyaka covered his eyes.
I forgive you. Finyaka sent the thought along that blazing conduit to his advocate, before he released his Radiance with a thunderous crack that sent shockwaves off in all directions, knocking everyone to their knees.
Sheekara lay on the floor whimpering, his frail body convulsing as he tried to move. Others in the hall were slowly staggering to their feet, some rushed to check on the wounded and dying. Finyaka knelt by Sheekara's side. The mage-priest recoiled as Finyaka placed his hand on the old man's head and released just enough Radiance to calm him.
“What have you done?” the mage-priest was trembling. His eyes fixed on Finyaka.
“I severed your Radiance, destroyed the Darkness that had consumed you. I have given you another chance.” Finyaka helped the old man to his unsteady feet. “Be a better man.”
Sheekara’s aura was now the color of the noonday sun. Finyaka left the once-powerful Elder, rushing to where he thought Matasa had fallen. Finyaka dropped to his knees and began searching the area by feel. He couldn’t see Matasa’s aura. Finyaka’s hands connected with the clammy skin of an unmoving form. He searched the body until he found a scar across the ribs. The one Matasa received when all this started, defending the herd against the ghost hounds. Tears streaming down his cheeks, Finyaka squeezed his eyes shut as he concentrated on the lifeless body of his best friend and defender. Mental connections with the others were severed as Finyaka concentrated every bit of his Radiance upon Matasa.
Finyaka stepped into the between and called Matasa’s name.
Matasa’s eyes opened as he inhaled and began coughing.
Finyaka embraced his cousin with such force that Matasa yelped.
Matasa spluttered, “I was—”
“Between worlds.” Tears flowing freely, Finyaka laughed as he helped Matasa stand.
Matasa looked at him, tilting his head. “How—?”
Around them were the awkward exclamations of the Court attempting to come to terms with what had just transpired.
“What will you do now?” The Queen’s voice was thick with fatigue.
Finyaka looked at her over his shoulder. “We are going home.”
About the Author
Born at a very young age in a place just north of nowhere, William C. Cronk was raised in a small rustic village whose name had larger expectations than its inhabitants. Being so far from anything interesting, William soon discovered he had a great imagination and spent far more time building fantasy worlds than dealing with the real one.
An agricultural wage-slave during the day, and an avid role-player, world builder, professional game master, cartographer, poet and day dreamer by evening, William is finally listening to his friends and is taking some of those worlds h
e has created and is putting them down on paper.
Past short stories include “Linear Rotation,” published in the Anthology, Sylvermoon Chronicles Volume VII, and “Not the One,” soon-to-be-published in the anthology, Sylvermoon Chronicles Volume VIII. Currently William lives in the Greater Toronto Area with his very patient and understanding wife, and their four not-so-patient cats.
The Greatest Sin
A Sacrifice of Soul
Lee French & Erik Kort
One tiny, forgotten detail creates consequences powerful enough to chase Algernon beyond death. His future is a tapestry unraveling at high speed, destroying the memory of the one he holds most dear.
Lee French & Erik Kort
In the world of The Greatest Sin epic fantasy series, a teenager unexpectedly continues his journey after his death. He stares into the void, and it stares back. Will he retain his sanity long enough to deliver justice to his killer?
A Sacrifice of Soul
Everything glowed with brilliant, welcoming blue and smelled of dark, brooding smoke.
Blood, thick and coppery, smeared Algernon’s hands.
His father, his savior, his defender, held a dagger sheathed in glittering shadow. Tears streaming down his cheeks, agony pulling his elven features taut, Father plunged the blade through Algernon’s flesh. The knife dug into Algernon’s chest, scraping and gnawing, biting and feeding, until it reached his heart and filled him with unbearable cold.
Algernon remembered that blue. It tasted like silver grinding between his teeth. Like blades rolling across his tongue.
He screamed. His body refused to allow him to do anything else. No matter how hard he tried to thrash and flail, his limbs clung to the floor, dead to him. Frozen in place.
Why did Father kill him?
Would the pain ever stop?
What had he done?
“Your elf blood makes you strong,” Father choked through sobs. “But I worry about you, Algie. You’re only fourteen and the world isn’t kind to halfbreeds.”
The points on Algernon’s ears pressed against his head and pricked his skin.
More places for him to bleed.
Bright blue poured from the wounds. The syrupy goo spread over his body, cool and calming, whispering of sweet darkness and oblivion. A haze of blue filmed his vision and numbed his eyes.
Only his eyes and his flesh, not the agony within. His shoulder and his chest still blazed with implacable misery.
Though his mouth remained open, his screams dimmed to a raspy wheeze.
He’d killed people. Their blood drenched his hands.
Algernon deserved this pain.
Someone shoved Father aside, dragging out the knife. The sharp edge of pain disappeared to leave Algernon with a dull, despairing ache.
An empty void.
Algernon knew this man who loomed over him now, covering the hole with clammy, clawed hands.
He had a strange name. Greed glittered in his eyes. Wrinkles creased one side of his face but not the other. Gray streaked half of his hair. Silver embroidery graced one of his sleeves.
This man, the leader of his family’s religious sect, wanted him dead.
No, that didn’t seem right.
He wanted something else. Something Algernon didn’t want to give.
“I’m not letting you go.” Satiuz Braylen’s voice hissed and scraped backward and forward. He swiped his claws over Algernon’s face, shredding his numb eyes into shards.
It happened to someone else.
No, it didn’t.
Algernon’s vision split into five pieces. The blue receded from three and intensified over the other two.
Braylen’s image filled them all as he dragged his claws over Algernon’s body. Wisps of blue clung to him.
Algernon reached for the cobweb wisps with a blood-stained hand. He wanted them.
Why did he want them?
To cleanse his hands. He couldn't face the Creator like this.
Five drapes of black hair, not his own, swirled around five Braylens. Braylen’s face changed to someone else’s, then back again, his skin flickering between pale and brown.
Algernon tried to remember someone with long, black hair. Not his mother—hers was brown and shorter than this.
Did this newcomer want to help him or hurt him?
Which did he want?
He wanted Braylen, a man who dared to hold the title of satiuz for a sect devoted to the ideal of never killing, to suffer for his stinking, repulsive betrayal.
Smoke boiled from Algernon’s chest, blasting the Braylen-not-Braylens in the face.
Four coughed and sputtered.
The fifth raised his head and breathed in the smoke, sucking it down like a desperate drowning man.
This man’s body shifted and shimmered with flowing layers of white. Smudges of black settled within them, at peace within the Braylen-not-Braylen cloud.
Strings of blue settled on his— No. On their hand. The blue swirled and drained into their upraised palms.
“I accept this price,” Braylen-not-Braylen said.
The other being receded, leaving a single Braylen, whole and intact.
No! Braylen needed to pay for his crimes.
Algernon wailed and strained against fetters he couldn't see. He collapsed in defeat, gasping for breath.
Braylen leaned close to Algernon’s face and grinned. “Immortal,” he whispered with fetid longing.
His damp breath waged a war with the blue wisps. The unwelcome cloud blasted them, sending them spiraling out of control and far out of Algernon’s reach.
“Immortal?” Algernon whimpered. His voice cracked and scratched in a raw throat.
The pain would never end.
“No one is immortal,” a different man said.
Algernon opened dry, aching eyes in a world suddenly bereft of blue. He choked on a shocking absence of smoke.
Stone. He smelled dry stone. Like in the sanctuary’s basement but uncomplicated by magic.
The place he’d murdered Miru.
The place Miru had murdered him.
He lay on a soft surface facing a white ceiling. Warm light glowed from a candle. A stranger with a polite smile stood beside him.
Not looming, not stabbing, not leering.
Smiling in polite sympathy.
Why?
Didn’t he see the bloodstains?
The new man had a long face with soft lines not yet showing the signs of age. He reminded Algernon of a clerk, someone who spent all his days inside and scribbling in a ledger or notebook.
“There are, however, second chances,” the man said.
Algernon stared at the ceiling. What did the blue light mean? Where had it gone? Why had he smelled smoke, and why didn’t he smell it anymore?
Was any of this real?
“Algie? Can you hear me?” the man asked.
“Yes.” Why did his throat hurt so much?
“Good.” He nodded his satisfaction. “My name is Eldrack. It’s nice to meet you. This is Naya, she’s the healer assigned to you.”
“My father is a healer,” Algernon rasped.
“We’re aware of that,” the man said.
Algernon wanted to lie still for an hour or fifty. Aches crept into his body like a swarm of snails closing over him.
A young, brown-skinned woman wearing a warm white shirt stepped to his side. Her gaze, full of sympathy and curiosity, skipped across him as if she wanted to stare but didn’t dare.
Black hair draped over her shoulder, gathered in a tail at her neck. Maybe he’d folded her into his dreams. But he didn’t remember her.
A curious and powerful urge to forgive her wriggled over his body. For what? Daring to let him see something lovely when he deserved only despair?
She offered him a wooden cup.
He thought he’d taken enough from the world already.
“This is water.” She sounded like Mother but smelled of lemon and mint. “To soothe your throat. Can
you lift your head to drink?”
Algernon struggled to raise his head. Sweating, gasping for breath, and dizzy, he propped himself on his elbows.
Naya touched the cup to his lips and helped him drink.
The cool water reminded him of the frigid hole in his heart. It washed down his throat, devouring him from the inside.
He coughed and gagged, trying to spit out the death. His body spasmed and he curled forward.
“Why is he so weak?” Eldrack asked. “That’s not normal.”
“I don’t know,” Naya said. “Maybe it’s his age? They’re not usually this young. Did we make a terrible mistake by bringing back a child?”
“Or the child of a healer,” Eldrack said. “I don’t think we’ve ever had one of those before. I should check the archives.”
“Everything isn’t in the archives, Administrator,” Mother said.
Algernon raised his head. No sign of Mother.
Naya had said that, not Mother.
Eldrack muttered too low for Algernon to understand.
“Maybe you should talk to your healer, Administrator,” Naya said. She mostly suppressed laughter.
“I just want to go home,” Algernon wheezed.
A hand touched his back, knocking him forward with a tiny nudge. His body punched through a plate of blue glass. Shards scraped his flesh in a thousand places.
He sprawled on a woven rug, his mouth open to scream and no sound coming out. Voices nearby murmured.
When he raised his head, he discovered himself sitting on a couch with Naya. But a different Algernon.
The Algernon on the couch had let his brown hair grow over his ears. Hiding them.
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