by Aleks Canard
Despite taking many forms, all wraiths had one common denominator. They could become immaterial at will. Not even a nuclear warhead would kill them in such a state. To attack, they would become solid again, striking with limbs of hardened bone, sharpened by fermented malice.
They could also possess people while immaterial, though that rarely happened. Hosts almost always died. Wraiths sucked away energy like vampires drank blood.
A silver bomb would stop the wraith from assuming its immaterial form. Trix’s sword would do the rest.
The pain about wraiths was that they could come back unless whatever bound them to the earth was destroyed.
‘Perhaps,’ Trix said. ‘We’ll see. My magic might be able to stop their transformation.’
‘If a sorcerer never returned, you might be up for stiff competition.’
‘Sorcerers aren’t hunters. Their magical knowledge doesn’t guarantee victory.’
Trix’s words were true, yet the sorcerer’s disappearance still worried her. There were many ranks in the world of magic. Novices were Witches and Wizards. They practiced all magic before they specialised. From there, they could go into purely offensive spells and become Warlocks, or Warlockes, if they were female. They would become witchdoctors, regardless of sex, if they majored in healing. Many other positions from conjurer to illusionist to druid existed, and all of them had different meanings.
Sorcerers and Sorceresses were jacks of all trades, and as highly skilled as they were trained. They typically advised governments and monarchies, even worked in tandem with scientists to better understand the galaxy.
If a sorcerer had fallen, Trix would be wise to worry a little.
The Valkyrie’s nose scrunched as she moseyed through plausible monster possibilities. The air on Djiemlur was fresh as could be, for so little of it had been tainted by fossil fuels or sprawling manmade structures. Sweet notes of berries, mineral rich springs, and lush grass abounded.
What Trix smelled ahead was none of those things. It was stagnant. Musty. Untouched. Darksome. She must have been nearing the temple. She saw it past an easy hill.
A stone façade preceded an open courtyard through a circular archway. Two djurel statues bowing with their tails out flanked the entrance. Harsh, rectangular patterns were embossed on the stones, though they’d been weathered by time. Over the entryway, Trix could see another structure at the courtyard’s opposite end. It was built into a hill. Moss and vines enveloped stone, just as J’vari had said.
What struck Trix was not how the temple had lasted despite time’s woes, but the man kneeling in the courtyard’s centre.
His garb was unmistakable. Only sorcerers dressed in such a fashion. A poncho was swept over his back like a cape. It was red as wine. A heather-grey bandana was around the man’s face to protect him from the cold. Snow had settled on his shoulders. He must’ve been kneeling for a long time.
His head was covered by a grey coloured slouch hat. A staff lay beside him. Trix recognised it. Could the sorcerer be who she thought it was? People used to say the world was a small place. The galaxy, as it turned out, was smaller.
The Valkyrie descended the hill — no more than a hump, really — and walked to the entrance. High walls lined the courtyard. Climbing them would’ve been easy. But it would have been wrong. Temples, no matter what faith they pertained to, were all built on magical ground. All served the same mysterious force. Trix didn’t wish to disrespect it.
Her steps were silent. Only a spectre machina could’ve been quieter. She could feel the cold concentrated in the stones. Drawn to the place of magic. All elements were.
‘Greetings, Altayr,’ Trix said.
She heard his breathing change. His heart palpitated like a butterfly flapped its wings. He had known someone was behind him. He had not known who.
The sorcerer rose to his feet. ‘I did not expect you here.’
‘Nor I, you.’
Trix approached. The sorcerer turned. It was, as Trix knew, Altayr Van Eldric. Storied depictions of wizards with long white beards and gangly legs were true of some, but not all. Those who practiced magic were vain for the most part. Magic healed their scars, evened out their features, and made them beautiful. Those who had mastered the arcane arts could enjoy lifespans of up to 1,000 years. Though such unnatural life came with great cost.
Like machinas, witches and wizards were infertile. The transformation was arduous; however, the success rate was far higher than machinas’. Magic also meant a life of study. People changed once undergoing the transformation which could take place at any time after the age of twelve. Their personalities became different. It wasn’t really surprising. They’d been fundamentally altered.
Altayr Van Eldric didn’t choose a life of sorcery. Much like Trix, his enhancements were chosen for him. Though his tale was ripe with harsher cruelty than even the Valkyrie’s. He was handsome, between rugged and suave. Always clean shaven. His skin was dark olive. His eyebrows bushy, yet sculpted. Black like onyx. Shoulder length hair hung loosely around his face. Every part of him was refined, from his toned body to his excellent diction. Articulation was paramount in magic. When speaking another language, mispronouncing a word might mean you insulted someone’s mother. When casting a spell, you could set that person’s mother on fire.
Altayr was one of the finest mages Trix had ever met. The finest being her mother, Susan Marigold. Vaende Ithli could’ve given them a run for their money. His curses were particularly powerful. But he was dead and buried now. Good thing, too.
Extending his right hand, Altayr summoned his staff to his palm. All manner of precious gems were encrusted on top. Silver vines were engrained in the wood. The staff itself was crafted from the daergrum trees which grew on Xardiassant. Magic flowed within their bark.
‘J’vari said you left the convoy two days ago.’
‘That is because I did.’
‘Why haven’t you returned? What happened to the boys?’
‘I have not returned as I have no reason to. The monster that killed the boys is still here.’
‘And, what is it?’
‘A meridwraith. Whether it is a plaga, I’m not sure.’
A meridwraith was one that only appeared during midday. Its opposite, a noxwraith, only appeared at midnight. A plaga was a wraith that embodied disease and usually formed when plague swept through an area, killing people before important tasks like birth or marriage. That was a possibility seeing as the Valkyrie and the sorcerer were in a temple.
‘So what have you been doing?’
‘Waiting, Trix. This place radiates magic of ages past.’
‘My medallion’s not vibrating.’
‘Perhaps if this was an Uldarian temple. But old magic is too subtle for your trinket.’
Among other things, Altayr could be arrogant, even when he didn’t mean to be.
‘What did you see while you were waiting?’
‘The wraith, earlier today. I arrived too late to see her on the first day. Passing snow flurries materialised where you now stand. I watched from the hill. She took the form of a djurelem. White fur, white jewels, white cloth robes. I believe she waits for her wedding.’
‘When was her time of death?’
‘That is what I’ve been contemplating but I don’t believe it was recent. Despite worshipping change, traditional djurelian fashion has remained fairly consistent over their race’s history. I am not enough of an expert on their culture to differentiate between niche time periods. I would take a picture to search historical databases, but as you know, wraiths cannot be photographed.’
Neither, as it happened, could vampires.
‘What’s in there?’ Trix gestured to the building at the courtyard’s eastern end.
‘I haven’t entered. I wanted to see the meridwraith one last time before proceeding. Today, I approached the archway. She stared at me. Beckoned me closer in djurelian. I cast a spell at her.’
‘You always were a charmer.’
> ‘If that was an insult it was weak, and if it was a pun, it was unfunny, not to mention magically inaccurate.’
‘Lighten up, Altayr,’ Sif said, projecting her voice from Trix’s comms gauntlet.
‘Greetings, Sif. As I was saying, I cast a spell. She turned immediately. Became skeletal. Rushed for the archway. I stood just out of arms’ reach. She could not pass. Something binds her to this place. I was meditating in the hopes of discovering it. If whatever holds her is of a magical nature, it eludes my powers.’
‘Maybe my trinket can find it.’
‘Perhaps it can.’
‘From what you’ve told me, we’ll have to wait until tomorrow for our chance at killing her. And to do that, we need the artefact that binds her. It will have to be burned. Then,’ Trix drew her sword in a flash and sliced a snowflake in two. Her machina eyes saw the halves drift apart in the breeze. She sheathed her sword. The way it had cut the air rang across the courtyard like a bell. For whom it tolled was uncertain.
You darkle, white one.
‘You’ve always had a penchant for showing off.’
‘Just like you’ve always had a stick up your arse.’
Altayr rolled his eyes. ‘Sometimes I forget how young you are.’
‘Apologies, old man. Now that I’m here, care to see what lies through that door?’ Trix pointed to the eastern building again. ‘If we can find the boys, their corpses will reveal the wraith’s abilities.’
‘You’ve interrupted my trance, so I don’t see why not.’
Trix and Altayr walked towards the building. All that lay in the courtyard’s centre was a well. Benches worn by time and crumbled by weather lined the courtyard’s circumference.
‘What are you doing on Djiemlur anyway?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Well, you know I’m hunting a monster.’
‘I was collecting herbs. The white leaves that grow on this continent possess a number of healing abilities, in addition to counteracting several basic poisons.’
Trix could see Altayr’s snakeskin knapsack underneath his poncho. It would be filled with various potions, creams, and other magic miscellany. A smaller pouch was attached to his belt. It came to rest on his left thigh. A pistol was on his right. Sometimes bullets were more effective than spells.
Leather boots with snakeskin straps and mithril shin guards went halfway to his knees. More mithril covered his chest underneath his shirt.
‘Then I assume you’re returning to Yephus?’
‘I wouldn’t see any harm in changing my plan if something more interesting were to present itself.’
‘Growing restless?’
‘A sorcerer is always restless. Knowing you, the same could be said for machinas. You’ve gone a couple months without a galactic incident. I assume you are thirsting after another.’
‘I could do without any more of those.’
‘All the attention would be irksome, yes.’
The smell of death was stronger around the interior entrance. Rot pervaded the machina’s nostrils. She knew it could not be wood, for the building was made of stone. Two corpses alone wouldn’t be enough to warrant a stench so repugnant.
‘Forgive me, my eyes, while sharp, are not as sharp as yours, and I do despise night vision.’
Altayr tapped his staff on the ground. An orb of light came from the gems. It hovered in the air. Non-verbal magic was said to be one of the greatest skills a mage could possess. Staffs weren’t necessary, though they helped concentrate spells. They were also useful for bashing people.
‘After you,’ he said.
Trix walked into the gloom. Altayr followed. His magic illuminated the space. Outside had become in. Flora covered the stones like thick blankets. It was dying. Decomposing in the darkness. How it had grown in the first place was a mystery. No sunlight entered the building from anywhere other than the doorway. Snow had piled around the edges.
Valkyrie and Sorcerer walked side by side. The room sloped further into the earth. This was peculiar from what Trix knew of djurels. They valued the sun and the changing weather. Most of their permanent structures contained open rooves, or no roof at all.
‘The meridwraith’s presence here has corrupted the land. If left unchecked, her influence could spread beyond the temple,’ Altayr said. He leaned on his staff as he examined a stone pillar. His poncho brushed against it. What spell casters wore differed depending on race. Humans wore ponchos, zireans wore flowing robes, and corrachs wore heavy jackets, mostly because they chose to be warlocks.
Trix knelt on the slope. Grabbed a handful of vegetation. It was slimy, turning to mush at her touch. Its odour stung. Trix tossed it away.
‘I don’t think this wraith is a plaga. Plagas don’t inhibit plant growth. If anything, the bacteria can actually expedite it.’
‘Your diagnosis?’
‘We might be dealing with a jeiun.’
Jeiun wraiths brought famine. If one existed near a village or a city, it wasn’t uncommon to see plants fail to grow, and soil become ashen.
‘Hard to say with the stench of death in the air.’
‘Do you hear water?’
‘Yes.’
‘It comes from further in.’
The slope they walked was lined with stone benches. Djurelian bones lay scattered among them. Most had been covered by moss. Altayr took off one of his gloves. Ran his finger along the stones. Licked it. Spat.
‘This was a place of healing. Remnants of herbs are inlaid with the stone. In particular, the white leaves of this forest.’
‘An outbreak could have put a stop to the wedding. But you said you saw the bride. That begs the question: Where is the groom?’
‘He may have been sick. Treated here. She was to marry him before he died.’
Altayr picked up a skull. He held it as if he were about to deliver a monologue. ‘Pity we cannot ask them about this place. Judging by the decay, and the stonework’s age, these patients may have been able to tell us what happened.’
Necromancy was strictly forbidden. Never taught, unless of course you could find someone willing to teach it. More often than not it had to be learned from books. Secret grimoires could bestow a young witch or wizard the knowledge to summon the dead. Each began with a preface that went something like:
Tread lightly, for the halls of the dead doth echo.
A number of things could go wrong when performing necromancy. The worst was possession. Instead of “reanimating” a corpse, a demon could be summoned which had the potential to overpower the caster. Considerably worse than setting someone’s mother on fire, in any case.
It was necromancy which made scientists think that death was not the end. And it also went to prove the law of matter conservation. Anyone who ever had a physicist give their eulogy would — if they were alive to hear it — chuckle. Due to matter conservation, the deceased wasn’t actually gone. Their energy was still around. It was just less orderly.
Like all branches of magic and science, there were rules to necromancy, despite it being forbidden. One of which — and some would argue, the most important — was that the dead could only speak if they were intact. In life, speaking required lungs, a tongue, vocal chords, and… you get the idea. So it was in death. The skull Altayr held would be useful as an ornament. Nothing more.
‘I smell something ahead. Near the water.’
‘I have forgotten how being with a machina huntress is like having a pet.’
‘Careful, sorcerer. I’m nobody’s pet, but I can bite.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
Trix saw the smell’s origin before Altayr’s mage-light illuminated it. It was the ginger djurel boy, Jhan. He was dead.
Strange that there are no footprints, Trix thought. She supposed it was because djurels stepped lightly. Jhan’s flesh had already begun rotting. If Trix hadn’t known the boy had only come down two days ago, she would’ve thought that he’d been here a week. Fur fell off in clumps. Flesh was soft,
nearly liquid. One of his paws was in the water. Pink like the rest of the planet. It flowed from south to north. Stepping stones in its centre had crumbled long ago.
The floor inclined on the water’s opposite side. The temple was not over yet. Trix was willing to bet Jazir made it across. She listened. Honing her hearing on the space ahead. No breathing. Nor a heartbeat. She held no hope for the other boy.
Now it was time for an autopsy.
‘The boys must have arrived before midday to make it this far. They entered the temple. By then it was too late to run into the courtyard, so they went further in.’ Trix looked at the opposite side once more. A depression in the moss. Roughly the same size as Jhan. ‘Either they were smart, or just terrified. They ran for the water because wraiths cannot cross a flowing stream.’
‘Such a curative element of magic prevents them,’ Altayr nodded. Much like Trix, he loved a good mystery. Most of his were experimental, though he had dealt with more curses than Trix. Even though Altayr was 220 years her senior, the Valkyrie had experienced more monsters.
‘Shallow slash wounds, three wide. Undoubtedly the work of a djurel’s claw.’
While djurels had opposable thumbs, they only had three fingers.
‘Slashed right through his throat. Must’ve aimed for his head and missed. See his left ear’s missing chunk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Each claw wound is showing dense bacteria concentration. He didn’t die from blood loss. Plague killed him. Our meridwraith’s a plaga after all,’ Trix stood, grateful to her immunity to nigh on every disease. Cheers, Uldarian DNA.
‘That doesn’t explain why these plants are not thriving.’
‘Then our answer must lie across the stream. We’ll have to burn the boy’s body before the plaga returns.’
Altayr: ‘For now, we continue.’
The duo crossed the stream. Vegetation abounded, though unlike the western side’s slimy moss, the flora was brittle like autumn leaves. Deprived of moisture. It turned to dust under Trix’s combat boots.
‘Now this is evidence of a jeiun,’ Trix said. She picked up a flower petal. Ground it between her fingers. She smeared it on her comms gauntlet so Sif could take a reading.