Blackest Spells

by Phipps, C. T.

  The girl who’d caused the problem gave a soft cry. There was a clink of metal, and Rebecca saw something strike the side of the boat. The girl reached for it, but her net tangled on the end of her oar, and the glittering object dropped past her grasping hand and splashed into the water beside the boat. The girl brought her hand to her throat and gasped, and though the oar-master called out to them all to resume their efforts, she made no move to return to her oar.

  The King, distracted, turned and stared at her. She sat very still.

  “What is wrong?” he asked her. “Why have you stopped rowing?”

  The girl did not raise her eyes, but neither did she seem cowed by his presence, or his attention. Once again, Rebecca was fascinated. There was some dynamic at work here, some relationship between King and virgins that she did not fully understand, but there was no time to dwell on it.

  “My amulet,” she said. “It was a gift from my mother, and belonged to her mother before her. It has fallen in the water.”

  “Then it is gone,” the King said. “You must take up your oar so that we may continue.”

  The girl made no move to comply. Instead, she leaned closer to the side of the boat and peered into the depths below.

  Rebecca watched closely. She also watched the King and the old sorcerer. Most of her knowledge of the ancients came from scrolls and books, manuscripts so old they crumbled to dust if handled incorrectly. She did not know how the King might react—what sort of punishment might be forthcoming. She steeled herself for the worst, but it never came.

  The King turned to Tchatcha-em-ânkh.

  “You were very wise,” he said, “to advise me to come on this trip. I am feeling well, and enjoying the beauty, but now we have a problem. This maiden has lost an amulet that is important to her, and she will not row. If she will not row, I fear we will sit here so long that the day will be ruined.”

  The old sorcerer met the King’s gaze.

  “It is a problem,” he said. “Without an even number of oars on either side, we will not move smoothly, and how would we fairly choose one from the opposite side to excuse from her duties?”

  The King smiled.

  “I know that you are a very powerful man,” he said. “I believe that you can find a way to return this maiden’s amulet and restore my tranquility.”

  Rebecca frowned. The banter back and forth between the King and the old man seemed stilted and formal. It was like a planned script, or something they’d been through again, and again. She concentrated on their words, while willing herself not to turn and stare. She still did not know what would happen if she met the sorcerer’s gaze again. If he knew she was there—that she was not the girl she appeared to be—what would he do? What could he do? Would he call her out, or tell the King?

  “If it is your wish,” Tchatcha-em-ânkh said, “then I will use what small influence I have with the powers of the lake to assist, if I am able.”

  Senefru turned to watch, not the old man, but the lake. The girl who had lost the ornament, despite her apparent desire to sulk, glanced over as well. All of the girls turned, so Rebecca felt, at last, it was safe to surreptitiously observe

  Tchatcha-em-ânkh moved to the side of the boat and stood between the first girl and the bench seat where the King had turned to observe. From beneath his white robe, the old man pulled free a golden scarab pendant that dangled from a strong chain. Rebecca saw a glitter of red, but could not see any details, as the man’s back was to her.

  She heard a rattle of sound she was certain had come from the sorcerer’s throat, but it was not loud enough to hear clearly, or controlled enough to be words. She had heard of exercises used to train vocal cords to operate beyond normal capabilities—and she wondered if she’d just witnessed proof.

  Then Tchatcha-em-ânkh began to speak, and the world shifted so quickly and completely that Rebecca nearly cried aloud in shock.

  The light from the sun, already bright, turned golden. The air, clear and bright with a hint of the lake’s moisture, thickened. It had a taste, but Rebecca could not place it. She turned her head and found the motion uncharacteristically difficult. Tchatcha-em-ânkh had turned, and regarded her with interest.

  “Come to me,” he said.

  Rebecca looked up and down the boat. All the others sat as still as stone, as if they were statues, and only she—and the old sorcerer—existed. With no other clear choice, she rose—again finding it more difficult, the motion slower than it should have been. She crossed the boat, trying not to think of the fact she wore nothing but fishing nets. She met the old man’s gaze.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Rebecca,” she said, without hesitation. “I am a seeker.”

  He nodded, as if her words did not surprise him. He nodded toward the lake.

  “It is no small thing that the King has asked,” he said. “To retrieve an item from the bottom of a deep lake—twelve cubits, if memory serves—would seem—impossible.”

  Rebecca held his gaze, and finally, he smiled.

  “Observe,” he said. “And listen. I do not know you, but I sense your power. Listen, learn…do not forget a detail, because any lost word loses everything.”

  Rebecca nodded.

  “Return to your seat,” he said. “They must not know we have spoken.”

  Tchatcha-em-ânkh turned away from her, and Rebecca hurried, as best she could in the thick, cloying air, to her seat. She gripped her oar, and as she did, the world tilted back. It was like the rush of the downward slope of a roller coaster, and this time she did gasp, but none turned to see why. All eyes were fixed on Tchatcha-em-ânkh as he began to speak.

  Rebecca understood some of the words, but not all. She concentrated on inflection and pronunciation. She memorized every tone, every sound and click of the tongue. She concentrated so hard on getting it right, that she paid no attention to what was going on around her. It was only when the girl beside her dropped her oar and covered her mouth to suppress a scream that she glanced up. In that second, her mind nearly blanked.

  The water beside the boat had separated. One section, a perfect rectangle, had lifted to a height of at least ten feet above the surface, a thick, wet column, and continued to rise as she watched. She saw fish within that segment of water, and the reflection of Tchatcha-em-ânkh and his amulet, glittering in the sunlight. Though the water rose, nothing dripped or poured from its surface. It might have been formed of panes of glass, or a massive chunk of crystal.

  Tchatcha-em-ânkh continued to speak, and Rebecca frantically repeated each intonation, each syllable. She had been trained to incredible feats of memory, but the power and energy crackling through the air stole her concentration.

  The slice of lake finally rose to a point where its bottom edge cleared the surface. The sorcerer raised it yet another foot, and then, as if sliding it onto a shelf, he pushed it aside. Rebecca could not help herself…she half-rose from her seat, peering over the far edge of the boat. At the far end of the impossible slit in the water, she saw the bottom of the lake. It appeared dry as bone. Sand actually caught in the breeze, and swirled up to dance in the air.

  The King turned, saw her on her feet, and beckoned to one of the eunuchs.

  “Bring her to me. We will lower her down to fetch the bauble, and be on our way.”

  He showed no awe, or even surprise, at Tchatcha-em-ânkh’s magic. If anything, he was amused, and seeing the flicker of panic Rebecca had to fight down and control, his smile widened. He was enjoying her discomfiture.

  “There is nothing to fear,” he said. “You will be down, and then back in the boat within moments. You would not deny the will of your King?”

  Rebecca lowered her eyes, crossed the boat, and stood quietly at the old sorcerer’s side. Tchatcha-em-ânkh did not glance at her, or at anyone. He seemed in a trance. His lips still moved, but no sound emerged that she could hear. Automatically, she ran through the sounds and intonations of his chant in her mind, once, twice, a third time, a
nd she would have done so a fourth, except that the eunuch took her by her arm and shook her gently. She realized the King had spoken again.

  “I hope the heat has not been too much for you,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “Come, then,” he said.

  A larger fishing net was lowered over the side of the boat, draping down the perfectly symmetrical wall of water. It unrolled like a rope ladder, and when the top-most edge had been secured to the side of the boat, the King gestured for Rebecca to comb down.

  “Don’t take too long,” he suggested. “Tchatcha-em-ânkh is very powerful, but who knows how long he can hold it? And there are insects—distractions.” The King’s smile widened yet again, and Rebecca stared down into the pit below, shuddered, and then, not wanting to appear hesitant, sat on the boat’s edge, swung her legs over, and turned, gripping the rope of the net tightly As she bumped into the side of the craft, she was reminded once again of her nearly naked state. Her breasts pressed into the wood, and she felt the King’s gaze as he watched, assessing her. She felt, very suddenly, as if she were being offered a test, and that what she did next, and how she did it, was important, though she had no idea in what way, or whether it would be important to herself, or the girl whose place she’d assumed in the vision.

  She descended as rapidly as possible. She watched, nervously, as the boat bobbed and floated above her, the side where the net was attached dangerously close to the lip of the strange, impossible pit. She didn’t know what would happen if the current, or a strong breeze, pushed the bow over that edge—but she knew she did not want to be at the bottom of the net, or worse yet, still descending it, if she found out.

  The climb seemed to take an eternity, though she knew it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. She dropped the last foot or so, expecting to sink into soft, muddy earth, despite the evidence of her own eyes, but it didn’t happen. The ground was solid, and she turned quickly. There were plants she’d never seen. There was a tangle of branches wound round and round with some sort of thread. Just beyond it all, she caught a glitter of gold. She walked carefully around the branches, avoided a rounded stone, and bent to pick up the amulet. She felt the net slide from her hip as she bent, and she reached to hold it. There was laughter from above, but it seemed to come from a very great distance.

  She picked up the jewelry, turned, and made her way back to the net. The laughter seemed to echo from the walls of water to either side, and a wave of claustrophobia nearly paralyzed her. She placed the amulet gently between her teeth, gripped the net, and began to climb.

  Above her, faces loomed, leaning over the edge of the boat, smiling and pointing and laughing with delight. Beside and behind a little, Tchatcha-em-ânkh still stood, arms upraised. She focused her attention on the old sorcerer, ignored the water and the laughter and the voices. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and repeated the incantation a final time. She climbed, and when she reached the top, strong arms gripped her arms. Someone pulled the amulet from between her teeth.

  And then, Tchatcha-em-ânkh glanced down at her and smiled. He dropped his arms and with a terrible roar, the huge rectangle of lake water dissolved. It poured over the edge and back into the pit, equalizing. The boat bucked and rocked, and Rebecca fell back. The last thing she saw was the old sorcerer’s eyes. Then the lake closed in over her. The water filled her lungs, and she fought for her breath. She struggled, but the weight on her chest was immense; the thought of the huge block of water settling over her—merging with the lake—pressing her down—drove her to panic.

  She grasped at straws of memory. She fought to concentrate and, despite the inability to breathe, she mouthed the words of the incantation, now buried in her psyche. As she pushed the last word from her mind, the last air from her lung—it was gone. All of it. The weight lifted—she was dry—and she came up, gasping for air, to find herself gripping her sheets white-knuckled. She took in such a deep breath she cut off her own oxygen. For the second time in as many moments, darkness threatened to steal her consciousness.

  Then, behind her, there was a loud splashing sound. Droplets of water flew from the bowl behind her and dampened her hair, and her neck, her pillows were soaked. Regaining control, she turned and stared. The water in the bowl—what was left of it, was agitated. There were puddles and spills all around it, and Rebecca sat, clutching her sheets, neck craned painfully to gaze at the normally placid pool.

  So close. She had lain within her protections. The wards had been set. Nothing had been different, except—he’d seen her. The old man, Tchatcha-em-ânkh, had known her for what she was—known she did not belong. He had been with her in her vision—and so, she realized—he had been within the confines of her protection. It was something to consider in the future and a blessing that she’d not run across a more malevolent power.

  All of this flickered through her mind and at the same time, she paid it little attention. She visualized the bowl of water—imagined a chunk the size of a stick of butter being lifted free—imagined it dropping back to splash her and her bed. The words of the incantation were fresh in her mind. She rose, walked the circle around her bed, waving her arm, as if dissipating smoke, and spoke the names of the Archangels in turn, reversing the order of the ward she’d set, until she felt the pressure in the room relax. She crossed the circles to her desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a leather-bound journal. She flipped it open, and with careful, even strokes, recorded the words as she’d memorized them. When possible she used the Egyptian, but when the words were not as expected, or unfamiliar, she recorded the phonetic equivalents with care. It took her nearly five minutes of deep concentration to get it down to her satisfaction. Then, reaching up to brush the long, dark hair from her eyes, she turned to an old, antique rotary dial phone on the desk’s edge…frowned slightly…and reached out. Half a second before her fingers brushed the cool Bakelite of the antique phone’s receiver—it rang.

  The Fall of Little Creek

  A Light in the Dark story

  By Ulff Lehmann

  “Kid, don’t do it,” Kerral said again. “They want to screw you over. And will you stop with the drink already? We both know your mood when you’re drunk.”

  Kerral was older than him. He’d seen the hazing that came with being the newest fighter in the warband, had even tried to shield him from the worst. Something Drangar would always be grateful for, but this he had to do. He had to prove to those who tormented him that he was like them—a mercenary.

  He took in the older man over the rim of his mug, and tilted the container higher, blocking him out. Instead, mead flooded his mouth, spilling, dripping down his chin onto table and tunic. “You ain’t my father,” he finally said, burping.

  In fact, the young warrior had no father. None he ever knew of, anyway. “I’m of age, I can handle a sword, and we’re bloody mercenaries.” He arched his eyebrows. “Tuaghal, Una and the others are my friends.” He burped again.

  “Besides,” said Tadc, from beside Kerral. “It’s easy money.”

  It was the end of another long day for Mireynh’s Marauders. With a sigh, Kerral stood. “Have it your way. Mireynh’s taking the company to the winter garrison. You know where.”

  “Mead!” Drangar yelled, raising his tankard, willfully ignoring the warleader. He was sixteen, an adult for two years—he knew what he was doing.

  A heavy hand pushed down his raised arm. “We’re leaving, you coming, runt?” Tadc said.

  Like everyone in Tuaghal’s band of mercenaries, Tadc was a veteran of many battles. He was hardened—like the jagged scars that accentuated his face and form. He was ruthless and bloody well looked the part.

  To be in the company of these stalwart warriors was an honor. The fact that they asked him to accompany them on their little expedition to protect a village was a sign that he was finally accepted as a true mercenary. At least, he hoped it was.

  For Drangar, this had been a long, slow year of suffering, humiliation,
and degradation. Such was the hazing that came with becoming a rookie member in this elite band of warriors. Mireynh’s Marauders was one of the most famous mercenary armies in the world, and Drangar had paid his dues. He finally felt like he belonged.

  So what if Tadc called him a ‘runt’. He didn’t mind it. The old warrior was almost two feet taller than him. Truth was, standing next to the man, he felt like a runt indeed.

  They set off from Bruidh M’dhain, heading east. At first, the pace was decent, though Drangar could feel his mount trembling with exhaustion long before they reached the inn that first evening.

  “What’s that say?” Tuaghal demanded. He pointed at the writing underneath the sign of a wolf holding a goat’s head in its maws.

  “Ask the runt,” Lugaid said. “He can read.”

  Drangar sighed. He should have never proclaimed he knew his letters. Once again the fact that he had been raised in the Eye of Traksor kicked him in the balls.

  “Well, Librarian,” Tuaghal said, waving him over, “What’s that say?”

  “It’s a piece of wood,” Drangar replied. “It doesn’t say anything.”

  Why had he used those words? Had he hoped his comrades would laugh? Now that he was accepted among the brethren of warriors, things were different—or so he hoped—so why weren’t they laughing?

  Only Finnen, who was right beside him, exhaled her amusement, but one look from Tuaghal and she fell silent. The warleader lashed out, slapping Drangar with such surprise force, he damn near knocked out a tooth.