by John Mangold
Her stomach slowed its tumbling, allowing her a moment’s peace. Lowering her hands, Maluem found herself standing on a cobblestone street. The bustling populace jostled her as the crowd flowed around her, threatening to trample her at any moment. She struggled to focus on her fellow pedestrians, to gain some recognition of them, but to her horror, she could not concentrate on their faces. Every passing figure towered above her as though she were a child, their features concealed behind a blanketing white blur.
Her eyes darted around to the buildings lining the street. Their heavy wood construction, along with the finely shingled roofs, struck an ominous tone in her memory. She had been here before, walked these very streets in her youth. But something told her that this was not somewhere she wanted to be. Something dreadful had happened here, something which she had tried so very hard to forget for so long.
As the crowd briefly parted, Maluem caught sight of one who stood out. An oddly garbed individual, concealed from head to toe in an eclectic array of rotting rags, stood alone. Maluem thought he might be a gypsy, yet such folk always travel in groups, and there was no sign of any companions. As she stood pondering this oddity amongst the otherwise homogeneous masses, a voice called out to her from her left, filling her dreaded certainty. It was the voice of Master Sator Valde.
“There you are, Maluem! Come, you know we cannot dawdle! We are already going to be late!”
The note of his voice was impatient, caused her stomach to clench once more. Maluem spun on the spot, rushing to rejoin her Master. He was easy to pick out, as his face was the only one that shone clearly amongst the faceless drones around him. She did not wish to disappoint him on today of all days. Yet, at the same time, she could not quite recall what was so important. It had something to do with the King of Camilos, but-
“Good, I had feared I had lost you,” Sator said as he took her hand in his. “You must not wander off like that. The streets of Antures can prove quite hazardous, even for the most experienced.”
“Where are we going, Master Valde?” Maluem found herself asking, her voice squeaking in her own ears. Had she ever sounded so young?
“Come Maluem, have you forgotten already,” Aldis chided her. “You have been frightfully absent-minded lately. We have been summoned to the king’s court this morning. Apparently, our potentate wishes a report on our progress.”
“Summoned? But Master, I thought you never communicated with the king directly. I thought you said it was a matter of security that you-”
“Yes, Maluem, quite right,” Master Valde replied, cutting her off abruptly. “However, the royal message I received left little room for argument. We must report to our King, Young Acolyte. It is our duty as loyal subjects.”
These last words seemed to hold a note of contempt within them. As Maluem looked up to him, she could see an expression of concern on his face that she had never seen before. This caused the dreaded feeling of horrible certainty to return to her stomach ten-fold. She knew they were drawing close to something terrible, just as certainly as she knew she could do nothing to stop it.
Maluem wanted to warn Sator, to shout for him to stop, but her lips disobeyed her. When she forced her mouth open to speak, her voice evaporated in her throat, emitting nothing but barely audible whispers. She willed her feet to stop in their steady march, but they had acquired a mind of their own. It was as though she was now but a spectator in a play. With no agency of her own, Maluem could not make any alterations to the story as it unfolded around her.
As they entered a new square, a single filth-ridden man stood out clearly amongst the faceless masses swarming about him. As she watched in silent horror, the stranger staggered towards them through the crowd. She grasped Master Sator’s sleeve to steer him away from the approaching vagrant, but her Master seemed to take no notice of her urgings. Her eyes swung around for someone who might help, only to land upon a second vagabond, stumbling up behind them. His face stood out in the crowd with the same clarity of the first, right down to his vacuous expression. It was then that she noticed the amazing tattoos he had running up both of his arms.
She felt Sator halt suddenly. Her head spun round to the first drunk who now stood awkwardly before him. Pulses stretched to minutes as Sator’s arm tensed, clearly preparing to cast. Suddenly, Master Valde’s hand pressed hard against her chest, shoving her roughly away from him. Maluem tumbled backward, the wet cobblestones leaping up to meet her. Rolling up to a sitting position, her eyes locked on the confronting figure.
The tattoos on the vagabond’s arm begin to squirm. With a horribly wet, crunching sound, the drunk’s body collapsed in upon itself, creating in its destruction an enormously swirling tear in the very fabric of reality, opening a portal into an impossibly deep void beyond. As the gulf beyond widened, everything within twenty feet of the gruesome maw began skittering towards the unfathomable chasm.
The sucking force quickly became insurmountable, causing Sator to fall backward onto the slick cobblestone. Maluem reflexively flung out her arms and grasped hard to Master Valde’s outstretched hand. The force was incredible, and it quickly became all Maluem could do just to hold onto her fallen Master.
Maluem glanced about for help, but there was none to be had. One after another, the faceless pedestrians around her were being dragged into that gaping maw, their terrified screams instantly silenced as the void claimed them. Maluem fought to keep Master Valde from sharing their fate, but she was finding it impossible to gain any footing on the street below. Her feet slipped from one stone crevice to another, causing the pair to inevitably edge toward the unquenchable destruction ahead.
“Hold on, Maluem!” Master Valde called as he brought his free arm to point towards the yawning vortex.
She felt his muscles tense as he prepared to cast, pulling up a large section of stone from the street ahead. He obviously planned to use the massive slab of debris to cork the hole, at least for a time. But before he could complete the incantations, the second drunk, who had approached unseen from behind, fell upon him. The fiend’s arms locked around Valde in a furious bear-hug, pinning Sator’s casting arm between them. Instantly, the vagrant’s tattoos squirmed like the first, turning his skin to steel, his hands to complex shackles. The combination of surprise and having his casting arm pinned left Master Valde incapable of casting.
Master Valde turned to Maluem, his eyes incredibly calm. Maluem tried to tighten her grasp on his hand, but the sweat of her palms worked against her. The strain of trying to hold her Master and the shackling vagabond against the force of the vortex was impossible for her small frame. Slowly she could feel her strength drain away, his hand beginning to slide from her grip. Master Valde opened his mouth to speak, but as she watched, his face began to shift, his features morphing to become those of Volo. The shock of this change stunned Maluem, causing her to lose her footing completely.
For a moment, it was as if the three stood still as the world around them swept past. Maluem could not take her attention from Volo’s face, his hand locked to hers for salvation she could not provide, his eyes searing hers with their silent pleading for help. She could not stand it. She tried to turn her head but could not move. She struggled to close her eyes, but they stubbornly spread wide. She felt as though her heart would explode from the strain. She could not bear to watch him die, not like this, not again.
With titanic effort, Maluem forced her eyes closed, sucking in her breath as she waited for death to claim them all. Yet, as the pulses slipped by, she heard only her heart beating. She felt a heat building inside her, as though an inferno had ignited within her chest. As the internal flames grew hotter, her throat became parched, burning horribly as she tried in vain to swallow. At last, she could take no more. Her head swimming, the darkness swirling around her, Maluem opened her bleary eyes to find the terrible vortex was gone, along with all surrounding it. Everything had been replaced by the peculiar kitchen she had left behind, with one addition. Hovering over her, a blurry figure was
now holding a cloth to her forehead.
***
As her vision began to clear, Maluem tried to make sense of what she was looking at. The room was the same as she had left it, the grill still burning as brightly as before, Aldis standing near the strange door, chewing on some of the leftover evening’s meal. From the silence in the room, she could even tell that the storm had finally blown itself out. Everything seemed perfectly normal, all except for one critical detail. Crouching beside her, holding a damp cloth on her brow, rested Volo Jinn. A man who could not possibly exist. A man whose death she had personally witnessed not three days before.
“The infection has gotten very bad,” Volo was saying. “Don’t you know any healing spells?”
Maluem could only shake her head weakly for an answer. It was partly due to the toll the fever had exacted upon her and partly from the shock of seeing Volo alive once more. She did not know whether to laugh from joy or scream for fear of seeing him. All she could manage to do was lay there and stare at him as though he might disappear at any moment.
Volo picked up the jar of salve which Maluem had put on her wound earlier.
“You didn’t use this, did you?”
Maluem nodded weakly.
“You have never worked in a kitchen, have you? I can’t read this label, but I can tell you what it’s for, stove burns. This won’t do anything for an open wound but make it hurt that much more. I had better wash that wound out. I can make you a dressing from some healing herbs, but I think this will require more than I can do. Maluem…Maluem! Stay with me! I need you to stay awake for a short time while I clean this.”
Maluem’s eyelids felt very heavy. Though she did not wish to return to her dreams, if, in fact, she had actually left them, she could not seem to keep her eyes open. Her energy was fading so very quickly. Yet, she did not want to let go of this moment. She just wanted to see Volo one more time before he disappeared, probably forever.
“Volo…” she managed weakly, “Volo…I-
“Hush, you need to save your energy.”
“No…I need to…tell you something. I did not mean-”
“You can tell me later after you’ve rested.”
“No…you will be gone again. I... I am-”
“Maluem, I’m not going anywhere. I promise, from now on, I won’t leave your side for an instant.”
With this statement, all Maluem’s protests disintegrated in her throat. She could not remember when such simple words had touched her so. She wanted to thank him, to plead for his forgiveness, to rejoice for the simple gift of seeing him alive. But she could do none of these things. Her willpower could sustain her no longer. Before she could muster her energy to speak once more, a blanket of darkness smothered her vision, and she knew no more.
4:
Kindred Spirit
Delilah cursed loudly as a branch scraped hard against her cheek, nearly knocking her wide-brimmed hat from her head, briefly entangling itself in her long, scarlet hair. The harsh stinging which followed only served to fuel the rage which already boiled in the depths of her heart. With extreme savagery, Delilah spurred her horse in retaliation for leading her through such a dense thicket. Her horse whinnied in startled pain from the unearned punishment, but his loud protests went unheeded.
“Stupid Beast,” she spat. “Aldis would give me a clumsy Ox like you! It wasn’t enough to banish me from the Archives. He had to burden me with a lummox for a mount! Best learn to steer clear of bramble, or it will be more of the same!”
When her as-of-yet unnamed mount gave no further excuse to bluster, Delilah returned to her silent seething. Her mind twisted in such a furious rage, it became difficult to remember what infractions each of her enemies had committed. To keep it all straight, she wrote and rewrote a list in her mind to keep it all in order. They would all be made to pay for what they had done to her; that much was assured. She simply needed to find the proper means to visit her vengeance upon each of them in turn. Once the ability to do so was hers, she would put all her efforts into delivering each tormentor into their own individual destruction.
With that thought, Delilah returned to her list. At the bottom of it was Phineas Fulbert III. Just thinking his name made her blood boil hotter. It was to that simpering fool that the head of the National Archives of Camilos, Master Veneficus Aldis Wurncaster, had entrusted the careful watch of Maluem. Had the fool been up to the task, he would have kept the witch on a short leash, curtailing any mischief she could have gotten into. But he had failed utterly. He had allowed the tramp to get the better of him, driving him off in some mindless rage, leaving her unwatched to wander the halls at will. His ignorance of Maluem’s history within those very halls was no excuse. His failure led to all that followed.
But did the high, Master Veneficus Aldis Wurncaster cast Phineas from the Archives? Did he banish Phineas from the only home he had ever known? No! All his tic-headed buffoonery had earned the little ferd was a fortnight in the garrison’s cells, a further fortnight assisting the stable hands, and a reduction in rank by two levels. A paltry slap on the wrist! Where was the justice in that? Phineas should remain in the luxury of those hallowed halls while Delilah is condemned to wander the wilds for the rest of her life? A travesty! But his actual punishment was coming. Let the ferd enjoy his pampering for now; she would return to make him pay the correct amount due.
This line of thought brought her readily to the next name on her list, Aldis. Damn his title, along with everything else about him! How such a dim-witted old fool as he had risen to govern the National Archives only showed how ignorant the crown must be! The glass-eyed mule could not see the nose on his own face, let alone the apparent treachery Maluem had committed. A blind peasant could have seen that Volo and Maluem were in cahoots! The whole “Pepper-Gas” stunt had only served to distract attention from Maluem’s real target, the forbidden vaults. She might even have guessed that Phineas was a part of this scheme if she thought he had the intellect for it.
But that was no matter. It was an apparent conspiracy to steal some scrap of forbidden knowledge, and the great Ferd Aldis was blind to it. He even accused her, Delilah, of being a part of the scheme. The audacity! After all, she had done for the Archives! Did all her research count for nothing? Was it not her who turned in Maluem, her only friend, for breaking the Archives' ancient laws? Sure, it was she who had talked Maluem into breaking them in the first place, but he didn’t know that. Just as he was unaware that Delilah had broken those same sacred rules far more often than Maluem ever had. If the colossal ferd had any clue how much she had gleaned from her many forays into those same forbidden catacombs, he probably would never have let her leave those halls alive. Not that it appeared to be all that taxing to evade his grip. After all, Maluem had managed to do it.
At any rate, Delilah had left with far more than Aldis could possibly know. True, she could not decipher what all of it meant. She never had a firm grasp of dead languages, leaving such mindless translation tasks to Maluem. No matter. Delilah had managed to memorize how to write the desired text by mimicking the arcane letterings flow. She could recreate it perfectly, even if she could not read it. All Delilah needed was an educated serf to translate the scrawls for her, disposing of him once the task was complete. From those spells, she would glean all the power needed to put dear old Aldis in a very uncomfortable position.
Oh yes, Aldis would have little choice but to obey his new Master once Delilah unlocked the arcane knowledge she had spirited away. But this would be but the beginning of his torment. He would be made to suffer for quite some time before she would grow weary of hearing his cries for mercy, mercy she had no mind to grant. It would only be when she became bored with his suffering that she would release him from her amusements to the sharp kiss of the executioner’s ax.
But the old goat’s anguish would pale in comparison to the one she had in store for the last name on her list. Maluem’s moniker crowned her torrid bill of infamy. Just the thought of the vile skrit
e’s name brought fresh bile to her throat. She spat violently as she cursed the treacherous vixen’s name. To think, she had once befriended Maluem, had once taken her under her wing. She had seen promise in the girl, a light of aptitude that would serve well in a skilled lackey. Delilah had so looked forward to sharing her wealth of knowledge with her compatriot.
Sadly, Maluem had been tested time and time again only to be found wanting on each occasion. How often had she warned her of that fatal flaw of that pathetic tendency of showing sympathy for others? It was obviously holding her back, yet Maluem would not rid herself of it. Had it not been for Delilah’s prodding, Maluem might never have had the strength of will to gain access to the forbidden areas of the keep. That would have been a terrible loss for Delilah.
In the end, only a practical application of willpower would suffice to teach her wayward student. The fact that Delilah’s demonstration led to Maluem’s expulsion only revealed yet another truth of life. A price must be paid for all gains, and it is best if someone else foots the bill. Maluem was just the poor, sorry ferd who got stuck holding the bag. If she had only been a bit smarter or listened more closely to what Delilah had been trying to teach her, she would have passed the blame on down the line. Or perhaps it was just more of her misguided sense of honor that kept Maluem from doing what was required.
“Either way, it was her weakness, not mine, that brought about her downfall,” Delilah muttered aloud. “Yet she blames me, after everything I did for her. There’s gratitude for you!”
This thought quickly led Delilah’s mind to a topic that had become her favorite to ruminate over, Maluem’s penance. Just thinking of it made her mouth water with anticipation. Of all the worst tortures she could think of, she saved the most ruinous, the most horrific, for Maluem. In her mind, she could see Maluem in the restraints; she could picture the implements displayed on the table before her. All was in readiness. Vengeance was at hand. Yet, just as she reached for the heated tongs, her fingers eagerly coiling around that wrought iron handle, a branch caught Delilah full in the face, nearly knocking her from the saddle.