Myths and Magic: An Epic Fantasy and Speculative Fiction Boxed Set

by K.N. Lee

  “No. Captain, No! Don’t,” Mathilde cried, afraid that he would not listen. “We are nothing to this magician, nothing at all.”

  Squinting, the old woman peered up at the first golem where Mathilde huddled crying on its shoulder. The only safety she had was to stay high above the ground.

  With a loud cough, the witch cleared her throat and spoke with the authority she plainly possessed. “I will explain this once. You will come down now. You will do it without fuss. You are in the wrong. You, girl, will begin by asking forgiveness from Edgar and Ethan. And then you will teach them what you know. And only then, only then—are you listening? If I am satisfied, then I will release Johan.” her old eyes shined with a horrible secret. Mathilde felt sick, just listening to her corrupted words.

  “You can’t find him, can you? No.” the old woman’s smile was so greedy as she said those words. “You won’t. Because he has left these mountains and traveled onward. He is far away on a distant train now. Only I know the location. Only I can save him.”

  Pointing at the back of her not-anymore-mother, the witch cackled as the venom of her wretched plan stung Mathilde’s torn heart. “Your mother knows that. And she knows beyond all doubt that you are the reason all of this misfortune has happened. To her and to her sons. You.”

  A pointy, age-spotted arm gestured her way. The witch was more bone than human, just like all the imprisoned people she had starved.

  Greed is never satisfied.

  “Step down from your high seat, thief. Accept your punishment.” the old woman said smugly, “Or my bargain will disappear like all the vidaya who have gone before, their names lost forever, erased from all history—vanished into the dust.”

  Mathilde thought of Fritz, of the choices they had made.

  Even now, as the old woman stole her family’s love away, tearing it out from under her still-beating heart—even now, Mathilde looked to the train depot. To the skeletal crowd of starved prisoners who had covered every train car, forcing their way in, demanding the death trains take them onward to a new life.

  A better place.

  The vidaya fought to live. Whipped and beaten, they still had that much strength.

  Mathilde could see from the vantage point of the golem’s shoulder that all the dogs were hauled off the compartments, bound and gagged. Like children, the vidaya ate food from one of the goods wagons, stuffing their faces.

  Fritz will see them free. Fritz will save them.

  It is his right.

  Fritz? she called across the magic bond between them. Levav, Johan is not here. He is gone, on a different train. Ask the dogs. Figure out where the last two trains have gone. Check any rail lines that left since we were dumped in this awful place.

  Mattie? She could barely hear her brother, the distance and the noise of a thousand people starving and talking clogged the clarity of their communication. Mattie, is that you? Are you alright? Are you coming?

  “I don’t-” she spoke aloud. Fritz couldn’t hear those words.

  Mathilde paused, I don’t think I can come with you, levav. I - She tried to explain. I need you to take the vidaya away from Gelshiesen. Now. Don’t wait for me... I will follow you on the next train. We will meet in Norwava in the spring. At Bertha’s, okay?

  But y-you need to go, brother. Now.

  Mattie, I can help. I can come if you need me?

  No, no, levav. You flee. You guide those in your care to a better place. Be the leader I know you can become.

  It hurt too much to let him go. Mattie closed down all but the slightest thread of their bond. Shutting down further conversation. He has to leave. He has to get out of here. Before Mam-, his mother found him. Before the evil magic revealed the last true vidartan, Fritz, to the black-hearted powers the old woman controlled.

  Mathilde focused on the lies and the betrayal lined up in front of her, filling the ground. Before she could respond to the threats, that precious time that she took to communicate with Fritz was taken as defiance by Edgar. His hand dropped in a signal.

  There was a loud pop and then a roar that nearly knocked Mathilde over.

  Bursts of focused fire shot out of several of the surrounding houses. Rocket powered explosions launched at the golems, cutting off their feet. Another explosion hit their middles, blowing up their legs and central forms.

  The golems fell to the ground, little more than animated rubble. Barely enough magic remained to move their heads.

  Mathilde fell down the arm where she stood, off the shoulder she cried on, along the earth that had risen just for her need. Like a sloping hill, the dying golem made sure to place its arm on the street level. Grateful, Mathilde ran down the hill and back on to solid ground.

  Where she promptly tripped and fell onto the paved street.

  Captain casually jumped off of the second golem as it too exploded.

  Somersaulting with no grace, Tomas fell into a tree. There he hung, upside down.

  Rough dirt lay all around her, remnants of mighty magic.

  But not as rough as the hands that grabbed her and gagged her mouth, binding her hands.

  “We’ve secured the witch.” Someone gloated. “We’ve got her, Mrs. Yaga.”

  Mathilde hit her head hard against the bits of scattered rock and broken pavement. She felt dizzy.

  But most of all, she felt shame.

  Ethan, her own brother, was unrecognizable in his rage. Spit flew from his mouth as he sneered at her. Hatred distorted his once kind eyes.

  “You will tell us everything we want. You will show us the pathway you stole. The knowledge of the ancient priests is ours now. It was never yours. Never. You are stripped of any blood rights. You’ll never use it again on pain of death.”

  Another face moved into view, the old lady peered at Mathilde, wearing Papa’s glasses. She looked at Mathilde as if she examined a bug under a microscope. With one hand, one clawed fingernail, she lifted up a bit of magic. No one else gathered in the street could see that.

  Only Mathilde.

  With one swift motion, the evil sorceress cut the bond. The golems melted into rubble.

  “No,” Mathilde moaned, her words were meaningless under the cloth gag. “No. Wait.”

  She knew and so did Mrs. Yaga, exactly what was coming. The old woman winked as she lifted another precious thread of binding, and snapped it apart.

  Mathilde screamed.

  Fritz, she cried across the magic. Fritz? Levav? But it was gone. The connection, the magic , the path way between their two hearts.

  Cut.

  Falling to her knees, Mathilde sobbed.

  She felt the pressure of something land on her bruised shoulder. That sudden touch was the only thing that pulled her out of her own sorrow, even for a moment.

  Claws dug into her skin and then disappeared. Mathilde looked up in time to see a black cat scratching the face, neck, and arms of the startled Yaga witch. One jet black cat.

  “Captain!” she tried to warn him. “No. No. No,” she begged, turning to the old woman. “Please.” No...

  Too late.

  Taken by surprise, the horrible woman was scratched and bitten around the face and neck. Old skin fared badly wounded by the attack. But she was not so hurt that she couldn’t quickly recover. Pointing at Captain as he ripped her shoulder, she whispered something snake-like, spidery, and slithering.

  Captain fell to the ground between them, paralyzed.

  Mathilde’s fear of that woman grew. Based on the overwhelming certainty that she had in her bones, blood, and body, that this woman would kill every last person in Gelschiesen to unlock the Geisprom.

  Every last one. Dogs and vidaya alike.

  We are all worthless. We are all trash.

  There is no mercy in this woman. Turning family against family, turning honorable people into liars. Turning kindness into hatred.

  Mathilde saw it all, every bit of the old woman’s nastiness. Every tendril of her sly plan. How like a spider, she controlled every
action, every outcome.

  She dances us, puppets on her strings, and she will let us claw, spit, kill, and die for the thing she wants.

  The one thing she wants: the opening of the Geisprom. Whatever it took to break the wax covering.

  Her real objective: the ability to steal the priests’ ancient magic. The old witch was focused on that one goal. Only that one.

  She didn’t care about Johan and she wouldn’t keep him alive. She would never return him to his family. Not if he had a drop of vidartan blood. And he was Fritz’s twin. So the magic could be there, untapped.

  The old woman had Tomas. Ethan. Edgar. Johan.

  But she doesn’t have me. She doesn’t have Fritz. And I don’t have to play her game.

  I don’t have to let her win, turn my world into lies. Turn my love into hate. Even if they don’t love me—I love them.

  I love Edgar and Ethan, for all their scholarly nights spent talking with Papa about strange and wonderful, mystical things. For the way they protected me for all those years when I was little. For the way they are still loyal to each other, and Mama, even through the lies. They are still family.

  Old Yaga, will steal that too, will break that last bit of happiness and hope. She corrupts everything near her. But I won’t.

  I won’t.

  Clumsily, Mathilde bent down on one knee.

  With her hands still bound in ropes, she could not do much. Still, she managed to cradle Captain’s head and upper body in her arms.

  Thank you, she whispered through the magic she was forbidden to use. Thank you, Captain Richaron. Your loyalty was the last truth I needed.

  I know what I need to do.

  Bindings made it impossible for her to stand again.

  Kneeling, she looked up at the wrinkled crone. She tried to speak, muffled words were impossible to understand.

  “Take off the damn cloth,” the old woman snapped.

  With a jerk, Ethan pulled the fabric down, freeing Mathilde’s mouth. She didn’t need the old woman to warn her, any word out of place would be her last. Already there were twenty dogs, rifles reamed, aimed in a circle around where she stood. All ready to kill her at any sign of trouble.

  “I won’t,” Mathilde said. “I won’t.”

  “You silly chit. Won’t what?” Confused, the old woman shook her head.

  “I won’t teach them, not any of it. Not even one spell. It’s not for them anyway. You will never let them use it. I see you. And I won’t give you that power.”

  “They are vidaya. Even without blood ties, they are my people. But the world is my family, too. And your lies twist them. Even now, they won’t hear, they can’t listen. Lies make them blind.

  “So, I tell you plainly. I will not open the vidartan pathway. I will not. Johan is dead. My mother and brothers have freed me the only way they know how, by casting me out.

  “That was your mistake.

  “They are not my family, not anymore. They are not my concern.

  “You are.”

  Hard and fast, the witch hit Mathilde in the face, slapping her across one cheek. Mathilde felt the stunning blow as her cut lip and tongue bled.

  “I don’t need you. I will find an easier way. I will. Unfortunately, you’ll not be here to give advice. Doubt I could trust anything you have to say, anyway. But Johan will help me. And maybe even Fritz?”

  Mathilde’s protective heart lurched towards murder. Delighted, the witch snickered at Mathilde’s gasp of fury.

  Hatred is how they win.

  Hatred is the magic killer.

  Hatred is the end of all hope.

  Yaga nodded to the dogs who still protected the camp and they stepped forward clutching their rifles, handguns, and daggers. One even had a garden hoe. Anything to be armed against a witch who called the earth as a weapon against their dominance.

  “Take her. Throw her in with the others. Collect the dead, sort for valuables and then start the coals.” Mrs. Yaga scowled a bit at the mess in front of her house.

  “Then,” she pointed all around the camp, “...start cleaning up this mess.”

  “Ethan and Edgar,” the old witch spoke to Mathilde’s once-brothers with the tone of a grandmother, clucking like a mother hen. “We must come at this dilemma alone, it seems. There is no solution to this problem we cannot conquer. It will just take some effort. If that chit of a witch can do it, you two will be unstoppable. Won’t they, Mrs. Shawsman?” the old woman included Mathilde’s no-longer-mother in the last encouragement.

  Mathilde watched it all, feeling lost. Failure crushed her spirit. Guilt dragged her down hard.

  She has my family. And even though they don’t see it, she lies. She has won everything I loved because she crushes the truth into a mangled thing. I can never win playing by her rules. How can I ever fight such power?

  If truth doesn’t matter, what does?

  Right then, three dog soldiers picked her up like a sack of rotten potatoes. Immediately, they began punching her in the shoulders and stomach. Throwing an empty bag of flour over Mathilde’s bloodied face, they men kicked her with their steel-toed boots. They never laughed.

  “Stupid cow,” they said. “How does that feel? Enjoy another courtesy of our dead friends. You deserve this.”

  Another kick landed. And another.

  And Mathilde remembered thinking, I do. I really do. I stole magic. I am a thief.

  Curling up in a ball, it was all she did to just hold on to consciousness...

  The men dragged her bound, gagged, and hooded away from the remains of her family. With a hefty push, they threw her bruised and bleeding body onto the back of a cart.

  She landed on another body. One that didn’t move.

  With her hands bound, she couldn’t feel anything except the rigid, cold flesh that surrounded her and the tang of copper that filled the air from all the blood seeping from the dead.

  Gradually, the truck bed filled. Two more bodies were thrown on top of her. And then another one. The combined weight of the dead men was too much. So heavy, their corpses buried her alive. She barely manage to breathe.

  Mathilde gaped like a fish on land, unable to catch her breath. Everything she thought about narrowed down to that one need: Breathe.

  A bit of sunlight filtered through the bit of weave of the coarse burlap sack.

  The jolts that rocked the cart were brutal as they passed over ruined streets and roads. Then the truck lurched to an abrupt stop. She heard a door open and close as men gathered around the pile of bodies.

  “Let’s get this garbage off-loaded. I need a drink,” one dog said to his fellow soldiers.

  “Trash incineration,” the man called the job they bent their backs to do.

  He taunted her—knowing she was alive, knowing the vidaya witch could hear his words. “Best way to deal with the dead, really. Why waste usable space in the ground? And this one,” They hauled Mathilde’s body up and over their uncaring shoulders. “Best set of fireworks I’ll see for the next year or so, I’d wager. Some people deserve to die. After all the loyal dogs she’s killed, she deserves nothing less. Right, boys?”

  Unknown hands and faces hauled her upright and threw her into a dark room. One after another more bodies landed all around where she lay, a smashed and ruined doll no one cared about. Several of the other remains hit Mathilde as all the corpses were stuffed into the cramped space.

  Mathilde swam. Even with the deep and stunning pain in her side that revealed a broken rib or two, she had learned her lesson on the cart.

  I cannot get buried under the weight of these men. They will crush the life out of my lungs.

  Determined to live, she dug her path away from the sound of cruel taunts and vicious soldiers. Pushing off with her feet and calves, Mathilde kicked against the falling bodies. She clawed and crawled until her bruises hands felt the cool of a metal wall. As the dead kept tumbling in, the pile of corpses hid her struggle to survive in another Hollyoaken prison cell.

  Wit
h this many dead, the rats will come soon enough. The stench of death would bring the rodents and will make the air unbreathable. There wasn’t much time for her to escape. Even if there was, there was no way to leave.

  And nowhere for me to go.

  Mathilde’s body could not bear the strain of her own weight. The soldiers’ steel-toed shoes had done their job. Even breathing without the dead lying on top of her, even then, her lungs barely worked.

  She coughed once. The ripped, blue-embroidered shirt of long-dead priests caught the brunt of the leaking blood that filled her mouth. Even if it was once sacred, the shirt was now only a wreckage of its former condition. Trash beyond rescue. Like me.

  Freedom never felt so far away.

  So impossible.

  So beautiful.

  Outside, she head one of the dogs speak.

  “That’s it,” he commented breezily. “Last load done. Time to cleanse our homeland. And clean our world for good.”

  Suddenly, above her head, high in the middle of the ceiling, there was a click, click, clicking sound, rapid fire. She had never heard the like except when Mama would start dinner.

  Heat cascaded down the room, from the middle of the ceiling, fanning outward.

  At first, it was as warm as a summer day.

  And then, it was too warm.

  And then the heat became a flame, became a fire that scorched the sides of the room.

  The cool metal that Mathilde had rested against grew heated.

  Somewhere above her head, the furnace roared to life. Flames poured down from the ceiling.

  Nearby, something meowed. Someone. Mathilde struggled to remember to keep her focus. A cat. There could be only one in this place.

  The scratchy burlap bag over her head was smothering. But the heat above her was gathering by the second in intensity, burning up the oxygen. All around her, Mathilde could hear the crackle and pop of bodies beginning to roast. The ones nearest the heat source were already cooking.

  The meow came again. Far away.

  Too far. Much too hard to reach with her ruined body combined with the broiling heat that soon filled the room.