A dozen steps in, the sound of her boots crunching against gravel stopped. Even the sound of her breathing vanished and she was left in a soundless vacuum. The light flickered out, her mobile battery dead. Her pulse fluttered a moment as indecision racked her thoughts. Waves of nausea rode over her, with not-so-subtle messages to turn back. This was powerful magic. Someone or something didn’t want her to travel any farther. Bile inched up her throat and she swallowed hard. If this path was forbidden, she’d be damned if she turned back now.
Rori tucked the useless mobile into a pocket and held the dagger aloft. Her magic swirled around the blade, giving it an eerie glow. It was enough to see one step in front of her, no more.
One, then two, then three steps she walked, all the while listening. A death-like eeriness hung on every branch, cloaked every leaf. Her breaths came in short pulls without disturbing the air. Another step. Rori slammed into something hard, her dagger making an odd clinking sound.
She reached her free hand out and felt along a smooth surface. As high and wide as she could touch was nothing but an invisible wall.
What the ever-loving bloody freaking hell? Rori took a step back and surveyed what she couldn’t see. Beyond the barrier, lights flickered. The ground shifted and she steadied herself against the sudden movement. It could’ve been an earthquake, but of the few she’d actually experienced, this felt different. Her stomach buzzed with nerves, like a hive of bees hopped up on meth. This wasn’t good, whatever was happening.
The trees were too closely spaced to give her any idea of what the sky looked like. No rain fell, nor did any wind blow, but the ground was rocking just the same. She returned to the wall and pressed both hands against it, but it wouldn’t budge. The hilt of her dagger cut into her palm with the effort.
A flash of light, then another, and the rocking stopped. The world spun with terrifying speed and the buzz in her gut turned sinister. Sickness teased the back of her throat.
She rested her head against the barrier, welcoming the coolness against her forehead. The smooth wall reminded her of glass.
Glass.
Glass could shatter. Her heart raced with possibilities. A glass wall? In a forest? Ridiculous, yes, but then nothing here made sense. She knew, however, if it were glass, it could break. It might be crazy, but it was worth a try.
She held the hilt, blade facing her, and slammed her fist hard against the wall. A loud clank echoed, but nothing else happened. Three more times she struck the smooth surface, her arm tingling with each impact.
Lights flared beyond the barrier and Rori squinted against the sudden brightness.
Giants strolled past, oblivious of her and the forest. She banged on the invisible wall, calling out, but no one stopped. No one even glanced her way. Then she saw Tug. Sweet mother of angels, it was her friend! His baggy-clothed body lumbered down the lane, his short raven hair bouncing with his steps.
She yelled and banged her dagger, but he was too far away.
And he was huge! He’d always been taller than her, and as wide as two men, but now—he was positively ginormous.
Rori looked at her hands. They appeared normal. She glanced at the trees. They were taller than most, but not irrationally so. She peered again through the barrier at Tug. Stalls selling wares ran on either side of him. He had to be in the market. But how then could she see him? And why was everything much, much larger than it should’ve been?
Once again, she banged on the wall and cried out. Once again, he didn’t notice.
On the last hit, the butt of her dagger clinked instead of clanked. A tiny crack formed. Cracked, like glass. She’d been right!
With renewed vigor, she smashed the glass again and again, grinning wider each time the splinter grew. Soon, there was a spider web of cracks and a walnut-sized divot in the wall. She put away her dagger and searched the area until she found a rock the size of her fist. The first smash startled her with rough vibrations that ran down her arm. Magic. This barrier was spelled. She hadn’t felt the magic with her dagger, but then, her own magic was circling it. There was no way her magic was enough to overpower the spell on the wall—her mind raced in circles of magic logic.
In the end, it didn’t matter. She had two choices—break through the magic and endure whatever harm came of it, or stop. Quitting was never an option.
Rori grasped the rock and braced herself for a backlash.
“Cian, if you can hear me, I need your strength.” It was a long shot, but what the hell. She had nothing to lose by asking.
Her arm pulled back and she focused on the divot. With a mighty cry, she swung forward and connected the rock to the wall. Huge gusts of energy roared over her. Dark magic. Spells meant to subdue, to force sleep, to diminish sound: dozens of spells hit her all at once and she flew backward into a thick trunk. Her skull met bark with a dull thud.
Pain ricocheted through her brain and down her back. She groaned and struggled to keep from sliding to the ground.
A loud whoosh was her only warning before she was sucked forward, through the barrier. The sound of shattering glass stole her hearing. Bright lights blinded her. Pain, acute and all-consuming, tore through her limbs. Something hard slammed into her, or she into it, and the air rushed from her lungs with one great whoosh.
Futnuckers and cocklespaz. That didn’t go as she’d hoped.
3
The market wasn’t crowded this hour of the morning, but still Therron had trouble following the woman. Flashes of red and gold wove in and out of sight, frustrating him to the brink of rage. Why had he taken this job? It wasn’t for the coin, that was for damn sure. Queen Midna had made it clear he would only get paid if he killed the enchantress. A thief he might be, but a murderer of women? Not yet.
Although, if she continued to toy with him, he might see fit to do Midna’s bidding.
At an intersection of stalls, Therron paused. To his right hung the featherless bodies of ducks, geese, and chickens. To his left was a long line of brightly colored goods. More foodstuffs stretched in front of him. Why the enchantress had come to the market, he couldn’t begin to fathom.
He’d been following her more or less for the better part of a month. She liked to travel Faerie, stopping at small villages and large towns without any plan or seeming direction. At each stop, she’d go to a pub, sleep at an inn, and then leave. If she was up to mischief, he didn’t see it, yet his gut told him something was going on—something he could feel, but not see. This was powerful magic if what she was doing made it appear as if nothing happened.
Contrary to her seemingly aimless meanderings, she’d been in this town, Cere, for four days. It was the first time she’d stayed in one place for more than a day and Therron had yet to find the cause. As far as he could tell, Cere was much like any other town of Faerie with a central market square, airy spires and marble arched colonnades. Pedestrian bridges spanning the streets with what looked like lacy, delicate buildings crowding overhead. Ivy and blossoms in a riot of color covered the stone walls, sometimes hiding a doorway or opening to a close. It was the closes and narrow alleyways Therron hated most about these godforsaken towns. They were like labyrinths, leading sometimes to a large avenue, and other—most—times to nowhere. For a man like Therron, they were veritable traps, best to be avoided.
Therron grudgingly admitted the fae were accomplished architects. Not as skilled as his kin, but the lightness they captured using stone was lovely. Although, at the moment, he would’ve been happier if they hadn’t made so many damned covered walkways. The enchantress had disappeared from his sight.
He dodged a large family laden with heavy bags and tucked into an alcove to gather his wits. If she’d been in this town for this long, there was a reason. It had to have something to do with the pub from a few nights past. The one with the ridiculous name. To be fair, most pubs had either pretentious or silly names. Shoogly Dragon. That was the pub where he’d seen the beautiful lass with outlandish blue hair. That was the night she’d
disappeared.
Therron eased into a small crowd. A flash of red caught his attention and he kept his focus above the heads of those surrounding him.
“If you wish to live, you won’t move,” a squealish voice hissed in Therron’s ear.
“And if you wish to live, you’ll remove your blade.” Blood and ashes, he’d been so intent on the woman he’d not paid attention to his surroundings. He turned slowly to see who his would-be murderer was.
“Don’t look at me. Stay where you are.”
“And to what do I owe this honor?”
“Why are you following me?”
This took Therron aback. The voice was certainly male, and by the smell of him, not someone acquainted with bathing regularly. An acrid wave of perspiration hit his nostrils. He breathed as shallow as possible to avoid the stench.
“I am not following you, my friend.”
“I saw you the other night. And again on the road. Now you’re here. Did she send you? Is she unhappy with my work? I did as told—why does she want me dead, too?”
She who? The witch? Therron twisted his head enough to see the top of a greasy brown head. He’d said he was at the pub, yet Therron couldn’t place him. “I don’t know who you refer to, nor am I following you. As I’ve said.”
“Don’t turn around.” The blade inched against his midsection until he could feel the sharp point.
Therron slid his own knife from his sleeve into his palm. His hood slipped with the movement. “I don’t like being threatened, nor do I like being told what to do.”
A gasp came from the man. “You’re an elf. What’s she want with the elves? I thought it was only fae—” The man cut off his words and clamped his mouth shut.
“Who is this mysterious ‘she’ you keep referring to?” Therron eased his blade up to the man’s ribs. The last thing he needed was a fight in a busy marketplace.
“No one you need concern yourself with.” At the pressure upon his body from Therron’s blade, the man sucked in a breath. “Oy, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I told you. I’m not following you, nor do I know who you’re talking about. Either you remove your dagger from my body, or I’ll gut you right here.”
The pressure upon his belly released and Therron turned fully to confront the man. He recognized the wide face and overly thick lips. He’d seen him in the pub with that girl. Details from that night blinked through his mind like picture cards being placed upon a table.
“Where’s the witch?”
The man’s face blanched and he shook his head. “Acelyne? Ain’t gotta tell ya.” Confusion danced in his eyes, followed by understanding. “You’re following her, ain’t ya?”
“She has something of mine and I’d like it back.”
His laugh was maniacal and guttural. “If she’s taken it, then it’s gone. Gone, gone, gone. You should forget what she has and return to your kingdom.” He repeated, “Gone, gone, gone,” several more times, as if he were singing a nursery rhyme.
“What do you mean?”
The man shook his head violently, as if having a spasm. “No, she swore me to silence. I dinna want to help, but she made me. Made me hurt her. I dinna want to. No.” The last word strung out into one long “ooooooooooo” and his whole body trembled.
Therron’s blade cut through the soft flesh of his torso with the man’s jerks. Blood oozed onto his tunic, making a small red stain. There was nothing for it now. He’d have to get away from him as quickly as possible to avoid suspicion. He swiped the knife on the man’s clothing and slid it up his sleeve at the same time he clapped the man on his shoulder. “Well, friend, I bid you well in your endeavors. If you won’t tell me where to find the witch, I’ll just have to make do on my own.”
As much as he wished to know, there wasn’t time to ask about his ramblings and Therron doubted he’d get straight answers from the cretin. It was best to leave him there, in the center of the crowded market.
“Tell her I’m sorry. She can trust Sal. I dinna want to.” Tears streaked down the man’s cheeks. His face twisted in torment. “She hurt me.” He tapped his head. “In here. I can feel her.”
“Sal, eh? I’ll tell her. You should go have a lie down. You don’t look well, Sal. Go home, have a rest. You’ll feel better by tomorrow.”
By tomorrow he’d be dead. Therron’s daggers were coated in a hard-to-find poison that acted either quickly or slowly, depending upon how calm a person remained. With Sal’s thrashing, he’d probably not last more than five minutes.
Therron turned and left the man where he stood. He pulled his hood low over his face and scanned the area for the enchantress. She was here—he could feel it. At the end of a long row of stalls, he spotted her crimson gown and headed toward her. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, relieved to see that Sal hadn’t crumpled in the middle of the street. He remained upright, the knife hanging from his fingertips. Life had all but left his eyes. Therron quickened his pace until he’d put two more rows of stalls between him and the maniac. A sharp cry rose above the din of merchants and townsfolk. Someone had discovered the wounded man named Sal. If they came looking for Therron, that might be a complication he didn’t need.
By the sounds of it, the search was heading in the opposite direction. He strained to listen, delighting a little too much at the mention of “the little bugger deserved no less.” The man might’ve shown remorse for his actions, but it appeared to be too little, too late.
A foreign thumping began in Therron’s heart. Ever since that night at the pub, he’d had unexplainable pains in his chest. At first, he attributed it to the stale beer, but three days on, they continued, albeit at intermittent intervals. Therron paused to rub his ribcage. Perhaps he’d been poisoned by Sal’s blade. But when he checked beneath his jerkin and tunic, his skin was unblemished. Whatever these strange pangs were, he wished they would stop.
He continued on, toward the enchantress, who was now placing caskets, small wooden boxes with highly stylized decorative scrollwork covering the tops and sides, on a small table. She carefully took them out of a large fabric bag and set them down. Intrigued, Therron slipped behind another stall, one festooned with scarves decorated in bright colors. A small breeze furled the wispy fabric to and fro, irritating Therron each time a scarf blocked his sight. He hurried behind the stall to another, this one selling jewelry and trinkets. From this vantage point, he could see the witch clearly—see the minute details of the wooden caskets she arranged on the table.
Another sharp jab at his chest stole his breath. What in the name of dragon’s breath was wrong with him? He could remember only a handful of days he’d been sick in his long life, but nothing like the tightness he felt around his heart.
The enchantress opened one of the caskets to reveal glass vials enclosed in swirling metal work. The trinkets he stood beside looked like child’s play compared to the beauty of the amulets carefully resting on velvet. He did a quick count and came up with six amulets per box, twelve boxes.
Whatever the witch was up to, he was keen to discover what the glass pendants had to do with it. He cast his mind back to the night at the pub—he didn’t remember Acelyne carrying a bag, nor did he recall her having any caskets. In fact, he’d been most perplexed why she’d chosen the Shoogly Dragon at all. It wasn’t her typical haunt of dark corners and murky conversation. The Shoogly Dragon was lively and filled with laughter. Most of that came from the blue haired beauty he’d tried not to watch all evening.
But how could he avoid her? She laughed and danced and played darts as well as any elf he’d known. She and her friends made a merry group—Therron’s veins chilled as if the Snow Queen herself had touched his soul. Sal had brought the beauty a drink. It wasn’t long after that she excused herself to use the toilet. Then… Therron replayed every detail of that night.
He’d been watching Acelyne, with an eye to the lively girl, no doubt. When she left the common room, the witch had followed. This was easy to recall, but
Sal’s role in the evening—other than bringing her a drink—that was clouded in his memory. It was like a solid wall prevented him from recalling the event. He glared at the enchantress. Of course she would’ve tampered with his mind. After all, he was a witness to her quarrel with the beauty.
Blood and ashes, that girl could fight. She’d landed several punches and kicks to Acelyne’s midsection, some of which Therron was certain would’ve felled a giant like the girl’s friend. Yet the witch had barely reacted. Only when the girl connected her fist to Acelyne’s face did she snarl and retaliate.
This was where Therron’s thoughts muddied. The harder he tried to remember what happened to the pretty girl, the sooner his mind snapped to afterward, when he sat alone at the table, drinking his beer and wondering why he’d come to the Shoogly Dragon at all.
But now, as Therron watched Acelyne pace in front of the small table, he remembered more. Fragments, yes, but enough to piece together the puzzle if given enough time. What he could clearly recall was the witch had grasped a handful of that lovely blue hair and dragged the girl behind her, issuing commands like the queen’s general.
The girl’s body had gone limp, the fight gone from her. Therron chased after them, only to find they’d disappeared. Not like they turned a corner and were gone, but vanished. He’d searched the area before returning to the pub in the hope they’d gone back inside. That’s when he heard Sal telling the giant the girl had felt sick and probably went home.
A commotion at the witch’s table drew his full attention. He moved to the edge of the jeweler’s stall, half hidden by the flowing scarves to his right. The giant from the pub strolled into view, oblivious of the enchantress or her table.
A flash lit the area, accompanied by a whooshing sound, as if he were in a cave and all the air was sucked out of it. If he’d blinked, he would’ve missed seeing the girl fall from the table to the ground. Blue hair fanned around her crumpled body. He knew that hair.
Relics and Runes Anthology Page 31