Within

by Aaron Bunce

  The words to a song inexplicably sprang into his mind. It was a song that haunted him during his fevered nightmares. He remembered the specter of his mother, reaching out to him, as his body died.

  “How do I make it real?” Roman whispered, desperate to see her again, and ask her what he was supposed to do.

  “Cracked!” Banus said, cocking his head to one side. The foul man smirked and came forward, the bloodied sword cutting down.

  Roman didn’t have time to think, only to react. A flash cut through the air, and his vision blurred by smoke. Roman felt something split apart inside him. He felt his body falling back, Dennah’s arms wrapped tightly around him, yet he also felt his body moving forward at the same time.

  His anger lashed out, and Roman gave into it. He heard Banus cry out, his voice bent by fear. Roman recovered, and found the smaller man falling back, a strange smoky form swirling around him.

  “Wha…wha…that?” Banus stammered, swinging his sword through the air.

  The smoky presence dissipated as the sword cut through it. Roman cringed and staggered. He felt the blade as clearly as if it cut through him.

  “What is it?” Dennah asked, her arms still wrapped around him, but Roman couldn’t answer.

  Banus stalked towards them, murder upon his face. Roman felt the strange shadowy presence around them. It was turbulent and confused; a fiery spirit without form, or purpose.

  “Stay away!” Roman groaned as Dennah pulled him back, but Banus wouldn’t stop.

  A fluttering noise filled Roman’s ears, and his hands tingled. The shadowy spirit cut in through the darkness above them once again and descended upon Banus.

  The smaller man fell back, but he showed less fear this time. His sword flashed through the air once, and then twice, and the indistinct form dissipated again. Roman felt the spirit’s anger and frustration gnawing at him from the inside. Banus moved sideways, cutting them off from the doorway.

  “That all you got, boy? Some puffs of smoke ain’t gonna stop me now. Ain’t gonna stop me from ending you once and for all,” Banus said, resting his sword on his shoulder.

  “Roman,” Dennah whispered harshly, but he wasn’t listening.

  He was focusing on the fluttering voice in his head, trying desperately to understand how to give it what it wanted.

  His desperation and fear drove the shadowy presence from the darkness once again. It cut through the air, barely distinguishable from the dancing firelight and ebbing shadows. Roman watched as the small man turned and swung his sword, but this time he was ready. Roman found his strength and gave in to it.

  The blade flashed into the shadowy mass. Only the spirit didn’t break apart. It enveloped Banus, like a blanket cut from the darkest pitch. The small man spun and thrashed, his sword cutting in dangerous arcs as he stumbled their way.

  Dennah and Roman pushed back as he thrashed and flailed until their backs bumped into something hard. Roman looked around desperately, as he realized they had backed themselves into a corner. There was nowhere for them to run, they were trapped.

  Give it flesh, echoed in his mind.

  “Give it flesh,” he repeated, and as soon as he did, everything changed.

  A strange tugging sensation pulled at his core, and a shimmer formed in the darkness before them, stretching out from his body until it connected with the shadowy form covering Banus. It looked like a trail of small glowing fireflies.

  Roman could feel Dennah pulling against him. He could feel her fear and desperation, but he knew they would never get around Banus without him putting his sword to them in the process.

  The tugging sensation grew stronger, and in response, the thin spectral trail flared brightly. Roman felt the spirit grow stronger suddenly, its thoughts and emotions no longer fluttering ineffectually, but crashing into his mind like claps of thunder. Images flashed into his mind of a plane of fire and smoke, and jagged mountains formed of solid ash and fire scorched bone. A figure materialized in his mind. It was dark but quickly solidified as desire and will met flesh and blood.

  The black shadow around Banus changed. Indistinct lines hardened, and shadow met form, but Banus was clawing his way free. He would never stop coming, not until they were dead.

  Roman felt the pull deep inside drawing on his strength, and his legs grew weak, but he poured every ounce of himself into the connection he could spare. Banus was on his knees as the dark cloud gained form and weight. Dark limbs formed out of the cloud, and then torso and neck, but Banus continued toward them, his fingers digging into the soft ground.

  Roman looked into Banus’ eyes as he clawed closer, a relentless madness driving him forward. He could feel Dennah’s hands grip tighter around him, her arms strangling and crushing him. Banus growled and flicked the sword forward, slapping the blade down right in front of them.

  The spectral trail flared brighter once more and then Roman felt the pull stop. Roman pushed back, smashing their bodies into the corner of the barn, but there was nowhere to go.

  His vision flickered as Banus stumbled to his knees. Drool slipped from his mouth as it cracked open into a bloody smile.

  “Gotcha!” he muttered as Roman felt a disorienting sensation tear at him, just like before, when the cloudy spirit pushed forth.

  Banus’ sword pulled back and came forward in a thrust. There was no way for them to dodge this time. There was no place for them to go. Banus’ arm jerked as it came forward, his sword shaking in the air just before Roman’s chest.

  A strangled look pinched the smaller man’s face suddenly, and he slid back in the dirt. He dropped the sword and immediately clutched at his throat.

  A glow permeated the darkness behind Banus as he was lifted bodily into the air. Dennah squeezed him harder as the dark form pulled Banus closer. He heard her whispering and mumbling frightened words, but he wasn’t listening. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.

  Dark arms slithered around Banus, moving like charcoal snakes against his pale flesh. Cracks formed in the dark flesh as it moved, exposing a turbulent heat trapped inside. A thick tail wrapped around his body once, then twice, bunching and constricting his arms and legs tightly together.

  Roman looked up into the creature’s eyes as it came forward out of the shadow. They glowed like hot coals, radiating heat and rage. Massive curved horns, as black as the darkest night and formed from the ashes of a score of burned men, crested its head. Smoke rolled off of Banus’ flesh where the creature’s skin made contact.

  “You are mine,” the creature intoned, its voice blistering and searing the air like scalding flames.

  Roman felt the words more than he heard them and realized that it wasn’t talking to Banus, but to him. He could feel it as intimately as Dennah’s arms wrapped around him. He was connected to the monster.

  Roman pulled away from Dennah and took a step forward. She resisted, refusing to let go and tried to pull him back.

  “Don’t…” she mumbled over his shoulder, but Roman put a hand on her trembling arm and gently pulled it loose.

  “It’s okay,” Roman whispered. “It won’t hurt us.”

  “Y…you don’t, how do you know that?” she whispered back frantically.

  “I just know. You have to trust me,” Roman said, and turned.

  He wanted to tell her more. That somehow he knew the creature, the Ifrit, was a powerful spirit of fire. Through some unexplainable means, he managed to bring it through to their world. The truth of it all terrified him too much to say out loud.

  Dennah’s head snapped back and forth as she looked between his eyes and the simmering form towering over them. She didn’t fight him as he walked forward again, but she refused to separate. They crept forward, hands interlocked and trembling.

  Roman looked up into Banus’ eyes as they passed beneath him.

  “Help me!” he muttered in an almost inaudible groan, excruciating pain etched on his face.

  Roman dipped into the darkness and knelt down, lovingly gathering up the sti
ll form from the ground as Banus continued to plead. When he stood once again, Banus’ strangled whispers went silent.

  Roman stroked Tusk’s fur as he backed away from Banus and the Ifrit, the loss and pain welling up inside until he couldn’t hold it back any longer. Tears ran down over his cheeks.

  “Mercy!” Banus croaked as Roman back away. He knew deep down inside that he could stop the Ifrit. That he could save him if he wanted to. Dennah pulled against him. She dropped to the ground and stuffed something into a worn leather knapsack before standing. A single tear broke from her eye and ran down her black and blue cheek, mixing with the blood from her split lip.

  “You don’t deserve mercy,” Roman spat bitterly as he turned back to Banus.

  He felt the bitterness and loss swirl inside, and the Ifrit reacted. The creature’s arms and tail contracted, forcing the breath from Banus’ lungs as his ribs cracked loudly. The air around the Ifrit grew hot as flames broke through its flesh, licking up into the air, dancing against Banus’ body as he started to wail.

  Roman guided Dennah along, dipping through the smoky air. He felt a stifling need to be free from the building, to leave it all behind. A piercing light of bright flames broke through the gloom, soaking into the haze in a radiant but horrific glow.

  Roman turned back toward Banus one last time as he reached the door and lifted the latch. The foul man’s body was almost completely encased in fire. He could still see his face through the flames, contorted in pain as his flesh burned and flaked away.

  The storm reached in and wrapped its cold fingers on the door as soon as he pushed it open. An angry gust ripped it from his hands and slammed it against the side of the building, where the wood splintered and broke.

  Roman staggered through the snow and into the woods, grateful for the reprieve from the wind. He dropped to his knees, Dennah crouching down next to him. They picked up Tusk’s head between them and gave the dog a final hug goodbye.

  With a heavy heart, Roman laid Tusk down in the snow, and after a brief moment of silence covered him with the powdery white. Roman felt a horrible shift of his emotions. He knew they weren’t his own. Still, he couldn’t entirely ignore them. They were powerful, methodical and steady. The Ifrit’s will was undeniable.

  Roman felt the heat flare inside him a heartbeat before the barn exploded behind them. He pulled Dennah down and shielded her body as burning chunks of wood rained down all around them.

  They were up and running in the next moment. He had no way of discerning which direction they were moving, but at the moment, that didn’t matter, only that they moved.

  He felt a presence burst from the barn, shooting into the air like a streaking arrow. It landed with a crash not far away, splintering tree branches and melting the snow. He could feel the Ifrit in the dark trees, moving, and watching him, just beyond the limits of his sight. He felt its dark thoughts flickering at the edge of his mind and understood his horrible truth.

  It would never let him go.

  Chapter 46

  Misplaced

  For many thaws, Teague was a man unwilling to trust. He lost his wife and child when highwaymen robbed their carriage. The guards charged with the carriage’s safety ran at the first sight of danger, leaving his family to the mercy of merciless men.

  It took him the turn of many seasons to come to trust anyone after that. He moved to Falksgraad, where his strong arm and keen mind for strategy gained him some renown with the local guard. A short few winter thaws later and he was a sergeant of arms for the fort’s auxiliary. Another season passed, and he was Captain of Mounted Cavalry.

  He learned to delegate, but thanks to his men, he also learned to trust again. That was also why he took their losses so hard. Half a dozen men, gone in the blink of an eye, and not to an honorable death, but frozen in a freakish storm, huddled and alone like miserable beasts.

  Those thoughts weighed heavily on him as he sat before the fire. He knew his men were watching him, looking to him for strength and support. It was for that reason that he couldn’t look them in the eye.

  The rest of the caravan continued with their drunken frivolity, and he was keen to ignore it. He kept an ear to the door, anxiously waiting for signs that the storm's ferocity was dying away. He was desperate to put Bardstown to his back, a place he thought wretched and sooner burned to the ground then let linger.

  He was charged with finding the one responsible for the small town’s trouble. Every bit of his intuition told him that he had done exactly that. After the ordeal with Tilith, Teague’s decision became that much easier.

  There is something dark within that boy, something wretched and violent, he thought.

  They would leave as soon as the storm dissipated.

  All the better if it was before the final crow of the rooster.

  He knew how small towns were. Crowds would gather, and crowds made him uncomfortable. He hadn’t discussed this with the elder of course. He knew the old man would argue. He did appear to favor the young man. But Teague’s mind was made up.

  Teague thought of his comfortable bed and warm hearth, not to mention solid stone walls. He bent forward and stirred the coals before reaching down for firewood. The box was empty.

  “I’ll get more,” Dannon, a diminutive but fierce soldier said.

  Dannon was halfway out of his chair when Teague reached out and caught him by the arm.

  “No, you stay. I need some fresh air,” Teague said, motioning for the younger man to sit.

  He stood, the soreness of age nagging at his knees. He silently cursed the cold.

  Teague pushed past a table of wagon dogs engrossed in a fervent game of privo cards. A toothless old man peeked out from behind his hand and took a long pull on his pipe. Teague walked through the cloud, the sweet smell jarring loose some old memories he’d prefer not revisit.

  He walked past the west wall of the inn, where a healthy pile of split firewood waited patiently. No one questioned or paid him any attention as he passed the cut firewood and pushed through a small side door and out into the blustery cold.

  The thick, heavy snow bound his boots while the wind buffeted him in surging waves. Each step was grueling work, and Teague used the simple act of moving to clear his mind, pushing out the weighted thoughts that pulled him down.

  He found the white noise of the storm a blessed change from the unruly din of the White Crowe. A semi-circle of bushy evergreens sheltered the splitting stump. The axe head was buried in wood and covered with ice and snow, leaving its handle jutting into the air like a solitary snow-plastered branch.

  Teague kicked the snow-covered pile of wood and broke it loose from its glossy coating. He knew the wood would be too wet to burn, but then again there was still plenty of dry firewood inside. His trip outside was simply an excuse to get away, even if only for a few moments.

  Teague tromped back through the snow with an armload of wood and pushed the door open with his foot. He dumped the firewood onto the pile and turned.

  “Captain,” Tilith said, making Teague jump.

  “Tilith…I didn’t see you there,” he exhaled, brushing his hands together and knocking loose snow and bark in the process. “They never seem to tire, do they?”

  “They carry on like nothing happens beyond these doors…get enough drinks in them, and they forget there’s a murderer in their midst,” Tilith said, looking around the large room.

  Her hair was no longer tied up, and she had replaced her armor with a simple cotton dress. Teague noticed that her shoulders sagged, and her face appeared drawn.

  “You should be resting,” Teague said.

  “With this racket…” she said, shaking her head, “I did as the elder asked and looked after the mute girl.”

  “Could you help her, did she speak?” Teague asked curiously.

  “I was too fatigued for any real healing, but when I put my hands on her I felt something off…I can’t explain it, but it didn’t feel right. Even with proper rest I don’t know if
I could do anything for her,” Tilith said.

  “Frenin was adamant that we help the girl. Was positive she could speak to the boy’s innocence,” Teague thought out loud.

  “Yes, I saw him leaving, I’d recognize that cloak anywhere,” Tilith said with a snigger.

  Teague nodded for a moment, but then her words struck him. He turned to the stairs leading up to the second floor of the inn, a nagging thought burning at him.

  He thought back to earlier in the evening. He had walked into the inn just as the old man was leaving. He remembered his gray skin and gnarly hands. He also remembered that he shook from the cold wind blowing in through the door. He shook because he had on no cloak or furs.

  The look on Teague’s face set Tilith back and even more when he pushed by without a word. He shoved by a staggering man, throwing his mug of ale up into the air in the process and swung around the corner and onto the stairs. Teague crested the stairs, the tension in his chest growing.

  “No,” he growled, finding the chair outside the room empty.

  He kicked the door open and ran into the room. A single candle burned, leaving the room in heavy shadow. Teague pushed forward blindly and ripped the blanket free, confirming what his suspicions already told him.

  Tilith waited at the bottom of the stairs, and before she could speak, he dropped a pile of chains and shackles at her feet.

  “Everyone…shut up!” Teague bellowed, his voice effectively cutting through the heavy curtain of white noise.

  His men sprung from their chairs by the fire, several of them already had swords in their hands. Teague stormed through the crowd, Tilith scrambling along to keep up. People lurched and stumbled to clear the path before him.

  “Our prisoner is gone. There is no sign of the guard detail for his door,” Teague said, approaching his men and tightening his gloves.

  “Tilith, wake the others. Dannon, have someone find the elder…drag him out of bed if you have to. The rest of you come with me,” Teague growled.