Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  "You hide behind the trappings of a learned man, Jacques, but you are a barbarian."

  "It is no different to the world you left on that boat. Locked up here as we are, with little diversion from our study, a man has urges. And I know you'll agree – Danielle and Marie aren't to everyone's tastes. I have seen the way you look at Julianna – can you say with honesty you have not felt the same compulsion I exercise now? As an honest man, I do not deny my compulsions."

  "I am nothing like you." Nicholas spat.

  "And yet, you point a sword at me and ask who is the barbarian in this room?"

  Nicholas sprang forward, striking at Jacques' chest. But his thrust was wild, driven by anger, and Jacques blocked him easily. He knew as he flung out another thrust that soon he would slip, and Jacques would slit him open.

  "I've married her, you know." said Jacques, expertly parrying another swing. "I've performed the Morphean rituals, and we are in every sense man and wife. But this is no Catholic church – I'm a generous man, and I'll share my wife with my brothers. Auguste has his turn this evening, but you may have tomorrow, if you wish—"

  Nicholas feigned left and thrust for Jacques' chest, but Jacques stepped back and directed his blow down, throwing Nicholas' shoulder and head forward. Up flicked Jacques' blade, slicing through the skin on his cheek. Blood gushed from the wound, blocking his vision, and pain filled his head. He lost his balance and lurched forward.

  Jacques caught him, twisting him upward so Nicholas could see the thin point of Jacques' rapier pointing at his throat. His head swam, the pain stinging like a bee, draining him of strength.

  "Very well." Jacques' face twisted into a grin. "Unfortunately, you must understand that I cannot allow you to remain a free scholar here, for if you managed to escape down the mountains, you could easily report our position to the authorities." He snapped his fingers, and Auguste stepped forward and grabbed Nicholas under the arms. "Perhaps you may think about my offer in your confinement, yes?"

  Auguste dragged him down a flight of narrow, poorly fashioned stairs, much deeper into the mountain than his battery. At the foot of the staircase was a single dark room. Auguste shoved him inside and slammed the door. "Sometimes the monks would go mad up here in the mountains with nothing but their prayers. This is where they kept those men – some dangerous, some simply pathetic." He laughed as he slid the bolts shut. "I know which one you are."

  His footsteps disappeared up the stairs, leaving Nicholas alone in the darkness. They'd given him a blanket and a stale loaf, but he had no appetite. He touched the cut on his cheek, sending a wave of pain through his head. It was a clean cut, but he had nothing to cauterize it. He tore the sleeve from his shirt and held this against his face in an effort to stop the bleeding.

  The darkness pushed against him, silence embracing him like a wild river, rolling over him and tossing him about, so he didn't know where was up and down. He slept fitfully, waking covered in sweat, his cheek stinging. He tried to pace out the room, but it wasn't even high enough from him to stand without stooping, and if he stretched his arms out wide, his fingers scraped the stone walls.

  He passed time in the gloom – it might have been days, or only hours. Twice more, bread was pushed through a slot in the door, the faint glimmer of a torch casting a thin shadow on the rough stone floor. He hammered on the door ‘till blood dribbled down his fists, calling for someone to help him, but no one came.

  He listened to the voices of the mountain, hoping he might find a mind he could use to help him escape. But all he could hear so deep in the earth were worms and creatures of the dirt and rocks. He hadn't the energy, the power, to form a plan.

  He slept and woke again, nightmares clinging to his body. Sweat clung to his clammy skin. There was a noise outside the door.

  Footsteps – not slow and careful, but rushed – slipped on the steep steps leading down into the stone passage. A key turned in the lock, and to his surprise, the door swung open and a bright light thrust itself inside his prison.

  He closed his eyes against the glare and the imposing shadow that towered over him. I hope they kill me quickly. I hope Jacques has no use for torture—

  "Nicholas?"

  I must truly be ready to die, for I can hear the voices of angels.

  "Nicholas!" The angel sounded impatient. He rubbed his eyes, squinting against the bright light as his eyes adjusted. The figure came into focus, hazy at first, a mere shadow. But the light illuminated her height, the curve of her hip, and, finally, her face – scarred and bloody, but utterly beautiful.

  "Julianna!" he collapsed at her feet, touching the hem of her dress. "You're alive. Alive! How did you—"

  "Ssshh." She knelt down beside him, her delicate fingers wiping his matted hair back from his face. Tracing the wound on his cheek, she pulled his chin up so he could look at her face, and she held her finger to her lips. "I have killed Auguste, so it was nothing to take the dagger from his belt and the key from his pocket. Look at you – you're weak and starving."

  He pulled her down, breathing in the scent of her. Her skin felt cold and clammy, as though she were not a woman at all. He ran his fingers over her cheeks, laced with abrasions. When she pulled away, wincing, he saw the bright pink bloodstain splashed across the front of her dress.

  "You are hurt?"

  "Yes." It came out as a croak. "But this blood is not all mine. We must leave now."

  "But how – how long have I been here?"

  "Five days, though it feels like centuries," she said darkly, and a shadow passed over her face as she recalled her own horrors. She pressed a bottle against his lips. "For strength. Please, we must hurry, before Jacques discovers what I've done."

  He gulped hungrily, the warm alcohol returning some strength to his bones. "But how did you—"

  She put her arms under his shoulders and pulled him upright, swinging his arm over her neck and leading him, hobbling, to the stairs. "There was a fight amongst the men for who would be the next to defile me, and Auguste broke the mirror above the altar. Shards of glass rained down on me. I hid one in my hand and later, when the men had retired, I used it to cut the rope. Auguste was charged with guarding me, but the brute was snoring, and I had no trouble at all slitting his throat. I'm going to kill Jacques, too, before this night is done, and I am not ashamed to say I will enjoy it."

  The climb seemed to stretch on for days, each lurch of his body sending fresh pains through his aching limbs. Julianna, he knew, was in even worse condition – her dress torn right up the middle, and her legs caked in blood. But she set her face firm and pushed him onward, her determination fuelling his own returning strength.

  "We will escape." he whispered to her. "We'll go quietly into the night, Julianna. No more blood. No more death. We'll go away somewhere—"

  "Where?" She sagged against him as her bloodlust left her body. She shivered against his coat, and pulled him upward, toward the thin shaft of light that marked the hall leading to the chapel.

  "We'll go to the Dirigires in the north, and work passage to England, somehow. The north is the stronghold of Catholic France, so he will not follow us there, not wanted as he is."

  "But if we leave—" she shuddered. "He will do this again. It will be some other girl. You have seen his charisma – he will soon have more men. He will turn this church into something evil."

  "Men always do. Look – I can see the light of the tunnel above. We must be silent now, and move with haste. We don't have much time."

  No one stirred as they crept through the tunnels toward the staircase leading to the courtyard above. Julianna sucked in her breath as they passed Jacques' chamber, but the heavy snores emitting from within didn't change as Nicholas pushed Julianna up the stairs.

  They took the steps as quickly and quietly as they could, knowing a guard would also be stationed in the courtyard. When they reached the top they stood in the dark chamber for a few moments, catching their breath.

  Moonlight streamed in through
the gaps in the crumbling walls, and the harsh pinch of winter cold tore at him through his tattered coat. He gripped Julianna's trembling hand and passed into the shadow of the porch that framed the eastern edge of the courtyard.

  "Who's there?" a voice called. It was Ramée. Nicholas froze.

  He was close, only a few feet away, leaning against one of the upright columns. In the stillness of the night he couldn't have missed their footsteps on the stone.

  "Is that you, Auguste?" He turned his head toward them, and Nicholas saw a flutter out of the corner of his eye. Julianna was upon him before he could blink. Nicholas saw the glint of a dagger in the moonlight, and he rushed to her aid.

  She stood back, panting. Ramée slumped against the wall. In the darkness Nicholas could not see any blood, but as he reached down to remove the man's sword, a warm, metallic-smelling substance washed over his fingers.

  Julianna was already running across the courtyard. Nicholas stood to follow her, and caught a snatch of sound coming up the stairway. They've discovered we're missing, he realised. He ran after Julianna and grabbed her hand, pulling her down the path to the bridge.

  Winds whipped up from the valley below and circled the bridge, and the ice and snow had piled up on the surface, making their crossing a dangerous affair. But it was the only way. He went first, plunging into the ice on all fours, keeping as low as possible. The winds curled up around him, driving him sideways, trying to suck him below.

  "Be careful!" he called back to Julianna, but the wind tossed his words into the maelstrom below.

  Inch by inch he crawled across that perilous structure, every muscle taut, fighting against the force of the wind. He wanted to turn around, to see if Julianna was safe, but if he moved his neck he'd be spun off into the abyss below. His muscles screamed as he pulled himself onto the road, collapsing against the side of the mountain to recover his breath. The frigid wind bit into his skin. Julianna fell down beside him.

  He glanced back over his shoulder, and caught a glint of light in the darkened courtyard. He rubbed his eyes, straining to see. Yes, there it was again. They had been discovered!

  Julianna saw it, too. "Into the forest!" she cried, her words lost in the wind. He pulled her up, and they dashed into the trees. Snow pummelled them from all sides, and Nicholas could hardly see a foot in front of himself. He kept a tight grip on Julianna's hand, fearing that to let her go would be to lose her forever. The wind howled in his ears, the cold stinging the raw wound on his face. He felt certain at any moment they would plunge over a cliff or be shot from behind by one of Jacques' men.

  The ground sloped away downhill, and the pitch beneath their feet became steeper. "Look out," Julianna cried, throwing out her arm just as he nearly sent them hurtling forward down a steep slope.

  "Where now?" His whole face felt numb from cold, and his breath came out in ragged gasps. Julianna didn't seem to be faring any better. He knew they were lost, that they wouldn't last long out here without food or shelter.

  She yelled something back, but he couldn't hear it. The next thing he knew she had thrown herself down the steep slope, her skirts flapping wildly behind her. He gathered his breath and hurtled down after her.

  Immediately, his legs were swept from under him, and he tumbled down the slope, battering his arms against the branches and rolling over the roots ‘till the ground drew even and he sailed to a stop, every bone in his body aching as if it had just gone through a grinder.

  He opened one eye and saw Julianna a few feet away, dusting off her skirt. She stumbled over and helped him to his feet.

  "I know where we are." said Julianna. "If we follow the river, we'll make it down to the pass. That is, if they don't catch us first."

  "Even if they ride after us," said Nicholas, "it will take them time to get the horses across the bridge. The wind has erased our footprints, and even if they managed to track us, they couldn't follow us down that slope."

  "You mean we are safe?"

  "I'm hopeful." Nicholas replied, "but we need to find food and shelter soon. We're not clear of him yet."

  "Nor shall you be."

  That booming voice sliced through the biting air. Nicholas whirled around and saw Jacques, a silhouette against the moonlight. He stood with two of his men on the edge of the valley, blocking their exit. The men each pointed a pistol at them.

  "You forget," he said. "I know every inch of the tunnels under this hill. The old monks created escape routes in case they were overrun, and one emerges not a mile to the west. Your crashing about in the forest made it almost too easy to find you. And now—"

  He took a step toward them, drawing his rapier from its scabbard, a broad smile across his face.

  Nicholas stepped back, pushing Julianna behind him, and fumbled for Ramée's blade. It slipped through his numb fingers and stuck in the snow.

  Jacques laughed, gesturing with his blade for Nicholas to pick it up. "I fancy a bit of sport, Anglaise."

  Nicholas stepped forward, losing his balance on the ice, and scrambled for his blade. He gripped it at last, and stood to face Jacques, who took another step toward him, closing the distance.

  Snow flew in thick clumps from the trees high above, and great gusts of wind circled around them as they sized each other up, neither daring to make the first move. He is smiling because he knows he has beaten me. My only chance is my strength. If I can disarm him, I could overpower him, perhaps get a hand on his throat.

  Jacques came at him with a high cut. Nicholas parried, bottling up Jacques' blade. They battled, pressing against each other, ‘till Nicholas saw an opening and took it, winding his blade around and opening a long cut over Jacques’ right eye. The Frenchman's head snapped back, and blood obscured his vision.

  Nicholas feigned left, thrusting for Jacques' belly, but despite his injury, the Frenchman parried him easily, laughing as Nicholas stumbled off balance once again. "Your walk in the snow has weakened you," he said. "You will die soon, Anglaise."

  Jacques attacked – a lazy cut to the shoulder. Nicholas parried easily, but now he was on the defensive, blocking cut after cut as they came thick and fast. His swung wildly, blocking too high on Jacques' blade, and the mistake compounded with each subsequent parry, ‘till Jacques caught him in a bind, bent his sword arm back behind him, and pulled Nicholas' head into his chest. He pressed the thin blade of his rapier against Nicholas’ throat.

  "You Englishmen, you steal our wealth, you steal our gods, but this is not enough? You must have our women too! I will enjoy very much slitting your throat—"

  "Jacques, arrêtez-vous!"

  Jacques whirled around, wrenching Nicholas' neck around so he too could see Julianna. She stood on the other side of the valley, out of pistol range. She held Auguste's dagger in both hands, the tip pointing inward, aimed at her belly.

  "If you hurt Nicholas," she cried, "I shall kill your child."

  The winds gusted through the valley, pushing a bitter cold deep inside Nicholas' bones. He felt the shock of this statement descend down Jacques' arm, and he pressed against the jolt, hoping Jacques might loosen his grip enough for him to pivot underneath. But Jacques regained composure quickly, and when he spoke, his voice was cold and firm.

  "You can't do that," said Jacques. "I forbid it."

  "You are not my husband," she said. "You're a charlatan. A liar."

  "Please, Julianna," said Nicholas. "Run! Save yourself!"

  She stared at him, and her eyes too were cold. "Let him go, Jacques. Let him run into the forest behind me, and do not chase after him, and you shall have me and the baby. This is what you want, isn't it?"

  "You are the one who is lying," Jacques spat. "You have said so yourself. You do not want me."

  "What I wanted has never mattered to you before. If you allow Monsieur Thorne to go free, I will marry you in front of the men. I will live as your wife, your slave. If you kill him now, I kill the baby, and myself too."

  "Julianna, no!"

  But Jacques h
ad already made up his mind. He broke the hold on Nicholas' neck and shoved him forward. Nicholas pulled himself to his feet.

  "Run," said Jacques. "Run like the cowardly Englishman you are."

  He staggered to his feet, his rapier still gripped in his fingers. His eyes met Julianna's as he trudged toward her on the other side of the valley, toward the freedom that had been so bitterly bought. She looked up at him, tears running down her pale skin shimmering in the moonlight, and a cold determination in her eyes. As her gaze locked on his, he realised what she planned to do.

  Julianna … my beautiful Julianna …

  He made to pass her on her left, and as he did so, he leaned in, whispered "Je t'amie." and flicked out his wrist, driving his sword up into her chest, straight into her heart.

  She gasped, a horrible, wet, gurgling sound that welled up from inside her. As she went down, her eyes met his, and the hiss of her final breath passed through the air, carrying with it the trace of her words: Thank you.

  Now he ran.

  Up the slope and into the forest, shot falling uselessly in the snow behind him. If they shouted after him, he could not hear them over the roar of the wind and the pounding of his heart in his ears. His chest burning, he reached the crest of the slope and leaned against a tree, resting for a moment. He watched the lamps below – little daubs of light like fireflies dancing as Jacques’ men carried Julianna's body back to the monastery.

  As they carried her far away from him.

  Tears stung in his eyes. He had done what she asked – what her eyes had burnt into him. She would not have allowed herself or the baby – if there even was a baby – to suffer in Jacques' hands any longer. She would have killed herself anyway – plunging that knife into her own belly, sacrificing herself in a great ocean of agony, condemning herself according to Morphean law to an eternity of torment.

  Now she was free, and so was he, though how he could go on living, knowing the price of his freedom, he didn't yet know.