Winters of Alnora

by Kevin J. Kessler

  Alnora slammed the scummy rag back down into the bucket, forcing a splash of murky water to explode outward and douse the front of her brown skirt. Her anger had reached a boiling point, so much so that the collar around her neck grew hot with the strain of her rebellious thoughts. She gritted her teeth and stood, grimacing through the collar’s blistering sting.

  She smoothed the folds of her tattered and filthy skirt and clutched at her cascading locks of tangled ebony hair.

  Enough was enough! Three years…three whole years and not so much as a lesson in sleight of hand. Not even an introduction to the dark arts. Nothing but scrubbing, dismissal, and irritation.

  No more, Alnora decided as she began marching through the dim corridor toward the winding staircase that would take her to the very top of the castle’s highest spire. It was there that her master sat endlessly in study. With every step, the collar sent a wave of heat pumping through her flesh. It was all the girl could do to continue forward in the face of such agony.

  Climbing the stairs proved even more arduous, as fresh stabs of searing heat burst into her bloodstream. Every sizzle of skin fed the flames of her rage, and Alnora focused on her white-hot anger. It gave her a sense of purpose and allowed her to ignore the collar’s insistent orders to obey. She thought of her master chuckling to himself at the great deception he had pulled over the eyes of this pathetic street urchin. His plan to turn her into a slave, to dangle the hope of a better life before her and snatch it away in the cruelest manner possible was not going to work.

  She would confront The Dark Angel, and she would die. But death was preferable to the agony of her life. She thought back with sobering regret at the horrors inflicted upon her in Caelum, of the demonic knight captain who had stolen her innocence. The constant need to scrounge, beg, and steal to survive had been harder with the strain of that horrible memory. But at least the maddening pace of her unenviable life had given her the gift of distraction. She could shroud her trauma with the constant struggle for survival.

  Here, though, in the relative comfort of a palace, with three meals per day and a boring, mindless slew of chores to accomplish, her tormentor’s face flashed through her mind constantly. The Dark Angel had left him alive after killing his compatriots. He still drew breath, still likely taking the innocence of young girls on a daily basis. And without the once-promised power of darkness at her disposal, how was Alnora to ensure it would never happen to her again?

  As she stalked toward the large wooden doorway that led into The Dark Angel’s private sanctum, Alnora let down the walls of discipline she had always shielded her emotions behind and felt the sting of tears find her eyes. They were not born of sorrow but of a vast unending rage. With the burning fury of her heart alight within her body, she grabbed the steel handle of the door and wrenched it open.

  The collar roared around her neck with a pain so severe she nearly dropped to her knees. The agony blurred her vision as she took her first steps into the circular chamber. She focused on her rage above the pain and squinted through the haze until the chamber solidified.

  She had seen it only a handful of times, so the circular room was less familiar than the other areas of the palace she had worked tirelessly to clean and scrub. The chamber was tall, stretching up nearly ten stories, and every last bit of wall space was covered by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Ancient-looking tomes lined the never-ending shelves, with a thick blanket of dust adorning the spines of most. The first time she had entered this room, she wondered if The Dark Angel could have possibly read every single one of them. She had a sinking suspicion that he had.

  Her master sat in the very center of the room, at a long, black, polished desk. The sorcerer was seated in a tall-backed chair, which stretched overhead like a canopy with spiky protrusions erupting out of the sides, framing him in what looked like a massive thorn bush. He sat hunched over an ancient-looking roll of parchment, his attention fixated utterly upon the barely perceivable red markings that covered every inch. He did not so much as blink at her approach. Alnora was unsure if he had not noticed or if her presence simply did not matter.

  She planted her feet before the desk, standing on trembling legs, her mouth pressed into a quivering line as she worked tirelessly to withstand the fresh barrage of burning pain flowing into her body through the pulsating surface of the collar. Alnora did not want to announce herself, did not seek to make some grand statement. She wanted her master to acknowledge her in this moment, to turn his attention on the so-called apprentice he had thus far ignored.

  Seconds drifted into agonizing minutes. Alnora lost count as they ticked by at the pace of a slug. The collar pumped so much intense agony through her that it felt as though her blood were boiling within her melting veins. The pain made her angry, and she fed on that bottomless well of rage to remain upright. She would not sacrifice her pride in these final moments.

  “Well, are you going to stand there all day, girl? Or are you going to say something?” Her master’s voice was not taunting or cruel. Rather it was the exasperated tone a parent might give an annoying child while engaging in more pressing matters.

  “I am done.” Alnora tried to harden her voice to steel, but even the never-ending fuel of her rage could not keep a quaking born of pain and terror from staining every word.

  “Done with your duties for the day? Why is this of concern to me?”

  “No. I am done being your slave. I came here to learn from you. Not to clean your fucking floors and polish your possessions.”

  The Dark Angel’s eyebrows raised, his eyes drifting up to stare at his defiant pupil in what passed for amusement. “That is not a decision you get to make, girl,” he said, leaning back in the chair and interlocking his thick fingers. “You’ve avowed yourself to my teachings.”

  “What teachings? You’ve taught me nothing!” Alnora’s volume rose as the collar began to blister her flesh.

  “Haven’t I?”

  “No! You said I was going to succeed you! You said I was your heir! But all I’ve done so far is scrub your floors! I’m not an apprentice! I’m a fucking servant girl!”

  Silence settled between them. The Dark Angel studied the girl with his intense glower in a way he had not since that alleyway in Caelum three years ago.

  “So, you finally figured it out.” He smiled wickedly.

  The collar stabbed a fresh jolt of pain through Alnora’s startled body. “What do you mean?”

  “This castle needed a scullery maid, and you were all too eager to hop into my wagon, girl.”

  “But…” She stammered through the pain. “But you said—”

  “That I would make you the heir to my power? That you would become The Dark Angel? You? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. A lowly street urchin succeeding the most powerful magical force in all of Azulia? The fact that you believed me is only a testament to your desperate foolishness.” The sorcerer raised a black-gloved fist, and the pain ravaging her through the collar intensified tenfold, cutting through her shock and rage.

  Alnora grunted in agony, clenching her teeth around the savage shriek that wanted to explode from the depths of her throat as she fell to her knees, clutching at her neck.

  “You accepted my collar without a second thought. So desperate to escape that sorry life of yours that you fell right into my trap.”

  Alnora cursed as drool brought about by pain seeped through her teeth and dripped to the ground in a long continuous flow. How could this happen? Her life…her grand destiny…her vengeance. It was never to be. It was never even a possibility. Instead, she had played into the hands of this insane sadist. And now she was his, fully and completely, for the rest of her natural life.

  “I want you to consider this your first and only lesson, foolish girl. Trust no one and nothing but yourself. Because no one is good. Kindness does not exist when there is nothing to gain from it. Now, I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to continue driving this pain into your frail little body until you acquiesce to your tr
ue purpose in life. You will scrub my floors, empty my chamber pot, and dust my shelves from this day until the day I allow you to keel over from exhaustion. And then, in death, you will continue to serve my needs.”

  His words were muffled now as though being heard from under water. The pain ate through the marrow of Alnora’s bones, devouring her from the inside out. Her mind was screaming, begging for her to genuflect before her master, beg his forgiveness, and return to her life of servitude once more. But beneath the mind, from somewhere deep within the soul, the rage still burned. As her body spasmed and her mind screamed, her rage refused to let her surrender.

  The dark lord’s cackling laughter filled her ears, stoking her fury. Alnora silently cursed the shadowy figure, she cursed her own stupidity, and in one final breaking moment, she cursed Azulia itself for the string of horrors and injustices the world thrust upon her. She screamed in her pain and anger, and from her strained wail came a rush of incredible power. This felt much as it had that day in the Caelum alleyway. Her emotions called forth a truly tremendous force from somewhere deep within the darkest corners of Alnora’s heart and released it in a loud concussive burst of purple light.

  The collar exploded from around her neck, breaking free and clattering to the ground. The explosion that ripped free from Alnora’s body slammed into The Dark Angel, throwing him forcefully back against one of the massive bookcases. The weathered wood cracked and caved with the force of his impact. Hundreds of ancient-looking books plummeted from their high shelves, smacking into the sorcerer’s body and burying him beneath a mountain of knowledge.

  Alnora’s breaths were washing out through clenched teeth. Her tiny fists were balled up at her sides as she practically hissed with the thrill of the moment. This had been stronger than her first outburst. Strong enough to fell The Dark Angel himself. And unlike that fleeting initial taste of magical might, the sensation remained with her. She could control it.

  Jolting arcs of purple lightning ignited several of the books that covered The Dark Angel’s body, and Alnora quickly realized that while she may have been naturally skilled enough to topple the dark lord, she was nowhere near powerful enough to kill him. Panic seized her heart as the amethyst lightning storm continued to rage. Alnora turned and ran out through the open door of the study as an enraged bellow and purple-tinted explosion resounded behind her. The Dark Angel had risen and would no doubt pursue her.

  She managed to make it down the stairway without incident. Gesturing at the heavy wooden door, Alnora set her newfound power against it effortlessly. The door flew open at her silent command, and waiting to greet the young sorceress on the opposite side were three of the mysterious shrouded servants of her master. They were no longer limping or shuffling. Instead, they were reaching for her with clawed groping hands.

  Alnora roared in rage once more, setting her untrained will upon the Angel’s servants. The power exploded out of her once more, wild and untamable. Tapestries tore free from the wall, windows exploded, and the three masked servants slammed into the wall, their frail bodies snapping and splitting open like rotten fruit.

  Instantly forgetting their meaningless existences, Alnora sped through the room, remembering that The Dark Angel was not far behind. She continued through the vast, dark palace, lashing out with her brutish power as The Dark Angel’s minions uselessly threw themselves in her path. She used her unknown gifts to mercilessly shred them to pulpy, splintery masses.

  As she finally arrived in the main foyer, where her journey into The Dark Angel’s world had begun so many years ago, Alnora could practically taste freedom. As she prepared to blow the door to smithereens, nearly thirty of The Dark Angel’s followers fell from some unseen location in the ceiling, surrounding her in a deep circle.

  Alnora lashed out with her magic, pulverizing the frail bodies of a dozen of them. Those that remained advanced, and Alnora was beginning to feel the first tug of fatigue. She shot her power out once more, tearing through a line of her silent foes, but more kept coming. Alnora struck with wild magic, she punched with shaking fists, kicked hard with tired legs, and even bit into their grasping arms.

  As a shrouded figure approached her from behind, Alnora struck with her arm, missing the creature’s face but managing to pull back its hood. What she saw there made her blood turn to ice. What stood before her was not a human being. At least not anymore. Its flesh was rotting and hung off its skull in strips. Its dull dead eyes focused on nothing. They merely rolled back, utterly lifeless. It was a dead body, an animated corpse, and with a shiver of revulsion, she realized that all the Angel’s servants were likely the same. Everyone she had silently worked beside for three years was an undead abomination.

  Alnora screamed in disgust, and the emotion activated her magic with renewed strength and focus. A dome of purple light exploded out of her, disintegrating the zombified wretches, leaving them mere piles of ash scattered about the room. Once more alone, Alnora grimaced through a shudder of revulsion at the memory of that poor doomed creature’s face and turned her attention to the door once again.

  With a grunt and sweeping flail of her arms, Alnora sent the brunt of her power slamming into the massive iron double doors, and they flew open. Smiling in triumph, she began to dash through the opening, only to skid to a halt as the shadowy form of The Dark Angel stood in her path, barring her from escape.

  “Excellent,” he said, waving a hand before him as the entire world began to fade from existence. Alnora took a sharp intake of breath and found herself once more on her knees, once more in The Dark Angel’s private sanctuary, the collar of her servitude once more latched firmly around her throat.

  She stared around the room in shock and attempted to will her power to life, but nothing materialized. Her master stood on the other side of his desk, hands clasped behind his back as he glowered down at her. The shelves were once more whole, the books upon them untarnished.

  “What?” Alnora asked, the pain emanating from the collar subsiding fully.

  “I hope you have enjoyed your little fantasy, girl. For that is all it was. A fantasy dream world of my creation, meant to show you the truth.”

  Alnora gasped. Was it all truly fake? Her great moment of rebellion, all lies?

  “What truth?” she asked, still mortified at this horrible realization.

  The Dark Angel contemplated her question for a moment, walking around the table to loom directly over the kneeling girl. Rather than answer her question, he posed one of his own. “What is magic?”

  “What?”

  “What. Is. Magic?” He repeated himself slowly and deliberately.

  Alnora thought for a long moment. Clearly there was an answer he was seeking, but what was it? How could she know? “A weapon?” she asked him, timidly praying to the great spirits that she was right.

  The hooded man shook his head. “Magic is power. And those who wield it are the truly powerful. Kingdoms rise and fall with the centuries, but true power comes not from a crown, not from the will or adoration of the people, but from magic. Magic is power. Power is strength. Strength allows us to shape the world as we wish.”

  “But…you haven’t taught me to be strong!”

  “You cannot teach one to be strong, girl. You either are strong or you are not. You had to discover the secrets to your strength alone. Now, where does strength come from?”

  Alnora chewed on her bottom lip as she pondered this latest question. She thought about her first taste of magic in the alley, confronted by her darkest fear. Then she thought about the fantasy that The Dark Angel showed her, about that moment of helpless rage.

  “Emotion,” she said, looking up at the sorcerer, who nodded down at her though his expression never shifted.

  “Emotion is the gateway to power. The brief glimpses you’ve seen into the world of strength have come from moments of uncontrollable emotions. The Paragon and his ilk shutter themselves in their ivory city, working hard to rid themselves of emotions, to channel power through pea
ce. This defies the natural order of Azulia. Their light is corrupted in hypocrisy. That is why they spread their power to many, forming their ill-fated order, trying to amass strength through numbers. Whereas we who dwell in the dark number only one. That one is me. That one shall someday be you.”

  Alnora gasped. “But…how?”

  “Magic is power. Power is strength. But mastery comes with years of practice and patience. Mastery only comes when one learns to channel their emotions and use them effectively. You needed to feel that anger. That is why I’ve let you stagnate. I was sharpening your fury, directing it at me so that you could learn to draw upon it…my apprentice.”

  Alnora’s eyes doubled in size. Three years of misery, of hatred... It was all a lesson? Her first lesson. The first of many.

  “The Dark Angel…” Her voice was scarcely a whisper. “What is The Dark Angel? How can I become it? How did you become it? What…is it?”

  The sorcerer chuckled to himself. He reached down to the neck clasp of his robe, settling his thick fingers upon the silver hook. “The Dark Angel is the living embodiment of Azulia’s blackest magic. To master even the simplest spell, one must use talismans and incantations. Strong focus and will is essential to harnessing the emotional energy of magic. But The Dark Angel is different. The Dark Angel has life immortal and can utilize the most powerful magic in Azulia with naught more than a thought or a gesture. The power I allowed you to touch in that dream, that is the power of The Dark Angel. The power of darkness. The power to control the dead. The power that will one day be yours. The power that opposes the light in our never-ending cold war.”

  “But…how will it be mine if you are immortal?”

  The Dark Angel unclasped his robe, revealing his muscular chest. Upon his firm pectorals, there sat a tattoo of black feathered wings extending out from a large black and purple jewel that was embedded in his breast bone. “This gemstone is my talisman, as it was for all of The Dark Angels stretching back throughout eternity. It contains the spirit of darkness sealed at the beginning of what we know as time. It latches onto a host, granting them power and immortality. But the human body can only go on for so long. True, The Dark Angel can live forever, but the host will begin to weaken over the untold centuries. For our order to stand and oppose the forces of light, only the strongest must rule. That is why every Dark Angel trains an apprentice in the ways of magic. And if that apprentice surpasses their master, they will slay him and take the talisman for themselves, ensuring that only the strong survive.”