Winters of Alnora

by Kevin J. Kessler

  “I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t mean nothin’. I swears it!” She spoke in a panicked frenzy, truly letting the imposing man feel empowered even if for just a moment more. He looked older, haggard, most of his hair taken by time. His face was wrinkled and pockmarked, and as his thin lips pulled back in a wicked grin, Alnora could see a mouth once full of rotten teeth, now featuring far fewer than there had once been. The guard’s tongue snaked across the thin yellow and brown teeth that remained, lapping over exposed gums, which made up the majority of his mouth.

  “You’re a thief.” He spat upon the ground. “I’ve seen your type a million times before. There’s nothing special about you save for that ass and those tits.” Since returning to Caelum five day prior, Alnora had felt objectifying eyes upon her many times. But to be leered at by the creature that robbed her of her childhood innocence…that was truly horrid.

  “Please,” she cried out, wringing her hands together, following the brute’s line of sight down to her ample cleavage. “Please don’t take me away, sir. Maybe we can…bargain, yeah?” Alnora raised her hands up to the shoulders of the raggedy dress her magic was creating around her and pulled on the torn garment until it fell away, leaving her standing in all her naked glory before the hideous freak.

  “Well, well, well,” he crooned, taking a step in the nude beauty’s direction.

  Those words reverberated through Alnora’s head. The same words, the same way he had spoken them on that day so long ago. The same way he had spoken them in that alley on the day The Dark Angel had saved her from a second savaging. Were these the words that every one of his victims heard before he perpetuated unspeakable horrors upon them?

  “You’re a little old for my tastes. I like my plums before they ripen.”

  He was so close now. She could smell his putrid breath. The stench of whisky, rot, and blood made her nose wrinkle in disgust. She was barely nineteen, and that was too old for him? She wanted to see him burn. She wanted to see him suffer. Today, her wants were within reach.

  “Maybe I could make an exception today. Wade into the deep end a bit…if you promise to scream and struggle for me real good, blossom.” His large hand came up and gripped Alnora by the jawline. His other hand dropped down out of sight, and the sorceress apprentice could hear him fidgeting with his belt. Alnora opened her mouth to respond, but the man struck, bringing his face in close and jamming his disgusting, thick tongue inside her mouth.

  Alnora was shocked for a moment, but it was fleeting. The taste of his mouth was far worse than the smell. Alnora had to swallow a swell of vomit that threatened to explode up out of her. The disgust wore off in seconds, and the fires of rage burst forth from her furnace heart. It was time.

  A muffled screech of unimaginable fury burst out from between their mouths as Alnora allowed the spreading fires of her anger to electrify her magically gifted body. Her scream only seemed to excite the horrible wretch, who poked his tongue deeper into the young woman’s maw. Alnora had dozens of spells at her disposal. Some would burn, others freeze, there were even several that would flay the skin from his muscles while he still lived.

  But Alnora’s first act against the monster who haunted her dreams was not a powerful burst of magical might. All she did was clamp her jaw shut with as much force as she could muster. Her teeth shredding through the slimy muscle that was his tongue, severing it instantly as hot blood sprayed into her mouth. The monster screamed. It was a muffled, garbled, wet choking sound that was more beautiful to the young sorceress than the music of a fae, which could sometimes be vaguely heard wafting in through the wind from her chamber window within The Dark Angel’s palace.

  He stumbled back, screeching and clutching at his mouth, which poured blood onto the pavement. The severed remnant of his tongue still sat in Alnora’s mouth, and with a wicked smile, she spat the dead muscle to the ground. It landed in a pool of its owner’s blood. She watched the cretin stare in dumbfounded horror at the severed tongue as it splashed into the gooey mass of crimson at his feet. As his eyes raised up toward the girl who had done this to him, Alnora dropped the illusion.

  Her black and purple robes flowed back around her nude body, hood raised to hide her forehead and eyes in shadow. Alnora proudly pronounced an incantation, slowly drawing it out so her prey’s horror could build. The air darkened around them until they were standing in a small circle of dim light surrounded by what appeared to be an endless void of darkness. Her victim’s screams continued, endlessly pathetic. He stared wide-eyed at the change in their surroundings, whirling in a circle as if there were some means of escape.

  Alnora stifled a giggle at his plight. This was another simple illusion. He could have easily walked into the dark unscathed. They had not gone anywhere. She simply shifted his perception of their surroundings. She smiled at him savagely, her pearly white teeth practically glowing amidst the blood that covered her lips and chin. The vile man drew his sword and attempted to run at Alnora. A simple incantation would turn the blade to steam or vaporize one of his legs. But that was too easy.

  Instead, Alnora decided to put The Dark Angel’s martial training to the test. She had been instructed in advanced weaponry and hand-to-hand combat techniques as a part of her endless tutelage. While not particularly strong, she was quick as a whip and knew exactly where to strike. As the man swung a clumsy panicked swipe at Alnora’s neck, the girl bent her body from the destructive path, wrapping one of her thin-fingered hands around the man’s wrist. She brought her knee up into his elbow, striking with more than enough force to achieve the desired effect. A crunching snap echoed through the dark, and the guard’s sword fell from limp fingers as it clattered to the ground. He screamed once more, but Alnora silenced him with a jab from the rigid fingers of her right hand directly into the Adam’s apple.

  The creature fell before her, choking on his own breath. Alnora stared down the bridge of her nose at him as though he were naught more than a bug about to be ground beneath the toe of her boot. For a moment, she considered that. She could transfigure him into a cockroach, watch him struggle and flee before her giant feet as she stomped after him, trapping him beneath the sole of her boot and slowly applying pressure until his useless guts exploded out. But that was too quick. She couldn’t savor all the little emotions she was looking forward to seeing by taking the life of an insect.

  No, this had to be close. It had to be personal. He had to suffer as she had all these years before he could be granted death.

  “We’ve met before, you and I,” Alnora said, cutting through his pitiful gasps for breath. “On the day you faced The Dark Angel.” His face sank as he recognized her—the street urchin who pounded him into a stone wall with but a shout. “I was such a novice then. It’s fascinating to look back on. But I can see in your eyes that you now recall precisely who I am. I mean, for you, that was one of the most terrifying days of your life. You stood before The Dark Angel himself and lived to tell the tale. I bet you thought nothing of me. That little thief girl. You never knew that we had met before that day. Years earlier in fact.”

  The wretch at her feet shook with terror as cold realization dawned upon him. She doubted he recalled the specific incident that bound their destinies together. There were likely too many such atrocities to count. But Alnora could tell that he knew exactly what he had done to her.

  “How many others?” She paced as she asked this question. “Dozens? Hundreds? How long have you been robbing children of that which makes them innocent? You spit upon us for stealing what we have to in order to avoid starving to death. Meanwhile, you steal something far more valuable and precious than even the most rare and exotic gemstone. But that all ends today.”

  Alnora took a slow meaningful step in his direction and watched as her victim scooted back in terror. She was not going to draw this out any longer. She needed to steal something of his. Something valuable. Something precious. She lifted her booted foot and slammed it down between the monster’s legs, magic strengthening her
blow, caving through steel armor and smashing that which made him a man to paste beneath her sole.

  This was the most delicious scream yet, and Alnora let it wash over her, feeding upon his sorrow and agony. Now was the time. Now she could kill him. Alnora raised her right hand, fingers curled like claws, an incantation dancing along her lips. The talismans responded, and her fingers came alive with dancing flame. The flickering fire cast a harsh illumination on the wretch who could no longer be considered a man. The monster that could no longer hurt anyone. He looked so small. So pathetic. She enjoyed that moment, wherein she could look upon him and see how utterly defeated he was before her. She did not want that to end. He did not deserve death. The flames around her hand died suddenly, casting them in darkness.

  Alnora began to hiss a very different spell. A purple light overcame her fingers, and she pounced upon her prey as he serenaded her with the sweet sound of his screeching penance.

  “Here we have Patient 517, admitted to our care just four days ago.” The white-hooded monk of the Luxian Order stepped up to a large cell in the lowest level of Caelum’s esteemed healing center. The huddled mass of humanity behind the bars lay on the ground, arms bound within the confines of a straightjacket. It screamed in horror, never stopping save to breathe. The horror that might have once been a human being rolled along the floor to a chorus of clanking chains, shaking its head back and forth, thrashing desperately against its bonds.

  “My word,” an elder monk remarked. “Who is this poor soul?”

  “Captain Jeremaiah Friez of the Luxian guards. Found days ago, writhing in an alleyway, screaming, inconsolable, and unreachable. His tongue had been forcibly removed and genitals mutilated. His elbow had been snapped beyond repair. But most frightening of all are the mental wounds. His eyes do not focus on external stimuli. As though they’re seeing something invisible to us all. Something horrible and terrifying. He screams not out of pain, but of terror.”

  “By the Paragon…” the third monk said, covering his mouth with one hand. “This poor, poor man. Is there no hope for him?”

  “None that I have seen, Brother. But there are other extenuating circumstances afoot. This brave soldier was last seen chasing a brigand, a girl said to be slight and striking. The three men who accompanied him were found dead. One had been choked, another struck by an unseen projectile through the head, and the third turned to stone.”

  “Black Magic,” the old man cried.

  “Precisely the Paragon’s thought, honored Brothers. This female that was spoken of is a formidable foe for the Luxian Order. The Paragon believes this to be more than a simple dark sorceress. He believes our ancient enemy has taken a pupil.”

  “The Dark Angel…” the third monk said, clutching a hand to his chest.

  “Indeed.” The three monks turned their attention back to the wailing captain. His face was contorted in terror, back arching against his restraints. Tears spilled from his eyes as he cried out at the unspeakable, invisible horrors playing out before his mind. “Come, Brothers. We must attend to patients whom we are able to help.”

  As the monks turned and left the chamber, two cloaked figures stalked out of the shadows, one large and imposing, the other slight, almost frail. Alnora gazed down at her masterpiece. The monster. The demon, now rendered tame at her hand.

  Her master studied the victim, as he had been throughout the course of the monks’ conversation while a powerful cloaking spell had kept the dark duo hidden. Alnora had taken in their words ravenously. They knew of her now; they feared her. She silently swore that she would redefine the word fear for the servants of the Paragon, who allowed horrid atrocities to occur within their city of light.

  “Your orders were to slay this man,” The Dark Angel said, turning his sidelong gaze to his proud apprentice. “Why does he live?”

  Alnora had been prepared for this question. Her master’s tone was stern but not angry. He was not upset by her actions; he was curious.

  “Because death is too good for some, Master. His victims suffer for years. His death, however long I could have drawn it out, would have been a mercy. And mercy is for the weak.”

  Her master’s head turned to her fully. He smiled in the dim torchlight of the cell and nodded once. Alnora graciously returned the nod and then snapped her attention back to her malevolent work of art. The quivering thing that had once taken something dear from her continued to wail incoherently. It would continue to do so for as long as it would live. A vitality spell placed atop the hallucinogenic horror show she had implanted within its mind would ensure that it would continue to exist for decades more. Eternal torment. Perfect darkness.

  “You are learning,” The Dark Angel said. “I am pleased.”

  Chapter Four

  As The Dark Angel set a heavy leather-bound tome down upon his vast desk, he grunted slightly with the exertion. This did not go unnoticed by Alnora. The twenty-five-year-old sorceress had been watching her master closely these last few years. The way he moved, the amount of time he slept, the slight twitches that would spark to life around his eyes as he cast what were at one time effortless enchantments. He was failing, and Alnora’s time was soon.

  The Dark Angel had done much for the former thief. He had rescued her from certain death, gave her a life far from the streets she despised, showed her a world that defied explanation, and gave her the chance to avenge the greatest injustice of her life. But despite all of that, her master held no affectionate place within her heart. He was not her father, nor was he a mentor. To Alnora, the shadowy figure had been one thing from the first day he had stalked into her life—a means to an end.

  Alnora’s training had progressed at an incredible rate since the day she had enacted horrors upon that despicable soldier who had once seemed so imposing. It was as though seeing him drooling on the floor, lost in the nightmare world Alnora had implanted within his mind, truly freed the young woman from her chains.

  In the last six years, she had learned so much and honed her mystical prowess to the point in which the incantations and physical movements associated with drawing upon the dark arts were as natural to her as breathing. And beyond that, she had been granted the use of The Dark Angel’s library almost three years prior and had dove at the ancient texts, ravenously absorbing the knowledge contained within.

  In that time, she had formed her own opinions on the nature of Azulia and the position The Dark Angel held within it. Her master had always seen fit to observe and focus his energy on becoming stronger. But Alnora had seen a side of Azulia that The Dark Angel had never known. Her master had not experienced life on the streets as far as she knew. The enigmatic powerhouse’s past was and would always be a mystery to her. He seemed to fiercely guard any knowledge regarding his life before the dark arts, and Alnora had no interest in learning about it. Whatever had transpired in his childhood had done so hundreds of years prior. The planet had changed. The Paragon tightened his grip upon the people, and many suffered, bathed in the warmth of his light. She had suffered.

  She would not be a Dark Angel who was content to sit by and allow the Luxian Order to continue dominating the world. She knew that there was nothing to be done against the Paragon himself. Not physically anyway. But she could use the resources of The Dark Angel to begin a campaign of subterfuge and sabotage, whittling away at the foundations of the order so that when the time came to strike, it would not be a grand struggle but rather the final push that would topple a leaning tower. She needed no apprentice. She would never train her own executioner as her master had so foolishly done. She was eternal, and so would be her rule.

  Alnora moved to one of the tower’s many windows and threw the shutters open. The chill air of yet another winter greeted her, and she smiled in the wake of its frigid embrace.

  “Would you like the windows opened, Master?” she asked over her shoulder. She had started doing this several months ago, offering to undertake menial tasks that The Dark Angel should be able to do himself. As though
he were too weak and feeble like a dying old man. Her master had clearly sensed the tactic.

  “I am more than capable of handling such matters myself, apprentice,” he snapped. With a flick of his wrist, the windows violently slammed closed. Alnora had to suppress the sly smirk that wanted so badly to spread along her lips. Did The Dark Angel know his time was coming to an end? Did he sense that she was preparing to make her move? Was he afraid now, at what would become the end of his immeasurably long life? Alnora couldn’t say.

  Her master’s thoughts and feelings were even more unknowable than his non-existent past. But she hoped that her obvious upcoming betrayal was stirring some kind of anxiety within the man. She turned to watch him flipping the pages of the book he had been perusing. His fingers subtly shook, and he squinted his sickly yellow and black eyes in the dull light, trying to make out the words.

  She had at first found it odd that her master would begin to fail now, when she was finally ready to destroy him. Her studies had birthed a fascinating hypothesis that she believed explained the phenomenon. As she continued to read volume after volume of great thinkers pontificating about the nature of light and dark, Alnora began to see darkness itself as a living being rather than just a fundamental force of nature.

  The way that fate subtly manipulated events seemed almost too convenient. There seemed to be some grand intelligence at work. Alnora believed this to be the essence of darkness itself. Perhaps it sensed her potential, understood that together they would finally bring the world to heel. And with that knowledge, the darkness was turning from her master. It was weakening him, practically begging for her to strike the man down and claim its power for her own. In quieter moments, she could almost hear it.