The Young Sorceress

by Wesley Allison

  Hsrandtuss lay on his stomach, on a carefully constructed bed of large green leaves over moss, next to the fire pit in front of his palace as two of his women rubbed oil onto his bumpy green back. To an observer, it might have looked like he was sleeping, but he wasn’t. He was carefully watching old Hkhanu, who was in turn watching him. Hsrandtuss was king and his power had grown greatly over the last several years, mostly because of the softskins far to the north. This of course did not sit well with Hkhanu, the witch doctor, who with his messages from the gods had in the past wielded enormous power. The old fool cared nothing for the wealth that was to be had. He wanted his people to remain pure, to listen to no one but Great Hissussisthiss, the god of forests and to dead Setemenothiss, god of war—and of course to him. What a fool.

  Suddenly, something dropped from the sky, landing with a loud whomp almost exactly at the centerpoint between the lizzie king and the witch doctor. It was a dragon with scales the color of the shiny machines that the soft skins brought with them. It wasn’t as big as Hissussisthiss. Hsrandtuss didn’t know much about the gods, but he knew that much. Still, it was by far the largest flying thing he had ever seen, as big as a medium sized iguanodon. The women who were oiling Hsrandtuss’s back jumped up and ran into the palace. A tiny bird flew down from the sky near the monster. The king expected the dragon’s frightening mouth to snap it out of the sky, but it didn’t. The bird landed and then suddenly it changed. In its place stood a soft skin, a skinny little thing with yellow hair.

  Hsrandtuss looked past the dragon and the hoonan, to Hkhanu. The witch doctor was standing slack-jawed in utter amazement. Then the king realized the moment had come to rid himself of the pathetic old fossil. No, Hsrandtuss didn’t know anything about the gods, but he knew that there was only one such dragon in Birmisia, and he knew that there was but one immature soft-skin who would be found with him. He jumped to his feet and ran across to the dragon, dropping to his knees so fast he almost skidded across the ground.

  “Welcome to our humble village, oh great god Yessennar,” he shouted, raising his arms up toward the sky. “And welcome to your young priestess, Senta the great and powerful.”

  “Er, thanks,” said the little god.

  “Tsau,” said the yellow-haired soft-skin.

  Hsrandtuss almost giggled with glee when Hkhanu sneered and retreated back into the temple.

  * * * * *

  The large flat rock in the middle of the endless field of purple flowers was warm beneath the yellow sun. Yuah sat on the edge, her bare feet hanging just inches above the ogling eyeballs that formed the center of each flower. They rolled around, though it was impossible to tell if they were watching her, her feet, the sky, or anything else; or if they were simply grotesque, sightless parodies of living animal eyes. Yuah’s head hung limply, her chin resting on her chest.

  “What is the matter?” asked Pantagria’s perfect voice as she dropped down from the sky to stand just behind the seated woman.

  “Nothing and everything,” replied Yuah, without raising her head.

  “I can take care of you,” said Pantagria, sitting down beside her. Her great white wing enfolded around Yuah and pulled her close. “I can make you feel all better.”

  “No, no you can’t. Every time I do this, everything just gets worse. I’m not going to do it anymore.”

  “Aren’t you even going to give me a chance?” asked Pantagria.

  She reached out a hand and cupped Yuah’s chin. Pulling her face up, she kissed her gently on the lips.

  “No,” said Yuah. “I’m not doing this anymore.”

  She stood up and turned to look at the seated woman—the perfect angel.

  “I’m never coming back. I’m never going to see you again.”

  Pantagria smiled. “You’ll be back. The strongest souls have been unable to break my grip on them, and you’re not strong at all are you? You’re a weak as a little mouse.”

  Yuah let herself drop backwards from the rock, jolting awake on her own bed at home.

  “No,” she said to herself. “I’m not strong at all.”

  Chapter Nine: Sorceresses and Witch Doctors

  It was early in the morning, and those residents of Lizzietown who were awake, were moving slowly as their bodies warmed up. From the north, a line of uniformed humans made their way down the street, stopping and snapping to in crisp formation. Six uniformed constables, still wearing their blue jackets, but having replaced their blue trousers with khaki pants and shin high boots, were in front of the formation. The other forty men wore khaki uniforms and pith helmets. All except the two at the front of the column carried B1898 magazine-fed bolt-action .30 caliber service rifles. Radley Staff carried a naval service sword, though a revolver rested in the holster at his belt. Fifteen year old sorceress Senta Bly carried nothing that could be construed as a weapon.

  “All right, where are they?” Staff asked the girl.

  “Uuthanum,” she said, raising her hand.

  A small blue ball of light rose from her hand and started toward the ramshackle houses.

  “Two by two,” called Staff. “Double time, march!”

  His orders were repeated by the sergeant halfway back in the column. The soldiers started off in a jog, two by two, into Lizzietown. Staff held his sword close to his chest and the soldiers behind him carried their rifles the same way. The little blue light flew above and in front of them at exactly the same speed they moved.

  The smell of panic rose from the lizzies. Some came out of their doorways to see what was happening, only to be shoved back by the soldiers. Anything in the way of the march, whether it was a cart or wagon or a lizzie was knocked aside by a booted kick or a rifle butt. Senta jogged along beside Staff. He slammed a large lizzie out of the way with his shoulder, rather like a rugby player.

  Lizzietown held several hundred houses, but it didn’t take long for the soldiers to reach their destination. The little blue ball of light rose high up into the air and burst, raining down fine blue dust, which then glowed brightly as it coated six nearby shacks.

  “Squads one and two, encircle positions!” shouted Staff. “Squads three and four, turn out those huts!”

  Eight soldiers stormed through the doorways of the lizzie houses and began shoving lizzies and their possessions out onto the ground. Four policemen waited outside the doorways, examining items and pushing the reptilians down onto their faces. The other eighteen soldiers that made up squads one and two had formed a blockade around the six huts, keeping any on the inside from getting out, and any on the outside from getting in. There seemed to be few lizzies outside the circle who wanted to do anything other than get as far away from the area as possible.

  Several lizzies appeared in the doorways of the other four houses.

  “Kaetarrnaya eesousztekh!” shouted Staff.

  Most of the lizzies popped back inside. One who didn’t had rifle butts smashed into his face by two soldiers who rushed forward from the line. One lizzie made the mistake of stepping outside while holding an obsidian encrusted wooden sword. He was cut down by at least five rifle bullets, even though he had made no move to raise the weapon. The rifle shots were the signal to all the lizzies outside the perimeter of human soldiers to get away and get away as fast as they could. Senta suddenly realized it was a signal for something else as well.

  “Uh oh,” she said, stepping over to the doorway where the dead lizzie was making a large bloody puddle in the dirt.

  “Get back here,” hissed Staff, but his attention was pulled away from her.

  “We have contraband!” called one of the constables.

  Senta ignored the others. Stepping onto the body of the dead lizardman, she pushed aside the animal hide door and peered into the hut’s interior. It was dark, but not so much that she couldn’t see. Four large lizzies stood against the walls, watching her, but she paid no attention to them. At the far side of the room was a fifth aborigine, his back turned to the girl, but when the light flooded into the roo
m around Senta, he turned to look at her. He was shrunken and shriveled, and his skin had faded away with tremendous age or maybe disease. He wore a necklace of human hands held together with woven grass. In his own hand he carried a small lizard, its four legs sticking straight out, mounted on a stick like some strange lizard lollypop.

  “Kafira’s Tits!” shouted Senta. “I know you!”

  She did know him too. The dried-out old creature was none other than the chief shaman of Suusthek, the great city-state that had sat two hundred miles southeast of Port Dechantagne until Zurfina had called down a meteor strike to wipe it off the map.

  The shaman suddenly held up his lizard talisman and hissed. Senta felt herself fly out of the doorway, sailing through the air to smash into the back wall of another hut. All the air was knocked from her lungs and her ears rang. She climbed to her feet just as the witch doctor emerged from inside.

  Several riflemen fired at the old lizzie, but he simply waved the lizard on a stick and the bullets ricocheted away. He raised his other hand and a stream of magical energy bolts shot toward the young sorceress. Senta snatched one of the glamours floating invisibly around her head, activating it just in time to counter the witch doctor’s attack. The ricocheting energy bolts flew in every direction. The lizzie hissed and a blast of frost and snow flew from his fingertips directly at the girl.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she said, countering. “That was the first spell I learned. See what you do with this. Uuthanum uluchaiia uluthiuth!”

  Senta stretched out both hands and a small ball of flame formed, shooting directly toward the shaman. In the scant score of so feet between the two, it grew to a diameter of ten feet. The witch doctor held up his talisman as the fireball engulfed him and he remained safe within a little bubble as the flame exploded outward, setting fire to a dozen or more of the lizzie homes. The buildings popped and sparked and burned like they had been soaked in kerosene. In a few seconds, every house within sight was at least partially ablaze.

  “Oops,” said Senta. She could see lizzies running in every direction and hear the soldiers calling to “fall back!”

  The lizzie fired back again with a spell that Senta didn’t know, but she knew it wouldn’t be good for her if it hit her. She blocked it with a shield spell that also protected her as the burning building behind her popped and spread burning embers all around.

  “Time to put you down for good,” she said. “Uuthanum uastus corakathum paj.”

  The shaman raised the hand with his lizard talisman, but then hissed in pain and surprise. His hand, talisman and all, crackled and hardened, turning to stone. The transformation followed up his arm and then across his shoulders, down his body and up to the top of his head. In a brief moment, the lizzie had been turned into a statue.

  “One final bit,” said Senta. “Uuthanum uastus carakathum nit.”

  The stone statue that was all that was left of the lizzie shaman, changed color as the stone turned to mud. It slowly collapsed down upon itself until all that remained was a puddle with the vague shape of a head and a hand on the top of it. The mud turned white and cracked under the heat of the fires.

  Watching the mud remains of the witch doctor reminded Senta that her own skin was under assault from the surrounding heat.

  “Uuthanum rivah-necht,” she said, casting a spell to protect herself.

  Then she walked between the burning buildings, navigating the narrow paths through Lizzietown, which was now completely engulfed in flames.

  * * * * *

  A huge bonfire was blazing in the center of Hiissierra. At its edge, the lizzies had constructed great spits, holding large pieces of iguanodon meat. Even more meat was cut into pieces and was arranged on hangers. This would be eaten uncooked by the villagers. The meat being roasted was for the guests. In a great circle, some twenty feet from the flames, most of the village lizzies lay on the ground and watched the fire, flat on their stomachs with their arms pressed against their sides. Six lizzies, decked out in feathers from utahraptors and achillobators danced between the fire and onlookers. Their movements were slow and precise, looking more like ballroom dancers than the wild cold-blooded creatures that they were. The little god’s neck and head pointed toward the fire too, though his body curled around so that his tail pointed the same way. Pressed against his side, right in his middle, the young soft skin, leaned against him, her arms crossed.

  Hsrandtuss lifted his head and looked at her.

  “Are you comfortable enough?” he asked. “Your food is no longer bloody. This is how you like it, yes? I will now have the females bring you some on a leaf.”

  “That’s fine,” she replied, with a wave of her hand, speaking the language of the people. “You didn’t need to make everyone wait for me.”

  “But you are our honored guest!” he said, climbing to his feet. “Bring the food forth for the great god and his priestess!”

  Six or seven females hurried to remove the cooking meat from the spits. They placed neatly cut strips on a large leaf and brought them to the girl. An entire iguanodon shank was placed before the dragon, and when he took it daintily in his hand it didn’t look any too large. Four other females brought out a selection of local fruits and vegetables and placed them before the two visitors. Hsrandtuss wasn’t too sure about the dragon, but he had it on good authority that soft skins ate plenty of vegetables.

  “I could get used to this,” said the dragon, lifting the meat to his mouth and taking a bite.

  The girl said something in the hoonan language. Hsrandtusse waved to Sszaxxanna, who stuck her snout near his ear and quietly translated.

  “She says ‘don’t become soft with it’.”

  The king hissed in threefold pleasure. The little god was enjoying himself, Sszaxxanna was turning out to be quite useful, and the young soft skin had some wisdom in her. He wondered if she was as powerful as he had heard. If only half of what was said about her was true, she would be more than a match for Hkhanu.

  “Everyone!” he shouted. “Everyone feast!”

  The celebration lasted late into the night and didn’t officially end until the last villager had passed out from overindulgence of food and drink. Hsrandtuss had drunk so much ssukhas that he thought he might never be able to walk straight again. He watched though half closed lids as the dragon stood up and carefully lifted the girl, placing her nearer the fire, before shooting off into the darkened sky. Then with a satisfied snore, Hsrandtuss nodded off.

  * * * * *

  “This is it,” said Baxter to Odval, with a wave of his hand. “Voir.”

  He couldn’t believe that it had been only three days since he pulled her from the surf. Of course it had only been six since he had set out on his quest to explore the island, and only twelve since he had been shipwrecked himself. He hadn’t been consciously keeping track of the days—but he knew. Now he had brought her back to the site of his main camp, by the ruins and the little lake.

  “C'est fantastique,” she said. “C'est très vieux.”

  “Fantastic, yes. I didn’t catch the last part.”

  “…old?”

  “Old, yes.”

  He looked at her appraisingly, not for the first time. She was tall and lean, well muscled, but not in a way that made her the least bit unfeminine. Still wearing the light blue skirt, hung low about her hips and not quite reaching the ground, and sandals that she had been wearing when he found her. It emphasized her caramel colored skin. She had a silver bracelet on each wrist, but there was nothing to cover her breasts but her long black hair. She had a long, thin neck, and thick brown lips, which smiled wryly at him. He looked up to see the large brown eyes staring back, and he immediately looked down at the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “C'est bien,” she said, and walking to him, put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Come on, you need to rest,” he said, guiding her to the platform.

  The sleeping spot that he had made for himself before he
had left on his walkabout was still there, but needed some attention before it would be fit again. First though, he had to get a fire started. Sunset was still several hours away, but when it came it would cool off quite a bit. He gathered together his tinder and kindling in the fireplace that he had made days before. Before he could start, he was stopped by Odval, who sat down and took his place. Instead, Baxter busied himself gathering new bedding. He hadn’t gotten much of a start, when she began nursing a small flame.

  By sunset, a fire was roaring away, fuel in the form of fallen logs had been gathered together and a large sleeping mat nearby was ready for them. They cooked the last of the eggs stolen from the nests of the giant birds on the island meadow, and a large pile of fresh water muscles. The latter, being filter feeders were boiled twice to ensure their safety.”

  “Ceci est délicieux,” said Odval.

  “Delicious? It certainly hits the spot, but it doesn’t compare to the food back in Brechalon. Seafood is one of the few things my countrymen know how to prepare.” He looked at her. “Ah, you were taking into account our surroundings—trying to be positive, and I’ve just thrown cold water on it.”

  She laughed. “Je ne comprends pas.”

  His laughter joined hers. “I should have paid more attention to my Mirsannan studies.”

  * * * * *

  Hsrandtuss was startled awake when whatever he was lying on bounced.

  “Girls, leave me alone. My head hurts.”

  Cautiously opening one eye, he saw that the thing he was lying on was the hard ground and it had bounced because the dragon had fallen out of the sky to land less than a score feet away from him. He slowly rose to his feet, his tail dragging the ground as he staggered toward the little god.