Reality's Plaything

by Will Greenway

  He didn’t see her come closer, but sensed it. The female’s presence was palpable. It dispelled the foul odors of this place, replacing them with the sweet mingled scents of dewflowers and honeypetal.

  A rich female voice caressed his ears. “Why do you not look at me?”

  Bannor fended it away with a question of his own. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  She laughed. Despite the sound’s melodiousness it made his skin prickle. “How disarming.”

  Jewelry tinkled. Bannor felt a hand touch his wrist, the contact made a jolt sing through him. He jumped back.

  The spectral woman smiled, her lips looking the color of blood against translucent skin. “From you, Garmtur, I want everything.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Wanting does not always mean getting.”

  She put a finger to her lower lip, black-black eyes studying him. He saw that her nails glowed orange-red like the lava. “An intriguing idea.” It was fascinating the way her full lips moved with each perfect enunciation. “However, no one tells me ‘no’ for very long.”

  He pushed down the physical urges. He wasn’t some randy recruit who could be enthralled by female beauty. “It’ll take more than a fetching sight to make me give up my freedom. You haven’t said who you are yet.”

  Her lips turned to a pout. “You haven’t guessed?” She put a long fingered hand over her heart. “You wound me.” She sighed. “Ah well, I shall have to tell you after we’ve become better acquainted.” She stepped toward him.

  Bannor backed up, reaching for his axes. The loops where he kept them were empty. “You keep away.”

  “That’s no way for a dying man to be.” She scowled and brushed a strand of her hair back. “Certainly, you want the transition to be as painless as possible don’t you?”

  “Transition? What are you talking about?”

  She grinned like she’d caught him. “I’ll answer that with a question. You know what a metaphor is?”

  “No.”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “A metaphor is an image that represents something else. In your land, talonhunters are used to symbolize freedom.”

  He narrowed his eyes. Where was she going with this? “So, what’s that have to do with anything?”

  “All this.” She turned slowly, raising a hand to indicate everything around them. After turning full circle she stopped and fixed him with a stare. “This wasteland is a metaphoric representation.”

  He felt a cold sensation in his loins. “Of?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Of a body deteriorating, wasting away to a crippling toxin. Soon even the hot blood will cool and go dark.” She gestured to the lava.

  “You won’t kill me, you want the Garmtur too badly. Besides, I die and everything might just go with me.”

  “It might at that,” she bit her lip. Her eyes glinted. “Maybe I’m willing to take that chance.”

  * * *

  Terror tastes best when served with a smile or a wink of an eye.

  The true gourmand of chimeras can appreciate the subtle touches that make the bones go doughy and the blood turn to ice…

  —From the Dedriad, ‘musings of an immortal’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  « ^ »

  Bannor stared up at the metallic gray sky. Now that he studied it closer, he saw variations in the color, shimmering whites and reds too faint to see at a glance. The black sphere that burned on the horizon made him shiver inside. How could something black give off light? The hiss and bubble of lava flowing down channels only added to the malevolent feel of this alien place. His stomach felt tight, and the heat of the burning soil gnawed at the soles of his feet. He was reluctant to look away from the horizon knowing that the pale woman would capture his gaze again.

  Moment to moment, he felt a tickling in the small of his back. He couldn’t feel it with his hand, but a couple of times out of the corner of his eye he saw a silvery thread twining up into the sky from his back. What it was, he had no idea. Everything about his circumstances made him uneasy especially what the woman had said.

  Maybe I’m willing to take that chance. It had been appalling enough to learn and finally believe what his death might inflict on the environment. More unsettling was the idea that someone would blithely risk the Garmtur going out of control. Was she insane?

  It made a chill shoot down his spine. He was trapped in this vile place with a madwoman. Her beauty and presence didn’t blind him to the subtle malignancy reflected in her smile.

  “You cannot ignore me,” she said with perfect eloquence. “Besides,” her voice dropped to a growl. “It’s rude.”

  Bannor met her obsidian colored eyes. He felt her gaze stab into him like a knife. Her frown was a powerful force. “What did you expect I would do, milady? That I would fall down and worship?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “The thought occurred to me.” She said it in a flat tone. Muscles in her jaw twitched.

  “You are easy on my eyes, milady, I’ll admit.” He looked around at the wastes, watching trickles of lava surge across the blackened ground. He was glad of one thing in her presence. She kept the horrible smell at bay, filling the air with scent of flowers instead of the sulfurous stench. “Why not have your say and be done with it?”

  “Do I need add more?” Her eyes flashed. “You will die—slowly.”

  Her cutting tone made his insides twist, but he kept himself firm. He folded his arms. “So, what, am I supposed to beg now?” He sniffed. “I hope you’re immortal. You’ll wait a long time before you hear me beg for anything.”

  Her lips curved slightly. “No one said anything about beg—negotiate.”

  The word hit Bannor like a punch. A searing anger pushed heat into his cheeks. “Negotiate! Since when have the avatars ever shown interest in negotiating? All I’ve heard is ‘give in or we’ll lay waste to everything’. Which is what you’re bloody doing!”

  She stared at him unphased by the volume of his voice. She shrugged. “Insurance. We are prisoners of the counsel we keep. Besides, we have no choice.”

  “No choice? No choice!” Bannor’s voice cracked. He felt air fluttering in his chest. “Explain how this isn’t your choice!”

  The woman closed her eyes and sidled closer. She looked sad. “A mistake really. My clergy grew a little overzealous in their desire to please me. They took some savants to be succorund; all a misunderstanding really.” The look on her face was one of sincere regret. “Since then, Wren Kergatha has turned it into a war. If she gets a weapon like your Garmtur, she will use it to destroy us. It’s simple survival—her against us.”

  Despite her appearance of sincerity, Bannor had his doubts. It flashed on him then, part of the woman’s words. My clergy. My. The thought made the heat in his cheeks freeze. She was almost touching him. He stepped away again. “You’re Hecate, aren’t you?”

  She fixed him with narrowed eyes. “Wasn’t it obvious?” Hecate growled.

  Bannor couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “A goddess wishes to negotiate with me?”

  Again she shrugged. Hecate stepped across a lava fissure. She continued moving along the broken black rocks in a circle with him at the center. She put her hands behind her back. “With one avatar dead, some major servants permanently destroyed, the loss of demons and such, it behooved us at this juncture to ensure that the matter be handled appropriately.”

  “You wanted it done right.”

  Hecate stopped on a rock looking down at him. The corner of her mouth quirked. She folded her arms. “Will you negotiate?”

  “Your Worship, the only negotiation I’m interested is a truce. You leave my mate and me alone. We’ll leave you alone. I want this debacle ended, whatever it takes. Wren can scream and yell at me all she wants. I won’t lift a hand against you as long as you leave us be.”

  Hecate tapped her chin. Sparks seemed to fly from her glowing orange fingernail. “What if Wren forces you to cooperate?”

  “Wren can’t force
me.”

  Hecate’s dark eyes glinted. “We’ve seen evidence to the contrary.”

  “You mean what happened with Mazerak?” It was Bannor’s turn to shrug. “We’ve been forced to get creative to get out of your little traps.” Bannor felt a mean urge. “I’ve been tempted to simply give the Garmtur to Wren. I’m certain she’d put it to good use.”

  Hecate actually managed to turn a shade paler. It didn’t show in her expression except for a slight tremble in her lower lip. “That would be unwise.”

  “Would it? I think it fitting. I know what’s you’ve done to her. That kind of pain can make a person real creative. She’d probably rip your power out by the roots.” He held a hand out in front of him fingers open and then made a tearing gesture and the accompanying sound.

  Hecate shuddered then swallowed. “You are not funny.” The woman’s hands clenched into fists and her face tightened. A hot wind blew around them.

  “I wasn’t trying to be.” He forced himself to look into her black-black eyes. It made him cold inside. “That’s what being a savant of reality is about, isn’t it? What’s true this moment, might not be a heartbeat from now. I don’t want to threaten you. I don’t want to deal with you. I want to be left alone. You understand? After everything that’s been done to me, if you think I’ll be amenable to anything—don’t.”

  Hecate grinned, blood red lips unsheathing from around perfect sparkling white teeth. “What if I could give you back your brother Rammal and Wren’s lover Grahm?”

  The shock ran through him. “What!?”

  “You heard me. A truce will be issued protecting, you, Wren, and your respective extended families. Also, all warring forces will be withdrawn from Titaan. As an additional incentive, we offer to give back to you Rammal Starfist and Grahm Tuffala unharmed and as healthy as they ever were in life. All you must do is will the Garmtur over to me.”

  His heart tried to hammer, but it couldn’t. Rammal alive again? He’d seen him in the dream world. There’d been hints of a second chance, of wanting to live. Could it be true? “You can do that? Bring them back to life?”

  Hecate’s smile could have melted ice. “I’m a goddess. Of course I can.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  Her smile grew wider. “You must have faith.” Before he could jump back, her arms were around his neck pulling him close. “Have faith,” she breathed into his face. Her lips met his. A sensuous thrill shot through him. Bannor felt himself pulled down into the darkness of her eyes.

  “Faith.”

  He felt as if he were falling down a well into the blackness. Somewhere in the distance, water rushed. Winds groaned. He smelled the sweet scent of dewflowers and honeypetal.

  The word continued to echo in his mind.

  “Faith.”

  “He’s waking up,” a female voice said.

  A groaning echoed around him and what sounded like rushing water. The scent of dewflowers and honeypetal filled his senses. From somewhere came a jingling.

  His feet felt hot. A thick bitter taste coated the inside of his mouth. Bannor tried to see, but his eyes wouldn’t open more than a crack. They seemed pasted shut. His back pressed against tensed cloth, probably a cot. Sweat trickled down his cheek.

  “Bannor?” The voice sounded like Wren’s, but hollow. A hand pressed against his forehead. “You still with us? We made it to the bivouac.”

  “Wa—” he tried to croak out the word ‘water’ but it felt like he was swallowing shards of glass.

  “I believe he’s sweated most of the toxin from his body.” This came from a softer, more breathy voice. It, too, sounded hollow and was difficult to hear against the rush of water in the background. “It’s all right for him to drink.” It sounded vaguely like Sarai, but he sensed it wasn’t.

  A hand gripped the back of his neck and lifted him to a sitting position. Bannor’s joints made crackling sounds and he felt an unpleasant queasiness in his stomach.

  “You’ve been through Hades and back,” Wren said. She pushed the stem of a waterskin against his lips.

  The cool liquid moistened his dry mouth and throat. The area around him remained blurry. It appeared not to be a room at all, but some kind of chamber. The walls looked inconsistent and scattered with shadows.

  A damp cloth dabbed his forehead and rubbed at the corners of his eyes. “Must have been some dream. You were mumbling all kinds of things.”

  Faith. Had it only been a dream? The landscape and Hecate had seemed so real. More of the events came back to him. The kiss had seemed almost ultra-real.

  He looked down at his arm. The skin looked pale. He tried to flex his fingers and only received a feeble twitch.

  Wren wiped the rest of the residue from his eyes and the area came more into focus: a cavern with small sprays of flowers dotting the area in clay pots.

  She smiled at him. Her hair had been looped and braided in a fashion Sarai wore on special occasions. Powder and rouge decorated her face and earrings glistened on her ears. The savant wore a sequin-studded green blouse with a unicorn signet over the left breast. The feminine accouterments were so unlike Wren. He wondered if maybe it might not be her.

  “Wren?” It came out as croak. He coughed and tried again. “Wren?” It sounded recognizable this time.

  She nodded and looked down at herself. “Kinda fancy for me, huh?”

  Faith. He felt the word like a stabbing pain in his stomach. He groaned, reflexively trying to grab his middle. His arms trembled and shifted part way.

  “You okay?” She gripped his shoulder to keep him from falling.

  “Okay,” he grunted. “Feel sick that’s all.”

  “He will be weak for a few days,” said the breathy female from behind him. A musical tinkling accompanied the swish of clothing.

  Wren held out a hand. “Bannor, this is Meliandri, she’s been caring for you.” A fine-boned hand took Wren’s, and the savant pulled her into Bannor’s view. One tooth chipped, Meliandri grinned, her dusky cheeks dimpling and wavy russet-blonde hair floating around her triangular face like clouds. The pointed ears marked her an elf, but her skin was olive-colored, her eyes were green, and she looked too tall and broad through the hips and bosom to be elven.

  “Goodman, Bannor.” She bowed. As Meliandri moved she jingled with tiny bells sewn like sequins onto her shiny blue robes. “It is an honor to tend the Arminwen’s chosen One.”

  “My thanks.”

  Faith. The word vibrated through him again. He shuddered. “Wren—” Bannor’s voice cracked. “Wren, we have to talk.”

  “Of course.” She sat by him on the cot.

  “No, I mean we have to talk.”

  “Yes?” Her smile melted. “What’s wrong?”

  He glanced toward Meliandri. “Sarai should hear this too. I don’t even know if it was a dream or not. Where is Sarai?”

  Wren put a hand on his thigh and frowned. “Sarai wanted to be here. She’s—busy.”

  “Busy? Tell her it’s important.”

  “I’d like to Bannor, but I can’t.”

  Something bad had happened. He recalled hearing something. It had to do with soldiers. “Why not?”

  Wren glanced up and she and Meliandri exchanged looks. The savant sighed. “Because Sarai’s in the stockade.”

  * * *

  Doubt is like water, given time it can wear down mountains and cut canyons from solid granite…

  —From the Dedriad, ‘musings of an immortal’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  « ^ »

  Ker-plunk.

  Bannor watched the stone vanish beneath the surface of the underground stream that ran through the cavern. The light from torches mounted in sconces on the walls made flickering reflections on the surface of the water. Judging by the age of the construction, the elves had been using this cave long before the avatars struck. Leather stretched across wooden frames created partitioned areas of the cavern like this one.

  He took another stone from the
small pile at his feet and tossed it. It hit the water, but the current disrupted the ripples. The churning water swallowed the rock and nothing marked its passing. The image reminded him of his own situation. To be flung into turmoil and get sucked under without a trace.

  Hecate now gripped him three ways. Her threat of him dying slow was enough to make him consider carefully. People would continue to be killed if he didn’t act. Lastly, if he gave over the Garmtur, it looked as if he might come away with more than when he started. Problem being, he couldn’t see it as anything but a ruse.

  It couldn’t be anything else. Could it?

  Ker-plunk.

  Meliandri said the sickness had abated for a time. They must remain vigilant because the illness only slept and could renew its attack without warning. She gave him some foul-tasting medicine that gave back some of his mobility. His joints ached and he had no strength. She talked as if he might never lift an axe in battle again. He refused to accept that. He hated being weak.

  He glanced at the flowers set in cracks in the floor, dewflower and honeypetal to cover up the musty cave scents. He focused on some yellow and white blooms near the foot of his cot. Starpetal. Sarai’s favorite flower. His pet name for her came from it; Little Star. He hurled a large piece of granite at the water.

  KER-PLUNK!

  He watched the spray pelt the surrounding rocks. She was in the stockade because of him. Sarai’s only crime was thinking for herself, being independent—and for loving him. The last made his stomach tighten. Both of them knew the risk coming to the elves of Malan. An arminwen didn’t engage a commoner without inciting great disapproval.

  If able, he would have charged down to the camp leaders and told them to let Sarai go. Sarai had been through so much. She needed her people’s support, not imprisonment.

  Laughter and the clangor of swords in mock battle echoed through the caverns from far away. The elves had isolated him. The ward was set up like a camp for plague victims. Through slits in the partitions he saw nothing occupied the adjacent sections except empty cots, supplies, and piles of blankets. Like Sarai, they’d confined him, too. In his condition, seclusion in this huge cave was enough.