by Andy Remic
“Ready for what?”
“Ready for whatever must be done. The vision is unclear. It is like a coin: double-sided and always spinning.”
Lightning forked, smashing into the forest below. Haleesa felt her hair crackle and her muscles became taut. She glanced up at her father. His face was grim – his eyes fixed on the fast-approaching storm which rushed across the world.
Sheets of rain came slamming at them like knives; instantly they were soaked. Haleesa could not understand why her father did not take her under cover, away from the rain and the wind and the threat of
lightning.
The spear lanced from the turmoil, a jagged bolt screaming towards the earth. Haleesa felt nothing, only heard a high-pitched cry and felt immense heat – heat searing her hand and the right side of her face…
When she awoke, her father was gone, a blackened smear staining the earth where he’d been smashed into oblivion. She looked down at her fingers, and could feel the tingle of his energies… and realised in that instant, in that moment of death and connection, he had given her his power; passed on to her his knowledge, his skills, his wisdom as he passed from life to death… a parting gift.
Haleesa blinked. She found she was staring at her fingers, remembering that final touch. She felt tears trickling against her wrinkled, ancient skin. So long ago. But you never forget. You never forget.
Dabbing away the tears with the hem of her shawl, she placed a few more herbs in the basket; Dubweed, Redsaal, and Grey Glove. Then she turned – and froze.
Three huge, grey wolves sat in silence around the stone tablet on which rested the deformed, yellow-skinned babe, Lorna.
Haleesa blinked, and slowly released a breath. Impossible, screamed her mind. She would have heard them approach; she would have felt the presence of such beasts, for she was connected to the forest and the earth and the animals that inhabited this realm.
Haleesa stared hard at the animals. Each was four feet tall at the shoulders and heavily muscled. Their fur was a deep, thick grey: winter coats. One of the wolves had a black streak across its muzzle, and it stared at her, eyes cool and appraising.
Words of power leapt into Haleesa’s mind and she felt the bite of energy welling from the earth beneath her feet, into her. But she stayed the words. Her lips were dry and she felt her legs trembling.
She took a step forward.
One of the wolves growled, and she saw a string of saliva pool to the ground.
Hungry, came the unbidden word in her mind. They were hungry. And yet they did not attack.
She took another step. She was five paces from the babe, which was watching her in that eerie silence.
“Good wolves,” muttered Haleesa.
She took another step closer. Again, the words of power came blazing red and hot into her mind, and high on adrenaline Haleesa felt her youth again, felt the surge of Shamathe power. She was three paces from the nearest – and largest – wolf, now. His baleful yellow eyes were fixed on her, and his lips peeled back revealing huge, jagged yellow fangs. The growl came from his belly and was a bass rumble, terrifying Haleesa to her core.
She forced another step, and another; then slowly, gently, bent and picked up the child. Lorna snuggled against Haleesa’s breast and was immediately asleep.
The wolves turned and loped off into the forest.
Haleesa sank to the rock, her chest heaving, red pin-pricks of light flashing in her mind as she cradled the babe.
What magic is this, she mused, staring hard at the sleeping child.
Had they been summoned? And if so, for what purpose?
And by a one day-old child?
She laughed, her laugh the insane cackle of an old crone, but strangely without humour.
Whatever. It is still good to be alive, she thought, and gathering herself together she stepped warily through the trees, eyes alert for movement, the ugly bundle in her arms asleep and breathing steadily.
Haleesa looked down, and the babe sighed.
Lorna was content.
During the weeks following the birth of Lorna, Sweyn and Gwynneth visited their horribly disfigured babe daily – blissfully unaware of her deformities. However, Haleesa soon became weary of the deception, her powers constantly drained. Her emulation began to change, and she made the child less communicative. She forced the babe’s illusion to appear pallid, waxen and unmoving. A fish-wax doll with shallow breathing and a burning fever.
And then, one day, Sweyn and Gwynneth did not come.
They came the following morning, with presents of bread, honey and sausage for Haleesa. Sweyn cut some wood with an old axe kept in a shed beside the cabin, and then they left. It was three days before they returned, and Haleesa continued with her form illusion of the child in poor health, lying still and waxen, chilled and silent.
The weeks flowed by.
When Lorna was six months old, her parents visited just once a week – sometimes every two. Many times Sweyn did not attend, for he was out cutting wood with other men of the tribe, or was away buying or selling pigs at the market fifteen miles to the north.
By the time Lorna was a year old, her parents had practically given up their visits. During the last nine months, Gwynneth had been blessed with another child, a little girl, and the child had emerged – under the fearful gaze of a trembling and wary Haleesa – with a healthy pink complexion, a mop of golden curls and the lusty cries of the newborn.
Gwynneth called this fresh new whole perfect little girl “Suza”, and she was blessed by the local priest and the parents had their new toy. Gwynneth would still visit Lorna every few months, out of guilt, if nothing else, but was now occupied with the upbringing of the new baby girl – and Haleesa was glad to see the pain slowly drift and dissipate like woodsmoke from the young, once-tortured woman.
The enviable strength of the human spirit to adapt and progress, she thought, with just a hint of bitterness.
Lorna was walking before she was two, and balanced on the spiked stumps of her deformed legs she was able to step carefully around Haleesa’s cabin. Her eyes were always – always fixed on Haleesa and the old woman found this gaze, peering up from a mottled yellow face, utterly unnerving.
Lorna’s hair had grown: a long, ragged trail of wiry black strands. She had grown in stature, filling out, her face becoming more round, her tiny pointed teeth nestling in the cavern of her fish mouth.
Her first word, on the day of her second birthday, had been: “Mudder.”
Haleesa had smiled, and shook her head. “No, I am not mudder. Gwynneth – the lady with long brown hair who visits – she is your mudder.”
The girl shook her head, and pointed with the spike of one serrated arm. “You mudder,” she whispered, then smiled, showing her tiny pointed teeth. Haleesa felt a ripple of goose bumps traverse her back and flanks, and she shivered, forcing a smile she did not feel.
Stepping outside to fetch some wood, Haleesa almost jumped out of her skin to see the three huge wolves sitting at the edge of the forest. Their pale yellow eyes were fixed on her and they made no sound.
Forcing herself forward, the old woman shuffled around the side of the cabin and hoisted a small log in her arms. Turning, she saw that the wolves had gone and, muttering to herself in annoyance and confusion, she returned to the cabin.
As the months passed, Lorna grew and learned with stunning speed. By the age of three she could speak quite clearly, holding reasonably complex discussions with Haleesa and asking about her missing hands.
“The Gods decided not to give you hands and feet,” said Haleesa carefully, adding more wood to the flickering fire. Outside, snow was falling and the forest was a scene of beauty, one best experienced from the warmth of a friendly hearth. Through the cold panes of glass Haleesa watched the spinning flakes for some minutes as Lorna digested this piece of information.
The girl finally smiled. “There are no Gods,” she said softly, her tongue darting to lick her yellowed lips. Her small round fac
e looked up earnestly at her teacher and adoptive parent.
“And why not?”
“I can feel it.”
“What can you feel?” Haleesa was intrigued as to how the girl would answer. She tilted her head, her wrinkled fingers rubbing at her chin as she waited for a reply.
Lorna closed her eyes. Her nostrils flared.
“I can feel your sadness. You are sorry for me. Deep within you carry the shame of your deceit – you lied to keep me here, to protect me. They would have left me in the forest to die, to be eaten by the wolves.”
Haleesa took a deep breath.
“Then you understand. About the fear your appearance will provoke.” Lorna nodded, her deep brown eyes fixed on Haleesa. “One day you may have the power to change this, to physically alter yourself. But for now, you must rely on illusion.”
“What is that?” A child once more.
“Close your eyes.”
“Yes.”
“Listen to the fire. Feel the heat.”
“Yes.”
“The heat is energy. Everything is energy. What other people call magic, spells, the Shamathe feel as energy and they have the ability to move this energy around. You understand?”
“Yes. Energy. Spells. Move around.”
“Good. Now take five deep breaths, and face the fire.”
Lorna did so.
“Tell me what you see?”
Haleesa tried not to show her shock at the young girl’s response. She had expected “Nothing – my eyes are closed!” but instead, Lorna whispered, “I can see an orange shape, flickering around and above where the flames are.”
“You must pull that energy towards yourself. I cannot teach you how.”
For long minutes they sat there, the young deformed child perfectly still, her closed eyes facing the flames, the old woman sitting back with a large pot of sweet tea in her liver-spotted hands.
Lorna’s eyes came open. “I cannot,” she said, simply.
“It will come,” said Haleesa kindly.
“I know,” said Lorna with a twisted smile.
That night, Lorna wailed in her sleep, thrashing her stumps madly as she twisted and turned, sweat gleaming on her naked yellow skin. Haleesa was there, cradling her head as deep brown eyes flared open.
“Quiet, little one. It is a dream.”
“No. He is born.”
Haleesa frowned and saw Lorna lick her lips with her quick, darting tongue.
“Who is born?”
“The King,” whispered Lorna, “The Soul Taker,” and then refused to say more. She closed her eyes, cuddled under her blankets, and was asleep once more before Haleesa had even crossed the room back to her own cot.
Haleesa lay for a long time in the darkness, listening to the wind sighing outside, and wondering what Lorna had seen in her dreams. In her nightmares?
Haleesa shivered, and closed her eyes, praying for the morning.
They sat on the hilltop, overlooking the Palkran Settlement. Their seat was an old, lightning blasted log, and despite the snow the sun had come out and there was no wind. Haleesa felt the weather was very pleasant and she allowed the warm rays to lick across her aged, wrinkled face.
“Where is my mother’s house?”
Haleesa pointed, to a conical adobe with a straw roof. As they watched, Gwynneth, once more pregnant, emerged holding the hand of a laughing, golden-haired girl. Haleesa shifted her gaze to watch Lorna, but the deformed girl’s eyes and face were impassive, unreadable.
Gwynneth and the child disappeared between other houses and were lost in the bustle of people. It was market day, and the Palkran Settlement was a hive of activity despite the snow.
“I will try to pull the fire energy once more,” said Lorna suddenly.
“What fire?” asked Haleesa.
“The sun,” said Lorna, and before Haleesa could stop her the child had transferred her gaze on the glowing copper orb squatting low in the heavens. Haleesa surged to her feet, panic giving her movements urgency and she reached out towards Lorna–
“No.”
The word was a command and Haleesa rocked to a halt. She knew that to focus on the sun would tear a human, even a Shamathe, physically apart. And yet… yet…
Haleesa felt the flow. It surrounded Lorna with a warmth which radiated and Haleesa sank to the ground, ignoring the cold of the snow in her bones as her eyes widened and she stared at the young child before her… a child performing the impossible… the channelling of the sun’s direct energies…
Lorna laughed, a truly joyous sound from such an ugly shell.
“It feels wonderful,” she breathed. “It tickles!”
“You must stop.”
Lorna’s gaze suddenly snapped to Haleesa, and the old woman saw the child’s eyes had turned from deep iron to a soft copper.
“You must stop,” cried Haleesa.
“I will never stop,” whispered Lorna, and her eyes glowed, then faded, and the ugly little child smiled. She stepped towards Haleesa, but the old woman scrambled away across the snow.
“What you did, child… it was impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible,” said Lorna. The child turned her gaze back down on the village. Gwynneth was there once more, returning to her hut with her golden-haired young girl, and waddling with the awkwardness of her internal passenger. Haleesa wondered what was going through the mind of her protégée.
“Let us go home,” said Lorna. “I am very hungry.”
CATACOMBS
Kiki, captain of the Iron Wolves, led the way into the subterranean gloom under Desekra Fortress. Her face was grim, hand on the hilt of one short sword, her bobbed brown hair tied back into a tight pony-tail, her iron eyes grim, hard set, and scowling. Her instinct was to turn around, face King Yoon – her King, the King of Vagandrak, Chief Warden of the North, Defender of the Skarandos… and hack her sword into his fucking head.
Dek padded up close behind, and she half-turned, seeing his grinning face in the flickering light from the brand she carried. “What are you smiling at?”
“It turned out okay in the end,” rumbled the broad-chested, badly tattooed pit-fighter. “Didn’t it, Keeks?”
“Hmm. That’s one way of looking at it, Dek. If it hadn’t been for Narnok snapping those ropes, we’d be dangling corpses over the mud-orc killing ground right about now. And all thanks to that insane, maggot-infested bastard, Yoon.”
“Well. I’m sure he had his reasons.”
“Had his what? Have you gone fucking insane?”
“Kiki, calm down. I said he had his reasons, not that I agreed with them. I like my neck unbroken, thanks very much, although I’ve got to admit, I’m a hard man to kill. It’d have to be a very strong rope.” He thought about it. “And a very long drop.”
Kiki stared, and coughed. “Well it was both of those; I think the fall from the walls of Desekra is big enough to crack even your unfaltering warrior’s ego. The problem here is what kind of liability Yoon is going to prove. He’s been nothing but a scourge against the people of Vagandrak.”
“You should talk to him. When we stop,” said Dek. He smiled amiably. “If you’ll let us stop. He may yet be a man who surprises you.”
Kiki nodded, but found a rage boiling inside herself, bubbling dangerously. She did not dare speak to Yoon. Yet. She knew she would lose her temper – and the last time that happened, she awoke a demon in her soul; she awoke the Shamathe and collapsed the battleground before the Desekra Fortress into a thousand caverns and ancient mines deep below the ground, sucking down thousands of warring, battling mud-orcs; sucking down Orlana, the Changer – otherwise known as the Horse Lady – down to her Eternal Doom.
Kiki took a deep breath and tried not to think about what nestled inside her. Tried not to think of her past. Her childhood. Of the Seed. And her sister, oh, her terrible, brooding, dark sister.
Well, I won’t allow it, came the slithering voice of Suza, her tomb-demon, her eternal tormentor, sliding sidew
ays into the charnel house of Kiki’s skull and bringing flashing images of maggot-infested corpses, of dead babies in coffins, of priests staked out to die, of death and putrefaction and a certainty of every single mortal man’s own imminent useless stinking death.
You cannot stop me, thought Kiki, gritting her teeth so hard there came a crack.
You did well, back there. Very clever. Very noble. Honourable Kiki! Saving the people of Vagandrak from the slavering, terrible, unholy mud-orcs; God bless her little golden glowing soul. You fucking idiot. Where did it get you? Yoon turned on you. Stabbed you in the back. Ripped your heart from your chest and your womb from your abdomen. You think that maniac wanted his people saving? He was giving them over to Orlana; sacrificing you all to the Horse Lady.
But… why? Why would a king do that to his people?
Why not? cackled Suza. Like you really care, bitch. Like you really give a bejewelled fuck.
“Kiki!” rumbled Narnok, from the back, where he’d looped some rope around Yoon’s neck and was dragging the bound king along like a dog. The King’s eyes were wide and mad, his mouth muttering curses in a language Kiki had never before heard as spit drooled down the rich embroidery of his silk and cotton robe. “If my memory serves, there’s an old storeroom up ahead. One of Dalgoran’s little stashes for the Old Raids.”
Kiki nodded, and she noted the sudden gleam in Narnok’s single eye amidst the writhing mess of his razor-scarred face. “Go on. Ask the question.”
Narnok’s voice dropped to a hiss, like the fevered insistence of an insane zealot. “The curse, Kiki! You promised us; said Dalgoran told us how to lift the curse!”
“And I shall,” she said, uneasily, remembering Dalgoran’s words – shortly before the old, noble general died by his own hand. Deep below Desekra Fortress, beneath Zula, the keep, there is a chamber. Inside it there is a chest. Everything you need to lift the curse is inside that chest… This key unlocks both the chamber and the chest. You will understand, when you see it. He’d given her a bronze key which she wore on a loop of leather against her breast even as they spoke. Involuntarily, her hand came up, feeling the solidity of the bronze key through the soft cotton of her shirt. Nobody knew she had the key. Nobody. And if they did? She glanced around at her companions; at her Iron Wolves. Would they still be standing, talking?