Charms of the Feykin

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “Sadly, the Feykin we capture tend to only have simple animal spirits,” the Placid explains, returning to Luke’s cage. Without looking back, he waves for the other cultists to give their new pet some water and fresh food. “Every now and then, we get one that has the spirit of something more powerful like a troll or a drite. Modifications can be made by our casters, but we had to retire those members due to some recent corruption. Seems somebody tampered with their minds and was using them to spy on our operations. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Because being your prisoner has given me so much time to plan with my friends in Rhundar,” the half-elf replies, his eyes still on the chimera. He watches her munch on a slab of meat and shudders at the thought of sharing her fate. “There may be a telepath among the Feykin. My friends and I saw signs of it, but we couldn’t confirm anything. Just another reason for you to leave them alone and release me.”

  “They’re already on the march, so a battle is inevitable,” Gursel says while pulling a corkscrew out of his pocket. His arm stretches to stab Luke in the stomach and slowly twist the metal tool into his flesh. “We read your energy soon after your arrival at the prison. That griffin was already seen near the Judges, but I wanted to know what else was inside you. The dog and snake fiend were mildly interesting, but then we found the hidden one. Not sure why you keep it locked up since it is the most beautiful thing I have seen in years. Imagine the power of a chimera that has the abilities of all four of your spirits.”

  “That monster is supposed to stay asleep.”

  “Good that you fear it. That will make the change easier to trigger.”

  “Please don’t do this to me.”

  “For the survival of all, I will not hold back.”

  The corkscrew is twisted again as Gursel reaches out with a thin blade to remove a layer of skin from Luke’s shoulder. His face a vacant mask, the Placid’s body churns as salty tendrils stretch toward the bleeding cuts. Piercing agony causes the half-elf to violently retreat, which leaves him with a shredded hole in his gut. With the spirits screaming in his head, feathers sprout from his neck and he notices that one of them is a metallic gold. As Luke struggles to stay aware of his surroundings, the blade returns to run along his scars and leaves a layer of salt within the fresh wound. Determined to hold off the transformation, Luke violently tears the patches of fur and feathers from his body. His desperate attempt to remain himself results in open sores all over his skin, which are mercilessly struck by poles held by the other cultists. Like a cornered beast, the forest tracker crouches in the middle of the cage and does his best to beat the torture instruments away. Within minutes, his hands are bruised, bleeding, and numb, but he refuses to stop fighting back.

  “If you change into me then you can break out,” the griffins says, sensing that Luke is losing control. A surge of focus gives the spirit hope that the young man can hold out until they are rescued. “You are strong and may be able to survive, but we shouldn’t take that risk. We were lucky to be revived the last time this happened. Dariana will not reach us immediately, so the change can become permanent. Please think of a way out of this besides enduring and waiting.”

  “Be quiet and let me handle this,” Luke whispers before the corkscrew is jammed into his back. He screams and thrashes, the tool coming out of Gursel’s hands, but remaining out of the half-elf’s reach. “Just keep that dragon locked away. That’s the one they want. All we have to do is stop him from appearing. Then I won’t be used to hurt my friends.”

  The Placid whistles for one of his men to bring a narrow paddle that is coated in rasping barbs. “Talking to them is a good sign. It means they are at the surface. All I need is for you to change into any one of your forms. Once the gate inside you is open, the continuing torture will bring the others out. It’s a more complicated method than what I use on the Feykin, but I feel that you are going to be worth it.”

  The paddle rips across Luke’s chest and swings back around to rake along his outer thigh, leaving both areas bleeding and raw. Gasping for air, the half-elf falls to the floor and beats his fist against the stone. As the spirits inside him begin to panic, a forked tongue sprouts from his mouth and every scent vividly bursts into his mind. When a roaring screech erupts from his throat, Luke fears that he is already losing control. Refusing to give up, he crawls to the bars and drags himself to his feet, the paddle constantly whipping at him. Following a strange pop, a sudden silence consumes the dungeon. The forest tracker sees the cultists moving and talking, but none of their voices reach his ears. After a few seconds of confusion, Luke realizes that even the sound of his own screams are muted by a primal fury pressing on his mind.

  “Only a matter of time, boy.”

  *****

  Armed with spears, swords, and bows, the Feykin army marches through the jungle. Their stomping feet send birds soaring out of the canopy while the startled land animals race out of their path. The underbrush is left matted and damaged in their wake since none of the warriors who can fix the plants bother to do so. Delvin walks at the head of his warriors, Frog and Plume obediently flanking him in silence. A polished breastplate covers his chainmail and he has replaced the shield Nyx made with a wooden, thorn-laced buckler. Sari and Phelan are a few feet behind, their followers easy to pick out among the crowd. All of them stare at Delvin as if they can decapitate him with a thought and place their Queen at the head of the army. It is an uncomfortable sight for Nyx and Dariana, the two champions taking up the rear of the procession. Both of them remain alert for signs of an attack on either of their friends, but they are unsure if the bigger danger is outside of the Feykin forces or within.

  “Delvin say we go to temple,” Fizzle whispers, landing on Dariana’s shoulder. The drite scratches his side, sending several old scales to the ground. “Also call Timoran traitor and coward. Fizzle not like this. Something wrong. Fizzle sleepy too. Long past time for sleep. Bond with Nyx weak here. Not enough to help.”

  “Well everything else has gone wrong here,” the channeler mutters, cracking her knuckles loud enough to startle the rear guards. She licks her lips at the Feykin, who hurry to put some distance between them and her. “Just hold on for a few more days, Fizzle. Help us get everything settled then you can sleep while Delvin works in his temple. That will be when we get our friends back and return to our path.”

  The drite hops over to Nyx’s shoulder, the proximity to her aura giving more color to his scales. “Fizzle stay strong. Nyx small help. What we do about Timoran? Fizzle no think he traitor or coward. But where he go?”

  “I want to believe he went to rescue Luke, but he left the sabers and rings behind,” Dariana answers, rubbing her aching temples. Dressed in a ratty, white shirt and dirt-marked pants, the telepath resembles a prisoner more than a combatant. “The only other possibilities are that he was captured by the Order or Zohara did something. I doubt she would have removed him from the battle since he hasn’t been a threat to her. As for the Order, we’d have heard Timoran roaring during the fight and found a few bodies in the jungle. He’s out there with a plan and I’m rather happy about that.”

  Nyx agrees with a small nod, but she is already letting her thoughts drift to the problem in front of her face. She is not worried about Delvin turning on Sari since the warrior has been openly arrogant about his previous victory. It is easy to notice that his actions have lost him some respect and love among many of the Feykin. Nyx cannot really blame them since a few of her dreams are nothing more than a lengthy series of smacks to Delvin’s head. She knows he is not himself, but it is becoming more difficult to separate the man she knows is locked away from the pompous jerk before her eyes. Every time he barks orders, the channeler cringes and wishes she could snap him out of Zohara’s power.

  A metal glint brings Nyx’s attention to Sari, the gypsy juggling three of her daggers while she walks. The channeler watches her friend whisper to Phelan, the pair doing very little to hide their conspiratorial appe
arance. With a subtle gurgle, the nearby river spits water onto the Feykin that are loyal to Delvin. A powerful jet hits the armored warrior in the back, but all he does is stand back up and clean himself off. His mild reaction makes Sari turn red in the face, calming down only after Phelan puts an arm around her shoulders.

  “Those two are going to do something,” Dariana says as she masks their conversation. As far as the Feykin know, the two women are talking about where to go once they are done with Rhundar. “Sorry for being vague and I assure you that I wasn’t reading your mind. It’s just that I know you well enough to get a good idea of what you’re thinking. This may sound crazy, but since we’re away from Zohara, I might be able to free our friends. Though she would probably sense it from far away and I don’t know what will happen after that. Not to mention we’d have an army of Feykin with no leader, which could get messy. Still, it might be our only opportunity to do something without our true enemy around to stop us.”

  “We leave them alone because I want events to unfold to a certain point,” Nyx replies while handing Fizzle an apple. She leaves an energizing spell on the fruit, hoping it keeps the dragon alert. “The Feykin will be handling the Order, so we don’t have to be involved in the actual battle. Our job is to protect Delvin and Sari. Maybe help Luke and Timoran if they arrive. Wish I knew what to expect.”

  “I have theories, but they would only worry you,” the telepath admits with a half-hearted chuckle. She nervously twists her glass ring until the curious Feykin turn back around. “Perhaps we should split up to handle multiple problems. Fizzle can track everyone from the air while each of us shadows one of our friends. If the others show up then the one most suited to the new situation will handle it.”

  “That’s the best we can do right now.”

  “What are you thinking about, Nyx?”

  “Just sorting some old and new information in my head.”

  “I can read your thoughts.”

  “Not without apologizing and feeling guilty.”

  Dariana pouts for a second before remembering that the statement is meant to be friendly ribbing. She lets their true voices be heard and focuses her powers on scanning the surface thoughts of the Feykin. All she senses are visions of death, worries about loved ones, and a constant pressure that the telepath cannot identify. The one time she tries to pry further, her target coughs up blood and doubles over before being handed a healing potion. The man’s friends tease him for eating too many spicy berries and remind him that he is not as young as he used to be. Dariana is thankful that nobody guesses at her involvement, but she decides to keep her mind to herself for the rest of the march. As the abandoned temple comes into view, the telepath glances at Nyx. She takes some comfort in the half-elf’s intense expression and the way her fingers wiggle at her sides.

  “Can I ask what your plan is?” Dariana inquires as the army slows down. Far in the distance, several Feykin begin to scale the wall and secure ropes while others head into the tunnels to check for danger. “We are still a day away from Caurea. Do you think we can delay these people or stop the battle entirely?”

  “No and I don’t really have a plan,” Nyx admits, reaching up to pick a few dead scales off Fizzle. Even though his eyes are open, a gentle snore slips out of the dragon’s mouth. “I can’t think of anything to do, but maybe that’s a good thing. I should be like my little brother and react to events as they come. Keep myself alert for opportunities to solve our problems and take those openings as soon as I can.”

  “Isn’t that an elaborate way of saying you’re going to wing it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  *****

  Timoran skids to a stop and grabs a tree, his chest heaving from running at top speed for so long. Fumbling for one of his waterskins, the barbarian takes several gulping chugs while examining Caurea. He is not sure he can truly call the expanse of huts and tents a city since it reminds him more of an army camp. None of the simple buildings appear to be permanent as they sit beneath the scattered fruit trees, which makes the champion wonder if Rhundar began in a similar state. Even the central tree, with all of its hanging moss and large figs, seems more suited to the Feykin than their mortal enemies. Squinting into the distance, Timoran can see an earthen well to the eastern end of Caurea and discerns strange slits in the ground. Shading his eyes with his hand, he barely sees that the narrow gaps make a trail to the enormous tree. There are very few people around the expertly made well, which he finds strange since he sees no other source of water. Wiping sweat from his brow, the barbarian realizes that the midday sun and humidity are eating at his strength. He can only imagine how the citizens are feeling since their homes look like they give little protection from the harsh elements.

  “I suggest you stay here and find Nyx if I am captured,” Timoran tells Isaiah. He takes off his vest and reaches for the great axe, his hand stopping short of drawing the weapon. “There is something off about this place. I see no guards or anyone in cultist robes. Do you think our enemies have abandoned this place to march on Rhundar?”

  “It’s possible, but I’d think they would leave some kind of defense,” the monkey responds while getting comfortable in a tree. Scratching his back with his stick, the caster tries to cast a magic sight spell, but only succeeds in emitting a single spark from his eye. “If I had my full power then I could see if someone was hiding in that big tree. Keep your senses sharp, Timoran, and retreat if necessary. This is a rescue mission and not a full battle. Your only goal is to get Luke out alive and return to the others.”

  “You speak as if I have never done this before,” the barbarian states with a tired sigh. Seeing the furrowed brow of his companion, the red-haired warrior bows his head in apology. “I am sorry for my tone. You only wish to help after feeling useless in your current form. Thank you for the reminders and warnings.”

  With a smile, Isaiah clambers higher into the branches to get a better look at the surrounding landscape. “It’s my job. I will call out if there is any-”

  The monkey’s familiar voice stops and turns into a series of screeches, his speaking spell having run its course. With no other way to communicate, Timoran heads down the small hill and tries to remain in the limited shadows. Any citizen who sees him ducks into the nearest house and peeks out through the cloth door, the fabric shifting at their touch. Curious children remain outside until their parents drag them away from the muscular stranger. Previously hidden by the buildings, Timoran can now see several fire pits with roasting meat and pots of boiling vegetables. Sweet aromas fill his nose, but he continues heading toward the earthen well instead of inspecting the food. The longer he walks through Caurea, the more he notices the disheveled appearance and terrified expressions of its citizens. It makes him think of how the chaos elves lived outside of Stonehelm after the battle, but there is a greater sense of misery in the eyes of these people. By the time he reaches his destination, the champions realizes that there were very few healthy men among the locals. All he has seen are women, children, elderly, and the severely injured, many of whom stare at him as if he will kill them at any moment.

  “This is a refugee camp,” Timoran whispers to himself while the people at the well scatter at the sight of him. He goes to one of the rectangular slits in the earth and peers into the darkness, his eyes barely making out the shapes of cages. “There are more mysteries than answers in this place. Perhaps I should find the one in charge before getting Luke. Yet that could put my original goal in danger and I refuse to abandon my friend. Is this a dungeon?”

  The ground shakes as something large and angry strikes the earth from below. A bone-chilling scream erupts from the well and is followed by the sound of churning water. Another blow shakes the giant tree, sending ripe figs plummeting to the excited yells of the hungry refugees. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people rush out from their homes and converge on the falling food. Their desire to taste the incredible fruit undoes their caution of the armed warrior, who is watched only by the di
rt-marked children. None of the adults listen as the kids point to the stranger sneaking to the edge of the well and peering inside.

  With the sun high above the jungle and no canopy to stop its light, Timoran can see to the bottom of the large hole. Thick vines are connected to the walls, which he assumes is to help people climb out if they fall into the clear water. A shadow catches his attention, so he circles around until it is directly across from him. The distorted shape of a doorway can be seen and he assumes it connects to the dungeon that runs beneath the ground. Touching the slick walls, Timoran takes a deep breath and tries to gauge the shifting water’s depth. Another quake sends more fruit to the ground, making him decide that he has to move quickly.

  The barbarian dives and cuts through the surface, the heated water catching him by surprise and making him feel a little faint. With the weight of his weapon helping him sink to the very bottom, Timoran practically crawls to the door. To his looming horror, the barbarian finds it is locked and there is no handle for him to grasp. Unable to use his full strength underwater, he does not try to strike the solid wood out of fear of flooding the room on the other side. Working by touch instead of sight, he runs his hands around the entrance in search of a hidden latch. The water’s comforting warmth and his dissipating breath makes him lightheaded, so he considers returning to the surface for a small break.

  A spear whizzes by his face, causing him to look up and see that several of the citizens are around the well. The women are armed and doing their best to strike the barbarian, the moving water making it difficult for them to aim. With his lungs starting to burn, Timoran draws his great axe and focus on his enchanted ring. He feels one of the incoming projectiles hit his back, but it lacks the force to do more than cut the skin and float to the floor. Trying to strike the door with all of his strength, the barbarian finds it difficult to get the momentum that is necessary to break through. He tries spinning and stepping forward, but it is like fighting within a tight cocoon that is slowly suffocating him. A spear strikes and sticks into his thigh, the fresh blood drifting to the surface. His vision blurring, Timoran sinks to his knees in front of the entrance and lets his great axe tap the entrance. With a muffled creak, the door opens and he tumbles down a damp stairwell along with a brief flood of water.