“Nice trick,” Darius complimented her.
Thera’s green eyes scrutinized Meg with fresh curiosity. “You’re a witch?”
“Yes,” Meg replied simply.
Thera shook her head in wonder, deftly stepping over a fallen skull. “A warrior witch is a potent combination, yet you do not vaunt your talents. In my kingdom, your caste would be ranked high and you would be greatly valued.”
Meg shrugged as she treaded carefully through rows of bone beds. “I am valued, but I prefer my sword to speak for me. But I thank you for the compliment.”
They walked through the ossuary, stacked with finely carved stone crypt beds that lined the walls. Not even a rat was heard scuttling, since wildlife of any kind fled this place because of the Changeling. The lights reflected on the tombs that cradled the rich patrons or noble families of the past, but their funeral finery was lost to time ages ago and now the only remnants were decayed fragments of moldy cloth clinging to skeletons.
The changeling’s profane incantations contaminated a sacred keep. Meg sensed the magic in the room, but more than changeling dark lingered here.
A pale shadow shimmered ahead, human-sized and it matched the cocoon Rose described from her vision. Meg paused and raised her hand for them to halt. “Wait. I found her.”
Thera rushed to the white shrouded shape laid on a stone crypt, garnished with only a small red amulet that had ceased glowing. “My poor Lilias,” she cried.
“I said WAIT!” Meg grumbled.
“Now what do we do?” Darius asked. “The amulet isn’t glowing. Do we tear it open?” He leaned in and whispered so Thera would not hear. “Is she dead?”
“We don’t know that,” Meg replied quickly. “First, we get the princess out of this hell pit. We’ll take her to Zula at the palace. She will know what to do.”
“Can you do anything, Meg? You have magic and”
“This is magic far beyond my skill, Prince. Be quick and take her outside.”
The warriors jumped to her orders. She knew they were uneasy touching the changeling’s cocoon, but they lifted captive Princess with care. Thera followed them out.
Deeper into the shadows, a shimmer caught the corner of Meg’s eye. “Stay here,” she commanded Darius and approached with care, hand on her sword.
Darius followed her.
She stopped her tracks. “What did I say, Your Highness?”
“I’m sorry, but it looks dangerous. You need someone to watch your back.” Darius did not retreat but stayed at her side. “Curiosity has been a lifelong fault.”
Beyond the crypt beds, a corner of the filthy tomb was swept clean of refuse and bones. Meg cautiously approached, her spheres of light following her. On the floor lay a broad circle of obsidian glass framed with red ochre that faintly shimmered in the shadows.
“What the name of Ursas is that?” Darius asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe an altar,” Meg whispered. Kneeling down, careful not to touch the red ring around the mirror, she gazed into its stygian ripples that shifted to liquid shadow.
She backed away and unsheathed her sword. “More than changeling dark lingered here. Get behind me.”
“You do love to give orders,” Darius complained.
“Call it my contribution to the Crown’s succession. I’m keeping you alive.” Meg picked up a stray bone and tossed it on the altar. The circle whirled and the red pool flared with sorcerous light. Her balls of light burst and disappeared. “We’re leaving. Now!” Meg backed away and headed back to the stairs.
“What was that?”
“Trouble,” she said sharply, pushing him toward the murky exit. “I’ll post guards here to make certain no one touches that thing until Zula can examine it.”
Outside, they were carrying the cocoon to a wagon. She heard Skullcap shouting from a distance. Distracted by the unknown sorcery in the tomb, she shook it off and turned to see him riding up the hill.
“Meg!” Skullcap shouted again, waving to her. Zula was with him to, clinging for dear life. They quickly reached the chapel and dismounted.
Meg’s fists clenched and she ran over to them. “Is it Rose? She’s not dead?”
“Rose still lives,” Zula wheezed, trying to get her bearings. “Such fast riding made me breathless! She is alive.”
“Of course,” Meg said, relieved. “She can’t die. She knows I’d never forgive her.”
“Rose is sleeping. Culain and Robert are with her. She drank my potion, but we will not know anything until morning if I was in time. That’s all we can do now. She’s a very special girl.”
“That’s why she gets into trouble so much,” Meg said dryly.
“Zula, why are you here?” Darius asked.
“I’m here to help, Your Highness. Take me to the victim,” Zula demanded. “If she still lives, we need to get her out of that thing now, but we cannot just rip her out of it.”
“The amulet’s glow has vanished,” Meg warned in a whisper.
“We need to hurry then,” Zula replied.
Meg unsheathed her dagger, but Zula shook her head and stayed her hand. “No. This must be done the witch way, Meg. Watch and learn.”
They led Zula to the wagon where they had laid Lilias’ entombed shape. The bizarre image of a giant cocoon was unnerving, as though a monstrous moth would emerge. Zula climbed into the wagon with Skullcap’s help. Thera and Darius stepped away, mere bystanders now as the mage invoked her witchcraft.
“Releasing a victim from the changeling web must be handled with great care,” Zula said, examining the husk with nimble fingers. “It could kill her otherwise. I pray she still lives.” Zula whispered words, which Meg recognized a little from her mystic tutelage, which had gone quite rusty. It was the old magic tongue from her people’s country. Meg’s body tingled with the familiar essence of Zula’s witchery.
“Now give me a knife,” Zula commanded, holding out her hand.
Meg passed her the dagger and Zula made blessing signs over blade and the silvery cocoon. She removed the amulet and then she carved the shell carefully with the shape of a heptagram, a seven pointed star.
“What’s she doing?” Darius asked.
Thera shushed him with an unforgiving glance.
“Without the magic ritual, we risk killing the prisoner.” Zula chanted a few mystical words and then she cracked the cocoon like a watermelon with her fists and swiftly peeled off webby sections of it, revealing the human captive within.
“Does she live?” Thera cried.
The young flaxen-haired girl in the broken shell lay still as death. Pallid and frozen, she was unresponsive. Zula listened to her heart. “She is near death, still bound by dark enchantment.”
“Can you help her, witch?” Aristide asked.
“I’m trying!” Zula closed her eyes and mumbled rapid words. A bright blue nimbus covered her hands, then she touched Lilias’ chest and mouth. Lilias briefly glowed with blue light then shuddered, followed by a deep intake of breath.
“She lives!” Zula exclaimed and sat back, relieved.
Darius and Thera joined Zula in the wagon. Zula shucked more of the broken cocoon off the wagon. “Filthy changeling web! Bad magic. Very bad. I want that vile shell burned until nothing is left but ashes.”
Lilias gasped and opened her eyes. Terrified, she gazed at them, but was too weak to move. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
“It’s all right, Princess,” Thera cried, soothing her. “You’re safe now.”
A faint voice emerged with great effort. “Where am I? Where is Prince Justin? What’s happened to me?” She turned her face away and wept harshly. She was not a princess now, but a frightened girl.
Thera and Darius exchanged knowing glances.
“Tell her nothing yet,” Thera cautioned. “I will take care of it. She is my responsibility.”
“The Princess is truly restored to us?” Aristide asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Meg answered, jumping down from the w
agon. “Thanks to Zula and Rose, we have Lilias back.
“Thank you Meg,” Aristide whispered. “I knew I could rely on you. And Zula, you shall be richly rewarded.”
Zula bowed her head, a smile curling her lips. “Your Majesty is generous.”
“Walk with me, Commander,” Aristide ordered in a low voice.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Meg replied.
They only hiked a short distance from the others. Aristide spoke in soft tones so they could not hear. “This could have gone badly. I feared explaining a dead princess to King Krell of Uragon. Without you, and your friends, we would be planning a war, not a wedding.”
“Conflict seemed to have been the changeling’s plan. It is odd though. Invoking political strife and war is not the normal pastime of these creatures,” Meg replied. “Why? They are just pathetic parasites. There must be other forces involved.”
“A friend of mine was recently telling me the same thing,” Aristide commented. “I believe him now. Looking into secret conspiracies can be dangerous. You saved my life once, Meg, and I do not relish risking yours. But I trust you. I may be sending you on a journey for a new assignment, Commander.”
“I will be ready,” Meg bowed.
He walked back to the others. “Transport Princess Lilias back to the palace and see to her care,” Aristide commanded. He mounted his steed and raced away.
Darius ran down the hill and shouted after him. “Father, where are you going?”
“To execute a changeling!” Aristide shouted.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Weary of screaming and weakened by drugs, Crimson could only moan her misery when they thrust her into a cage and loaded her into a wagon. She was so cramped she could barely move; not that she could, since they kept her in the weighty barbed netting. She was wound into it like a spiny cocoon. Guards surrounded her in the back of the wagon. They drove fast to the edge of the city where the prison loomed. It was an archaic building constructed during one of the earlier imperial regimes, constructed of black stone to instill despair and warning. She glimpsed the barren prison yard, void of grass or trees, as they carried her inside. She liked its grimness, but not the fate that awaited her within.
Within the bleak penitentiary, the guards of this human jail did not wear polished armor or fine crafted leathers like the palace imperials. These men were hardened wardens in stark black uniforms who carried whips and swords to maintain order. Men even rougher and harder, criminals of all ranks from thieves to murderers were stabled in his keep behind iron bars. Crimson could smell their violence.
They did not lock Crimson in one of these ordinary cells, but conveyed her cage down many winding steps to the prison’s old dungeon. They dumped her in the center of a cavernous room. Imprisoned with no chance of freedom, she now waited for death as a dozen stony-faced guards mutely stood watch over her.
Crimson studied the dismal chamber. It was surprisingly large and barren of any furniture or torture implements. No other jail cells were this deep underground. This room was different. Only barren brick walls with a few torches on brackets burned here. It would be her death place. It would become her unmarked grave. She sniffed traces of blood that lingered from the past.
Heavily armed guards lined this pit watching her, but none dared touch her. Crimson shivered in the cold cell. Pain pulsated throughout her body. Gashes from spears left her weak and shaky. The drugs made her sleepy. Her wounds still seeped, but no one offered to bind her wounds or help her, even if they wanted to. Changeling was the enemy they despised; well, she despised them even more. She weakly cursed in her demon tongue until even that became a strain. She sank into wretched self-pity and embarrassment. Not only was Crimson a doomed prisoner fated for a gruesome death, but she still wore the ridiculous puffy sleeved gown she took from Rose’s wardrobe. Crimson would die dressed like the village idiot. She sighed, better to die here than at the punishing hands of her master, Morziel the Hobgoblin King. He would not only slaughter her, but he would roast and eat her.
Exhausted, Crimson fell into an uneasy sleep marked by strangely vivid dreams. Images of her past danced in her slumber. Her nightly escapes to the old cemetery to renew the bond with Lilias and the secret lair in the underground tomb, peppered with long forgotten bony tenants. The memory of her master, Morziel, spoke to her through the enchanted black pool. The trickery she had played on the humans, the murders she committed, invoked joy. All these happy memories bubbled to the surface in the freedom of her dreams.
Then Crimson sensed something nasty in her dreama ray of wretched light staining her dark comfort. Rose Greenleaf was with her in her dreams! She was singing! Ugh! The effect of the voice was so strange. Everything became hazy until Crimson reasserted herself. How could this be! She refused to have dwarf girl contaminating her dreams. The intrusion angered Crimson. She raged at Rose, pushing her back into an abyss. A monstrous raven appeared, majestic and powerful, spreading her black wings wide in anger, shielding Rose. The raven barred Crimson from touching Rose Greenleaf. Infuriated, Crimson fought back, but the raven swiftly attacked without mercy, hurting her with nasty, sharp talons.
Voices stirred her to wake, and most of the dream’s imagery fractured when she opened her eyes. Fragments floated in her brain of ghostly haunts, Rose Greenleaf, her nemesis, and an angry raven. Why did she dream of Rose? She hated her. In her declining will, she lay there for what seemed hours, fearful to sleep lest the raven come back to kill her. She knew they would kill her soon. At least Lilias would die. She at least had that satisfaction over her enemies.
Crimson was so involved in mourning her future demise and gloating over Lilias, that she vaguely noticed when the men began to whisper and scurry like rats. Someone was coming. Her executioner perhaps? Maybe it would be a swift end.
Emperor Aristide strode into the chamber. The men bowed their head in obeisance, but did not take their attention off of her. Crimson hissed at his arrival.
Aristide smiled callously at Crimson, but kept his distance as he circled her cage. “You failed, Changeling. Princess Lilias is alive, thanks to some very brave people and good magic, despite your efforts.”
Crimson twitched with disappointment. “How could my prisoner Lilias live? How? Her hiding place was so secure. The amulet’s enchantment was dying!”
“Her secret crypt was found. She has been saved by light magic.”
Then Crimson recalled her dream and how the stupid dwarf girl was there. Maybe it was not a dream! “Rose Greenleaf did this to me! Ugly dwarf must be magical in some way. I should have known. She resisted my breath of sleep. Wicked, sneaky dwarf tricked me!”
“That upsets you, Changeling?”
“Princess not matter now,” Crimson mumbled, looking away.
“I would interrogate you, but that is too tricky. Your blood has disturbing effects on the human body. Minions never know much anyway.”
Crimson’s inky eyes flashed at Aristide. “I’m too deadly too touch.”
“It does not matter. Your guilt is confirmed. I know you’re a murderer, many times over. I’m going to execute you myself. Fortunately, demons are not entitled to trials, only death. You killed innocents, for which you must die. You assassinated my son, Justin. For that there is no reprieve, no mercy.”
“Then kill me, human,” Crimson spat. “End my misery.”
“Gladly,” Aristide agreed.
“Fortunately, this ancient lower dungeon is no longer used. My reign as emperor has not made a habit of torturing people, so this torture chamber has fallen into disuse over the years. It’s a room no one will miss. Best forgotten, like you. I know better than to touch you or risk letting you out, even to run a sword through your wretched body or to cut off your head. I want to make sure you die. I also want you to suffer before death takes you to Hel.”
The Emperor’s gesture summoned men who carried jars of oil. They poured it over the cage, the thick fluid dripping through the bars, coating her with the flammabl
e liquid. Crimson wailed, tangled in her barbed net, knowing what end the cruel emperor planned for her.
“You’re going to burn me alive!”
“I’m going to incinerate you until not even ashes remain.”
The guards put down the jars and departed, fleeing up the stairs.
Crimson panicked and wailed, “Not fire! Please! No fire! Please have mercy!”
“No mercy,” Aristide declared, seizing a burning torch from the wall sconce and hurling it at the cage. The flames ignited the fuel soaked floor. Aristide stayed long enough for the fire to engulf the cage before he walked away and slammed the metal door shut. Crimson screeched with agony as flames cloaked her immobile body.
Then the flames vanished. Crimson howled, but the fire was snuffed out in an instant, leaving only smoke and heat. Crimson suffered severe burns, but was not consumed anymore by the raging fire. She huddled in her prison, in pain and confounded. Maybe she was dead? Maybe death took poor Crimson away? This was not Hel? She was still locked up too. Why? Crimson sniffed the air, which burnt with fire and something else more powerful. Magic! A strange, aphotic magic coated the air. A familiar mystical singe lingered in the air that Crimson recognized from her pilgrimages to the old crypt where she contacted her master and held Lilias captive.
A willowy figure appeared, cloaked and hooded in shimmering scarlet. Shaken, Crimson feared this strange apparition and the mystical scent that emanated from it. A slender, fair human extended a hand, and the burdensome net fell away and the cage door opened. Eager to flee, Crimson crawled out of the cell, relishing this malevolent chance at life and revenge. She stared at her mysterious liberator. The red-draped body gracefully approached her.
Crimson salivated, eager to feed. Hungry to heal the burns that wracked her body. This was a foolish human to be so kind to her! Crimson snarled and jerked forward, seizing the hand of her rescuer. So crazy to help me, Crimson thought, but her spells were useless on this stranger. Her magic could do nothing! Something frightened her when she gazed up at the stranger. The being before her was so alien. The hand she touched was filled with power and magic so sinister that terror overwhelmed Crimson. She withdrew her clawed hand, shivering. Not demon. Not human.
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