The monster stepped forward. Its footfalls shook the ground, its metal joints creaking. At the end of its arms metal fingers flexed, each one as big as her leg. The thing moved toward her. Vazsa’s body wanted to run, but she couldn’t leave Cray. The monster moved slow, but somehow she knew there wasn’t time to retrieve Cray and run.
Slowly, not taking her eyes off the thing, she crawled backward into the hollow. The sharp smell of hot metal filled the air as she touched Cray.
“What is it?” he mumbled, “What’s that noise?”
She gathered him in her arms and held him close as the monster’s ground-rattling steps came closer. Sounds came from the thing that she couldn’t identify. Sounds of metal against metal, but whirring and clicking instead of screeching. The hot metal smell was now overridden by something that smelled like the oil pools near King Hurdroth’s castle. The oil that had been so useful in burning his castle.
The thunderous footsteps stopped. Vazsa peered through gap between the roots and saw rust stained metal feel. Then the thing whirred and clicked and suddenly something was crackling and the tree above them started to move.
Then everything was in motion. Dirt was flying everywhere, and they were tumbling, smacking against branches and rocks.
Cray was screaming now. In fear or pain, Vazsa didn’t know. She tried to hold onto him, but a root smacked her head and the world went fuzzy. Her vision faded as her grip loosened. She saw Cray fall away from her. The last thing she saw before the world faded to black were two enormous red eyes looking down at her.
Seventeen
The Gray Witch
The Gray Witch wrapped the hooded black cloak around her tighter. Her skin crawled and itched under the touch of the rough fabric. She hated to be clothed, but path to their mother’s house was cold. And it upset people to see her walking around naked.
Scents of fresh bread and rabbit stew touched her as she approached the small house set into the hillside. Her sisters never brought her any bread.
She thrust the thought aside. It wasn’t a time for bickering or pettiness. Not now.
Though she could see the house from her cave entrance, it had been several years since she had seen it up close. The heavy stone face was as it ever was, but the roof was missing shingles, and there were little signs of disrepair. Like the wooden plaque hanging above the door. Father had carved the symbols for prosperity and happiness on it. When he was alive, he had applied a fresh coat of lacquer to it every year. Now the lacquer had long since peeled off. The wood was gray and cracks ran through the deeply carved symbols, breaking them.
Prosperity and happiness were not so welcome there anymore.
The Gray Witch paused at the door. It was made of thick planks of wood, held together by heavy iron bands. The wood on the door was weathered gray, too, and the iron bands pockmarked with rust.
Father would have been unhappy to see it in such condition. He had always taken pride in keeping up appearances.
She didn’t bother knocking, but pushed the door open. It was her home too, after all.
Even if she wasn’t wanted there. Or wanted to be.
Warmth flooded out of the opening. It felt like a blast furnace. She was used to the cold of her cave. Immediately she was sweating under the coarse cloth of her robe.
Her sister Levay looked up from the sewing in her hands and gasped. “Saven, what are you doing here!” she exclaimed.
The Gray Witch narrowed her eyes at the name. She had forgotten about it. It was something she left behind when she moved from the house to the cave after father died.
"I am not that name anymore," The Gray Witch said.
Levay’s face went red and she looked down at the cloth in her lap. She wasn’t beautiful like Javanae. Plump and black haired, her features aspiring for beauty but achieving only a passing prettiness. The Gray Witch knew in a few years that prettiness would fade. Levay’s features would coarsen and sag.
She should get out of the house and find herself a husband before it was too late. But then, of course, Javanae would be without a servant. Father and mother and made sure that their golden child would be taken care of by her sisters. The Gray Witch had refused to be her sister’s body servant. But she was unable to avoid serving her in other ways. Much to her displeasure.
The Gray Witch stepped over the threshold and gently closed the door behind her. She touched the upper iron band and the large rounded-head nails holding it to the door. The heat made the robe itch even worse, but she would keep it on for now. She looked around the room. Little had changed. The huge stone fireplace was maybe a little blacker, but the flame within it burned as bright as it ever had. The large table father had made was still in the center of the room, along with the six chairs. The sixth chair being for a guest, father had always said. Though guests were rare, even when father was alive.
Mother’s rocking chair sat near the hearth, along with her sewing basket. Mother was absent. Still in her bed dreaming in her endless sleep, The Gray Witch guessed.
Javanae emerged from the back room. Her hands were empty and her clothing was immaculate, as always.
“Dear sister,” she said, “What a surprise to have you home. What brings you down from the hill?”
To business then. Javanae didn’t pretend the visit was a social one. At least they understood each other.
“The smoke has told me something is coming,” The Gray Witch said.
Javanae’s perfect and ethereal face showed no emotion. The Gray Witch paused, drawing the moment out. Javanae would be seething inside, she knew, but nothing would cross her face unless she let it.
"What is coming, dear sister?" Javanae asked. Her voice was soft and musical. On rare occasions, Javanae would sing to her when she visited the cave. It always tore The Gray Witch's heart asunder. Not for the beauty of Javanae's voice. No, for the memories of her singing with their father. Her sister's light, transcendent voice, and their father's deep bass, blending in perfect harmony.
“Sister?” Javanae said, “What is coming?”
The Gray Witch shook her head. There were so many memories here. She would have never returned if the news wasn’t important.
“War,” The Gray Witch said, “War is coming.”
Behind them Levay gasped, her sewing basket clattering to the floor. The Gray Witch ignored her, keeping her eyes focused on Javanae’s. Her expression didn’t change, but was there a slight flush to her cheeks now?
"Can this war be stopped, my sister?" Javanae asked in a whisper.
“It has already begun.”
From deep in the house, a moan arose. It rose into a wail. Then into a scream. Levay leapt from her chair and ran to the hall, disappearing into the dark corridor. Moments later the scream stopped. The Gray Witch and Javanae still stood, holding each other’s eyes.
“Mother feels it too,” Javanae said, “When will it reach us, sister?”
“It already has,” The Gray Witch said.
Something hammered at the front door. The sound of an armored fist. Javanae’s eyes widened, she took a half step back.
“Sister, what is this?” she said.
“Open the door, witches!” a rough male voice shouted.
Javanae gasped. The Gray Witch could not suppress a small smile at her sister’s alarm. So many years, exiled to the cave on the hill. This wasn’t revenge, though it was perhaps justice.
The fist hammered at the door again. The timbers of the door shook.
“Open this door!” the man shouted.
Javanae’s eyes narrowed. “You’re holding it closed aren’t you?”
The Gray Witch’s smile grew wider.
“What do you ask for, sister?” Javanae asked.
The Gray Witch held her hand out. “Father’s book.”
The pounding on the door grew louder, joined by other fists. Javanae's anxious look sent a thrill through The Gray Witch's loins. Such pleasure in fear. Javanae turned and stepped to the curio cabinet against the far wall.
She touched the side in three places and a panel slid out, revealing a hidden compartment. Her hand hesitated over the object inside it, then she reached in and pulled out a thin book with a red leather binding.
Outside, men were shouting, threatening to burn the house down if the women didn’t open the door. Javanae turned toward her the red book in her hand.
“Father didn’t want me to give you this,” she said.
The Gray Witch held the anger that flashed through her. “Father didn’t want you to give it me until I was ready for it,” she said, “It is time.”
Javanae stepped toward the fireplace. “What would happen if I threw this into the fire, dear sister?”
The Gray Witch’s heart nearly stopped. She wouldn’t. Couldn’t. But The Gray Witch saw the coldness in her sister’s eyes.
“Be careful, sister,” The Gray Witch said, “Do not do something that cannot be undone.”
Javanae held the book toward the flames. A tiny moan escaped the Gray Witch's throat.
“Tell me what shifted the world,” Javanae said, “Has the Death Queen returned?”
The Gray Witch’s eyes were locked on the book. Father’s spells and formulas, the secrets to unlock the portal. If Javanae destroyed it, there would be no hope for stopping the war.
“Yes,” The Gray Witch said.
Javanae’s beautiful face twisted in rage. “Where is she!” she cried.
From the back of the house came the wail again. For a moment Javanae’s eyes darted toward the hall. The Gray Witch considered lunging for the book, but her sister was too far away.
“She is everywhere and she is nowhere,” The Gray Witch said.
“What does that mean?” Javanae said.
The Gray Witch held her hand out. “It means we have a window of opportunity, my sister, to hold more power than either of us could dream of,” she said, “Now give me the book.”
Javanae held the book to her chest. “What of the men outside? You cannot hold them back forever. We must escape sister. All of us.”
Meaning mother and Javanae’s sister servant, too. The Gray Witch shrugged.
“Make your decision, sister,” she said, “The spell will not last for much longer.”
Which was true. The blocking spell was old and didn’t hold the potency that father had once given it. He was a master craftsman, but time defeated everything in the end. Her sisters were unaware of the spell embedded in the door. Or if they were aware of it, they didn’t know the key to activate it. Father had told her she was the only one he trusted to work the magic.
You’ve got the knack for the tech, little one, he had told her, Your sisters have no interest in the craft. It will be up to you to take care of them if bad times come.
The Gray Witch sighed. If it wasn’t for father she would have abandoned them all.
The door shuddered as something big hit it. Dust sifted from the rafters, raining down on them.
“It sounds like they have a battering ram, or have improvised one,” The Gray Witch said, “They will be in here soon. I shudder to think what will happen to one as pretty as you, dear sister.”
Javanae’s face was cold. “You will get us out of here,” she said, “I know father made you promise.”
“Give me the book, and I will make it happen,” The Gray Witch said.
“All of us, sister.”
Even mother. The words were left unspoken. Mother, who had always been cold to her, for reasons only mother knew. Their mother had never been affectionate with any of her three children, but she was especially cool to her middle child. Saven the child had yearned for her mother's touch, her warmth and love. It had been father who raised her. Who her gave love and nurturing.
When she grew to womanhood, The Gray Witch left her childhood name behind. Along with her desire for their mother’s love. The Gray Witch would have preferred to leave their mother to the men and their weapons and their rage. It was all she deserved.
“I won’t touch her. You and Levay will have to bring her yourselves,” The Gray Witch said.
The house shuddered as the men battered at the door. Timbers groaned and crackled. It wouldn’t be long now. She stared at Javanae. Her sister closed her eyes, then held the book out. The Gray Witch took it, her hands trembling. Finally. She ran her hand over the smooth cover. Her heart sped up contemplating the secrets between those covers. Nothing as great as Queen Amaya’s power, but power none-the-less.
“Sister, we should make haste, should we not?” Javanae asked.
The Gray Witch looked up. “To father’s bedroom.”
She walked past her sister to the hall. It had been so long since she had been here. There was smell of sickness and human waste. Mother, who could no longer control her body. She heard Javanae’s soft footsteps behind her. At the end of the hall was another wooden door, banded with iron. There was another protection spell in this door, but The Gray Witch didn’t activate it. Father had told her the protection spells interfered with portals.
She pushed the door open. The room reeked of illness. Their mother lay on the big bed that she had once shared with their father. She seemed a tiny, shrunken, white-haired creature. So different from the tall, strong woman The Gray Witch remembered. Levay sat beside her, caressing her head. Her eyes were wide open, darting about. They rested on The Gray Witch and a rising moan escaped her throat. Levay shot The Gray Witch a hard look.
Ignoring her sister and mother, The Gray Witch walked to the painting that hung over the bed. It was a pastoral scene. A flower-filled meadow at the base of the Grim mountains. There was a small cottage off in the distance, a thin column of smoke rising from the chimney.
“What are you doing sister?” Javanae asked.
The Gray Witch ignored her. She opened father’s book and found the page with the painting on it. She felt tears stinging her eyes as she contemplated his neat handwriting filling the page. No time for that, she pushed the emotion aside. Quickly she deciphered the instructions.
She closed the book and reached out to the painting. Her fingers brushed along a series of colors and shapes. The fragrance of fresh flowers suddenly filled the room, along with a gust of cool air.
“Saven, what is this!” Lavey cried.
“Pick her up,” The Gray Witch commanded.
Lavey looked to Javanae. The room was vibrating with power now. “Do it!” Javanae shouted.
Lavey picked up their tiny mother in her arms. The Gray Witch took hold of Javane’s arm.
“Hold her,” she said, nodding the Levay and their mother.
Javanae put her arm around them. The Gray Witch reached out to the painting. Down the hall, she heard the front door crunch open. The shouts of men grew louder. Her fingers touched the painting.
Into it they fell.
Eighteen
Joshua
Joshua woke with a start. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. Dim, orange light flickered on the rough wooden beams above him. The scent of wood smoke filled the space. There was a buzzing sound nearby, like someone was snoring. His mouth felt fuzzy, like he hadn’t brushed his teeth in days.
Which, of course, he hadn’t.
The last few days came rushing back at him in a blur. He didn’t need the details. Just the general gist of it was enough to make him groan.
“Be quiet.”
He jumped at the voice. A shape moved in the dim light of the banked fire.
“Kojanza?” he asked.
She moved closer. He could see her better now. A fur robe was wrapped around her, and the light from the fire flickered over her face. Her frowning visage alarmed him. He looked down at her hands, expecting to see the sword in one of them.
“Pappa sleeps like the dead, most of the time,” she said, “But certain sounds will wake him.”
He glanced over at the bundle of furs near the fire where her papa had bedded down for the night. Dead people didn't snore.
“Okay, that’s nice,” Joshua said, “Is there something you wa
nted to talk about?”
He had spent hours telling her father the boring details of his life B.P.–That would be Before Painting. He had described the painting, and pappa–or whatever his name was–had gotten excited. Even Kojanza had seemed interested about that.
“I don’t wish to talk,” Kojanza said.
She lifted her shoulders and shrugged the fur robe off. Joshua’s eyes tried to pop out of his head as he saw her naked body. Which, of course, was magnificent.
“Oh my gosh,” he said.
“Do you like?” she asked.
He nodded his head vigorously. She lifted the fur blanket and slid beside him onto the bed. He was instantly at attention as her soft, warm skin touched his. She ran her fingers over it and he moaned. She clenched her fingers.
“Be quiet,” she said, “Animal noises wake pappa. Otherwise he sleeps like the dead.”
“Okay,” he squeaked.
She relaxed her grip and pushed him flat on his back. She straddled him and he suppressed another animal groan. He couldn’t believe it. Finally something good was happening to him.
His hands cupped her breasts. Which, of course, were totally magnificent. Like some comic book version of a warrior princess.
“I thought you didn’t like me,” he said.
She ran her fingers through his hair. “You are a part of her. There are some of us who wish for her return.”
“Her who? I don’t understand.” He wasn’t paying close attention to what she was saying. His brain was a little starved for blood at the moment.
“Queen Amaya,” Kojanza said, “You have brought her back. Now shut up.”
He shut up and tried not to think about his Grams.
Nineteen
Vazsa
Vazsa woke in a room that was clean and warm. In a bed. An actual bed with a thin mattress made of some squishy material, with a soft, blue blanket pulled up over her. The room was small and the walls were painted beige. There was a slight metallic scent in the air, along with other unfamiliar scents. It all smelled artificial.
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