Wayward Magic (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 2)

by Melinda Kucsera

  In his brief pause to assess how he could help the caravan, Matasa heard Nahrem shout, “I hate you, doe!”

  Matasa winced. He hated it when they called Finyaka that. Matasa squared his shoulders, ready to move on. Finyaka will be fine. He has powers now, powers that seem beyond those of the average mage-priest.

  “Matasa, where are you?” Finyaka pleaded from inside Matasa’s mind. “I need you!”

  Stop playing tricks on yourself, idiot. Try as he might, Matasa couldn’t force himself to take another step forward. Compassion for Finyaka compelled him to turn around.

  “Nahrem, your obsession is destroying you!” Finyaka was on both knees, breathing heavily, face contorted with effort. Finyaka’s arms drooped. Come on, Finyaka, you have this! Hold him!

  “And by the Darkness, it will kill us both!” Nahrem’s deranged laughter terrified Matasa. He sounded nothing like himself. Matasa’s cousin-turned-enemy writhed and twisted like a snake. Nahrem looked as if he might break free. “I will not let you win!”

  Finyaka collapsed. Nahrem hit the hard-packed earth, cackling uncontrollably. He twisted onto his back and sprang to his feet. Bound wrists outstretched, he aimed for Finyaka’s throat. Bloody froth bubbled from the corners of his mouth.

  Matasa knew he should help. Finyaka needed him. By the Great Sun, why am I hesitating? His smaller cousin had no more strength than a village pup. Nahrem was almost upon his brother.

  Matasa let out a battle cry. He charged at a man he no longer recognized. Before Nahrem reached Finyaka, Matasa plunged into his older cousin. They crashed to the hard dirt. Dust clouds surrounded them. Onlookers yelped in frightened surprise.

  Nahrem thrashed beneath Matasa with impossible strength. It took all Matasa’s wits and body weight to pin him down. Nahrem struggled for freedom, kneeing Matasa in the back and bucking at him. Matasa slid further down Nahrem’s body, locking his legs around his cousin’s.

  The maneuver almost failed. Nahrem turned on his hip, loosening Matasa’s grip. Matasa shoved Nahrem’s arms harder into the ground. Nahrem snapped at Matasa’s face, dangerously close.

  “Can I get some help?” Matasa shouted to bystanders. No one moved. Why aren’t they helping? Several people pointed in the distance at something, or someone, Matasa couldn’t see. The onlookers broke into grateful smiles.

  Matasa rotated his torso to see what would stop them from assisting him. Nahrem drove his hips skyward into Matasa’s shifted distribution of weight, throwing Matasa off. Matasa careened into the hardened ground, winded. Nahrem scuttled his feet beneath him. He repeatedly slammed his bound fists onto Matasa’s head.

  A single thought possessed Matasa as each of Nahrem’s blows thundered on his skull.

  By the Great Light, this has all been in vain.

  Nahrem had not been in complete control of himself for days. Finyaka’s Radiance lifted him into the air. Something abominable kept him up here. Nahrem had thought that his increasing hatred of his brother was as a result of their father’s death, that if he punished Finyaka as his father had wanted, that dah’s soul would be at peace and that he would be proud of Nahrem. Nahrem now realized what he’d been experiencing was more than unnatural hatred.

  Darkness took over Nahrem like an insidious sickness. He’d become a terrified observer in this fratricidal obsession. What did I do to deserve this? He didn’t particularly like his brother, and keeping their dah happy, even at Finyaka’s expense, had once been so important to him. But with their father dead, and most likely their other brothers, did Nahrem have to kill himself to satisfy the wishes of a dead man?

  He heard himself spit forth curses at Finyaka. The Darkness within used his voice and his words, but it was not him. He didn't harbor the Darkness’ all-consuming animosity in the threats he made. Nahrem felt as though his body was made of thick honey even though he seemed to be on the ground thundering toward Finyaka.

  Nahrem inwardly quivered like he had when he was a boy hiding behind the goat pen from his drunken father’s fists. How many times had dah broken his spirit? Finyaka had discovered Nahrem there but had protected his hiding place from their father. He took a beating for his charity. After that punishment, he looked much like he did now, curled into a fetal position on the floor. Was I always so rough on him?

  Nahrem’s world swam before his eyes. A blur of indiscernible arms and legs and then Matasa replaced Finyaka in Nahrem’s field of view. When had he arrived at the fight? And how did he get on top of me?

  He screamed. Or maybe it was Matasa. Blood splattered in all directions. Will I ever have control of myself again?

  These incessant brawls with his brother had everything to do with Father. No, not with their dah—with the night he died. That was when Nahrem started falling into the inky nothingness that puppeteered him.

  What curse had his father uttered?

  “By the Darkness, I swear I’d give anything to see Finyaka brought low.” The memory of Tsimunuu’s prayer to the Darkness rang through Nahrem’s ears. In all the teachings, the Darkness Behind the Light sought out broken souls, using them against the Radiance of the Great Sun in an eternal battle for dominance.

  Why do I balance my fate with my horrible father?

  Nahrem’s single heartbeat connected with him. It lasted an eternity.

  Balance. Of course. Finyaka said he had been gifted Radiance by the Great Light. If Finyaka is the chosen of Anuu, then am I a weapon of the Unnamed Darkness? Father cursed me when he cursed our brother.

  Nahrem’s revelation struck like lighting, a searing knife of pain between his ribs. No, not a knife.

  “It’s a spear,” he said aloud in a mere whisper. His frightened boy-self plummeted back into his wounded body.

  He heard the guards as if coming from a distance. "Nice throw, Nakhet,” one said. “Dead on,” complimented another.

  The consuming malevolence that had possessed Nahrem vanished. He was no longer a powerless agent of the Darkness Behind the Light. Every measure of injury inflicted upon Nahrem’s body exploded within him to the point where the weapon jutting out of his chest was the least of his worries.

  He smiled, bracing the spear that had impaled him. Father’s curse comes to an end. Nahrem’s sight began fading. He had done so many things wrong and squandered so many chances in his life. And Finyaka…what have I done to my brother?

  As if summoned by the thought, Finyaka was there, pulling himself to Nahrem’s fallen body on his hands and knees. Finyaka’s eyes were golden and shone with a brilliance reminiscent of the Great Sun. He gingerly explored Nahrem’s wounds. A healing warmth flowed into Nahrem. Even so, Nahrem knew it was too late. He opened his mouth to speak. Blood gushed freely.

  “Hush brother,” Finyaka said, his voice not that much stronger than Nahrem’s. “I’ll save you.”

  “Forgive me,” Nahrem managed. “Our dah, he cursed me, cursed us both.” He hurt so much. Fatigue ate away at him.

  “I forgave you before. I forgive you again.” The Radiance bursting from Finyaka’s eyes flared. Nahrem squinted against its brilliance. “No, brother, stay awake. We can do this.”

  “Father’s dead.” Nahrem reached up for Finyaka’s cheek. “Your hound and her pack avenged you. You do not need to kill yourself to save me. I do not deserve it.”

  “Anuu willing, yes you do.”

  A gentle song drifted across the commotion of the caravan. The notes sounded familiar, like the ones Sinaya often hummed. It was a beautiful song. Nahrem closed his eyes in its warm embrace. From the world beyond his closed eyes, Nahrem saw the wise woman, Sinaya. She bore the same stern face he remembered.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have.” Nahrem reached out for her with hands that were no longer bound or bleeding. His woes were no more.

  “The Great Sun gives, and the great Sun takes.” She smiled and received his penitence. The Song consumed him.

  The pitch-black tendrils of the Darkness Behind the Light sought a hold on everything
as Finyaka drove them from Nahrem’s body. A wave of empathy washed over him. He knew his brother was dying, despite trying to heal him with his Radiance. Finyaka had healed his brother’s soul, but not its vessel. He wanted to cry. Tears wouldn't come. Finyaka had not killed Nahrem, but he felt responsible for his death. If he had healed his brother in the Jut, would it ever have come to this?

  Sinaya’s ghostly Song told him that Nahrem’s ordeal was over. His brother’s fading nimbus assured him that Nahrem no longer suffered. Finyaka caressed his older brother’s face. For the first time, the creases of Nahrem’s furrowed brow eased into soft lines. The Great Sun forgives you, brother. Rest well.

  “Now may Anuu give me the Radiance one last time to heal Matasa,” Finyaka muttered. He craned his head, seeking Matasa’s aura through the whiteness of his vision. Matasa, defined by a flickering yellow aura, lay nearby. He moaned incoherently.

  “Stay with me, cousin.” Finyaka thrust out his hand willing every ounce of his Radiance to heal Matasa, even if it meant dying for him.

  Someone slapped his protruding hand. “Put that away before you do yourself further harm.” Asho’s blue aura swept toward Matasa. She hummed the Song of Healing, lithe and reminiscent of springtide. The warmth from her Radiance spread over both the men. She appeared to Finyaka as a blue ghost, her hands glowing with vibrant blue light. The power merged with his own golden light, barely perceptible for his weakness.

  Finyaka’s strength flourished in small amounts, though he wondered that he should recover at all. His sensed uneven recovery within. There were places that his Radiance would never touch again, much like the vision he had given up for his gift. For what he did for Nahrem, it was a cost Finyaka was willing to pay.

  Asho sighed heavily. Her aura diminished to its ambient, faint glow. “That’s all I can do for now.” She helped Matasa’s enfeebled body to his feet. “Hmm,” she said, directing her attention to Finyaka. “Your eyes.”

  “I know. I have given them to Anuu.”

  “Yes, there’s that. But they’re gold now.”

  “They were white before,” added Matasa with a wince of discomfort. It would be days before he fully recovered. "You've gone upmarket."

  Finyaka chuckled, partly in relief. His cousin had returned to him.

  “You were right,” he said to Matasa, “together we will defeat the Darkness in the Golden City. I cannot do this without you.

  “Interesting,” Asho said as Matasa helped Finyaka from the ground. “Come. We must discuss your future over a cup of sekanjabin, a future that begins by getting your golden armband back from that jackal, Nahbas, the one who brought you to Onubaki. Anuu knows you’ve earned it. Let’s see how Nahbas feels about his coin purse miraculously being distributed down a fire ant’s hole as recompense for his efforts.”

  “What about the tents?” Matasa asked with genuine concern. “And the fire?”

  “Anuu works in mysterious ways, young man,” she said with a curious laugh. “Anuu works in mysterious ways.”

  With his arm around Matasa’s shoulders, Finyaka couldn’t agree more.

  Sinaya's cryptic message leads Finyaka and Matasa to the Golden City where they come face to face with the people and personalities that shape the Seven People. Will they be able to stop the Darkness from destroying everything that they have come to love? Find out in Forgotten Magic.

  About the Author

  Born at a very young age in a place just north of nowhere, William C. Cronk was raised in a small rustic village whose name had larger expectations than its inhabitants. Being so far from anything interesting, William soon discovered he had a great imagination and spent far more time building fantasy worlds than dealing with the real one.

  An agricultural wage-slave during the day, and an avid role-player, world builder, professional game master, cartographer, poet and day dreamer by evening, William is finally listening to his friends and is taking some of those worlds he has created and is putting them down on paper.

  Past short stories include “Linear Rotation,” published in the Anthology, Sylvermoon Chronicles Volume VII, and “Not the One,” soon-to-be-published in the anthology, Sylvermoon Chronicles Volume VIII. Currently William lives in the Greater Toronto Area with his very patient and understanding wife, and their four not-so-patient cats.

  Don't forget to grab your copy of next anthology Forgotten Magic!

  Spell of Bone & Ash

  Melinda Kucsera

  “Spell of Bone & Ash” is all about wayward magic. When the dark power Nulthir accidentally absorbed in “Spell of Wings & Glass,” part of the Hidden Magic anthology, starts taking him over, he’s in serious trouble. All because his magic has gone haywire. It won’t be bound by rules. Magic wants to do what it wants to do and damn the consequences. But what goes wrong must eventually be put right. Not even magic can stand against that because there must always be balance.

  Melinda Kucsera

  Nulthir thought he'd escaped the darkness that nearly destroyed his family, but he was wrong. That evil is now inside him, straining to break free. It's up to Thing, Amal, and their family of mind-talking creatures to stop the transformation set in motion by a magical attack before it changes their only human ally into an inhuman monster.

  Chapter One

  Her mate glanced at something in his hand. Amal couldn’t see what because His Orneriness kept his hand cupped around the object in question, hiding it from her prying eyes. Amal dug her claws into the wood of the headboard in frustration. What was Thing up to?

  “What's in your hand?” Amal hissed.

  Thing stared worriedly at his unconscious friend and brother-of-the-heart. He was no use in a crisis that didn't have a target for his ire, and this one didn't unless those strange glass shards counted. But they didn't have a safe way to deal with them yet. It was up to her, as usual, to sort everything out.

  “What aren't you telling me?” Amal poked her mate in the chest. When that didn't elicit a response, she sighed. Surely, this wasn't the first time Nulthir had fallen ill?

  "It is," Thing said finally. He was reading her mind again. Good. Amal hoped he'd just gotten an earful. He deserved it for being so secretive while their only human friend struggled for every breath.

  Nulthir lay on the narrow bed in his flat where the floating blanket had deposited him before it had completely unraveled. A shadow lay over him that was partly magical and had nothing to do with the orange crystals on the nearby dresser, suffusing the room with warm light.

  "We have to do something. We can't leave him like this." Amal gestured to Nulthir.

  "Of course not." Thing glared at her for even suggesting that.

  Amal tapped her finger claws on the headboard. She'd already cleaned and bound the wound in Nulthir's shoulder where her son, Crispin, had accidentally gored him. If only that was all that ailed Nulthir. Until he woke up, there was nothing else she could do except pry into her mate's secrets.

  Thing closed his hand around the object he'd just been studying, and his hand fully engulfed it. Damn.

  What are you hiding, heart of my heart? Amal aimed that thought at her mind-reading mate.

  Thing just mantled his wings, which forced her to move aside, or get clocked in the head by a wingtip. Great way to treat your mate. Amal suppressed some of her irritation, because letting it show wouldn’t win her any points. Thing had always been bull-headed, and he liked nothing more than a good argument.

  “You remember the last time you hid something from me?” Amal folded her arms over her feathered breast. Just below where her hands rested, her brown and cream feathers gave way to soft fur.

  Soft light filtered through Thing's fingers cast by the object he refused to let her see. So, it was a magical thingamabob. Amal had figured it was since her mate had removed that mysterious object from a pocket on Nulthir’s utility belt. Almost everything Nulthir carried around with him was enchanted in some way.

  But a search of said utility belt hadn't turned up a
ny clues. Whatever her mate had taken, he’d replaced with an item that looked enough like it to fool her, and just thinking about that raised her hackles. What the hell are you up to? she asked again, but he didn't react to that mental barb either. Amal whistled to get his attention.

  “Let me remind you. The last time you kept secrets from me, it didn’t go well for you." Amal jabbed her index finger into his chest while he glared at her with those intimidating yellow eyes. "Secret-keeping never does. So, whatever you’re up to, you’d better spill it now before it blows up in your beak.” That cagey creature tended to forget his mistakes.

  But his plan could actually blow up since Thing was holding a magical object of unknown purpose and power. Amal waited a moment for that to sink in. Her words had the effect she’d predicted, and she fought the urge to shake him.

  Thing puffed out his feathered breast in indignation, but before he could say anything, she rubbed his furry belly until he chortled with laughter. He playfully batted her away with the hand that wasn’t holding the object she wanted to see. Oh, he was a coy one, but so was she.

  Silly mate wants to play when serious things are afoot, Thing chided her.

  Amal relented long enough for him to nuzzle her cat ears. “What are you really up to, heart of mine? And don’t say you’ll ‘tell me when there’s something to tell.’ That didn’t work the last time you tried skulking around without me, and it won’t now. We’re a team.”

  But Thing wasn’t ready to spill yet. Amal rolled her hawk eyes ceilingward. He could be so difficult at times. Thing was one maddening creature. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”