by S D Simper
I promise I’ll keep watch. Demitri had joined in searching the river bank. If Casvir comes back, I’ll tear his eyes out.
“I’m not worried about Casvir. I trust him at his word.”
But she had spent her courtship watched by a dark shadow and was acutely aware that haunted woods hid all sorts of nasty things.
She stripped from her clothes, holding the dirtied mass in her hands as she stepped into the river. The water drew immediate chills to her skin as it swirled around her ankles. But it was clean and clear, dirtying only when she scrubbed with her nails along her dusty arms and legs. She knelt, the water up to her knees, and let the rushing stream pull at the grime in her clothing.
Demitri watched from the shore, glancing between her and the scenery beyond. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “Tired from walking?”
Staying awake for watch might be more difficult.
“But you won’t trust Casvir with it?”
No.
Stubborn child. She scowled at his attitude.
A slight breeze stung her skin, bumps rising along her flesh. After briefly debating whether or not to wash her lengthy hair—to which the answer was a definitive no—she stood, wet clothing in hand. With a mild groan at the realization she had forgotten a change of clothing, she returned to shore, the thick calluses on her feet protecting her from any bramble that might try and stab her as she trekked toward camp, awkward as she covered her exposed self from the watchful eyes of birds and insects.
The light flickering from Casvir’s crystal met her eyes in the dark evening, and she hung the damp clothing from branches high above, content to let the night air dry them. She approached with care, stopping when she could just see Casvir. Sequestered behind a tree, she said, “Demitri, could you fetch my nightgown?”
Demitri ran toward camp, and Flowridia couldn’t help but giggle when she saw him try to drag the thin chemise from their camp. Silhouetted against the light, she saw Casvir stand and snatch it, fold it, and then hand it back into Demitri’s powerful jaws.
Grateful, Flowridia accepted the gown—the only clean article of clothing she had left. Dried enough from the autumn breeze, she shivered in the thin fabric, grateful to see her bedspread was already set, as was her chest of food. Flowridia sat on the thick blankets and wrapped the topmost around her shivering form.
With one hand holding the fabric secure, the other snaked out and grabbed a piece of fresh bread. Casvir sat quietly, absorbed in A Treatise on the Evils of Divinity.
Thoughtful, Flowridia asked, “Imperator Casvir? Do you control all the dead in Nox’Kartha?”
“I do.”
“But there are hundreds.”
“Thousands.” Casvir set his book aside, casting his gaze up to her instead. “I do not micromanage their actions; I give a command and the less intelligent will obey until told otherwise.”
Demitri sat close and Flowridia, grateful for the warmth, leaned into his touch. “What about the more intelligent dead? Ayla tried to kill you. There must be others who try and resist you.”
“I never attempted to control Ayla, but direct her. I wanted an intelligent, focused servant, and forcing my will on undead leaves them disoriented. The more powerful dead do not naturally fall to my power, no.”
Chattering insects in the distance stole her attention. Flowridia finished her last bite of bread and shut her eyes, letting her mind clear. Purple mist filled her hands, growing even lighter as she cupped it together. It formed a dense ball, one she swore she could float away with if she clutched it.
“Throw it.”
Casvir’s voice nearly cut through her concentration. Curious, she managed to hold the energy between her thumb and forefinger, nearly visible as it radiated inward.
A small tree, several feet away, became her target. She flicked it. The tree blackened. Flowridia gasped as it crumbled into ash.
“Harnessing these energies can be dangerous,” Casvir said. “But your capacity for greatness would be a crime to let go to waste.”
Dread filled her stomach, yet it came with an intrigue that sickened her far more. Against her better judgement, she shut her eyes and breathed, searching for that void within . . . then searching for a void without, focusing on the vision of Ayla.
Pain struck her head. She groaned, opening her eyes to see lingering traces of smoke dissipating.
She wasn’t ready. Perhaps she might never be.
Demitri set his head upon her thigh, and she finally remembered to breathe. “I haven’t made any decision yet.”
“And yet you practice on your own accord.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Sleep for now. You are exhausted. And your lips have turned blue.”
A slight blush blossomed across her cheeks as she let herself fall into the bedspread. Covered by her bedding, she became a bird in a nest, hidden from sight and the chilled breeze. Then, she hesitated, her next words breaching a familiarity she hadn’t dared to touch.
She whispered, “Goodnight.”
Demitri settled in beside her, digging his way into her bundle of blankets. Across the warming crystal, a deep baritone replied. “Sleep well.”
Amidst the quiet cacophony of dreams, a knock resonated against Flowridia’s head.
“Danger,” a tremulous voice whispered, and Flowridia knew it, knew it like her soul. That single word echoed, softer with each repetition.
Flowridia expanded her mind to grasp it, hearing only stilted words.
“Dawn . . . approaching.”
* * *
Early morning light burned her eyes. Flowridia’s head swam, sharp pain pounding with each pump of blood.
She sat up, groaning lightly, realizing that sunrise would be soon. The distant sky, or what she could see of it, sang of its eminence. Her forehead dropped into her hands, too heavy to balance.
By every god—she was freezing.
“Lady Flowridia?” Casvir’s voice broke through her pained fog. “Are you unwell?”
“My head hurts,” she mumbled.
“Your sleep was more fitful than usual. We can stay here a while longer, if you need rest.”
“I don’t think that would help. But could I have some water?”
She heard rustling pine needles and snapping branches. When she looked up, Casvir knelt beside her, a water satchel in his hand. As she drank from the leather pouch, he studied her pallid countenance, then lifted a hand to her forehead. “May I?”
Judging his intentions, she gave a quick nod once she’d lowered the water from her mouth. He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, the chill touch nearly warm against her flushed skin. “You do not have a fever,” he continued, thin lips drawn into a frown. The corpse blue of his skin contrasted oddly with hers—a stormy sky and the earth, never meant to touch. “But I will be providing more blankets for you tonight.”
When he pulled away, Flowridia dragged the blanket over her shoulders. “Thank you.”
Casvir stood and glanced toward the dense forest. “Are your clothes by the shore?” When Flowridia nodded, he continued. “I will fetch them for you.”
Flowridia’s head slumped, her cheeks burned, but her mind dwelled on the oddness of her dreams. Danger, Ayla’s voice had said. Upon her chest, the ear hung, innocent and damning, evoking suspicions she could not silence.
Her spirit lingers . . .
All the while, Demitri snoozed on her bedspread, oblivious to Flowridia’s frantic thoughts.
“Flowridia?”
A whisper, haunting in its familiarity, caused her to pause. She glanced about erratically, sure she had imagined it.
“Flowridia, my love . . .” And from the shadows, dressed only in sheer black lace, came Ayla Darkleaf.
Stunned, Flowridia stood from her cocoon of blankets, stumbling as her feet grazed the warming crystal. A laugh met her ears—Ayla’s laugh, though more melodious than her memory would have given her.
Ayla kept one hand on the tree as she brought her other up to s
hush her. “Quiet, my love, or he will hear us.”
“Ayla—” But no words formed in her throat.
Ayla stood so coy and small before her, each slight curve of her body visible within the sheer gown. Her cheeks held all the sharpness of Flowridia’s memory, her skin as pale as the fading moon. “There is no trick,” Ayla said, and the smile she offered was so gentle, so genuine. Her eyes watered with tears. “I’m here.”
A warning prickled in Flowridia’s mind. Ayla was dead. The body waited in Nox’Kartha. “How is this possible?”
“Do you truly think death could keep me?”
Flowridia let lithe, warm fingers intertwine with her own. Ayla held her gaze so perfectly, those blue eyes blinding, piercing. A strange dizziness caused Flowridia’s aching head to spin. “Come with me, Flowridia,” she whispered. She stood on her toes, gaze darting between her eyes and lips. “I have something to show you.”
Flowridia leaned forward, hesitating before their lips could press together. Her other hand reached up to cup Ayla’s face, so warm and flush under her sensitive fingers.
The truth was simple. But the lie was so easy to simply accept. She let her thumb stroke against the imitation, so alive and warm, inviting. Tears welled in her eyes and she hesitated, trembling as she touched their lips together, savoring this beautiful trickery.
A spell passed between them. Ayla went limp in her arms, fast asleep.
Flowridia carefully set her down on the forest floor before crying out. “Casvir! Casvir, come quickly!”
Footsteps. Demitri stirred only a few feet away. Flowridia turned around—
Only to feel a stab in her side. The world turned black.
* * *
Flowridia’s head pounded, stirring her into consciousness. The world had flipped—rather, she was upside down. Utterly immobile, she realized she was tied by some sort of silken rope, one that wrapped around her entire form.
As her vision steadied, a familiar face approached, unmistakable with her severe cheekbones and icy blue gaze. Ayla smiled, but it was soft, not a hint of predator behind it. “She’s awake,” the interloper said, and Flowridia struggled against her bonds, wondering at the earthen walls, the musty smell. Torches illuminated the underground room, casting her lover’s visage in eerie shadows.
“You’re not Ayla,” she said, her breath half-constricted by her bonds.
Ayla laughed, melodious and light. The wrongness of it bruised Flowridia’s wounded heart. “No, but for a face as pretty as yours, I can be anything you want.”
She noticed, then, the rest—the circle of women, all of them bearing arachnid companions, some with large spiders, others with scorpions. All were beautiful in their way, yet fire shone in their unnatural eyes, intrigue in their gazes. Flowridia recognized them as kin, fellow witches with their familiars and palpable magical auras. But to what god, she did not know. The doppelganger Ayla stepped back to her place in the circle.
Flowridia didn’t recognize the foreign words they began chanting, only that they bore the stain of demonic tongue. Shadows rose. Sickness welled in her stomach, the raw feeling of helplessness the most frightening of all.
But was she? Flowridia fought to steady her breath, willing her fear to abate into nothingness.
The chanting stopped. Pressure against Flowridia’s back caused her will to wither. All the witches fell to one knee. “Child of Odessa, you are beloved of Izthuni Spawn?” a new voice said, the accent dark and unmistakably demonic. Reminiscent of Khastra, but more pronounced, without the years of practicing Solviran Common.
But it was not Ku’Shya either, whose voice had caused the earth to tremble. This tone held a high pitch, girlish in its curiosity. Flowridia fought to twist around but only shook within her cocoon of silken bonds. “Who are you?” She stared at Ayla, yet addressed this new figure, whatever being of power the witches worshipped.
The pressure stroked along Flowridia’s side, revealing first an impossibly thin hand, then another, and two more. The woman who faced her bore four arms and skin as blue as the evening sky. She was utterly nude, her lithe figure bearing almost no curves, childlike in its frailty, yet her lower half held a spider-like abdomen, four spindly legs supporting it.
Four glowing eyes scrutinized Flowridia’s every movement, but otherwise the demon’s face appeared elven, from her high cheekbones to her pointed ears. Black hair spilled behind her back, barely contained in its braid. “No mortal is knowing my name,” she said, lips pulling into a smile. “Ku’Shya sends regards.”
At the mention of the demon goddess’ name, Flowridia realized she had fallen into something dangerous.
“Strange witch you are,” the demonic entity said, “to bear a wolf familiar.”
Panic coursed through Flowridia. “What have you done to Demitri?”
“I am leaving him. No use for him. But I am watching you long enough to know.” It seemed her strange cadence was not for show; perhaps the Demoni tongue didn’t translate well to Solviran. The demon spared a glance for the Ayla doppelganger. “And knowing you enough to lure you away.”
A clawed hand reached up to grasp Flowridia’s cheeks, her gaze narrowing. She bore no pupils, merely luminous pits of sickly yellow, enthralling and depthless. Flowridia managed to ask, “What do you want?”
“There is war in Sha’Demoni. Khastra’s death is insulting Ku’Shya’s honor, and she marches her forces through Izthuni’s land. But though he and Endless Night are to blame, you are complicit. Demoni law states Endless Night must be slain at Ku’Shya’s hands for balance, but Sol Kareena is stealing the honor. As beloved, you must take her place.
“But Ku’Shya would waste your death as a demonstration,” the demon continued. “I am thinking something better.” Flowridia dared to meet her eye, though the claws had pierced her skin. Blood ran from the cuts in her cheeks, threatening to stain her hair. “You are seeing for yourself the God of Order’s power, his own part in Bringer of War’s death. Demons fight for honor, but the world will still end. He is greater evil than even you, beloved of Endless Night.
“None can channel Ku’Shya, The Great Spider, and live. Only Bringer of War held that power, and she is now dead. But Ku’Shya is having the power to save this world from the God of Order. Will you give your life to save mortal friends? To allow Great Spider to wield you as a hero?”
At the surface, it seemed an honorable thing, to give her life for Soliel’s death. Yet, to save the world from Order, only to deliver it into the hands of the fearsome Goddess of War, who ate those sacrificed in her name, arguably sounded like a worse fate. “There are other ways to save the world,” Flowridia dared to say. The demon bore no eyebrows but still managed to look unimpressed. “My kingdom seeks orbs—”
“Your kingdom wastes valuable time. But if you will not willingly give your life for the cause, there are ways to force it.”
The words shot a chill down her spine. The eight-limbed demon gestured to their surroundings, then twisted Flowridia’s silken cage to gaze upon it. “We have been preparing for some time,” she said, and Flowridia saw evidence of a stage, a pedestal, and below them runes drawn into the earth. “Ku’Shya shall burst from beneath the earth to show the world its true savior.”
The demon turned to the ensemble of women, beckoning with her many hands for them to rise. Flowridia struggled within her bonds, forcing her panicked breaths to steady.
“Sing, Witches of Ku’Shya. Sing for her greatness; bid her to come.”
Demonic chants filled the air in discordant tunes, some semblance of a melody within the cacophonous sounds. The ground beneath her rumbled, the etchings of sigils beginning to glow—demonic markings, surely devoted to The Goddess of War.
Flowridia breathed out and in, summoning a void within her, letting the familiar gaseous weightlessness billow from her skin.
The demon scoffed, mocking as she said, “Oh, very scary. Tiny death cloud. Necromancy will not save you—”
From the ground, ske
letal hands burst through the dirt. The dead rose, swarming the witches in a storm of bone and rotting skin. The glowing ceased, and Flowridia fell against the ground.
Her head slammed the earth. Her vision spun. But at the release of her bonds, the ones around her body unraveled. Flowridia pulled the sticky, rope-like substance from her skin, realizing Demitri was beside her, having severed the silken prison.
Behind, came the Imperator of Nox’Kartha.
Casvir moved like a battering ram, a juggernaut of size and strength, yet each movement of his summoned mace—one that swirled with that same dark magic she sought to control—held flawless precision, his shield crashing through his enemies like a tidal wave. Each step came in perfect sync, yet he moved with a speed he should not have possessed at his size, ripping through the crowd with ease. When the dead fell, more rose at his feet.
Purple smoke clouded Flowridia’s vision, unhindered by her scattered concentration. “Demitri—”
When a witch came with a knife, Demitri tackled her, his jaw quickly stained by her blood.
The demon moved with the grace of a dancer, her movements reminiscent of Ayla herself. In her four hands, she wielded summoned knives, similar to the imperator’s, and dove toward him—
Only to be bashed by his shield. Casvir swung his mace at her fallen form, but the demon rolled aside, into a shadow—
And vanished.
From her peripheral, Flowridia saw the flash of a knife.
Pain crippled her will. Blood spurted from a wound at her throat. With the desperation of the dying, she shot out her hand, swirling with dark magic, and grabbed her attacker—the one bearing Ayla’s face. “Flowridia—!”
Ayla screamed; she shriveled and blackened. The very life within her flowed into Flowridia, intoxicating and invigorating, filling her with strength unparalleled. Her wound sealed; the knife clattered to the ground. Her veins pulsed with power, yet the world grew silent to all else. Beneath the damning pleasure, she felt Ayla die in her hands.