Short Story: "The Enunciation"
Before they were powerful wizards and scholars, magick users were slaves. The legend of how that all changed is known as "the Ennunciation."
THE COUNTESS
The countess shivered.
“How many times do I have to tell you to keep that fire fed?” she snapped at the servants accompanying her and her ladies into the sitting room. Her words were icy clouds in the air.
“Apologies, Your Highness,” a thin servant answered, head bowed. He was a heatbringer, she recognized, and at once the servant began shuffling towards the dying hearth, his shoes were made of holes.
The little gray man looked even more ragged standing next to the glowing embers. He smelled too — disgusting: like sweat and the old meat they fed to the wretched haunts, or used to feed them. Since this chill began, weeks ago, hunting had been nearly impossible, and the nobles confined to the castle had been more conservative with provisions. If anyone was going to starve in this blizzard, it wouldn’t be them. But so far, no one was in danger of such a fate, she’d been told that the castle’s stores would last another two moon-turns at least. At present, the greatest threat to the countess’ well-being had been boredom.
The servant tossed an armload of logs into the hearth. The heavy wood cracked open dark coals to reveal bright orange innards. The small man knelt down and blew on the embers causing their fiery veins to glow and spread. He checked over his shoulder to see if the princess was watching him. She pretended she wasn’t. He leaned his head deep into the hearth, close enough to hear the coals searing with life.
“Bah!” he spoke in a hushed tone, waves of heat on his breath.
Of course, the princess knew many of her servants could speak magick, but she did not like seeing it used around her. Although, she had to admit that it was impressive, if not frightening, every time she did catch a glimpse of her servants’ mysterious skills. Until recently, she hadn’t considered how she’d make fire without them.
She’d once seen her husband do it before when they were young – rubbing sticks and rocks together or some-such nonsense. It had been before they were married and he was trying to impress her. But the two hours it had taken him to even make a spark ended up being more maddening than impressive. Just the same, she’d humored the pathetic attempt. She recalled how much she’d wanted to be countess back then.
Suddenly, the newly placed logs burst into flame, filling the room with light and dancing shadows. All at once the room was warmer. The countess allowed herself to fall back into the soft chair she was sitting on.
“Ah, much better,” the countess acknowledged. “That will be all for the night, heatbringer” she added, shooing him away with a hand gloved in satin and returning her attention to the other finely dressed women that had sat down with her.
She hardly noticed as the gray man receded from her and the room, careful not to turn his back on the noble women.
GIMM
The heatbringer ran down the steps to the servants’ quarters two at-a-time. He was almost able to make it to the bottom of the spiraling stairwell before counting to thirty – the record Sheply, the castle’s Master Steward, claimed to have set more than a decade ago. But young Gimm had only been indentured to the Count of Blackhill’s castle for little over a year and had to take the Master Steward at his word.
Since the storm began, Gimm been reassigned to the staff of those attending to the Countess Eleanor. A substantial step up from his previous assignment in the kitchen. His new duties allowed him to see nearly every part of the Blackhill Castle, seeing as how it was his responsibility to bring heat or make fire whenever and wherever the Countess needed it.
“Twenty-Eight!” Gimm shouted to no one in particular as he leapt down from the second-to-last step. A few of the other servants in the common area shook their heads, amused, when they saw who it had come from.
Gimm didn’t notice and darted towards the door at the end of the oval shaped room, furnished with old couches that the nobles had no place else to keep. They were situated around a modest stove that provided warmth for the common room and the surrounding dormitories. When Gimm reached the end of the room, he knocked hard on the wooden door. Without waiting for a reply, he burst into the room.
“I did it!” he blurted out stepping into the small room.
It was cold, and Gimm saw why. The room’s one window was wide open. Blowing snow filled the Steward’s room with freezing air. Candles along the walls flickered for their life, casting wild shadows around across the walls. Standing directly in from of the window was Sheply, his eyes were closed. Was he murmuring something?
“Shep, what are you doing? It’s freezing in here.” Gimm called to him.
“Oh!” Shep said, slamming the window shut, startled. “I…you scared me, boy.”
“What were you doing?” Gimm asked him.
“I was a little warm after I’d finished tending to the Count, so I thought I’d crack a window to cool off a bit. I guess I dosed off,” the older man answered.
“Dosed off standing at the window?” he laughed. It was true that Gimm had seen the Master Steward fall asleep in some odd places, but with his face in a blizzard?
“You’re lucky you didn’t get frostbite on your face in that cold!” Gimm added.
“Then I guess I’d have to get you to defrost me,” Shep said.
“Only if you don’t mind me burning off your eyebrows again,” Gimm laughed.
After that, Shep made the two of them some tea – with Gimm’s help of course. The two played a game of Black and White, during which Gimm told how fast he’d made it down the stairwell. Shep laughed his big-bellied laugh, slapped the younger servant on his back, and said: “Well ain’t that somethin!”
And once they’d finished: “Now get yourself to the princess’ chambers, she’ll be wanting a bath soon.”
“But she said she wouldn’t need me for the rest of the night,” Gimm protested
“That one doesn’t know what she wants until she wants it. But the truth is she runs like clockwork. She always says she don’t wanna be bothered right after dinner. But once she’s sat by that fire for a while and caught a nap, she’ll wake up and want to get washed up for bed. And if you make her wait too long, it’ll be your fault for not anticipating her needs. So, unless you want to get on her bad side your first month on her staff, I’d suggest you get moving, son.”
“Yes sir.” he said, pushing himself to his feet.
When he was almost out of the doorway, Gimm turned around and asked, “What were you mumbling out the window when I walked in?”
For a moment, Shep didn’t answer; it looked like he was thinking deeply about something.
“Ah, come on! You can tell me!” Gimm prodded.
“I was praying.” Shep said with a smile, adding, “for the storm.”
Gimm had imagined it was something more exciting, maybe even dangerous.
He’s just an old man after all. Shep reminded himself.
“I guess we can use all the help we can get,” Gimm nodded, shutting the door behind him.
No sooner had Gimm finished heating the water in the bathing room than did he receive word that the countess would indeed be wanting a bath.
Minutes later (far fewer than it would have taken Gimm to prepare the coals had he started when he’d received word) the princess arrived in a cloud of a steam and cold air that accompanied her into the nearly-opaque room.
Once inside, two female servants began undressing her. Gimm wasn’t sure if she couldn’t see him because of the steam or because she was so used to ignoring any most any servant in her presence, unless she needed something of course. Either way, he didn’t want to be accused of peeping. With his head bowed, he shuffled quickly toward the exit.
“You, heatbringer boy, where is it you think you’re going?” The princess called over her shoulder. The two girls danced around her like little grey birds –unlacing this and unbuttoning that.
“Pardon me, Your Highness, I was just exiting. I did not mean to…”
“And who will heat my water when it gets cold?” She cut him off.
Gimm did not know what to think. He was behind her and could not see her face. He’d never been asked to attend to a lady’s water while she was in it.
But, “Yes, Your Highness,” was all that he could say. Making sure to drop his eyes, he turned and walked back to the caldron of hot water in the corner of the room.
When the two servants had finished undressing the countess, she stepped carefully into the white porcelain tub. As her body was enveloped by the water, she gathered her long auburn hair and pinned it to the top of her head. When her arm was raised, Gimm could see the curve of her breast beneath her shoulder, before it too disappeared in the water. Gimm felt himself stiffen.
“Boy!” He heard her say.
He shook his head a little to focus his eyes before answering: “Yes, Your Highness?”
“My water is too cold,” she said and nodded her head toward the caldron.
Gimm dipped a wooden carafe into the caldron and carried it over to the countess’ tub. He had never heated bath water with a person in it before.
“Well, go ahead,” she demanded, “pour!”
After a moment to decide where he should pour, he began emptying the carafe at the end of the tub, where he thought her feet would be. He knew that if he should scald her, he’d be severely punished.
“Sblood!” The countess cursed under her breath, tossing her head back against the rim of the tub.
Gimm almost lost hold of the carafe in his haste to stop pouring.
“It’s not helping,” she sighed.
She sat up in the bath and looked at Gimm. Her breasts were like two glazed islands floating in the murky water.
“I thought this would help relax me. I’m not even dirty.” She held up her hands for Gimm to see.
“But you are.” She scrunched her eyebrows, a sly smile on her face.
“Would you like a hot bath, heatbringer boy?”
He looked around, unsure what to say.
“There’s no one here – it’s okay.”
“You don’t mean…?” He finally managed.
She laughed out loudly. “Oh, no.” The countess gestured toward the empty tub sitting opposite the one she occupied.
After some additional hesitation, Gimm filled and heated a bath for himself at the countess’ insistence. Then he took off his clothes and placed them in the corner near the caldron – on the opposite end of the room from the countess’ garments. Covering his privates with his hands, he made quick, awkward steps towards the tub.
“Wait.” The countess called when he began to step into the water. “What is your name?”
“Gimm,” he told her, feeling embarrassed.
“I’ve never noticed how young you are, Gimm.” She was smiling. “And tall! Let me see you standing up straight.” She made a circular motion with a down-pointed finger: “turn around,” it said.
He turned and faced her, both feet squarely on the ground. He pulled his shoulders back and tried to be as tall as possible.
“You’re going to have to move your hands if I’m to get a proper look.” She grinned.
Gimm put his hands by his side. He could feel his face turning red.
After a few moments of staring, the countess gave a short “Hmmph,” and motioned for Gimm to sit in the tub.
As he lowered himself in the water, a ring of dirt and soot formed around him. Despite himself, Gimm could not help but admit how great this felt.
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
She nodded her head, acknowledging.
“Tell me about yourself, Gimm. Where are you from?”
Gimm did not like to talk about himself, but he did not think he could refuse.
“I grew up on the south of heret, in Dappertowne.”
“Oh, that is quite a ways from Blackhill. How did you end up here, in our service?” The countess was wringing water from her hair. She was looking at Gimm in a way that made him feel uneasy.
“When I was nine, my parents sold me to The Indenture after they found out I was different.”
“You mean that you can make flame?”
Making fire was but a small showing of Gimm’s abilities, but he knew better than to reveal that, especially to her. Instead, he just nodded in agreement.
“Forgive me, but I was imagine that a family of peasants with a flame coughing boy could find a good use for him; could they not?”
They did, he thought. But only smiled.
“Bah-Ru,” Gimm said to his water, heating it back up.
“When did you realize you could do that?” She was grimacing.
“When I was six years I set my parents’ house on fire.”
A glimmer of panic that flickered in her eyes.
“It was an accident of course,” he went on. “I’d come down with a fever and was having a coughing fit that set my mother’s drapery ablaze. After that my parents decided I was too dangerous to keep. They had other kids and a farm to worry about. The Indenture offered my parents quite a bit of gold for me. Apparently heatbringers are a valued commodity here in the northern provinces.”
“That they are,” she agreed.
After that they both grew silent for a time. Gimm relaxed and let his eyes close. It had been a long time since Gimm had a bath, and may be long again before he would have another.
Without warning, Gimm heard the door crash open behind him. The look on the countess’ face told him all he needed to know. And then, she screamed.
“Thank goodness you came, husband! He… he just got naked and sat in the bath I had made for you! I tried…”
Suddenly, the count grabbed Gimm by his neck and dragged him out of the tub and slammed him on the floor. The man was short but strong, and his large hands were like an iron vice around the Gimm’s thin neck.
“How dare you!” He spat, eyes bulging in his broad reddening face.
Gimm saw the count’s fist coming but could not move or speak.
Gimm woke up in a cold dungeon cell – still naked and unsure how long he’d been out. His head throbbed and his vision was still shaken.
The stone floor was hard beneath his pale body, and he was cold. He pressed an elbow against the ground to sit himself upright. Clutching his knees to his chest, he started into the darkness that was beyond the iron bars. But he could not see anything, and his captures had smartly stripped him of anything that he could set ablaze.
Occasionally, he spoke heated words into his hands, but the warmth only remained for brief moments, and the effort had become more taxing than it was worth.
He sat in the dank cell afraid and shivering for what could have been days. There was light in the cell, and Gimm only had his hunger to judge the passage of time. He was especially thirsty, but decided that it couldn’t have been more than one or two days. He had been hungrier; true starvation is not an easy feeling to forget.
There came the faint sound of footsteps down the dungeon corridor where his cell was located. When he heard it, Gimm scrambled to his feet and pressed his face against the rough, rusted and tried to make out who was approaching. But the person was too far away, he could only make out the dim swaying of a lantern that approached with its bearer. As the figure grew nearer, Gimm could make out the belabored gait of a man past his prime, though his broad shoulders and arms remained formidable.
“Shep!” Gimm called down the dark stone tunnel, his voice was a chorus of echos.
“Shhhhh!” The older man replied, his gnarled finger lost in his bushy beard. When he’d finally made it to the cell, Shep reached through the bars and clasped Gimm on the shoulder. His eyes were wet in the candle light.
For the first time since he’d awaked down here, Gimm allowed himself to feel scared. Shep’s grip was strong – Gimm needed strength right now.
“What have you gotten yourself into, now, boy?” His tone was concern, protective.
“I… She tricked me!” was all he could manage. There were too many thoughts and feelings crashing around in his head.
He looked down at the stone floor. “I was stupid for trusting her kindness.”
Shep took a deep sigh, “I was just as naïve at your age.”
“What will happen to me?” Gimm found the courage to ask.
Shep stroked his beard and exhaled in a deep sigh that sounded more like a grunt. His face was concerned.
“You will be beaten,” he answered, looking Gimm right in the eyes, stoic.
Gimm felt to flash of hot panic ignite in his stomach. He turned away from the bars, towards the emptiness of a cell. He was afraid and he did not want Shep to see it.
“How many?” he asked wiping at his face with the heel of a dirty hand.
“Eleven.”
His back would be shredded. Still most serious offenses concerning a servant and a noble got you at least twenty. Gimm was glad of that at least.
“Why so few?” He asked.
Shep shifted his weight and dropped his eyes for a moment. Then just smiled and said, “It is rude to inspect your gifts so closely, boy.”
The two spoke for a little while longer before Shep left to get supper started for the noble family. Before leaving, he explained that there would need to be a public confession of the crime before an official sentencing could be made.
“Tell them whatever they want to hear,” Shep told him, “and this will all be over with soon.”
Not long after, Gimm was brought food and a dirty tunic to wear. He was grateful for it. Three meals later, two mail-clad guards came to take him from his cell.
Beatings, mutilations, and executions usually tool place in the castle’s foreyard so that the indentured could bare witness to the consequences of any transgressions against the nobility. However, because of the storm—Gimm’s lashing would take place in the Great Hall, where the count and countess held court.
Gimm was led through the castle, chained at the hands and feet. Some of the servants he passed gave subtle nods of solidarity as he ambled through the hall. Perhaps they too had once made this walk to be lashed or lose fingers or a hand or worse. In many ways Gimm was lucky to be receiving such a light punishment. Just the same, he was terrified.
The doors to the hall were massive. The two guards flanking him seemed to be pulling on the in slow motion, the hinges groaning all the while. Gimm echoed their sentiment.
When the doors were opened Gimm saw the count sitting at the other end of the large room, directly ahead of him. Seated next to him was the countess. This time she was fully dressed, but did not look at him. But Gimm didn’t notice, the only thing he was aware of was the dread thumping in his chest. It was all he could do to keep his feet moving without collapsing right there in the middle of the marble room.
Even though the setting was irregular, many of the servants had come to see the confession and sentencing. Gimm had never come to spectate one of these trials, he’d always found them too gruesome.
He was led straight down the middle of the hall and the crowd parted as the guards and their captor approached. Near the front of the crowd was Shep, the look he gave Gimm said “be brave.”
I will try, he thought.
When he’d reached the front of the hall, the guards shoved him to his knees, hard, in from of the Count. The Count Filip Dunmere was sitting on a chair made entirely of ivory, a short, severe looking man with a long nose and gagged teeth. He sat near the edge of the seat, his feet just making contact with the floor.
“What is your name, heatbringer?” The count announced.
Gimm hesitated, and was promptly shown the back of a mailed hand. The force of the blow caused him to yelp. His vision blurred.
The count stood up and walked towards Gimm, who was still heaving. Leaning over the count said in a hushed voice:
“I would suggest you find your words more quickly, boy. My own patience is only slightly more generous than that of my guards here.
“I am called ‘Gimm,’ my Count,” he said through a swollen lip. His eyes were locked on the floor, too terrified to look up.
“And tell me why you have been brought before me, Gimm?” Count Dunmere said, standing up straight once again.
Tell him whatever he wants to hear, he reminded himself.
“Because of the improper and lewd things I done while tending to the countess’ bath.”
There were a few gasps in the crowd, most from the balcony where a several nobles had gathered to watch.
“And had my wife invited you to join her for a bath?”
The balcony laughed.
Gimm took a deep breath, and in this delay was greeted with another mailed blow to the head.
“Had she invited you to join her!?” There was a flash of rage in his voice the second time.
“No – She did not.” Gimm answered, heaving.
“No! She did not!” The Count repeated the words so loudly that they echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
The short nobleman took a deep breath, and returned to the opulent chair beside his beautiful wife.
“So then you tricked my wife?” The question was an accusation.
“I did, my count,” Gimm lied.
Whatever he wants to hear.
“How?”
Panic flared up in Gimm’s chest. He hadn’t constructed a story to back up the lie that the countess had invited him.
The guard’s fist slammed into him again without warning. The punch was so forceful that Gimm fell onto his side and had to be righted by the guard.
“How!?” The Count demanded.
Gimm heard the guard next to him raise his arm for a fourth blow.
“A spell!” He shouted, cringing.
Now the count did stand up. Walking forward, his eyes narrowed on Gimm: “What do you mean a spell?”
Whatever he wants to hear.
“After she sat down for her bath, I cast a spell on her so that she would fall asleep. Then I drew a bath for myself.”
He was terrified. Most knew that their magick could not control or influence other beings. It was why they could be trusted as servants to the nobility, but he wasn’t sure what else to say.
The count glared down at Gimm– his eyes cold fury. Murmurs from the balcony and crowd behind Gimm were filling the room.
“How dare you,” he said. “We allow you to live amongst us in the safety and protection of our lands, and in return curse us with your witchcraft?”
“I…yes.”
The count’s face was bright red, and his pale eyes were frantically scanning Gimm’s face for answers.
“How long have you been plotting against us?”
“What?”
Another fist. And again Gimm collapsed to the ground. This time the guards left him crumpled on the ground.
Bloodied, Gimm was at a loss now. He’d allowed himself to be led into a fiction that he didn’t know how to peaceably resolve.
Shep would know what to say. He was right behind him, but Gimm couldn’t see his face and wouldn’t implicate him by asking him for help.
“You will answer me! I will not have traitors in midst, I will see every last one of you filthy haunts dead long before that! ”
He had no answers left for him. The little man was maniacal now - out for blood.
Whatever he wants…
“For months now,” Gimm told him, forcing himself up on chained wrists.
The Count’s eyes were fixed hard on Gimm. “And who else is involved?” he hissed.
“Only me,” Gimm said.
“Good,” the count said with a sly smile.
Then he gave a nearly imperceptible nod to the guard, whose hands were yet unbloodied. And with two silent motions he removed a knife from his hip, and cut open Gimm’s throat.
SHEPLY
“No!” Sheply shouted, as young Gimm’s lifeless body fell to the ground.
“Bah - Fu - Shee - Bah - Shee! The old man enunciated, the words were like thunder. Immediately, both of the guards burst into outright flames. The smell of their flesh boiling inside their armor filled the hall with a horrible odor. His effort was none-the-less in vain; it was too late, the boy was dead, and this would not bring him back.
Did he know? Shep wondered to himself.
But answers would have to come later. He’d considered that the revolt might have to begin tonight, but he did not know it would come on the heels of such injustice.
“We do this now!” Shep yelled to the crowd of servants standing around him.
His death will embolden them.
“For Gimm!” He shouted
“For Gimm the Heatbringer!” The crowd roared back.
All at once dozens of servants began shouting spells into the air, at the guards and the balcony above. These were not the short and simple spells the nobles were used to seeing the servants perform. No, these spells were complex and powerful. waterspinners, needlers, woundmenders, woodslicers, metelshapers, cattlefinders, brickthrowers, birdsingers, dirtpushers, heatbringers and all the rest began attacking the guards and nobles all around the hall. Many of them were caught unaware, killed almost instantly. Noble men and ladies in sharp dublets and beautiful gowns ran screaming from the balcony’s ledge as flashes of light and other projectiles scorched past them. The fight was on.
For months now, Shep had been secretly meeting with several of the other servants working in various parts of the castle. He had chosen them carefully. Being the Master Servant allowed him the opportunity to find out which servants he could trust and which ones he could not. The ones he found trustworthy and who he knew had enough backbone to fight when the time was right were invited to secret meetings, or rather classes, that the Master Steward held three times a week in the castle’s desolate aviary. He taught them how to weave simple arcane words together into sophisticated spells.
He had indeed been planning a revolution, but Gimm had not been one of those invited: too young and not enough backbone, he’d told himself at the time. Though, the young heatbringer’s actions tonight proved Shep wrong.
“For Gimm!” Shep cried again, charging toward the Count, who was cowering behind two guards, seated on that ivory monstrosity.
“Pu - Jo!” he shouted, sending a guard crashing into a wooden post.
Then, “Stah - Day - See!” And nearly the entire eastern half of the balcony encircling the great hall came plummeting to the ground. Screams through a cloud of stone and lace, then streams of blood. The nobles who remained amble were quickly come upon by the servants on the ground.
Shep kept moving towards his target. There was only one guard protecting the countess. When he saw Shep approaching, he unsheathed his sword. The Master Stewart spoke a quick succession of words in the man’s direction, causing his sword to fly out of the knight’s hand and plunge itself in the guards unarmored calf. He fall to the ground, screaming, blood gushing from the wound. Shep stepped over the bleeding man, who was trying to pull the sword from his leg. Without so much as a word, he grabbed the stunned countess, and dragged her over to the ivory chair and the count.
More words and the guards in front of count Philip crumpled to the ground with the clatter of their armor on the marble floor.
“Tell him the truth,” he growled at the countess; he was still holding her tightly by the wrist. “Did you invite Gimm to bathe with you?”
She was crying, but did not reply to him. He shook her hard by the arm.
“Answer me!” he insisted, “or next time my words will not be so gentle.”
“Yes!” She whimpered, “Yes, I was just bored — so lonely. I’m sorry my love.”
The look in her eyes was pleading. It was Shep she should have been pleading with. But even in the midst of all this you could see the anger and betrayal on the Count’s face.
At this admittance, Shep released his grip on her. She scrambled to her husband, who embraced her, though coldly.
“I knew it!” The count grumbled, looking up at him with furious eyes. “I knew you bloody haunts were plotting against me! I bet this blasted storm was even your doing.”
Shep smiled a little.
“What is it you want?” The Count said.
Looking down at the man, the Master Stewart answered: “I’ll tell you what we want...”
Clarity of Heart
A piece I wrote for my late grandmother.
From this great woman sprang forth
What might only be described as a Kingdom
Of warriors, and healers,
and scholars, and artists, and teachers,
And fathers, and mothers,
and grandfathers, and grandmothers,
Whose influence has been felt around the world and back.
All of whom grieve at the passing of their beloved matriarch.
A woman of defiant dignity & relentless compassion,
With a tongue like fire: Lashes of hard truths and tough love –
Lessons she likely learned during harder times,
And by harder means.
Yet, she remained
Open armed, open handed, and open hearted.
Family, friend, or stranger –
She took them in.
Giving what all she could,
For as long as she could:
Kindness without condition,
Which is the truest love, and her most potent legacy.
haiku (independence day)
Bombs bursting in air.
The fireflies are outdone.
Stars observe, unmoved.
Circle
In the beginning there was an ending
(For all ending beget a beginning)
Matter and its absence scatted without form
Moved by an unknowable force to create
The known world in its initial assembly,
"void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep."
Light brought life, green and wet
Before all colors joined in movement
Rejoicing at the emergence from
what had not been.
Birds and beasts roaming the firmament
and all places set beneath it.
Unknowing what lay before...or after --
A bliss-filled garden, without regard.
Who should disrupt such a place?:
Formed to reveal itself to itself
That which had unknown his own image
Sought to see what it had been made into.
And therein forgot what it was
to know what it was
Discovering itself from a billion, billion perspectives
Before ending again anew.
Alamae (part 3)
Part 3 and the conclusion of Allamae's story.
Part III
A blinding flash of light surrounded Allamae and the voxmage. For a moment, it seemed like her skin and body had evaporated, only to be reconstituted an instant later.
They were greeted by a salty breeze and starlit sky. Allamae was back in her own body. Dazed and breathless, she looked around for the voxmage. She was afraid that her disorientation was only due to her unfamiliarity with teleporting. If so, the mage might be ready to ambush her.
But, no, he was there, not ten paces from her, on his hands and knees, taking great pains to stand. She still felt the power of the blood mana flowing through her, her staff still beaming. She had to finish him before he could summon help.
Unsteady on her feet, she stabbed the end of her staff into the ground directly in front of her.
"Succumbēs!" The word came strangely to her.
Beneath the staggering mage, grains of sand began to stream into the air around him. Slowly at first, it quickly accelerated into a devastating torrent gushing up from below him like a fountain of dirt exploding into the sky. The gritty particles roared up at him, tearing through cloth and skin, filling his eyes, nose, and mouth. As it did, he sank deeper and deeper into the chasm being created under him, until all Allamae could see was a geyser of shimmering dust erupting from the hole, coalescing into a dense cloud of sand swirling above it.
When the sand had stopped, she could hear his devastating wails, like a man being burned at the stake. But there was no sympathy left in her. He had killed her parents. Without a second thought, she let the dense cloud of sand fall onto him in a dusty crash, silencing him and burying him alive.
After that, only a small mound of sand remained where the man had been. All she could hear was the waves breaking on the shore and the sound of her own heavy breathing.
In the distance Allamae noticed the ray of light scanning across the open ocean. She turned to look. It was just a lighthouse. The top of the tall structure glowed a warm yellow, while a bright beam swept all the way around the night’s sky. Seeing the lighthouse, she realized she must be on the coast of Sanguine Bay.
Is this where they will launch their attack? She wondered.
She followed the beam of light as it raced across the horizon, straining to make out, what she expected would be a vast fleet of ships. On the third pass, Allamae made out, what looked to be, just four ships on the horizon.
This must only be the first wave, she told herself.
As the ships grew closer, Allamae noticed that there was something large and reflective on one of them. From what she could make out, it looked like a large spiraling, metallic horn. It was much bigger than any horn she’d ever seen before – so large, in fact, that it took up the entire top deck of the third ship. The size of it alone was chilling.
Some sort of weapon? She wondered.
She still had no idea where her sister was. That the ships were still approaching likely meant that the children had not yet been taken. Allamae found herself wishing she had questioned the voxmage before killing him. Not that he would have told her much.
She turned her back to the ocean and looked inland. About one-hundred feet from the water was a wide boulevard that ran beside the bay’s coastline for several hundred miles. The road began at the southern-most point of Sephronia and ended here at the mouth of the bay. As the light from the lighthouse swept over it, Allamae saw a crowd of people marching up the road toward her location.
An army? She thought. Ours or theirs?
Whose ever side they were on, they were headed her way. The rotating light strobed over the moving horde. They seemed to vanish and then reappear, closer with every pass.
A sudden burst of white smoke exploded not an arm’s-length away from Allamae. From it emerged another voxmage. His eyes narrowed on her right before she withdrew herself.
Is that…?
There was a child slung over this voxmage’s shoulder like a ragdoll. The child’s head was covered with a roughspun sack, but he or she was much too tall to be her sister. Nonetheless, the tot’s copper colored skin meant that this was a Sephronian child. And if the voxmage who’d murdered her parents had told it true, the child would be Vooduun as well.
Within a few seconds another voxmage appeared, with another child. This one older and standing on his own, without a hood; though, his hands were still bound. Rivers of tears ran down the boy’s face. His heaving sobs sounded more like moans than crying. His handler ignored them.
“I saw a Vooduun female vanish, right as I arrived here.” The first mage called out to the second. “Be on your guard. She is like to be still in the vicinity.”
Allamae knew she wouldn't be able to keep herself withdrawn from more than another mind or two. The power the blood mana had given her was receding. But she couldn't leave; one of the arriving mages may be toting her sister.
Another mage appeared, and then another. Then there were five, and then seven; and then she lost count. The bursts of light announcing the mages’ arrivals were happening at such a rapid succession that before she knew it, she was surrounded by magi. All of whom could see her.
The magi bound her in place with a flurry of incantations so quickly that Allamae did not have time to react. She stood motionless in the sand. She could not move; though, her heart was pounding in her chest
"That must be the hoont bitch that murdered Edwin," one of them shouted.
Allamae recognized him the mage that she’d left unconscious. The one who had been guarding the back entrance of her parents’ home. Remembering her murdered parents made her heart sink. She should have killed this one too.
“Is that so?” Another mage stepped out from the crowd, this one a woman. She was dressed more elaborately than the others, in a black cashmere brocade that extended the full length of her tall stature. It was embroidered with rich grey silk vines, with a high collar and long sleeves that ended in cuffs of raven’s feathers. Her black hair was pulled back to form a tight, neat bun behind her head, which emphasized her long, sharp features.
The woman mage paced a circle around her, eying Allamae disdainfully like a shark closing in on its prey. “You are fortunate that she did not kill you as well, Theyden. It is uncommon that these thugs have the capacity for restraint.” She called back to the guard, her eyes never leaving Allamae. “I suspect that Byron did not fare as well. He is still amiss.” she grabbed Allamae by the chin, drawing her face close to her own. "Did you kill him?"
Enraged voices called out from the crowd of mages that were now surrounding her. "Murderous whore!"
"Slit that hoont bitch's throat!" They shouted.
A derisive smile formed on the woman's thin lips. Turning away from Allamae to face the crowd of discontented magi and their sobbing young captives, she said: "Though it would be well within our rights to execute this necromantrix for the murder of our brethren, Edwin and Theyden; unlike the blood-thirsty Vooduun, our advanced discipline of magick encourages restraint -- a virtue in which these people are sorely lacking. And so we will be merciful.
“We will spare this one. And she will bear witness to the punishment that her people have forced us to carry out through their continued vile and corrupt uses of magick, against neighboring nations and even against their own people. For these reasons and with a heavy heart the Principle Orator has decreed that all Sephronia should be stripped of its mana, which will render it and its people mundane for all time."
That can't be possible, Allamae thought, still unable to move or speak.
"Behold! The destruction of the Vooduun." In one sharp, dramatic motion the Vice Orator turned her gaze toward the bay and pointed a slender gloved finger. As she did, Allamae felt her head wrench to the left; as if someone had grabbed her head and turned it by force.
There was the fleet of ships - much, much closer to the beach now, and motionless in the water. They had arranged themselves in a line, end to end, parallel to the coast. At this distance, Allamae had a better view of the huge shimmering object that was on top of the central boat. It did seem to be a horn (of sorts).
“We call it the HELICON OF VERDICT. Fine work, don’t you think? The Baltarians were too scattered and self-righteous to give aid this cause directly. But recognizing that the wickedness of your people must be stopped, they lent us some of their most skilled artificers. And they have crafted this most incredible instrument of justice.”
In the distance, Allamae heard the tolling of the city bells announcing the eleventh hour.
“It is time that we depart my sisters and brothers,” she proclaimed to the other voxmages. “Stalwart Geoffen, you will stay behind and guard her.”
A doe-eyed boy, no older than fourteen stepped forward, fear bulging from his eyes.
“I… I…” he stuttered.
“Do not worry, Geoffen,” she said while taking his hand; her voice suddenly sweet. “This one cannot hurt you. We have bound her with powerful spells, for which her crude vooduu is no equal. See how easy it was for us to infiltrate their land, execute their leaders and heads of household, in order to liberate their children. They are no match for us.”
Suddenly, somewhere from the gathering of mages came sudden sheiks of panic that cut through the dull murmurings of the crowd and the sea. Allamae's gaze was still fixed on the water, and she could not turn to see what was causing the screams. But she could see several of them running into the water, dragging their captives behind them, tripping over their gaudy apparel and the salty waves breaking on the sand. She watched those who'd managed to keep their footing disappear in a flash of light. In the distances, she noted corresponding flashes of light on the ships anchored in the bay.
“EXHIBE!” The Vice Orator shouted into the scene with such force that Allamae could feel the mana ebb from around her.
She also noticed that the binding on her had weaken. Not enough for her to move her hands or feet, but enough for her to crane her neck toward the commotion.
What she saw was harrowing. Dispersed among the crowd had appeared a hoard of corpses. Their bodies were a lifeless gray -- some of the corpses were missing flesh that had rotted or been torn away. Their eyes were pale and glazed over, offering no signs of expression or emotion. A raspy groaning bellowed from deep inside of them as they staggered after the fleeing mob. They attacked indiscriminately, charging after the magi and Vooduun children alike. Those that had been too slow or too frightened to react screamed and gasped as the dead men bit fiendishly into their throats and clawed at their faces and bodies, as dark blood soaked into the sand beneath their feet.
"Zumbi." Allamae managed to mutter.
At this, the Vice Orator snapped back around, returning a ferocious leer at her captive and redoubling the magical bind that was holding her -- this time tighter, constricting Allamae so that it was difficult for her to breathe.
"You did this!" She spat. "Your bastardizations of magick have no decency. You would wake the dead of your own people to fight your battles for you? I knew your people to be wicked, but I did not expect you to be craven as well."
But Allamae did not have a hand in this. She had not even known it was possible to truly reanimate the dead. She had heard stories of course. But by all accounts only extreme blood magic could transform a long-dead corpse into an ambling zumbi. And to produce an army of them must have required an equally sizable number of sacrifices murders. The Bokor are cruel, indeed.
"Geoffen!" The slender woman shouted. "You will stay with her until all of the mages have teleported to the ships."
"B-but..."
"You will do as you are told! These creatures will not attack you as long as you remain near her," she lied.
"O-okay. Yes, madam, I will stay" the boy said, feigning bravery the best he could.
The Vice Orator offered the boy a fabricated smile, and then disappeared in a bright flash.
Only a few mages were left now, all of whom were seemingly too busy fighting or scrambling away from the zumbi to teleport to the ships. Allamae watched as a fallen undead corpse caught the ankle of a fleeing mage nearly tripping him. In the mages arms was a child, wailing beneath a hood that covered his face. The mage regained his footing a few paces away from the pursuing corpse. Turning around, he tossed the boy, kicking and writhing, at the ravenous monster, who immediately began ripping into the flesh of the small boy. Within moments the boy's wails receded into gurgling rasps as blood bubbled from his chest and throat.
Release me! Allamae pressed into Geoffen's mind. If she was going to die tonight, it would not be as a defenseless captive to this stammering novice.
"Y-y-you s-stay outta my head," he stuttered.
Just then a zumbi charged at the young mage. He shouted a spell at it, knocking it backwards off its feet.
Unlike the Vice Orator, it seemed that Geoffen could not easily manage more than one spell. When he focused on repelling the zumbi, Allamae was able to break free of his bind and withdraw herself from his mind.
"No!" He shouted.
But he did not have time to cast a spell that would reveal her - another pair of zumbi were charging towards him with remarkable speed. The young voxmage caught sight of the creature just in time to repel it with his voice. But the second one was on him before he could react, knocking him to the ground. It was all the boy could do to keep the monster's teeth from tearing into his throat.
Unseen, Allamae turned to flee. But she hesitated. She looked back to see Geoffen on the ground, panting and struggling against the crazed creature for his life -- the boy's face was soaked with sweat, blood, and tears.
Before she knew what she was doing, Allamae thrust her staff through the back of the creature's skull. The zumbi's bone was soft from decay, and the sharp end of her staff emerged from the front of its skull like a horn, coated in wet, putrid brain flesh that splattered and then dripped onto the boy's face.
In one quick motion, Allamae kicked the unmoving corpse away from Geoffen, and pointed the end of her staff at the apple of his throat. He stared at her, motionless, save for the rapid rising and falling of his chest.
"W-why did you s-s-save me?" he asked between heaving breaths, seeing her again.
"Perhaps the Vooduun are not at blood thirsty as your leaders have led you to believe."
In her periphery, Allamae saw another corpse darting toward her, drooling, it’s gaunt black arms outstretched. In one fluid motion, Allamae pirouetted away from the thing only to spin around and bash the creature on the back of its head with her staff – its faint green glow tracing a lingering arch of light across the night sky. The resulting blow caused the creature's head to explode in gory mess that scattered across the sand and Geoffen.
The boy flinched and started to push himself to his feet, but with the quick reflex she returned the point of her staff to his neck.
"Where is my sister?" She demanded.
He looked confused. "I-I-I d-don't know," he sputtered.
She eyed him suspiciously and decided that he was telling the truth. Given the boy's treatment by the Vice Orator, he was doubtful that he would be trusted with the specifics of the Kingdoms' plan. And he seemed to dim-witted to lie.
"Well, do you know where they are taking the children then?" She said, reasserting her gaze.
“I heard that they will b-b-be t-taken b-back to the D-Dual Kingdoms.”
"Why?"
"All we were told is that it was to ‘preserve the magic.’" His tone made it sound more like a question than an answer.
‘To preserve the magic’?
“What in GOD’s name does that mean?”
"I don’t know. I’m only a Stalwart, no one tells…” The boy’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “Look out!" He shouted, pointing over her shoulder.
Allamae darted to one side and saw a fat reanimated corpse swipe a meaty hand at the place where she had been standing over Geoffen. The zumbi stumbled forward, having missed its target, and began to teeter forward.
The young mage hollered a quick succession of words – frantic, terror plain on his face.
In a heartbeat, the falling corpse froze into a solid mass, as the boy rolled to one side avoiding the wide frozen body that crashed heavy on the ground in a muffled thud.
Why is it that we can only see then when they are right on us?
Then she realized: “A hex.”
She jabbed the bottom of her staff into the ground, closed her eyes, and gently undulated her body in a steady rhythm. A dome of light radiated from the top of the staff, then silently exploded outward encompassing the two of them.
“We are shrouded from them,” she said, helping the boy to his feet.
“What are they?” He asked, staring thru the hazy dome at the mindless creatures wandering the beach.
Standing beside her, she realized how tall the boy was, and thin, with a thick head of wispy brown hair. And the boy had the hands of a man much bigger and stronger than he.
“My people call them ‘zumbi.’ They are the dead, revived. Cursed creatures, who must feed on living blood to replenish the mana that bears them.”
“A-a-and you…?”
“I did not!” She cut him off, turning to jab a finger solidly at his chest. “We did not! This is the work of the Bokor.”
“Your l-leaders.” He said, leery.
“Our oppressors!” she corrected him. “The Bokor are tyrants. They threaten and sacrifice the same people they profess to protect for power, and to work this wicked magic.”
She gestured at the ambling creatures, and took a deep breath to calm herself. “We have suffered so much, and would have had you save us from them. But instead you have condemned us all in the name of our supposed salvation.”
The boy looked dumbstruck, his eyebrows furrowed in a tremble.
"You should go." She told him.
“B-b-b-but what w-w-will…”
His question was interrupted by a devastating groan that was louder than any sound she had ever heard in her life. The roar seemed to be erupting from the sea, and was vibrating her skull so much that Allamae wasn’t sure that the earth below her feet was not shaking as well. Covering her ears only seemed to trap the sound in her head. The sound droned on for a full minute before relenting, and all the two of them could do was wait until it ended.
“What on earth was that?” She uttered breathlessly.
The young mage pointed a trembling, oversized hand at the one ship that was still anchored in the bay: The one with the monstrous horn atop its deck.
“Go!” She insisted this time.
Resigned, the young mage pronounced a word before being consumed by a burst of light. But he did not vanish.
“What are you doing?” Allamae asked the boy, who looked as confused as she was.
“I-I-I don’t know, it should have worked.”
“Is the ship too far?” She asked.
He looked out to sea. “No. I’ve gone as far as ten miles before.”
Her eyes narrowed on the metal object on the unmoving ship. “What does it do again?”
“Oh no!” he gasped. “I-i-it was rumored that the h-helicon could sap all of mana from an entire region.”
Allamae had noticed that the zumbi had all collapsed to the ground, the mana that supported them seemingly drained out of them instantaneously. And she’d sensed a diminishment of mana after the horn had stopped. She shuttered.
“Try again. There is still mana here. But you will have to concentrate harder to complete your spell.”
“What will you do?” He blurted. "I-I-I could take you with me!"
This one is a fool -- but a compassionate one.
"Thank you, Geoffen.” She said, allowing herself a smile. “But I must find my sister.”
"S-s-she may be there!" He contended.
"And if she is, I cannot help her. I will have to trust the gods to keep her safe. But if she is still here, and I left without her, I couldn't live..."She trailed off.
Biting his lip - acknowledgement waxed across the boy’s face.
"What is your sister's name?" He asked.
"Nidili Laveau."
Geoffen nodded grimly. And this time he gave full voice to the incantation. The young mage's voice filled the open air before he vanished in a bright display.
Following his departure, the Helicon exploded into sound again. Its deafening resonance boomed out over the bay, stirring the wind as it did. The dense noise caused chill bumps to form on Allamae's arms and legs. She felt faint and nauseated at the same time: weak.
In the bay, the water was growing choppy. Larger and larger waves began to break on the shore, and the tide edged its way up the beach. The wind gusted around her -- whipping through her hair, tugging at her clothes, and spraying grains of wet sand at her legs and ankles.
A storm approaches.
But whether the sudden turbulent weather was coincidence or had been created by the horn at sea, she could not say. But all that she cared about now, was finding her sister.
All of the children the magi had abducted had been taken to the ships when they fled, except for a few small lifeless bodies that were scattered along the sandy shore. There were nine of them. Allamae’s heart pounded with the thought that one of these might be her sister.
She made her way along the beach, examining each of the children. They were cold and stiff with death. Most of them still had their hands bound and the heads covered.
The first body she came upon turned out to be a young boy she'd seen almost every day riding through town on her way to the University. Nico he was called. The boy always sported a wide snaggle-toothed smile while he entertained local passers-by with simple illusions and enchantments. Allamae had even stopped a few times to watch his little show. When he'd finished and gestured towards his hat for a tip. Instead Allamae showed him how to make his illusions more believable.
She buried Nico where he lay, as the horn blew a third time and the wind picked up its pace.
Tears pooled in her eyes as she moved from small body to small body removing the cloth sacks from the children's faces and unbinding their hands. She recognized most of them; though, she did not know all of their names.
There were the twin girls, whom Allamae had never seen without their thin jumping-ropes, until now.
While she was burying them, the horn blew twice more. The time between the horn's blares was shortening. And heavy rain had begun falling from the sky, speckling the beach with dark wet spots, while the stiff winds lashed through the long, wide leaves of the tall palm trees.
After more than an hour of searching, she was overcome with a combination of relief and profound sadness, none of the slain children had been her sister. During that time, the horns blows became nearly constant. The intervals between its reverberations had become but momentary pauses; while the sounding of the horn grew longer and more intense with each blow.
Allamae pushed herself to her feet with the help of her staff. The force of the wind made it difficult to stand, even the limber palm trees were having trouble withstanding the wind’s power. Sand mixed with hail now pelted her face, blinding her and making it difficult to see.
And then the horn blew, and Allamae could feel that there was almost no mana left in the vicinity. The faint green glow of her staff was barely visible.
The horn blew.
Tall heavy waves began to crash onto the shore -- one after the other, each wall of water higher and more ominous than the one before. It had been years since Allamae had seen a storm with such power. She looked around for cover - but the only shelter in the area was the towering light house. It would have to do.
The horn blew.
With her arms covering her face, she fought her way through the impeding wind -- each step a small battle that seemed a part of an insurmountable war.
And the horn blew, and Allamae wondered what was left to fight for. Her land was molested, parents murdered, her sister had been abducted for gods'-knows what purpose, and she was powerless to stop any of it. Who would she be? And what would become of her people?
The horn blew.
But Allamae had never given up without a fight -- and today, of all days, would not also mark the death of her notorious tenacity. So much had already been taken from her.
And the horn blew, and she thought of her sister -- somewhere out there scared, waiting for her big sister to save her.
The horn blew, and she pressed onward toward the strobing tower, as debris whizzed past her.
And the horn blew.
We will overcome this, she vowed.
And the horn blew, and blew, and blew.
Prolo
Alamae (part 2)
Part 2 of Allamae's story.
Part II
It had come to her suddenly, a deep wrenching in her gut, something had happened back home. Without hesitation she broke into a full sprint, darting down the steps of Centre Hall toward the post where she’d left her horse. Once untied, she quickly mounted him, securing her left foot in the stirrup before swinging over her right leg to straddle the beast. As soon as she'd mounted, the horse took off fast down the dirt road that led out of campus.
He can sense it too.
Allamae rode away from campus and through the city, toward her parent’s estate, which was just outside of town. The hooves of her horse thumped hard and rapid on the solid red-clay boulevard. She had ridden through this downtown hundreds if not thousands of times. Usually, she took her time, trotting slowly past the shops, bars, brothels, and old wooden houses. She liked watching the people carrying-on or going about their business in the streets. If this were another night, she would have seen wide smiles and laughter on familiar faces. Men and women would gather on various porches and balconies, trying to out-do one another with entertaining stories – the women fanning away the endless heat in rocking chairs, listening to the incredulous tales the men told them, with dark raised eyebrows and full pursed lips, only occasionally offering the story tellers an amused chuckle. When she passed, some of the men would pause their tall tales to tip their straw boater hats, revealing dark coarse curls, damp and frizzy with sweat. But not tonight. Allamae had never seen the center of town this quiet – this dead. As she rode, the sense of foreboding grew stronger. Perhaps others felt it too. She hoped they would be safe.
She clutched the reins and lowered herself against the horse’s back, squeezing her thighs tight to steady herself against the horse’s heavy gallop. Sephronian horses were not known for their speed, but they were twice as fast as any man and were beasts of strength and intelligence. This versatility and their prevalence to this region meant that many of Sephronia’s attuned took horses as their umbra. Flambeau had been Allamae’s umbra since she was a young girl, and he had an innate sense of her intensions. Indeed, it was rare that she even needed to steer his reins; he would come to her and take her were to go as if by instinct – as he had done tonight. But, she pounded her heels into his flanks just the same. She needed to get there fast.
When she was nearly to her parent’s home, she dismounted on the road, near a discreet path that ran through a tall field of switchgrass beside the large brick mansion. She pulled free a long wooden STAFF that had been secured to Flambeau’s saddle. It was her apparatus. A staff was the traditional magical apparatus of the Vooduun. Most were made from the Sacred Magnolia tree, which was common to the region. Allamae's staff was nearly of a height with her. The length of the dark, twisting wood had been sanded smooth, but was left unpolished. The top and heavier end of the staff was a spiraling oblong tangle of wood, twice as thick as the width of the shaft, it was the size of two men’s fists stacked one on top of the other. The bottom of the apparatus, however, was thinner and came to a smooth, flat one-sided point, which had the look of a one-flue harpoon made of solid wood. It was not sharp enough to pierce armor, but it could run through leather and flesh with enough force put behind it.
Moving along the path, she could sense the magickal energies around her. She concentrated on drawing as much mana as she could into her staff from the air and grasses around her. The head of the staff began to produce a faint green glow, not unlike the flaring rump of a firefly. And while she knew that her staff would gain a more powerful charge if she plunged it into the damp and fertile soil underfoot, she didn’t have time for that.
All life forms produced mana, though not all could make use of it. Whatever mana went unused by an entity would eventually overflow into the surrounding air. Only about one-person-in-ten could control, or even sense these magical energies. Those that could, including Allamae herself, were known as “attuned.” And her training as an Adept, made her a more skilled attuned than most.
As she drew closer to the end of the path, which emerged from the field near the rear entrance of the house, Allamae noticed a thinning of mana in the air.
Someone has used magick here, she determined.
The acknowledgement set her further on edge. Her parents had always reprimanded her for using even minor magick around the house. That mana from the air had been used meant that more than minor spells had been cast here, and not long ago. What was more, Allamae could not sense the whereabouts of her family. She tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that it would be easy for her father to conceal the location of her parents and sister from anyone who would seek them out. And it would explain the missing mana. But she was also aware that her inability to sense their presence could mean that they’d left the house altogether, or had been taken – or worse.
She took off her sandals and darted from the edge of the grassy field to the covered deck, attached to the back of the large house. Her steps were quick and quiet - like those of a lioness on the prowl. She stopped just short of the door. Flickering candlelight danced across the thin white lacey curtains that decorated the windows. She knelt beneath one of them and placed her hand on the brick wall below. At this distance, she should be able to detect them even if her father had been concealing their location with a spell. She strained her senses harder to be sure, to no avail. It was like squinting in a pitch black room, trying to see something that may not even be there. Except, there was something - someone was in the house. They were not of her blood, but she could tell that they had been trying to conceal their presence. But the magick in use was not Vooduun. It was VOXMAGIA; the word-based magick of the Dual Kingdoms.
Allamae's heart pounded in her chest. Was she too late? Had the invasion already started? Why hadn't there been any signal or alarm?
She continued to scan the house with her mind. There were at least three in the house. And one of them was directly on the other side of the wall. She focused on him. She couldn't read his mind, but she could sense that he was anxious – nervous, and there was also fear. By focusing on his anxiety she expanded it, until the intruder's mind was clouded with the full intensity of his own worry, doubt, fear, and shame. And with his mind so distracted, she detained it - a separation of mind and body that left the victim paralyzed, believing that what he was seeing, feeling, and doing in his mind was real. Allamae knew that it was a small step from detaining a person’s mind to fully seizing control of it and the body it inhabited. On a few occasions she’d taken over the mind of Flambeau to run through the open fields on her family’s estate. But she had never tried it on another person. Mind control was considered one of the most perverse forms of magick – even among the Vooduun. Instead, she put the intruder’s mind to sleep – drawing it into the darkness until he fell unconscious. No one would be able to awaken him for the next few hours.
When she entered the house, she saw the unfamiliar Voxmage slumped backward in a chair. He had been facing the door she’d come through.
Had he been waiting for me?
The other two were upstairs. She stalked up the dark wooden steps, careful to avoid the places she knew would creak if stepped on.
When she'd reached the top of the stairwell, she placed a bare foot on what should have been a hard wood surface, but what she felt was wet, sticky, and cold. She lowered the head of her staff to the floor. She was standing in a dark puddle of blood that seemed to coat the entire hallway before her. The eerie green glow of her staff reflected off of the liquid’s glossy surface.
Allamae fought the urge to scream, her breathing became quick and short and panicked and filled with rage. As her emotion intensified, the head of her staff grew brighter.
In that moment, she became intently aware of the others in the house – two men, voxmages. They had become conscious of her as well.
A sudden flash of light appeared behind her. Turning, she caught a glimpse of the two voxmages, at the foot of the stairwell. And as if by reaction, she withdrew herself from their minds. She had not moved, but they would not be able to see her. Vooduu was not so good at manipulating the physical environment, but it was the discipline best suited at manipulating life forces and the mind. Even if the mages looked directly at her, their minds would ignore the sight of her.
“Where did she go?” One of them blurted out, “I thought that these Vooduun could not teleport!”
“They cannot,” the other deliberated; his pretentious accent made the words ooze out of his mouth like sour molasses.
“She is here,” he went on. “You will release my mind, witch!”
And with a word that was foreign to Allamae’s ears, he could see her. But it was too late for his friend. She had re-appeared in mid-air, having just leapt from the bannister above them; as she fell, she plunged the sharp end of her staff downward into the first man’s chest. Blood splatter through his fine woven doublet, and again when she yanked her staff free of his torso. The raspy gurgling sound the man made as he tried to scream, faded to a dull gargle as he lay writhing on the floor, ropes of crimson gushing from his chest.
“You wicked blood witch!” the other mage cried.
He spoke a quick succession of more unknown words. Allamae attempted to lunge after him, but found she could not remove her feet from the floor. He had bound her. When she tried to curse at him, he silenced her with another strange word.
“After tonight, your kind will be of no threat to anyone,” He said, pointing a condemning finger at her. “We will purge this land of your evil blood magick once and for all. As we now speak, assassins have infiltrated the homes of the Vooduun families all across Sephronia. We have been instructed to eliminate the bloodlines of your Sephronian attuned.”
Allamae still could not speak, and so she pressed her feelings of anger, retribution, and revenge into the mage’s mind with such force that she watched him wince in pain. But with a word, he forced her out again.
He laughed. “There will be no revenge for you witch, you will die tonight, as your parents have so dutifully done.”
The anger in her swelled – seething within her motionless body, hot and furious.
“You people are undeserving of the blessing that is attunement. Your wicked use of magick has left our Principle Orator no choice but to strip the mana from the Sephronian lands and all who inhabit it.”
Was this possible? She wondered. Surely, not even VOXMAGIA was that powerful. Mana was produced by life. And not just from people, from animals, trees, flowers, bugs; anything that grew, lived, or died created the potential for magick in this world. Allamae’s father had once told her that even some rocks hold mana.
Even if they somehow succeeded in killing every living thing in the region and destroying every magick baring stone, in time the grass would grow, birds and other animals would return. Over a few years even limited sources of life could beget plentiful amounts of mana. And while attunement was largely hereditary, it was not that altogether uncommon for two mundane parents, with no known attunement in their family histories, to birth a child with the gift.
If it was peace the Dual Kingdoms sought, their plan was ill-conceived, she decided. This or they have underestimated the pride and resilience of her people. There was no magick that could completely negate any other form of magick. And when the kingdoms fail, the wrath of the surviving Vooduun and all the people of Sephronia would come pouring down on the nations that had wrought such tragedy to their lands. This plan would start a war.
“But do not so fret, my child,” the mage went on. “The Principle Orator, in her infinite wisdom, has graciously provided for the preservation of Koormagia, or Vooduu as you filthy hoonts call it.”
The hateful slur stung in her ears.
“We have taken your children.” He smiled.
My sister! She realized. Why hadn’t she thought of her until now?
She hadn’t entered the room upstairs, Allamae remembered that she had never entered the room upstairs.
Blood was still trickling from the bottom of her staff, joining the expanding pool that was still pouring from the mage’s chest. Allamae sensed the abundance of mana contained in the dead man’s blood, dark and potent. But she had vowed to never use blood magick upon taking her oath to at the University.
“…and never will I invoke the dark power of blood. For magick performed with blood, spilled in rage or in good faith, is immoral and shall corrupt the arbiter of its influence,” the words went.
But the wellbeing of her sister was more important than any compulsory oath. So she let the blood mana come to her. As it did, the top of her staff grew brighter than she’d ever seen it, and she felt more power surging within her than she’d ever felt before. And without a word, she detained his mind.
He tried to speak. But she did not allow it. She felt his binding spell receding.
“Where is my sister?” She demanded of him.
Although she was allowing him to, he did not speak.
“I said, where is my sister?!” This time she shouted the words and pressed them into his mind so hard that he couldn’t resist visualizing the answer.
And she saw it: the beach. The children will be taken on the ships.
But how could she get there in time? Riding at full speed, it would take her at least an hour to traverse the thirty or so miles to the coast. And she wasn’t exactly sure where on the coast he would be. Sephronia was a peninsula; only its northern border with Baltaran was not coastal.
“You will take me there,” she resolved, thrusting the length of her forearm against his pale neck, pinning him against the wall, and pressing her full weight against his throat.
His eyes glared at her, unflinching.
“No.” He rasped, and spat blood streaked saliva at her face.
Without missing a beat, Allamae balled her free hand into a tight fist and sledged it, backhand, across his pointed face.
“You will.” She spat back at him, detaining his mind once again. But this time, she push her full self into him. It was a strange experience. She could see herself, her body, through his eyes, pressed close against him. Her own almond-shaped eyes were white orbs, rolled back in her head, framed by brown skin and high cheekbones, with a crown of thick dreadlocks, tipped with silver fasteners, overflowing from a dark violet and silver head piece.
She watched as the mage spun her around and pulled her body close.
Take me to my sister, she commanded.
He was unwilling, but his mouth shaped the words nonetheless. "Volvimus!" He spoke, and this time she understood him.
Alamae (part 1)
Part 1 of Allamae's story.
Prologue:
Allamae
Allamae Laveau had been walking back and forth on the front lawn of Centre Hall for what seemed like hours. But the large clock atop the Hall’s great steeple showed that it had been little more than fifteen minutes. She had been pacing all the while, awaiting their decision.
Weeks ago she might have been able to appreciate the bright, vibrant peach-colored sky the signaled dusk’s approach. But on this evening she was nervous.
Her feet were bare. She did allow herself that small pleasure. Though, her eyes were fixed on the large, heavy wooden doors of Centre Hall. She would notice the moment they opened.
She’d asked the Archscholar if she could please take part in the deliberation; or to at least put forth the evidence her father gathered: That a large fleet of Dual Kingdom warships are making their way into Sanguine Bay with plans to lay waste to all of Sephronia. If her father’s informant had been right, the encroaching army had been given orders to kill indiscriminately of the Republic’s Vooduun and mundane inhabitants. But the University’s Archscholar, old Clovis Greycaster, a man who had known her since she was a girl, denied her on both fronts. He had been quick to remind her that she was still only an Adept, and although she was well on her way to becoming a Scholar herself, she was not one yet and could not take part in official faculty proceedings.
He had been skeptical to believe that the Dual Kingdoms would involve themselves in internal Sephronian politics; however, he promised her that he would convey her father’s message in its fullness and with the utmost urgency – agreeing to do whatever the assembled faculty decided. And since time was of the essence, she restrained herself from arguing with him.
To his honor, he’d kept his word. He convened an immediate meeting of all faculty in the area. Only nine heeded his call of the thirty scholars employed by the Sephronian University. Alla wondered how many of the unattending Scholars had already fled the region. It did not matter. As long as the ten that were there would listen to reason and enact her father’s plan.
In the meantime, she could do nothing but wait.
The vanishing sun caused shadows to creep along the ground, reaching out toward the darker horizon. The shadow cast by the great white building before her loomed the longest and blackest across the landscape. Its single steeple sharp, pointed like an arrow at the purpling sky above.
Centre Hall was the largest building on campus. Its exterior wooden citing was painted all white, except for the pair of large, stained, oaken double-doors that were the building’s main entrance, and the stark navy blue shutters that framed paned glass windows, evenly spaced around the structure, five stories high. Thick Doric columns supported its symmetrical, hipped roof.
When she was a girl, the first time she’d seen the building she’d asked her father who lived in such an enormous mansion. Chuckling, he’d told her that no one lived there – that this was the home of all Sephronians. At the time, the answer had confused her. She knew that she didn’t live in that giant white house. By the time she’d come to the University to study herself, she’d understood her father’s full meaning: Centre Hall contained the living and written history, accumulated knowledge, and magickal secrets of the Sephronian people, and so it was, in a way, the home of Sephronian culture.
Allamae ceased her pacing in front of a large Great Magnolia tree that stood in front of the hall. She leaned her back against the smooth bark. She could feel the placidness of life flowing throughout its massive trunk, branching upwards to the canopy above her. And for an instant, she was comforted.
Before her father had retired as Archscholar, she would spend hours perched on the tree’s fat, gnarled limbs, covered in hanging moss. Climbing high in its branches, she would practice the simple charms her pappa had taught her on the bugs and critters that she came upon, while she waited for these same oaken doors to open and for her father to emerge. Even after a full day of debating with scholars and training students, he would take the time to see what she had learned.
Today she was a grown woman of twenty-three, and she wondered if her father had only been humoring her back then – keeping her occupied with simple tricks while he worked. She appreciated his patience either way. And it was those simple tricks that had ignited her interest in the study of Koormagia: Sephronian magick.
The sun had set, and faint stars began to illuminate in the darkest part of the sky. Archscholar Greycaster had been inside the great hall with the other scholars for a full hour now. Allamae was growing restless. She wasn’t sure how long she should wait… or could wait.
I must be patient, she thought. But if pappa is right and the other nations have united against Sephronia, the attack could begin tonight, unless we offer a suitable alternative.
She slipped her sandals back onto her feet – now damp at the soles, bright green blades of grass stuck to the pale bottoms of her feet. She left the tree and walked up the hall’s creaking, wooden steps onto the broad covered porch that ran around the building. She hesitated before grabbing the two large brass door handles.
I can’t wait any longer, she decided, pushing hard on massive dark wooden doors. The old rusty hinges moaned loudly with discontent as they gave way to the full weight of her body.
Inside the main hallway was dimly lit by flame filled sconces lining the walls and a few tall white candles on tables and shelves throughout the hall, and along the stairwells leading to the upper balcony overhead. The room smelled of old books and incents. Directly ahead of her was another set a wooden doors that led into the main meeting hall, where the Scholars had gathered.
The voices she heard behind the thick doors were muffled – she could not make out what they were saying from this end of the hallway. Edging closer, Allamae could hear that the voices inside the room were speaking in excited tones – still unintelligible. She pressed her ear onto the thin middle line, where the two heavy doors met.
“Why should we risk our own necks, when all they want is to take out the Bokor?” One voice was saying.
“Indeed,” a second voice added, “we have ourselves tried to remove those wretched blood cultist from the High Seats of this land. But their willingness to make use of blood mana has meant that even we Scholars are not powerful enough alone to overtake them without ourselves making use of murder and sacrifice to gain equitable power. It may be that this invasion is a blessing in disguise.”
A few voices in the room gasped, at least.
“The collective power of the four other nations may be strong enough to remove our blood lusting rulers once-and-for-all.”
Archscholar Greycaster replied, exasperation in his voice: “Then why will you not agree to follow the course of action our previous Archscholar has recommended and treat with our ‘would be saviors?’”
“Because they are cowards!” Allamae’s voice boomed, the doors flying open before her. Had she touched them?
When the reverberations of her voice had faded from the vast hall, for an instant the room was silent. The ten scholars were seated at a large table that was in the form of a circle, except for a section that was cut out directly in front of where she had entered the room, where the head of the table might have been.
“You would stay here, cowering? While foreigners invade our land?” She continued. She could feel the anger rising up in her, like a hot lump of coal in her chest, the head radiating outward and upward towards her limbs and face. She walked forward thru the open section of the curved table to the center of the room. Most of the chairs surrounding her were empty. But Allamae had the shocked attention of the ten who were there.
“Do you think they will spare you?” she went on. “The Dual Kingdoms are leading this charge. And those of you in this room know better than I that they have little regard for us Sephronians and our Koormagia – ‘the black magick’ they call it. If they attack, they will kill us indiscriminately – one dark face will be as good as the next as far as they’re concerned.”
“And so you and your daddy think we should offer ourselves up to them on a silver platter?” A wrinkled old crone-of-a-scholar interjected.
Allamae gazed at the old woman for a moment before speaking. She had to be careful not to let her impatience get the best of her. Scholar Ida had always known how to get under Allamae’s skin.
“What I suggest is that we give them an alternative,” she managed through clenched teeth. “That we show them that all Sephronians do not crave power to the point of murder.”
Ida interrupted her, waving a crooked finger. “You watch your mouth when you talk to your elders, girl! If your father wanted to make decisions for this body, he shouldn’t have retired from his position as Archscholar, three years ago.”
The woman seated next to the old-crone, who might have been her twin-sister, intervened: "Don't you pay no mind to Ida, child. Your father is a great man and was one of the greatest archscholars this University has known. And given all that he accomplished during his tenure here, it’s no wonder that the man took an early retirement. Smarter than some of us –saving some of his good years for his family, and that new little sister of yours. Maybe he should serve as an example to us all in that regard,” said Scholar Elanora, directing a smug look at Scholar Ida to her left.
The women’s familiar bickering allowed Allamae to collect herself. “Indeed, it was the example of my father that led me to pursue my own studies. And though many suggested that I pursue my study outside of Sephronia – that I master a discipline other than Koormagia, I chose to stay in my homeland and study this magick. And I have learned much. As both a Supplicant and an Adept, this University has become as a second home to me. I have great respect and admiration for all of you who have dedicated your lives to teaching, scholarship, and the retention of our culture. Even those who are absent on this night.”
“This faculty,” she went on making eye contact with each of the scholars around the table as she spoke. “This faculty, who have professed your love and swore an oath to the people of Sephronia, and who have a deep knowledge and understanding of the magick of our people, are uniquely positioned to provide a voice of reason to assuage this threat that marches toward our borders, as we now speak. Many of the lands to the north, including the Dual Kingdoms, regard their scholars as lords and representatives of the people. Their universities serve as high seats, charged with governing their surrounding parishes. If you treat with them, it is my father’s belief that you may be able to come to some terms to remove the Bokor with limited bloodshed.”
No one responded.
The quiet following her words slowly percolated into low murmurings that gave way to full-blown arguments shouted across the room. A few of the scholars rose to their feet, pointing accusatory fingers at one another, leaning over the opulent table between them.
Amidst the chaos, Allamae realized that she had been wrong. She could not convince them. She caught the eyes of Archscholar Greycaster, sitting directly in front of her at the center of the circular table, still trying to convince the two scholars seated beside him. His eyes were apologetic.
I tried. They seemed to say.
Allamae turned around, walked through the open section of table, and out both sets of large wooden double doors. Behind her, one of the old scholars was shouting after her: “They only coming for the Shamans, child. If they coming at all!” She would at least protect her family – she thought - the warm outside air filling her nostrils.
And then, she felt it.
Something is wrong!