So writhes the mind remorse hath riven.
Lord Byron, The Giaour, 1813
I throw another log on the fire and scrape the closest bits of hay back. They are damp, but they can dry up if it gets too close. When I turn my head, I can see my breath. I hear members of the group mumble and slosh through ankle-deep water as they make preparations.
My own preparations involve an amalgam of last resort—the kiss-of-death.
Valerian,
honey,
dried milk,
amanita powder,
fox blood.
I will mix them and make them into little balls.
Though I have called this cave home for the last three years, our time here is nearly done. My time is nearly done. I hope I have enough to make this one last alchemy should we need it.
~~~
We are surrounded. There are very few places left to hide. Our scouts saw them come up the valley in front of the main entrance. That is not all. They have come down the hill behind us. There is a secret exit, but they could find it with magic if they wanted. And they may very well be looking. We have sentries on each end.
There are also parts of this cave that have not been explored. My most courageous, Tibbets and Gladstone, have gone deeper seeking options for escape or retreat.
The cave’s stones are damp and cold. The smoke from the fires is causing us to choke for warmth. We all have persistent coughs and are generally unwell. But the lights of the fires flicker off the walls and illuminate our ancestor’s paintings of beasts the land and its people have long forgotten, reminding us of our cause and giving us the strength to go on. All that matters to those in power is magic and what good it does for everyone.
“Thomas,” I say.
“Yes, my lord,” says Thomas.
“Once the fires have been used to melt all the ice you can find, they must be extinguished. We cannot let them use fire and ice against us.”
“Yes, my lord,” says Thomas.
“We also must not give them a clear sight path. Help Cora with the others on setting up the rest of the traps after it is done.”
“Yes, my lord,” says Thomas. He is a good man, if not a bit dull. Indeed, I don’t know what he believes in. He may just like being part of something. And if this is so, he might just as well be gathered outside with them.
~~~
It has been less than one hundred years since magic was discovered. Its tricks are already embraced by communities so far and wide little discussion can be done anymore to slow its spread. And so, we have acted on our own behalf if for no other reason than as a reminder that not everyone was willing to go so blindly into this new world. It has created little. It has destroyed much.
It disturbs the senses. It accentuates and dulls them.
Spells may upset one’s vision, making objects appear closer or further, brighter or dimmer, wider or thinner. They can suggest what we hear: a rushing river, someone’s voice, footsteps. It changes the temperature of a room from burning hot to icy cold. Spells can even be used to scry the sense of another, seeing what a bird sees from above, hearing what a dog hears in a closed meeting, gauging an armada approaching a harbor by way of a sea creature.
Spells can’t work without touch and work best in close proximity. Mages must touch fire, ice, others, themselves.
After its discovery, whole communities were extinguished by their neighboring enemies and expanding invaders. They often only had to have a single mage. Some were mages-for-hire. Eventually, everyone had mages. Then the schools came.
They teach them young. “Ah, yes,” they say, “if those with a talent for magic don’t start learning it young, they will be even more dangerous.” If proponents of magic are willing to acknowledge it is dangerous at all then why not abolish it completely? Police it. End it at the root.
I am old now, but when I was a boy, my village was destroyed by our enemies who had three of them. My baby sister and I barely made it to safety. We lived like wild animals in the forest, stalked by predators, chased by prey, and poisoned by our ignorance of its fruits.
But even the forests were not safe from magic. Many people used it to glut themselves and the animals and plants disappeared.
~~~
Since I lost my legs, I have been relegated to offering mostly my wisdom and guidance. I worry how long everyone will continue to heed my words, though time is on none of our sides. My lack of mobility, wrought forth in a foolish accident with thunderdust, is a frustration rivaling only my feelings for magic.
This may be our last stand. Everything is on everyone else’s terms because everywhere they go now, they go together. They go to a future of uncertainty and death. They do not appreciate the past worth keeping. And the past surrounds me on the walls of this chamber.
The animals pictured on them appear to be horses and large cats. Stags. Boar. Wolves. Bears. Perhaps I see a unicorn. And a large serpent is high on the wall. Far down near the floor appears a man with wings. In other chambers, there are what appear to be other kinds of man-like creatures. Many of these creatures have not been seen for over a century, if they ever were.
Thomas and Cora return.
“The traps are set,” Cora says.
“Heath?” I ask.
“He is near the main entrance,” Cora says.
“Has the ice been melted, and flames extinguished?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Cora.
“Are you sure?” I press.
She doesn’t hesitate. But she appears to want something. I ask her if there is anything else.
“I hear reports of some rather large bones deeper in the cave,” she says. “I worry…”
I nod. She worries for her husband Gladstone. “Hold tight to these moments, Cora,” I say. “They may be our last.” This disappoints her, but it is not new information. “Whatever his fate and whatever ours, we must not dishonor his life by abandoning our principles.”
Cora moves from looking down to looking away out the chamber.
It is not known how many mages are out there, but they are the ones we must slay if we are to stand any chance. Though I fear many infantrymen are present.
“Thomas,” I say.
“Yes, my lord,” says Thomas.
“Go check with the sentries and get me the estimates for how many infantrymen and mages there are.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good man.”
“Yes, my lord.”
I shake my head at Thomas’ insistence on getting the last word in, albeit I have never heard him say many others other than ‘Yes,’ ‘my,’ and ‘lord.’
“Would you check on the sentries in the hidden entrance?” I ask Cora.
She obliges and exits the chamber.
I am alone again with my thoughts and the flickering flames on the wall of ancient beasts. Will I ever see the sky again? Have I breathed my last breath of fresh air?
I will need to put my fire out soon.
Thomas returns.
“That was fast. How many?” I ask.
Thomas hesitates, blinks, and says, “Heath.”
Another word!
Thomas has returned bearing a message. It’s a good thing I can read since no one else can. It is short:
Nostosists,
Your wickedness has darkened the kingdom. The Raeden School of Magic, whose memory is now warped in the slaughter of children by your depravity, will be avenged. Face the families whose lives you have ruined or face your end here and now. The hour of your reckoning is at hand. Justice will not be denied.
I am confident no children were harmed. Though I will keep their lies to myself.
“The bird?” I ask.
Thomas hands over a dead raven as Heath enters. “Good man. Wrap its head in the message and send it back by one of our own. Do not burn it. They hide spells in them. They aim to scry, Thomas. Nothing comes into the cave. Do you hear?”
“Yes, my lord,” says Thomas.
“Good man,” I say before training my attention on Heath whilst Thomas utters a finishing Yes-my-lord. “How many?” I ask Heath.
“Maybe one hundred in front and more than half that in the back,” Heath says.
“And the mages?” I ask.
“Maybe twelve,” he says.
“They may not be wearing their masks and be making regular infantrymen wear them,” I say.
“I know,” Heath says. “I was once made to wear one.”
Mages always wore replicas of the death mask of the latest and highest-ranking royal member who practiced magic. This mask is of Queen Aurelia. She was barely seven. A sweet cherub face orphaned into rule and swiftly shuffled away with the ferryman. The masks are haunting.
“They demand our surrender,” I say.
“How long do we have?” Heath asks.
“Is it nightfall?” I ask.
“Not yet, but it grows darker,” Heath says.
I nod. “We have ‘til then.”
“The traps are set,” Heath says.
I nod again. “Let everyone know.”
Heath nods back and just before he exits I call to him. He stops at the exit and turns his head back to me.
“Any word from Tibbets and Gladstone?” I ask.
He shakes his head, then leaves.
If all was well they would have returned by now. We must consider them lost or worse. The thing about the brave is they don’t always know when they are in critical danger.
I continue making the kiss-of-death if we should need or want it. I must be careful not to spill the fox blood, as I have none more to spare. It goes in last to trick the amanita into giving the body a quick and painless death.
Though I have made most common elixirs, potions, tinctures, and salves, I have never made this one before. It is not something one makes casually. I don’t even know what happens when it’s consumed. It is said to work as described, but we shall see. I am near to finishing it. But I need a bit more honey. “Thomas!” I yell. I yell a few more times before Beatrice enters.
“Where’s Thomas?” I ask.
“With the sentries,” she says. “The bird flew away. Can I help you?”
I sigh. “I need more honey. I recall there being some in the storage chamber. It should be labeled and higher on the shelf. Can you bring me some?”
“I can,” Beatrice says. “Would you like me to get Thomas as well?”
“No,” I say. “Thank you.”
Beatrice is back with the honey before too long.
“Have you seen Cora?” I ask. “I sent her to check with the sentries at the hidden entrance.”
Beatrice doesn’t answer right away. “I have not, but…”
“…but what?” I ask.
“I heard she has gone off to find Gladstone,” Beatrice says.
I rub my eyes with my fingers and thumb and come to a pinch on the bridge of my nose, then press my pointer finger to my forehead.
“I’m sorry,” Beatrice says.
“Get me Thomas, please,” I say.
Cora has likely left with a lit torch. We cannot let flames continue to burn. If I can just finish this last alchemy I can put out my fire. I get to work on adding the honey to the mortar while I wait for Thomas.
Heath arrives.
“Where’s Thomas?” I ask.
Heath shrugs. “I have let everyone I could find know to brace themselves,” he says. “But I could not find Cora.”
“She has left to look for Gladstone,” I say while twisting my pestle in the mortar then adding a few drops of fox blood, then twisting again. “Go get her. I’m sure she has a flame.”
“Wouldn’t Tibbets and Gladstone also have torches?” Heath asks.
“They’re beyond our reach now,” I say without looking away from my task. “But she is likely not yet.”
“How do we protect ourselves from fire if they bring it in themselves?” Heath asks.
I stop mixing. “We can only control what we do. And they risk hurting themselves around their own fires.”
Satisfied, Heath inhales while nodding. He leaves as Thomas enters.
“Yes, my lord,” says Thomas.
“Make sure all flames are out!” I yell.
Thomas startles, turns, and leaves with a shaky, “Yes, my lord.”
I hurry my efforts to mix the kiss-of-death and can’t help repeatedly glancing at the pail of water across from me. I am almost out of time. I can feel it.
Then I hear the hollering. Can I get a moment to finish this? What is it now? Do they attack?
Heath enters on stifled feet wanting to do different than his duty. His face is white as snow against his dark mustache, even in the dancing firelight.
He turns his wide-eyed, spooked face to me. “Cora, she…”
“What is it, man?” I say. “Speak!”
Heath shakes his head, eyes still wide.
~~~
They say we are hypocrites because we resist magic but embrace alchemy. They malign us in our use of thunderdust, but they don’t know what they’re talking about, or they do, but they mean to turn the people against us. If magic could be controlled like thunderdust, we might accept it. But the power of magic is too great and too tempting for those who wish to wield it and aspire for their own greatness. We say it is, and was, never worth the risk.
We don’t care that they have set aside land forbidding magic. We don’t care that others like the Tromlachs and the Separatists have accepted these offers. They are not real Nostosists. When push came to shove, they balked and gave in, never being serious to begin with. I am afraid those deserters will outlast us. Justice was always in our hands alone.
~~~
“Did you find her?” I ask Heath.
He blinks in pause, a great distance in his eyes, then nods.
“Well?”
“Her…head…is hollowed out…” Heath says. “But her face…is…still there…”
“What?” I say. The damned wizards have gone too far. We are dealing with monsters. I feel even less grief at blowing up that school now.
Racing feet pound nearer. They’re closer than I thought. Heath jerks in their oncoming direction from out in the larger adjacent chamber, draws his sword, and exits in great haste. I hear the clanging of swords and the splashing of the ankle-deep water and the whooshing of torches. A man’s hollers in anguish. Was that Heath’s voice?
Crawling on my elbows to the pail of water, Thomas enters in a fierce struggle with an infantryman clad in his armor and helmet. The infantryman swings his blade and it passes over my head. I duck down and turn, crawling over to reach for my dagger. I secure it and then reach for my club all the while I hear the whooshing of the blade behind me. When I turn Thomas has caught the infantryman’s arms in mid-swing. The infantryman headbutts Thomas who falls back, blood trickling down his face from the strike of the helmet on his bare skin and skull. He blinks hard, astonished. The fire crackles and I look to the pail. It has been upturned in the struggle and the water poured out.
Bright chimes ring and the infantryman retreats.
I throw Thomas my club and dagger. Why he was unarmed, I do not know. There must not have been enough time.
But what happens next is so abrupt and terrible it is difficult to describe and endure. The pain is sharp and hot over every inch of my skin. It is an enormous pain, like no other I have ever felt, even when I lost my legs. My eyes are so wide they are beginning to dry. The cave paintings flash before me as the flames dance. Wings. Teeth. Horns. The pain is as full and unbroken on my skin as feet are when pressing to the ground while standing. The screaming I hear is my own…and Thomas’. Then it stops as suddenly as it came on.
The shock of such immense pain resonates in me as I heave after holding my breath so long. The infantryman returns. He looks down at his options strewn around a motionless Thomas. Sword. Club. Dagger. He chooses the club, pauses a moment, staring down at Thomas, then pounds Thomas over and over and over, his shadow cast against the fire reaching high and low again and again, the ancient creatures appearing and disappearing on the wall. I can hear each blow reaching deeper into Thomas’ flesh and crunching bones. Thomas’ arms at first involuntarily shoot up. Reeling from the fire spell and the brutality before my eyes I am fixed in devastation. I cannot help my loyal friend who deserves so much better. The last thing I did was unjustly scold him. The last thing he did was come to my unknowing need of aid.
Then, from the dark of the entrance to this chamber, my eyes catch the porcelain facsimile of Queen Aurelia’s young face. Behind it another’s eyes relish in my suffering. I feel a tear run down my face as the infantryman lands his last blows upon Thomas. I cannot speak and can only shake my head at the silent, hateful mage to show my disgust. An unfair fight indeed. Cowards.
Queen Aurelia’s face fades as the mage retreats into the dark. I hear hollering and heavy footfalls echo through the cave. I turn my face to the infantryman. He stares at me with beady eyes over a decades-busted nose and a scraggly black beard, his right hand on the hilt of my club, his left cupping it where it broadens. He sees me look at it and looks himself.
“This yours?” he asks, holding it up a bit.
A holler nearby gets his attention. There are screams and fast running through the shallow pools. He leans his head and shoulders back, looking to his left, and steps over to the chamber’s entrance, the club never repositioning in his hands. I hurry to finish the kiss-of-death. I take a bit of the paste out of the mortar with my fingers and roll it into a ball a bit larger than a pea. I have to strain my eyes since the fire has died down.
Shortly after disappearing, the infantryman flies back into the chamber, well off his feet, terror in his face. He hits the wall across from me near the entrance. His helmet clangs around on the cold hard stone. He lifts his eyes above his chest plate, past his feet toward his mysterious attacker. I feel myself lean back, my shoulders pressed against the hard chamber wall. He is then dragged out of the chamber in a single swift pull before collapsing back in on his stomach and emitting a fearful, childlike sob, covered by the most horrific animal I have ever seen.
It is naked with pale, nearly translucent skin. It is quite skinny. I can see its shoulder bones. Its hands and feet are delicate with large, sturdy, tapering nails that glimmer in the last licks of firelight. But it is massive. Its head is bigger than any man’s. It’s more like a lion’s or a bear’s. Its face is almost human, but almost dog-like too. Its ears are large for its head, fanning out on the side and coming to a point that stops level with its crown. And strangest of all, it does not blink for it has no eyes, yet its sockets are lined with skin. And between its arms and its body spans a vein filled stretch of skin, like a bat’s…wings. Like the ancient pictograph on the wall!
The creature opens its great pale maw, revealing a single sharp triangular upper incisor that it then pierces the infantryman’s head with. He shrieks! He shrieks, he shrieks, he shrieks. The last thing I will ever hear, a blood curdling shriek.
I am frozen at the power and ferocity of its actions and the vacancy in its expression as it cracks the infantryman’s skull open and effortlessly draws back scalp and bone, revealing his glistening and wrinkled brain. His hair dangles. It then covers the infantryman’s head with its mouth and sucks with a wet thop, as if uncorking a pumpkin. Lifting itself up and swallowing, I see the infantryman’s brain is gone. This is not a spell. This is something else.
It pauses.
It scans the chamber and rests its eyeless gaze upon me.
Oh, how now I wonder if there was any sense in anything. How I wonder if the darkness was all there ever was. How I wonder if I could have spent my time living in what light I had seen instead of hiding out in caves.
Oh, how now, fast to the end, I wonder if all this time we had been keeping a gate to nowhere…
I feel the kiss-of-death in my fingers. I pop it in my mouth and swallow.
Milk. Honey. Iron.