Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

But, as the sounds had grown closer, it had become clear that four-legged voracious lupines would have been far preferable.

  Merigold huddled in the wagon as she heard the sounds of battle begin, the soldiers fighting whatever was making such a terrible noise. She pulled her little knife from its thong, relishing the comforting grip, thanking Fenrir silently for restoring this to her. Somehow, he’d known it was important. Merigold wished that he was nearby.

  The screams and sounds of combat grew closer, and something jolted her wagon. She heard her driver—usually such a quiet man—fiercely curse Yetra’s name, and suddenly the wagon was out of control. Inside, Merigold held tight to her bench as pots and pans and ladles pulled free of their straps, flying around the confined area like a bottled tornado. She was struck in the face with something heavy and lost her grip on the bench, and then Meri was tossed around the wagon as it rushed forward, banging and bruising her arms and legs as she tried to protect her stomach—her child—with one arm and her head with her other.

  The wagon flipped to its side and was dragged a few extra feet before skidding to a halt, the horses finally managing to break free and run. Meri tentatively checked her body and her stomach. Nothing seemed broken, and her belly had been spared any rough blow. But dear Yetra, did her body ache!

  She tentatively crawled out of the wagon, hearing the hateful, hungry calls in the distance. And one just a few feet behind her.

  Merigold pounced to her feet on wobbly legs, brandishing her little knife as a pale, wiry shape, illuminated by the waxing moons, ambled toward her, dragging its leg but still moving with a jerky speed. Fueled by fear, she swung her weapon wide, aiming for the neck, but instead caught the pale thing just under its cheekbone, slicing through the thin flesh of the cheek and embedding the weapon somewhere in the meat of the mouth.

  It shrieked in pain, and Merigold’s limbs grew weaker as it grabbed at her despite its new wound. It bore her to the ground, tearing at her with its teeth, but struggling due to the knife still planted in its cheek and mouth. She fought to keep its face from hers, pushing back with all her strength. Despite its injuries—a hanging arm, a twisted leg, a knife in the face—it was far stronger than she.

  Merigold tried to open herself to perceiving the energy at the core of this creature. The maenen. She had done this before when she’d most needed to. She could do it again. She had to.

  She had thought, before, that she needed to seek an emptiness, a center within herself, to find the power. But, she’d been wrong. She needed to open herself up, expand her perception, allowing herself to see beyond her senses. It was a subtle line, and one that she barely understood, yet alone mastered.

  But she found it now. She reached inside the creature, searching for its maenen.

  And there was nothing there.

  The nearly decayed vessel was empty, lacking even a drop of power. It had no maenen, no lifeforce. It lived—the blood dripping from its face was enough to prove that—but it lacked something. A soul, maybe. Even animals had maenen, but this creature was bereft.

  Her physical strength was waning. The creature’s fingers dug deeply into her shoulder, cutting off her ability to strain with that arm. She searched one last desperate time for some strength, a bit of magic. Something to fight with. Something to save her.

  And found it within herself.

  She harnessed the power, feeling it burn inside of her, a new white flame. It was more than she could hold. Merigold did the only thing she knew how to do; she expelled the maenen into the creature.

  The rotting vessel overflowed with her power, the maenen spilling beyond its natural boundaries, crossing the threshold between ethereal and reality. The creature—the empty man—jerked back from her before its body was strained beyond capacity.

  It was torn apart, blood and flesh spraying Merigold, invading her eyes and mouth as the creature exploded. Bits of gore covered her, and she retched and vomited into the bloody grass until there was nothing left. And she continued heaving, gasping for breath, her lungs burning.

  Lacking the strength to rise, Merigold crawled out of the mess, shivering with weakness. Every part of her body ached and her mind was a fog. She managed to get to a tree and leaned her back against it, closing her eyes. Blotting out the sight of the ruined wagon and the scattered remains of her attacker in the early illumination of the dawn. There were still some terrible howls sounding in the distance, but Merigold was too exhausted to be afraid. Too exhausted to run.

  She sat for a few minutes, gathering strength, Her belly began to roil again and she clutched at it in pain. This was not nausea, though. Her stomach began cramping, the pain building slowly but soon becoming unbearable. It was a red hot poker in her gut, concentrated brutality, and every muscle in her body tightening in response. Meri clenched her hands and toes, unable to breathe, eyes closed so tightly that it was surprising that there were tears streaming down her face. She could not even cry out.

  And then, a minute of relief. Merigold desperately sucked in air, but was cut off mid-breath as another wave of agony began, tearing through her body and leaving her shivering with pain.

  These waves lasted for more than an hour until Meri lay, in the early morning light, drenched in perspiration and weaker than an infant.

  She felt blood running down her leg. She reached a shaking arm to pull her skirts up slightly, grimacing as she strained to sit up enough to check.

  There was a lot of blood, and something more. A small, crimson lump, a few inches in diameter, lay in a pool of red. Meri thought she could make out tiny limbs…

  Merigold turned away and sobbed. The power she had found to protect herself had not been her own—she had stolen it from her unborn child.

  She had stolen its life.

  ---

  “That was clumsily done, back in Hunesa. Such use of raw power is a certain way to get yourself killed, and make a mess doing it. And you shouldn’t have run.”

  Cryden had found Merigold late the next afternoon, just near sunset. The oranges of the sun tore through the clouds like the sharp fingers of a vengeful goddess.

  Merigold had managed to move out of sight of the wagon and her dead child. She’d thought to bury it, but couldn’t bear touching the poor little thing. Instead, she’d fled despite the pain. She’d seen the shattered remains of the army march by, not three hundred yards away, but made no move or sound. She couldn’t bear anyone seeing her. Especially not Ignatius, assuming he was among the survivors.

  “Aren’t you going to ask how I found you?”

  Meri still said nothing; she just stared at him dully.

  “You left a trail. You will need to learn to be more circumspect with your miernes,” Cryden admonished.

  Still no response. Cryden was probing for an ego boost, and she was not about to deliver one. She felt too empty for it. Dear Yetra. Dear, fucking Yetra. How much could one woman bear?

  “My dear lady, are you alright? I apologize; I should have asked when I saw all the blood. I am so used to examining maenen that sometimes I forget to really look at a body. Your maenen is healthy, by the way. Extremely so,” Cryden said consideringly, stretching a hand to help her to her feet.

  “I was with the army. We were attacked,” she said in a monotone, ignoring the proferred hand, not rising from where she was propped against a tree.

  “I know. I ran into the remnants. A Lady Breen, I believe, told me about the attackers. We need to be moving. We must be back to Agricorinor as soon as possible. They must have word of this atrocity.” Cryden was gazing to the north, his face unreadable.

  Atrocity. That word couldn’t even begin to describe what Meri had been through. What the entire army had been through, having been attacked, by… by... “They were people, Cryden. The creatures that attacked.”

  “I know.” His voice was flat, and he still gazed north.

  “They were empty.” She remembered searching for the maenen, and that horrible aching gap where it should have been.


  “They know only their basest instincts, primordial emotions. Anger, hunger. Hate. Pain only fuels those remaining emotions. They were called the gwagen by the Wasmer, the Empty. In Sestra, they were known as paralambrash, the soulless. Here, they simply called them the Feral.” Cryden paused, scratching at the small scar about his eye. “Someone stole their maenen. Near all of it, over a period of time.”

  The Feral. They had lost what it meant to be human. Had it ripped from them.

  “Why would someone do that?” Merigold asked, scared of the answer.

  “Someone wanted power. The reason for that, right now, is unknown. Which is why we must get to Agricorinor. But, someone wanted their maenen, Merigold. Someone wanted their magic.”

  Magic. Magic had taken so much from her.

  It had killed her friends, everyone she knew.

  It had taken her family.

  It had made her a murderer.

  It had destroyed the lives of countless souls, both the unfortunate Feral who attacked, and the men and women they killed.

  And, it had taken her child from her.

  Merigold began struggling to her feet, taking the offered hand when it was again stretched toward her.

  “Cryden, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run. Let’s go to this Agricorinor. Let me learn how to use this power,” Merigold said, her body aching, but her mind solidifying with determination.

  She would need to learn how to use this magic if she was to wipe it from the earth.

  Epilogue

  It was cold, cold as a crypt meant to preserve decaying remains.

  Ragen Hinter paced the tiny, dark perimeter—three steps forward, three steps back. Two to either side. That was all that his neck shackle would allow. He paused his pacing for a moment to lean against the wall with his arms, doing inclined push-ups to keep up his strength. He needed to stay strong and limber for the infinitesimal chance that he could escape. Escape and get back to searching for his daughter.

  He needed to find sweet Merigold. That poor, innocent girl. Maybe he’d overfathered her, driving her away. He knew he’d been too protective of her. But, he didn’t think she’d run off with some man, like the rumors said. He’d even broken Alan’s nose when the porter had the berries to say that to his face. That display of violence had some repercussions in Dunmore, but Ragen didn’t care. He loved his little flower too much to allow someone to insult her honor. Now, she was all he had left, and he didn’t really even have her. Just memories.

  Emmet, his brother, had died during their journey in captivity. Ragen could barely remember the day it happened. Something they’d put in the slop they called porridge had kept them all docile, packed on top of each other in covered wagons, the floor slatted so they could relieve themselves without the wagon having to stop. A trail of piss and shit that anyone could follow, but no one had. Ragen had refused to eat, at first, fearing the sedative. But, eventually, the hunger had grown too strong, and he’d eaten the lumpy porridge, feeling meek and disconnected in the aftermath.

  Emmet was gone, as was Farmer Denny and Maritos, the blacksmith from Yinston. Most people from Dunmore and the Duckling were dead and left behind, ignobly tossed a couple hundred yards off the path. Anyone they’d encountered on their journey had met the same fate, either made captive or killed. Ragen had vague memories of villages being torn apart, of screams and shrieks that cut through his stupor for isolated moments.

  As far as he could recall, there were a few survivors he knew. Pinst, the farrier, was there when they unloaded the wagons and marched the shuffling prisoners into these damnable caves or cells or wherever they were. Lisa, one of his barmaidens, had made it too, though she seemed sick and weak. Sandra, too, had survived. The little strawberry-blonde prostitute had been crushed up against him for most of the journey, much like those times a year ago. That had been a horrible mistake. But, he had been so lonely, and thinking of Lilth…

  There were screams in the distance, echoing through this damnable place. Some human, mostly male. A few female. Maybe Sandra. Many of the screams were inhuman. The howling had at first filled him with terror, but he had since adapted. The sounds of Pandemonium were just white noise now.

  “A strong one, just for me.”

  Ragen jumped, hands in front of him. His eyes could not penetrate the blackness, but the beautiful, melodious voice of a woman could not have been more than a few steps away.

  “Who are you? What am I doing here? Why—?”

  Radiant laughter, so out of place in this Pandemonium. This freezing hell.

  “So many questions! But we have time, sweetling. I love when they accurately select the strong.” Something touched his face, and he flinched back. “They last so much longer. We will be seeing a lot of each other.”

  The room began glowing with a diffuse, warm light. The Duckling’s common room came briefly to mind, and Ragen had to restrain sudden tears. He could see now that two other neck shackles stuck from the rough-hewn stone walls, and Ragen knew he might have neighbors.

  The speaker, however, drew his full attention. She was a gorgeous woman, waist-length silvery hair flowing down her slender body, which was itself concealed by a thin, gossamer gown that would fit in in the finest ballrooms in Rostane. Her face was perfect in every dimension—nearly symmetrical aside from a small mole at the corner of her full, rose-hued lips, silver eyebrows gently peaking over her eyes. More than her perfect body and perfect face, her eyes held his attention.

  Those orbs held eternity. They had seen miracle births and gruesome deaths. Grand empires built from nothing over centuries and reduced to rubble in days. Love conquering inexplicable odds, and love hideously used and betrayed.

  Yetra smiled, white teeth gleaming in the gentle light, as she grabbed Ragen’s bare arm and began to tear away his soul.

  Excerpt from Wisdom Lost, Book 2 of Pandemonium Rising

  Available Summer 2019

  Chapter 1

  The boys played near the great river against the express wishes of their parents, as boys often did. Threats of punishment did little to dissuade adolescent boys when there was adventure to be had. Particularly at night, when the near-full moons lit the sky, teasing the earth with their shimmering whites and blues. These were the colors of mischief. The colors of fun. The colors of magic.

  Finding that the other boys had pulled ahead, Fenrir stumbled through the brush to catch up. The paths along the Fullane were so overgrown here. Not much further, and the boys would be near his and his mother’s special place. He didn’t want the boys to sully the little clearing—one of the few safe places that he and his mother could share. It may have been the only place where his mother smiled her real smile.

  Fenrir rushed ahead to distract the boys, to lead them away from their clearing. He had seen a great turtle earlier in the day—maybe he could find it again, and focus the boys on that instead.

  Suddenly, he was falling, tumbling forward, his arms flailing to catch his fall. Had he hit a root?

  There was a biting laugh behind him. Sigmund Fitra pulled himself from the bushes where he’d been hiding with his leg sticking out. The skinny youth was as well-dressed as always, though they were at play. His parents never cared if he came home dirty, even if he ruined his silks. He would just get replacements. His parents gave him everything he wanted.

  Through the brush, the moon glinted off Sigmund’s teeth, painting them a glowing blue and giving him the visage of a demon. The stringy, angular boy was handsome and symmetrical, but Fenrir had always thought he resembled a rat. He was a couple of years older than Fenrir, but Fenrir still thought himself the stronger and the faster of the two, and could take him in a fair fight. But, Sigmund never fought fair.

  “What gives, Siggy?” Fenrir asked, pushing himself to his feet and noticing the deep scrapes on his hands as he rose. He did nothing to tend to the wounds, however. Sigmund was like a predatory bird. You couldn’t show injury or he would attack.

  “It’s not fucking Siggy, you sh
it!” spat the boy, his moonlit features twisting in rage, giving him the appearance of Ultner, Lord of Pandemonium. Fenrir was taken aback more by his language than anything. The boy was extremely polite and polished in public, and adults loved him.

  But, rarely had they been so far from home, and certainly not at night. So far from any adults.

  “It is when you trip me!” Fenrir stepped forward, fists clenched painfully, confident that Sigmund would either do nothing or back down. Astonishingly, Sigmund crossed his arms, a smile creasing his rodent face. It gave Fenrir pause for a moment. He was about to retreat himself when something hard cracked him in the back of the head. He cried out and fell on his face, the scrapes on his hands tearing open even more on the rough terrain. When he made a fist, it felt sticky with blood.

  He rolled to his side, squinting up at Aiden and Ethan, Ethan holding a thick tree branch. The cause of his sudden headache, it seemed. His brothers’ faces swam in his sight. He couldn’t make out their features or expressions, but he imagined smug grins. They always wore smug grins.

  “Fen, it looks like you fell! Do you need help up?” asked Aiden, his voice a mockery of kindness. He even held out his hand, but Fenrir knew better. He slapped it aside, despite the pain in his own palm.

  Wait, was he missing a ring finger? No, that wasn’t right.

  Fenrir tried to stagger to his feet, but was hit by a blow he couldn’t see and again knocked to the ground. He tried to roll to one side and escape, but someone leveled a kick at his aching skull, blasting stars across his vision. He was struck, again and again, until he lay moaning on his back, staring up at the twisted branches, above him like grasping fingers trying to reach the moons. Only Instar was visible, blue light giving him the impression of being underwater. The impression of being drowned.

  “No, I don’t—” The sound of arguing cut through waters that seemed to fill Fenrir’s ears.

  “That’s enough. He’s hurt.”