“Really?”
Before Aidan could answer me, I raced inside the building, never stopping to realize the darkness inside.
“Skyla, wait,” Aidan called from behind me.
But I didn’t hear him. I heard it instead.
“No!”
Someone was screaming, crying out in pure, agonizing pain.
My hands reached up and closed off the sound, but the shrieking was too pervasive. The wrenching echo of all-encompassing pain and suffering permeated my soul.
My eyes blurred with tears, but I could still see it.
I could see him.
A frail, childlike figure cowered in the center of the tower room. He was flooded with light that burned scarlet, as different stripes tore open on his skin. I looked on him in horror, but I was unable to take my gaze away from him. The boy wore only a small, swaddling cloth around his loins, and his feet were bare and covered in wounds and bruises of all sorts.
My stomach was queasy, and I nearly doubled over as I inched closer to him. As I watched, his eyes met mine.
A shard glowed on his forehead, just the same as mine, only his was a scorching red. As we stared at each other, my sickness went away, and a second later, the boy vomited all over himself.
“No,” I whispered, grabbing my stomach.
The boy before me mimicked my movements, grabbing his stomach and slumping over.
My own pain evaporated again, and as I felt my body’s wellness return, I glanced at his nose, shocked and appalled to see it was crooked and bleeding freely, as though it had broken quite recently.
“No,” I whispered again, but I knew no matter how much I denied it, it was still the truth.
The boy groaned as a bruise appeared around his left eye, but he took a step toward me.
“Skyla.” His voice called out to me inside my mind; I thought I saw his split lips form my name, but I heard no whisper of sound as he spoke. The boy’s hand reached out for mine, palm facing up, the same way Aidan had come to retrieve me earlier.
I did not have any notion of how Aidan managed to tear me away from the boy, but the second he rescued me from that room, I broke down, crying uncontrollably, as I never had ever before.
I understood now. I was awake, truly awake, at last. Those dark moments I had sensed in the early hours of the morning—they were shadows of the future, and the present. That sensation was the reality of my daily life—the daily, imperfect life of humanity’s curse that the wretched boy inside the tower experienced for me.
I curled my fingers into my palms, scraping for any remnant of courage I could possibly have inside of me.
“Skyla.”
Aidan’s voice was starkly quiet against the roar of rage brewing inside of me. I looked up and realized he had been holding me, letting me cry into his chest. His perfect white shirt was now wet. As I watched, my tears dissolved from the fabric, no doubt magicked away and given to the boy to experience. I shook my head, absolutely horrified all over again, as I looked on all the proof I needed.
My life was not perfect—it only seemed perfect, and it was all because my suffering was taken away and given to a child to experience. I gripped Aidan’s shirt tightly, as if trying to keep my tears in place.
“I knew you were someone who could see,” he said, running his hand down my back, trying to comfort me.
I found strength in Aidan’s kindness. If he could see, too, then he knew we were both looking at the hard, damning truth of imperfection.
“This isn’t right.” I shook my head. “We have to do something.”
“Yes.”
There was a tenderness in the icy color of his eyes, a new sort of kindness I might never have seen before, or perhaps one I might have imagined never happened before the onset of summer.
As his hand tightened around mine, I spoke the only words I could find, the only words which offered me any chance of absolution and any hope despite my imperfection and despair.
“We have to fight.”
Check out our second anthology, Wayward Magic, for the next part of the story, “The Ones Who Fight,” as Skyla and Aidan set out to free their Community from the horrifying truth of their seemingly perfect, costly lives.
About the Author
C. S. Johnson is an award-winning, genre-hopping author of science fiction and fantasy adventures such as The Starlight Chronicles, The Order of the Crystal Daggers, The Divine Space Pirates, and more. With a gift for sarcasm and an apologetic heart, she currently lives in Atlanta with her family. Find out more and subscribe to her mailing list at https://www.csjohnson.me.
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Six Hooves
S. Wallace
Hidden magic is not just baubles buried in the earth, or swords that burst into flame with the right words, but things overlooked in plain sight. Faith is magic, belief has power, and such is the magic buried in the soul.
“Six Hooves” is a tale about love and family that I was inspired to tell because of its great resonance to these things so important in my own life. So, we join Al’rashal and her husband Urkjorman as they walk the path of family and faith and learn, with them, if they have the strength to see it to the end.
S. Wallace
Five years ago, Al’rashal and Urkjorman made a deal, a decade of service to the Baron of Wings and he would make of them what they could not make of themselves. Now that oath has put them in service of the Wayfarers on their pilgrimage through the desert wastes to Karden. Can they protect these brave yet meek people or will sands claim the lives of the innocent and all their dreams?
Chapter One
Monsters
“I don’t know what’s worse, the monsters or the heat,” lamented Eihn as he struggled to gut the reptilian thing before him.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” echoed Kafiel, the elf next to him, “the monsters that try to eat us, or the ones protecting us.”
Laughter, booming like thunder, drew all eyes across the sands to where their monsters lay. Al’rashal pinned one of the reptiles to the ground with her man-catcher. The scaly thing struggled to free itself, but the centaur put the full weight of her body into holding the creature in place as her husband, Urkjorman, lumbered up to it. The minotaur took his time lining up a swing with the long, iron-studded pole he used as a defensive weapon and struck. Blood washed the sands as fragments of bone and flesh exploded from the creature’s skull. Once more, booming laughter filled the air as the minotaur reveled in the shower of gore.
The elf shuddered, then turned from the scene of the two making sport of the creatures to focus on gutting the one before him.
The centaur and her husband looked around, seemingly disappointed there were no more creatures to kill and dragged the last two corpses back to the circle of wagons and threw them on the pile with four others.
Master Muraheim seemed to have been angered by the display of violence and marched up to the two. The old gnome had to crane his neck considerably to look up at the two demi-humans, but he seemed utterly uncaring by the size difference.
“Enough,” ordered Muraheim. “This is not your time to make sport!”
The minotaur looked to his wife, who shrugged in response and returned his attention to the gnome. “Our sport keeps you alive and fed, Master Muraheim.”
“I do not like your revelry.”
Urk took a deep breath and moved as though to take a step forward but Al placed a hand to his chest to stop him.
“Monsters,” Al began, “can’t be reasoned with, Master Muraheim. So, we need to use more aggressive methods to protect you from them.”
The gnome looked at the two and turned about to walk away. “You are right, monsters cannot be reasoned with.”
Al raised to her hind legs as though to kick the gnome but came down without incident. Eihn turned to his master when he neared. “I don’t think angering them is right, Master. They —”
“Have a job to do,” said the old gnome, cuttin
g Eihn off. “Get us to Karden so you and the other neophytes may dedicate to Mehrindai. I do not care if they are mad the whole way there and back. They will serve or answer to the baron for their failure.”
Eihn wanted to say more, but he was interrupted as a high-pitched shriek tore through the air.
All eyes cast about in alarm as the shriek was followed by a second and then dozens more as small, malformed creatures pulled from the sands about the caravan. They raised crude, ill-maintained weapons to the sky and demanded something in some guttural version of the language common to the area.
“Goblins,” shouted Urkjorman with something that sounded like relish. “Al’rashal! Charge!”
Chapter Two
Sand And Mercy
The crack of snapping bone cut through the howl of the dry desert wind. Urkjorman cringed, even before the body crashed to the ground in a cloud of sand.
“No blood!” shouted Al’rashal as her man-catcher sent three of the diminutive creatures tumbling through the dirt.
“No death!” shouted Muraheim as he took cover with the other pilgrims, huddled in a tight circle, praying between the hastily circled wagons and draft animals.
Urk snorted derisively, casting an irritated look at the goblins scrambling about him, as another poorly made arrow sunk into his chest. “Do you know how hard it is to hit these things without killing them?”
“No death!” insisted the gnome.
Urk simply dropped the large wooden pole in the sand at his hooves. Even using the long staff instead of his ax was proving too difficult, so he did what the minotaur were most feared for: he charged. With a roar that silenced the wind, he barreled forward into the thickest mass of the goblin marauders. The first few ranks scattered like birds taking flight, but the later rows were too disorganized; they fell about one another in their dash to escape, trampling each other in the press and presenting a thick knot of limbs and bodies to careen through.
Al paused in her sweeping strikes to simply admire the litter of bruised bodies left in her husband’s wake. “I love it when you do that,” she admitted. Urk could well see the truth of that. His charge left the centaur stomping her hooves in place and swishing her ebony tail excitedly as though she were barely able to restrain her manic energy. With a flick of one forelimb, she kicked a goblin to the ground and leveled the man-catcher at the surrounding group. “Run. Now.”
Any courage the goblins retained evaporated when Urk released another roar that could be felt as much as heard. They scattered, leaving behind the wounded, weapons, and anything else that could slow them in flight.
For a moment there was nothing but the howl of the wind and settling clouds of sand before Muraheim rose from the circle of pilgrims to speak. “We should tend the wounded.”
“You tend the wounded,” snorted Urk. “Our job is to keep you alive, not them.”
The gnome glared up at Urk but said nothing more as he and the other pilgrims set to inspecting the still bodies lying in the sands.
“You know he wasn’t talking to us,” chastised Al as she came alongside him, not quite whispering.
Urk grumbled, picking up the long iron-studded pole in his left hand. “He’s never talking to us.”
“Hush,” hissed Al laying one arm upon his much broader forearm. “You agreed to this; there’s no sense complaining now. Still, it’s not the worst we’ve done for the baron.”
Urk nodded, dipping his head to rest it briefly against his wife’s. “It’s not the best either.”
“You just want to guard concubines again,” she teased, one long ear lifting straight up and the other almost parallel with the ground as she crossed her arms in mock disapproval.
Urk couldn’t see her face through the silver helmet, but he knew her lips were twisted in an amused smirk and one dark eyebrow was lifted. “As I recall, you enjoyed guarding the concubines more than I did.”
Al beat her hands against the thick slabs of muscle her husband called a chest while repeating, “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” She leaned against him and ran her fingers through the long tuft of fur that hung from his chin.
“We’re, ah, ready to go now,” came a small, apologetic voice to the couple’s right. There, almost close enough to be friendly, stood a young boy just reaching into puberty, with bright-red hair and a face that seemed equal parts freckle and smile.
“Eihn, right?” asked Al.
“Yes,” said the boy, as though amazed to be remembered. “Yes, Ms. Al’rashal and Mr. Urkjorman.”
“Don’t call me Mister,” corrected the minotaur. “Just call me Urkjorman.” The correction seemed to trouble the boy, so he continued, “If you must use an honorific call me Red Mantle for it is the title I earned.”
“Yes Mr.… ah, yes Red Mantle Urkjorman,” agreed Eihn. “We’re moving on now.”
“Go ahead, boy. We’ll catch up.” Urk waved the child on.
The boy waved excitedly and raced off, joining the other pilgrims as they continued west.
“At least the young treat us right,” noted Al’rashal once Eihn was out of earshot.
“Too young to know better,” joked Urk as they began following the pilgrims. “You should stay at the head of the caravan.”
“You just want me up there to stare at my backside.”
“I’m not the only one.”
Al laughed derisively and swatted him with the long strands of her dark tail. “I’m going to scout ahead and make sure the path is clear, so you won’t be distracted by my rump.”
“Shame,” Urkjorman called after her as she kicked up a thick cloud of dust to race ahead.
Chapter Three
Waytown
The air was cool enough to fog the breath, and pimple flesh by the time the caravan made it to Waytown. The sky had almost consumed the last vestiges of violet left behind by the setting sun, but thankfully, the moon and its remnants shone brightly, banishing the darkness.
Al’rashal and Urkjorman were both at the caravan’s head by this point, walking side by side and hand in hand. Most of the pilgrims were fighting weariness and cold with equal measure, though Muraheim seemed touched by neither.
Waytown was once an important travel hub, but it was hard to see from its fragmented remains. The road they trod was wide enough for four wagons to traverse side by side, despite the thick carpet of sand encroaching on the paving stones.
What remained of a vast arch spanned the road, connected to walls that stood fifteen feet high, when they were still intact. Buildings, preserved more by the dry desert air than care, rose from mounds of sand to stand proudly along the main thoroughfare. They loomed like the skeletons of giants, with the occasional mote of light moving through the bones as some person or another carried a lamp to a window or hole in the wall to see the latecomers.
“Cozy,” joked Urk, squeezing his wife’s hand.
Al answered by humming something under her breath.
Light grew plentiful as they reached the town’s heart and came to a vast fountain. Around it were shops that seemed in a decent state of repair and a squat three-story structure from which came the muted sounds of revelry and conversation.
“The Old Mansion, as we were told,” declared Muraheim, the certainty of his voice lending a measure of vigor to the weary pilgrims. “I’ll see about lodging…”
Urk’s hand fell upon the gnome’s shoulder, halting his stride. “We should go first, in case there’s trouble. It would be terrible if you died a stone’s throw from Karden.”
Muraheim’s eyes narrowed, then he smiled. “Of course, for security. You have my permission to go ahead.”
Urk ground his teeth. “Thank you.”
People lounged on The Old Mansion’s porch, lit only by dim lanterns and burning tobacco. Conversation quieted as Urk and Al approached, with the minotaur noting the mounting tension in the air. His wife didn’t seem to notice, muttering about how she hated stairs as they stepped up onto the porch. It creaked, protesting their weight, but hel
d long enough for him to pull the doors open and follow Al inside.
A hush blanketed the room as she entered, one that turned from awe to apprehension as Urk followed. She shifted nervously in place, and he ran a steadying hand along her spine, from the end of her tale, up her golden back, to the union where her torso turned from horse to humanoid.
“Welcome to The Old Mansion,” came a voice from the bar, desperately trying to sound self-assured. The owner of the voice, and likely the building, was a portly man, bald above the ears, with a thick beard spread across his chin and over his lips. “Our … our kitchen is closed.”
Urk scented the air, sifting through the aroma of fear and disgust to that of frying meat and boiling broth. “Then my Wayfarers will be most upset.”
“Way … Wayfarers?” asked the man, leaning back as the minotaur approached. “You’re Wayfarers?”
Urk pulled a small silver statue from his pouch. It was a depiction of the goddess of travel, Mehrindai, one leg raised, arms akimbo as though skipping along, off to who-knew-where. “I was told The Old Mansion honored the pilgrims’ promise.”
The innkeeper’s eyes widened in wonder or greed, as he hesitantly picked up the small silver figurine. “Ah, yes, yes, we do. I’ll inform the kitchen staff. Ah, how many are you?”
“Three dozen,” answered Urk. “Though you’d best prepare meals for more. We’ve worked up quite the appetite.”
The innkeeper looked up at the minotaur and nodded. “Right, of course.” Saying no more, he vanished around the wall of drinks.
“Is food the only thing you have an appetite for?” asked a silken voice.
The words drew Urk’s gaze to the side where he saw a human woman of middling years who had grown pleasantly plump both about the hips and bust. She wore a bodice that accentuated her curves, and her glistening blonde hair fell across rich, black skin. She smiled at his appraising gaze. “Or do you have other hungers?”
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