Half-Demon's Revenge

by Lina J. Potter

  The princess was rescued by an old servant, Tom Horn. He had known Michelle since she was a baby and loved her to death. He learned about her imprisonment right away and couldn’t believe his ears—neither about her guilt nor about the fire. He grabbed a horse and rushed to my grandfather’s side.

  The royal party had traveled for twenty days. Tom crossed that distance in eight. He traveled by the stars, avoiding roads. Roads would take five days more. He chose the direct route via the wasteland. Rode down two horses, almost died himself, ate and slept in the saddle, but he made it in time.

  He told the king everything, and Grandfather’s fury was terrible indeed. He sent carrier pigeons and messengers into the duchy right away. Royal guards followed. On top of profuse swearing, the letters contained an order to return the princess to the castle, TREAT HER WITH UTMOST RESPECT, and if any lowlife dared to accuse her of anything, Grandfather would...and then...stick the royal scepter into...to the very knob.

  Uncle had never even deigned to inform him about anything, neither the fire nor the trial. Or maybe he had, but the messengers encountered some wolves on the road—hungry wolves, who, incidentally, really loved parchment. Maybe they didn’t get enough vitamins? And Uncle’s pigeons were set upon by falcons. Did I mention that some of Abigail’s cousins were avid hunters? But there was no proof.

  And here, destiny threw the first card onto the table—a queen of spades—a necromancer and a dark witch. She had been caught trying to put a hex on somebody. They had wanted to burn her at the stake straight away, cleanse her unholy spirit, and send her to the abode of the Bright Saint, but my uncle arrived and was made an honored guest for the execution, and the feast, of course.

  They didn’t get the chance. The evening after his arrival, my uncle had other plans, and in the night, the fire happened. Everybody forgot about the necromancer girl...except for the princess. They were kept together, in neighboring cells, and they had a lot of time to talk. Who said that necromancers were all dark and evil?

  I told you about the seven types of magic. Of them all, death mages are the least popular. They’re also called necromancers. Why? Say thanks to the Bright Saint and his followers. They needed an enemy, didn’t they? Their parishioners needed to be scared and repulsed. And what’s more disgusting than the undead? Or ghouls?

  Personally, I always found gaudy courtiers way more disgusting than any cadavers, but that’s me. If you show a peasant a living corpse, his pants won't stop stinking until the cows come home.

  So the necromancers were exterminated—burned, drowned, beheaded with silver, run through with wooden stakes. Nobody had any mercy for them or their families. Nobody would take mercy on that girl either. Her name was Martha Fael, and like the princess, she was seventeen. Mentally, she was much older, though. Sometimes, life forces you to grow up.

  Martha was far from pretty. She was thin as a rake and had black hair, dark eyes, and skin as pale as death itself. Her nose was long, her mouth too wide, and her smile seemed to show twice as many teeth as normal. The most beautiful thing about her face was her eyebrows. Dark, thick, evenly arched, but who’d even notice them, with her looks?

  Martha didn’t like people. The feeling was mutual. People called her ugly and monstrous. Guys steered clear of her; her sisters laughed at her; her neighbors took pity on her while mocking her behind her back. Even her parents didn’t love their daughter.

  When everybody hates a necromancer, their gift manifests much earlier. Martha put on her first hex when she was ten. Her victim was the girl next door. Martha was sick of her mocking and wished for her to be covered with acne from head to toe. She didn’t say it out loud, at least, but poured on enough anger for the magic to work. That girl can’t get rid of her pimples to this day.

  How did Martha manage to avoid capture for so long? For seven years? She used her powers very sparingly. And she was scared, too. A thrall of the Bright Saint at the local church told the flock about necromancers and their burning in such graphic terms that Martha did everything possible to control herself.

  She might have played a prank or two in the meantime. Somebody couldn’t get their dough to rise for seven days straight, someone’s daughter was bald for an entire year after her birth before her hair finally started growing...

  But one day, everything changed. Martha’s little sister was getting married. She was fifteen. They marry them early in the countryside.

  Martha was happy for her. She held no grudge. But at the wedding, everybody drank till they were blue. Martha went out, alone. She sat near the barn, and that’s where three drunken friends of the groom stumbled upon her.

  At first, they just took cheap shots at her, calling her an old maid, a scarecrow, an ugly betty... Then they turned to insults, “You see something like that next to you in bed, you’d get so scared, you’d never wake up.” “Nobody would wed you even with a dowry of a hundred gold coins.” And, to top it all, “Your husband would never even get it up.” Martha wanted to leave, but they wouldn’t let her, and she could never handle three guys by herself. Music was playing; nobody would even hear her screams. Everyone was hammered. And it would be so shameful!

  Her naiveté and stupidity betrayed her. She should have screamed her guts out, but she didn’t say anything. She only realized what was happening when they dragged her into the barn, bragging all the while. “Nobody will marry you, so at least you’ll taste some real men.” “Now you’ll learn what real pleasure is like.” “You’ll thank us all later.”

  Rapists are rarely original. But it’s hard to understand that when two men are holding your arms while trying to cop a feel, and the third one has pulled off his pants, trying to hike up your skirt.

  See, a necromancer’s gift also often manifests when they’re in danger. Any magic does. That’s how many mages learn about their gift—when in a life-or-death situation, elements start bowing to their will. Everybody else learns that as well, though. Hard to miss a volcano erupting, a tornado half a mile high, or a fire burning everything you see.

  Martha couldn’t hold out either. She got so terrified that she hexed them all—once and forever. It was a good hex, too—quality work. The bits they were going to use to force themselves on her—yep, the very same ones, and hands, too!—fell off and decayed right in front of them, their skin was covered with ulcers, and their bodies desiccated. And all of that in less than five minutes, imagine that! The girl was scared out of her mind.

  She had no strength left, couldn’t run away, couldn’t even walk or raise her hand. They found her there the next morning, completely exhausted. She never got a chance to defend herself. The local thrall shrieked so much you could probably hear him from the capital. He had always preached about the danger of necromancers, and there was his chance to get back at them. Martha was arrested, tied up, and imprisoned. They didn’t even torture her. What for? Everything was clear.

  If Martha could, she’d have killed them all—her jailors, the local thrall... She could not. Her gift was a weak one, and she had spent a lot of her power hexing those three guys. A mage is like a cup. You can’t do anything until it gets full. One cannot drink from an empty glass. She had to wait at least a moon to replenish her magic, and in that time, they could burn her ten times, if not more. They also put a magic dampener on her, as well as on Michelle, at the very first interrogation.

  How was the prison designed? How could they talk? We lived in a humane country. Miellen was like that as well. So, the prison was in a dungeon. Imagine a big wide hallway with alcoves on two sides. A 6x6x6 foot cube, a mat in the corner, some chains, a bucket for various needs, no screen to hide behind. Nobody wanted to install doors or walls, so the exit was covered with simple iron bars. Through them, Michelle and Martha could see each other while they talked.

  That’s how they became friends. Michelle knew she wasn’t guilty, and so did Martha. Necromancers can sense if a person killed someone. Murderers get something of a spot on their aura like a burn scar. Michelle’
s aura was clean, and Martha took pity on her.

  You’re probably wondering how a necromancer could feel sorry for someone. Well, that’s how it happened. At first, Martha gloated for a while; finally, life wasn’t easy for a princess. Then, when the torturers broke all of Michelle’s fingers on her left hand, and she was choking back tears, Martha felt pity. Nobody tried torturing her, after all. They just wanted to burn her at the stake. So nice.

  The girls started talking. Martha told her story, and Michelle, hers. They bonded over the injustices they had met in the world. They sobbed their socks off, but tears never really helped anyone.

  And here, destiny threw in another card. Not a trump card, no, but a good one nonetheless. I think it could have been a jack of clubs. It was a local steward named Rick Arnes. The duke tossed him into prison right after the fire and started interrogating him, too, for the time being. Afterward, he was due for a visit to the Bright Saint, naturally.

  Rick had barely managed to save his family, but not himself. He wasn’t noble or anything, he had just been too late. At the moment, he was waiting for the end of the investigation and his execution. He was the one who explained to the girls what was what—about the necromancers who were supposed to be hated and the heirs from the princess and her sister-in-law. A thief and a bastard, he still wasn’t guilty of the fire. Thank the architect who made the cells open into the shared hallway. Thank the prison keepers who put Rick and Martha next to each other and opposite of Michelle. Both of them felt sorry for the princess.

  Michelle, however, stopped feeling sorry once and for all. Prison, torture, interrogation—all of that makes you lose faith in people. She might have been a bright light once, but now, she was a cold dark flame that could burn anyone who dared to touch it. Martha and Rick were the only ones who could warm themselves near that fire. How could it hurt them? They were barely better off. They had already been singed. And those three didn’t want to take mercy on anybody else.

  The pigeon arrived on the twelfth day, the messengers, on the sixteenth. After reading the letter, Uncle was pale-green with fear. The princess was let out of prison, washed, her wounds dressed. Her every desire was catered to.

  And she did have a few. Martha was released from her cell and appointed as the princess’ personal maid. Rick became a lackey. That’s what they called it, at least. In essence, both were her faithful hounds who could tear out the throat of anybody who meant her harm. And Michelle was prepared to go through hell and high water for them, too. Rick also recommended another man to the princess—a bastard son of the previous Duke of Miellen, Henry. I’d call him a jack of hearts. After his father’s death, he had been exiled from court and stripped of all his property, title, and lands...everything his legitimate brother could think of. Needless to say, he was not happy with that. And thus, a duke’s son became a highwayman. He started robbing travelers on the roads—and became very good at that. All the duke could do was grit his teeth until they ground off.

  As it happens, the gentleman robber got caught because of love, as tender and passionate as my uncle’s. Rick spotted him when he was climbing the window of his beloved. He turned up the heat on that gentle and sensitive lady, and she threw her lover under the cart—for a reward, naturally. Three thousand gold, I believe.

  She got a hundred at most, as an advance, before Rick was jailed himself. But that was before he could tell his liege about his newest captive—he had wanted to surprise him.

  Michelle listened to Rick, no questions asked. She ordered they bring Henry Miellen to her and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse—a title, land, and an appointment as her personal bodyguard. Henry was no fool. He knew what was awaiting him. Did he agree? That’s a stupid question.

  The captain of the guard, Rudolph’s flunky, couldn’t help but protest. Naturally, he didn’t want to be dismissed in favor of someone else, so he tried to make a scene. Why tried? Because he failed. Martha helped him, with a plain three-hour silence hex. She wished for his tongue to shrivel away, and it did. Still, Martha wasn’t that powerful, so the spell could only last for three hours.

  Afterward, the captain didn’t stop objecting. What could he do? Prince Rudolph never liked people smarter than himself. He went to complain about the necromancer girl, who had cursed him to mumble for three hours straight. The Prince turned on his sister. He said that she had released a criminal from prison, a witch and a necromancer, who had cursed his man; asked Michelle to send her to the cleansing fire before it was too late, or Michelle would stain her own soul. Stuff like that. Only, threats like that didn’t work against the princess anymore. She threw a tender look at her brother and the captain, who was hanging behind his back, bared her teeth, and asked, “Isn’t Martha as much of a necromancer as I am an arsonist? They love torturing innocents in this duchy far too much. I will not give anyone up. And you, brother of mine, would do well to think about what you are going to tell our father. Surely he’s very interested in the reasons for your actions.”

  Prince Rudolph turned red with anger. Meanwhile, the princess didn’t waste any time. She turned her gaze to the captain and said, “Captain, it is not right to badmouth a poor girl. Maybe your tongue didn’t work because of your spite? Still, you got lucky. They say the tongues of slanderers fall off for good. And their noses rot, as if from a horrible disease. Isn’t that right, Martha?”

  Martha stared at the prince and smiled, baring all forty of her teeth. “’Tis the honest truth,” she said. “Your Highness, the Bright Saint puts a mark on an evildoer. His nose rots, his tongue withers, his eyes leak out of their sockets...”

  And she used some of her power. A wave of cold spread throughout the room, driving both the prince and the captain away—quick and efficient.

  The next day, the royal party started on their way back. Michelle insisted on it, saying she would recover more quickly in her homeland. Nobody said out loud that Henry needed to get away from the duchy as fast as possible, Rick had family in Radenor, and Martha didn’t care about where she went as long as her friends were with her, but all of them knew that.

  That was the hand fate dealt—two queens, two jacks on one side, a jack of diamonds and a queen of diamonds on the other.

  On the road home, Abigail tried to get to Michelle, once, in an inn. She got more than enough, though. Martha asked her to wait a bit while her mistress had her braids done, and Abigail sat on a couch in a room. A dead rat crawled out from beneath it—a foul-smelling, half-decomposed creature—and started to climb her skirts, clearly aiming for her head.

  You could hear her shrieks from half a country away. Abigail took off from the room like a shot from a crossbow, losing the rat as she went. Michelle laughed until she cried, but made a serious face when her brother came to her. He repeated the entire tirade about her servant being a necromancer and a witch who should be burned. After all, it is a real blasphemy! Attacking his beloved wife, the mother of his heirs—how dare she!

  That made Michelle angry, furious, even. She carefully hid it, however, asking, in turn, for him to show her the proof. Or was there none? Then it was slander! Not to mention that rats, especially dead ones, were a sure sign of a guilty conscience. Are they plaguing her brother as well? After he had tortured his own sister, accusing her of a fratricide attempt? Prince Rudolph tried to put on a brave face but, confronted with the scathing looks of both Michelle and Martha, he couldn’t do a good job. He left with nothing.

  The rats, meanwhile, paid them occasional visits all the way to Radenor—dead ones, either corpses or skeletons, whatever they stumbled upon. Martha did her best. Even if she couldn’t raise a rat for long, it was enough for Rudolph. When they reached the capital, he looked noticeably thinner and more haggard. Those twenty days made Abigail look much worse, as well. Too bad they didn’t make her smarter, but you can’t create something out of nothing. I’m talking about brains, of course. Cunning and nastiness, now those she had in abundance.

  My grandfather, the father of Rudolp
h and Michelle, welcomed his children back in different ways. He treated Michelle with a lot of affection, showered Rick and Martha with titles, making them a baron and a baroness, affirmed all of Michelle’s promises to Henry, yelled at court healers so they’d help her recover, and then turned to his son.

  Grandfather gave him the tongue-lashing of his life. His only son turned out to be a rotten apple—sparkling armor and an empty head. How could he do that to his sister? Other people were doing their best to clean up their act, to spare their families any embarrassment, and he didn’t just dive headfirst into the dirt but dragged the others along as well. To torture a princess! Did he have at least half a brain? Bringing shame upon the whole kingdom just like that! Why would Michelle need to burn them all if she was to be married off to a foreign groom anyway, putting her rights to the throne up in the air? And who was going to marry her now? His son was a real imbecile. No doubt about that.

  Abigail got hers, too. What kind of mother was she if her children burned while she had no idea where they were? Probably sorted out her dresses first chance she could, leaving her little ones alone, even unattended! Why’d she need so many servants if they weren’t doing anything? She was no queen; she could wipe their snot herself! Hadn’t she shoveled dung back at home, eating white bread on holidays as a delicacy? There were lots of words about crowned whores there as well. All pure truth.

  Uncle finally blew up. He couldn’t bear being called Radenor’s premier cuckold. He swore to Grandfather never to set foot at court until his father’s death and slammed the door, leaving for the borderlands in self-imposed exile, not showing himself in public for a year and forgoing all jousts. Grandfather really rustled his feathers.