Blackest Spells

by Phipps, C. T.

  Finally, the desert offered scraggles of bushes and hints of life, and then, before she knew it, the Faraway Forest wrapped itself around her like a terrifying embrace.

  At first, she was thankful for the abundance the forest offered, enough food and water to sustain her a lifetime or more. Soon, however, she heard the scurrying of goblins around her. And after that, the guttural whisperings of the horrid things.

  “It sounds human,” said one.

  “It looks like a princess,” said another.

  “It smells delicious,” said a third.

  Alarmed, and with no more companions to protect her, the princess ran, the clicking of goblin claws behind her. Tree branches stunk her cheeks. Brambles tore at her legs. When at last she thought she would collapse and the goblins would take her, the trees gave way. Into a clearing she spilled, and the sounds of her pursuers halted as surely as if they’d found a wall.

  The princess turned, determined that if she was to die, she would do so facing her attackers.

  But none came.

  Their eyes glowed reds and greens in the shade of the trees but, like bats and beetles flitting at the edge of night, none dared pass into the clearing.

  When she was sure she was safe, the princess turned to continue on her way. The clearing, however, did not stretch far. Across its grass rose a tower of ivory so tall and so bright the princess could hardly look at it.

  “I have come,” she whispered.

  At the tower’s base, a sliver of darkness split the brilliant façade. A door, swung wide, inviting.

  Though the open door was surely a trap, the princess had traveled too long and too far to turn away now. With her pack slung over her shoulder, she entered the tower. It was as open as a cathedral. No corridors. No rooms. No fires burning to light the way. Yet light there was. And a staircase of white marble in the center rising clockwise up the tower.

  Up, up, up the princess climbed. For hours maybe. Or even days. At last, she reached a door at the top. At her touch, it swung open to reveal a throne room not unlike her father’s. In the center, however, upon the dais, stood not a throne but a great mirror, wide enough and tall enough to make the throne room appear twice its already vast size.

  And in the glass appeared the Witch Queen.

  The princess spun, expecting to face her foe, but she was alone in the cavernous room.

  Turning once more to the mirror, the princess was shocked to again see the image of the Witch Queen. Understanding came slowly at first, then all at once like a storm. The woman in the glass was not her nemesis at all.

  It was herself.

  She was no longer small. No longer a girl. She was a woman, and her resemblance to the Witch Queen, to the villain who had slain her father, was so unsettling she retched all her stomach had to disgorge.

  Then, beside her image in the glass, there appeared another. A twin.

  “I did not expect you to grow so beautiful,” the Witch Queen said, “daughter.”

  “I’m not your daughter,” the princess said, steeling herself against the glamour that must be causing this hallucination.

  “No? Who is your mother then?”

  “My father’s wife. The king’s wife.”

  “Which one?”

  The princess staggered as if she’d been struck.

  “It’s okay, child,” the Witch Queen said. “What we know and what we don’t is so often controlled by the men around us, is it not, Zahra? What, you’re surprised I know your name? Who do you think chose it?”

  “You’re a monster!”

  “Tut, daughter. I did not bring you here for insults.”

  “You didn’t bring me.”

  “Of course not.” The Witch Queen laughed. “It was your idea, wasn’t it? Yours and the little spider. The cursed prince. Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a king whose seed was weak, so he slew men by the thousands to make himself feel powerful. And when the battles were won and there was no one left to murder, he built a castle and took a wife. But still, no children could he sire. So, as men do, he blamed his wife and cursed her and cast her aside. He took a new wife. Then another. Decades crawled by with no heirs. His fourth wife, however, knew some magics, and she did for him what no other could. She bore him a child. A beautiful dark-haired girl.”

  “You lie,” the princess said, but her words were weak.

  “Not to you. Never to you. Now hear me. The king loved his daughter, but feared his wife and her magics, so he cursed his wife the way he had his previous brides. But this queen would accept no such a fate.”

  “What fate?” the princess asked, rage and fear mingling in her the way only truth can inspire.

  “He drank their lives until they were pliable husks of bones and regret. Crones to serve and raise his daughter.”

  The princess’s vision spun. The two women in the mirror warped and wrapped until only one remained. She turned away, and found herself face-to-face with the Witch Queen.

  “It can’t be,” she whispered.

  “It can, Zahra. And we can get our revenge.”

  “But the spider?”

  “The spider told you what I instructed. Oh yes, he was a prince once, and he hopes you will betray me and bring him his cauldron.”

  The Witch Queen motioned to a dark shape in the corner. The cauldron. A hope against death.

  “But now that we are united,” the Witch Queen went on, “perhaps I’ll forget my pact with the spider. Surely, he deserves his jilted lover’s curse. We could keep his cauldron, you and I. We could rule together, as we were meant. No king to own us. No men to control us.”

  On and on the Witch Queen went, speaking of liberty and power and glory, but the princess couldn’t accept such a tale of the king. Of her father.

  “I wish I had a sword to smite this evil bitch,” she whispered.

  At her words, her pack grew heavy. She reached in and found the thorn that had pricked her bag so long ago. Only the thorn had grown to the size of a sword.

  In a single motion, she drew the sword and plunged it into the Witch Queen’s belly. Through gown and flesh and organ and bone it slipped, like a sunbeam through soft clouds.

  “It bites!” the Witch Queen cried.

  The princess withdrew the sword, noting the streak of blood upon it, and a wind blew through the throne room. The Witch Queen collapsed so that only her brilliant gown remained crumpled on the floor. The princess lifted the gown and found beneath it a pile of dust.

  “I am no witch’s daughter,” she said.

  Came a second wind and blew away the dust. In its wake the mirror cracked so that a thousand broken princesses watched each other, glaring and vying for the center of the glass.

  The princess traded the remains of her crowning dress for the Witch Queen’s brilliant gown—it fit as if it had been made just for her—and with the cauldron in her pack, she left the tower.

  The journey home took far less time than she expected, the goblins and the swallowing sands and the stingbuzzes giving the princess wide berth. She arrived at the castle at dawn one morning when the dew was cool and refreshing.

  For her, the roses parted.

  No one greeted her. No candles were lit. Dust coated the floor. The air was thick and stale. Here and there, skeletons lounged as if they’d died at their posts many years ago, loyal subjects to the end.

  The princess continued deeper into the castle to the staircase. Up and up she ran to the throne room, worried too many years had passed in her absence, but there sat the crown atop the glass coffin, the king within, his chest rising and falling softly as if he’d only fallen asleep minutes ago.

  “You have returned,” the spider said from the crown, its voice so small the princess barely heard it.

  “And I have brought you this.” She produced the cauldron.

  “Quickly then, the Witch Queen’s blood. Then, when I am a prince once more, we can marry.”

  “My father first,” the princess said. “As you pro
mised, even before your own curse.”

  “As promised. Now, the blood.”

  The princess pulled the cauldron from her pack and set it beside the glass coffin. Next, she drew her sword and spit on the blade, wetting the blood streak, and wiped it into the cauldron. She backed away as the spider scrambled from the crown to the cauldron where it spoke words that made her stomach quease and her head swim.

  She kept herself, however, and went to the coffin and slid the glass cover aside. Upon her father’s chest, she laid her head. After a time, the king stirred.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  The princess sat up and looked upon her father’s open eyes for the first time in so many years. Eyes that widened in fear. Then hatred.

  “You,” he declared, as he tried to rise. “Witch. You have no claim on me.”

  And the princess—named Zahra by her mother—knew the truth. Of the king’s lies. Of the crones. Of the Witch Queen.

  With a gentle thrust, she slipped her sword between the king’s ribs.

  His eyes flashed. Then closed.

  “What have you done?” the spider shrieked.

  “He was a monster,” the princess said.

  She brought her foot down upon the spider. There was a cry. A crunch. Silence.

  She lifted her foot to find no prince at all. Only a broken arachnid.

  “He deserved his fate,” she said, though none but the dead remained in the castle to hear.

  Slowly, she took the crown and placed it on her brow. It fit. Next, she approached the dais and sank onto the throne. Her throne. For she was queen, and her subjects would love her unbending will.

  Shadow’s Promise

  By Matthew Johnson

  Rain poured into the flooded valley. At least a hundred and fifty feet of water covered all but the tallest tree tops. Thunder cracked, echoing through the valley, and lightning split the darkness. White fire scorched Hyman’s vision, leaving behind a thin cowl to cover the horror of bodies floating in the rising water. The air tasted metallic, hairs rising across his body and a faint smell of burnt flesh rose from the dead. Lightning struck the bodies, setting them ablaze for a few moments until the water doused them. Hyman had never seen anything like it. Standing on the ledge, a hundred yards from the ground, fifty from the rising water, he knew he had to live. To continue spreading word of the evil sorceries those women used and build the resistance, before it was too late.

  Nazglum’s whores! Songs were meant for praising the beauty of creation and not destroying it. These Singers were given power from the Lord of Shadows for spreading their legs to spawn darkness across the land. They gave their fractured souls for the wicked gifts that no mortal should wield. Only the Silent Men stood against them, to put an end to their songs and restore balance across Gaia as the Creator intended. Twenty thousand of which were now corpses floating in an unnatural lake.

  “What do we do now, Hyman?” Nathanael asked. The rain washed over the warrior’s long black hair, matting it to his neck and back of his chainmail. At sixteen name-days, Nathanael was the youngest of the remaining dozen spared the fate of their comrades—they were sent to spy the battle from the ledge and report on the enemy’s movement. Fear on Nathanael’s face made him appear much younger.

  “We climb,” Hyman said, looking up at the edge of the mountain. They couldn’t go back through the pass. It was choked with bodies and shattered evergrows. Twenty thousand good men, many of whom served with Hyman for many years, killed when the river suddenly diverted and they were unable to escape the onslaught of water. The vegetation had risen to create a giant green bowl, sealing off the valley basin. They had no warning, no chance to escape. Hyman and his men witnessed the evil spells defacing nature, twisting it to their will, from the ridge, but the rain kept on filling the valley, turning it into a lake of the dead.

  “Won’t we fall?” Nathanael asked.

  “Do you want to swim?” Hyman began unbuckling his armor. “Only two ways out of here. Up or down.”

  “I ain’t up for swimming with corpses,” Frey said, swiping blonde hair from his face. He gave Hyman a knowing wink and kicked off his boots. “Once in a lifetime is enough for me.”

  Lightning sizzled into the water, causing more corpses to jolt and smoke. The rest of the men began to strip off their gear, until they stood in sodden tunics and wool breeches. A disparaged looking group hanging their heads, unlike the bawdy men who entered the valley, drunk on the prospect of slaughtering Singer Sympathizers. The bait that seeded the trap was the report of one woman camped against the steep mountainsides. Robin, whispers swept through Silent Men’s outpost, the bringer of bad weather and cause of the rain storm. They said she would be an easy capture or kill. No escape for her, the scouts assured. The army of Silent Men quickly reached the Sympathizer’s camp, but when they arrived, Robin was nowhere to be seen. She had abandoned her soldiers to be slaughtered at the rocky bluffs. Or so they thought. Watching the action from above, Hyman and his troop of eleven saw the trap unfold. But it was too late. The cursed songs echoed around them, sealing the twenty thousand Silent Men into the valley and drowned them all.

  “Take it slow and easy,” Hyman said. Water sluiced off the rock’s face. Fingers found holes and he dug in, lifting himself over the precipice, and reached up, feeling for more finger holes. The rock didn’t crumble, but it wouldn’t be much longer and the water would soak through the porous sandstone. Waiting wasn’t an option. It was either climb a hundred yards straight up, or die.

  Hyman’s arms began to shake and his soaked clothes were a great weight, slowing him down. Halfway to the top, lightning flashed, striking the ledge where they’d stood. Men shouted as the rock exploded. One screamed as he fell, the terrifying sound dwindling the further the man dropped and then silence filled by a distant plunk sounding his watery end. Hyman pressed against the slick rock, eyes squeezed closed. More metallic taste and his bladder let loose, wetting his already soaked breeches.

  “Hold on,” he shouted, the white tendrils fading from his vision. He spoke more for himself than his men. The vision of his daughter’s face, small and as fragile as porcelain, asked, “When will you be back, daddy?” The cluster of freckles surrounding Hyrian’s button nose prominent under the midday sun. Her golden hair tied back in simple braids, making her blue eyes seem so huge, like puddles of water turned into bright, clear sky. “Soon,” he had told her, but the response was as satisfying as a grain of sugar when one craved sweets.

  Hyman’s fingers slipped, the nail on his left ring finger tearing away in bloody, hot pain. His left foot lost contact. Water ran over his right hand, down his arm and fell away into the night. He grunted, swinging his left arm up, and for a moment found only slick stone, no finger holes, just smooth, wind polished rock face. Fingers scrambled for anything. His right hand cramped and the slightest shift, marking the long, deep plunge into oblivion.

  This was not how he would end. He wouldn’t leave Hyrian fatherless, or his wife, Glorian, a widow to weep over an empty grave like the thousands lost below.

  Another shout signaled one more man lost his grip and plunged into death’s waiting maw. Hyman tried to block out the screams, but they were the cry of a dark spirit foretelling his own doom. Desperately he searched for hold, but couldn’t find one. His fingers were numb and he couldn’t feel the stone beneath them anymore.

  This is it! This is how I die. He cried out his frustration. A forgotten man in a forgotten land, a—

  To the left, a voice whispered in his ear.

  Splayed fingers scrambled along and the stone loosened under his right hand. His left gripped the rock, holding him up as the stone crumbled under his right. He grunted and pulled himself up, right arm slinging overhead and found more finger-holds. Reach and pull. Reach and pull. His life narrowed into the simple actions, when the holes ended, the rock crumbling away, Hyman’s existence would end. Tossed into a black, watery grave, like returning to the womb, though more shocking. It wasn’t
the death he’d imagined, but the imaginations of men were limited by his experiences. This was an experience he wished he’d dreamt rather than face in the wakened world. Reach and pull. Reach and pull, a snail slithering up the garden stonewall. Any moment death could sweep down and crush him. Reach and pull. Reach and—nothing. He glanced up, the rock grazing his cheek, drawing blood.

  The sky! A flash of lightning tossed among the clouds and he could almost stretch out a hand and pluck it from the air.

  Heart pulsing in his ears, Hyman reached over the jagged edge and, limbs trembling, dragged his body across the flat stone. He lay on his back and laughed. Rain poured across his face, filling his mouth and he drank it. Drank in life.

  “Alive! I’m alive!” He let out a loud shout, lost in the crash of thunder. “Dear Creator! I’m alive. Glorian, I’m coming!”

  Nazglum’s whores couldn’t kill him. The Lord of Shadows could shove them up his ass and shit them out sideways. Next time he saw Robin, he would tell her. Right before he cut her throat.

  “Help! Hyman!”

  He rolled over onto his side. A hand waved over the edge of the rock. More voices joined in..

  “Don’t know how much longer I can hold on.”

  “Rock is breaking apart.”

  “Get the fuck over before I toss you over.”

  Hyman slid across the wet rock on his belly. The hand dipped and he feared the boy had fallen. Then it shot up again, and Hyman caught hold of the fingers, and then the wrist.

  “I got you, Nathanael.” Though it felt like his muscles were tearing apart in his arm and shoulder, he began pulling the boy up. The boy was a boulder, the rain making Hyman’s grip tenuous and he began to slip. “Climb, boy! Pull for all you damn worth!”

  Hyman dug his elbows in and braced against being toppled over the side. He didn’t work so damn hard to survive just to be thrown off by some damn kid. Nathanael slipped, dragging Hyman forward, the skin tearing from his forearm. His head dangled over the precipice and he saw the terror in the boy’s face. Beneath him were eight other men, all staring up at him, rain washed faces watching and anticipating what will happen next. They leaned away from the dangling boy in case he fell. Beyond them was the dark waters.