Blackest Spells

by Phipps, C. T.

  He upheaved and spewed, whatever had been in his belly now forced its way back up.

  “Ignore him, first the others,” the bush said.

  “If you say so,” the bush answered.

  Drangar threw up again.

  “Money saved is money earned,” the bush muttered.

  Drangar vomited a third time.

  Water, he needed water, the taste in his mouth was beyond vile. Crawling to the trough he saw someone else had taken a midnight stroll to quench their thirst. “Whatta night,” he said, chuckling. “Not that I remember nothing.” He remembered Finnen, gloriously naked when he woke up.

  His hands cupped water, and the cold liquid trickled into Drangar’s mouth. He gargled and spat it out, repeated the process a few times to make sure not a drop of bile or booze or food remained. The smell of burnt corpses didn’t make things easy on both him and his stomach. Part of him felt hunger for pork, the other was disgusted that the smell of human flesh actually roused his appetite.

  A cool drink of water was surely bound to sate his craving. Only now did he notice that the one he was sharing the trough with hadn’t moved at all. Silly fucker, he thought, imagining what the bloke would feel like in the morning. “One sore muscle, his whole entire body,” he chuckled. It was a funny image, but these folks were his friends, his siblings—brethren. Taking pity on him, he decided to wake him up.

  A poke did nothing, so he shoved. The body slid off the trough and fell back-first onto the ground. Nothing. Just silence and immobility. “What the fuck?” Drangar muttered and stumbled over to the other side to wake the man.

  Shaking the other’s shoulders, he heard a slurping sound. Moonlight won over the low hanging clouds, and he looked into Tadc’s face. The older man’s eyes were wide, the gash in his throat even wider.

  Drangar stumbled to his feet, leapt back, and fell on his ass. Still, he scuttled backwards, his eyes never leaving the corpse. Someone had killed Tadc! He had to tell Finnen! He had to alert the others!

  Rushing back into the barn, he slipped as he reached where they had made their bed. Fumbling in the dark, he reached out to find her body slippery, pawing at her, his hands gliding up her belly over her breasts, to the gash in her throat.

  He heard a howl; a wail unlike anything made by man or beast, and realized it was him making those sounds. The world turned black.

  When he came to, he was lying in a ditch. The donkey—his donkey—was nibbling at his face. He was cold. Had all this been a dream? Tadc and Finnen couldn’t have been dead; he had just had too much to drink, that was all. Struggling to his feet, he noticed he was still naked. There were horses grazing in the field. They looked at him, once, and quickly decided their food was more interesting.

  “How the fuck did I get here?” he asked.

  The donkey’s heehaw was the only answer he got.

  Looking around, he saw the village in the east. “Must’ve walked out,” he muttered and began his trek back.

  When he reached the first house, he noticed the smell of burnt flesh again. “Have fun in the Halls of the Gods,” he muttered to the smoking pyre, then turned towards the entrance to the village.

  He took a step back, bumping into the donkey, stunned at a display of nightmares. The reeve’s head was on a spear, the weapon’s spike poking out of the bald pate. On the other side of the path opposite the reeve’s head stood the man’s body held up by more spears.

  “What the fuck?” Drangar breathed.

  A little further down a child of maybe five years lay bisected, the girl’s entrails looking like a grisly tether between legs and torso. There were others. Impaled, beheaded, dozens. One woman still clutched her infant child against her, both nailed to the wall by a sword. He saw Una, a look of terror chiseled into her face. Her throat was a mess.

  “How?” Drangar stuttered. “What?” he mumbled. He caught his reflection in a window and saw an image straight from his nightmares. This was no dream but him, caked in dried blood and mud. He looked at his hands, red. His arms were the same.

  His mind reeled. He couldn’t have! How could he have? The image of destruction showed quite clearly he had, but how? No, he refused to believe it. Didn’t want it to be true. But, deep down, he knew what had killed them, he knew. The deaths of Tadc and Finnen were no nightmare, either, but why. Why would he kill any of them?

  He found the trough and Tadc with the gaping cut in his throat. Inside the barn was Finnen, her throat a gash like Tadc’s. It wasn’t me, he told himself, it wasn’t me!

  “What am I?” Drangar asked. “A mindless beast? A vicious killer? Why?” He looked up at Lesganagh’s glowing orb, hidden behind slivers of cloud. “They say you blessed me. Please tell me, o Lord of Sun and War, how could I do this? Is this what I am? A killer? Is this all that I am? I beg you, please tell me. Am I just a killer?”

  He expected no answer. The cloud darkened the sun, leaving him in shadow. If Lesganagh said nothing, he knew where he might find answers.

  Drangar left the next morning. The village of Little Creek was now ablaze; its people and the mercenaries, his victims, burning alongside the houses and all that had made the place home to those who had died there. He wore his padded tunic, Tuaghal’s chain mail, his cloak, and rode the mercenary’s horse.

  Thirty golden suns lay heavy in his money bag, they had done the job, had defeated the brigands. This was the money they all had earned. His share, four gold, he would keep; the rest would go to the families of the deceased. As for the valuables in the other bag—he would donate those to a temple of Eanaigh, maybe it would do some good there.

  “I’ve come to prove myself worthy of your services,” Drangar explained to the statue for the fifth time.

  Finally, the thing moved its head and regarded him. “Why?”

  At last the dwarf responded. “I need to know if I am worthy… if I’m worth anything at all.”

  “The Place of Contemplation is to prove whether you want our craft for yourself, if you will honor it, and if you are worthy. This is the contract between dwarves and gods. If mortals want our work, they must prove their worth. Leave your belongings here, only your clothing is permitted. Then enter.” The dwarf pointed at the hole in the far side of the wall.

  “And then?” Drangar asked.

  “You shall contemplate,” the dwarf answered, turning away.

  Asking anything else seemed pointless. This was the first time this dwarf had spoken more than the one question it had asked at the beginning of each day. “Why are you here?”

  He slipped out of his cloak, dropped weapons belt and money bag, and left them lying where he stood. Then he walked through the hole, and entered a luminescent room. Its smooth walls reflected the glow that seemed to come from underneath the floor. Both floor and walls were of a greenish hue. Drangar had no knowledge of stones, would’ve called any kind of rock just that.

  He was alone, in an empty room.

  Writing appeared on the wall opposite the door.

  “Who are you?”

  “Drangar Ralchanh,” he said.

  “What do you want?”

  “Listen, I already told that fellow outside…”

  The writing changed. “Who are you?”

  “Is this a joke?” he asked. “Fucking Scales.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Drangar Ralchanh.”

  Time passed. There was food when he needed it, water too. And every day he stood before the asking wall, wondering if it would ask anything else. The more he spoke his name, the more wrong it felt. Ralchanh, the name of a mother he did not know, the name of a father he didn’t know either. Who was he? How did he get here? Why was he here? What did he want to live for? Where would he go? Would he sell his honor to the highest bidder? Or would he stand for justice?

  The questions were varied yet still the same. Sometimes he was left with his thoughts, staring at the wall, waiting for it to ask.

  How long had he been there? His beard said a good long whi
le, fingernails and toenails said the same.

  He woke, stared at the wall.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Drangar Ralgon,” he muttered. Where the name had come from he didn’t know. It just felt right.

  “What do you want?”

  “To be a better man. To atone for Little Creek.”

  “You are worthy.”

  Cookies for the Gentleman

  By C. T. Phipps

  I live alone. I had a wife, once, her name was Rebecca. You wouldn’t remember her, even though she lived right next door to you. You see, she never lived next door to you. Not now. Not ever. One day, you woke up and the next-door neighbors you remember lived there and had always lived there. You don’t remember talking with Rebecca, gossiping with her, or the fact she asked you to our wedding.

  That’s because the Gentleman took her. I see him every night, usually when I can’t sleep. I walk out to the window of my apartment and stare out into the parking lot. There, he’s always standing perfectly still. I would say he’s looking at me but he doesn’t have any eyes. At least, eyes I can see. No, instead there are only shadows where his face should be and too many arms where humans have too. He dresses well, in a suit I’m sure someone gave him, but I’ve never seen his feet.

  Sometimes, when I go to sleep, I can hear the Gentleman crawling around my room. He’s too tall for it, you see, standing half again as tall as a man and he must slouch over. That doesn’t prevent him from moving through cracks and stepping through walls. He plays with my cat, Whiskers, who can see him like me and doesn’t seem the least bit afraid.

  I wish I wasn’t. It’s rude and I’m always worried he’s going to take offense but it’s hard not to be afraid. The Gentleman’s shadow brushing up against you makes you unable to move, your hands shaking palms sweaty, and your mouth dry.

  I used to be scared of nothing, happy to spit in the face of men twice my size and never losing a fight. That was before I lost half my weight and I ceased to ever sleep completely. He’s waiting for me in my dreams too, you know. I won’t tell you about what he does there, though it’s nothing un-gentlemanly. It’s just he might hear and decide to visit yours too.

  The proper thing is to remember the Gentleman is lonely and the best thing to do is be polite. He doesn’t speak, I don’t think he has a mouth or a tongue or vocal chords as we know them. However, he understands. Don’t scream at him, threaten him, or insult him. I made the mistake of doing that when he first showed up in my apartment. I didn’t realize it was his and everything which resided in it belonged to him.

  That’s when he took my parents.

  Now-now, I know you’re going to say that my parents died when I was very young. They disappeared in a fire and I was moved from foster home to foster home. That’s the thing, though, I met with them just a day’s prior. They were speaking about my baby brother and how very proud of him they were. It turns out he was never born. The Gentleman left me a picture of him, though, and sometimes brings him to visit.

  My brother has no eyes or tongue anymore, only shadows. I think he’s happier where he is now.

  Now, you can imagine my reaction to all of this. I panicked and pitched a fit, calling the police, the National Guard, the exorcist, and even professors of the occult. Funny thing, no one could remember doing any of that within minutes of me doing it. My wife believed, though, perhaps because the Gentleman let her remember my parents. We decided we’d rabbit for the state lines and go as far West as we could go.

  Too bad the Gentleman decided we weren’t allowed to leave. I won’t tell you what he did to us but there are other places. Merciful God, if merciful he is, has wiped my mind of the majority of the sights I saw but in the corner of my eye I still see the terrible place of all-corners that’s all around us. The place where the things which mustn’t be and never were stay and I WILL NOT TALK ABOUT IT ANYMORE.

  Ahem.

  The thing is that the Gentleman only wanted to be loved and I was foolish not to realize that. My wife, on the other hand, comprehended it first. She was foolish about it, though, cutting open poor Whiskers and tossing her parts about around the room. I think she must have read it in a book that people like the Gentleman appreciated animal sacrifice.

  They don’t.

  I still see my wife every day in the bathroom mirror. I don’t know if she’s actually behind the reflection like Alice or whether whatever was done to her burned an image inside it. She doesn’t move, though, only occasionally opens her mouth as if she’s trying to say something but can’t make it out. Sometimes, I think about asking the Gentleman for her back. I don’t think that’s a good idea, not since he so dearly loves Whiskers. He was nice enough to return Whiskers to life.

  The worst punishment, though, was when I decided to escape the Gentleman the only way I knew how. I tossed myself off the top of our building and hoped to God that I would end up in Hell because surely that would be better than the apartment belonging to the Gentleman. I landed in my apartment, the Gentleman waiting for me.

  There is a worse punishment than even the place I WILL NOT SPEAK ABOUT, at least for good Christian folk. A punishment I am even now living and would warn you about, if not for the fact that all will become clear in time.

  In the end, knowing I could never escape the Gentleman and that I had been a terribly rude man, I remembered a story of my grandmother. She was from Appalachia, you see, where stories were passed down from mother to daughter straight from Scotland where people came from looking for a new life. All that’s forgotten now, replaced with strip malls and gas stations, but she remembered the stories. The stories she’d shared with me.

  Oh, I don’t know if the Gentleman was a sluagh or a wizard, but I remembered the tales. The frightening ones she used to share with me when she babysat, where princesses had their feet cut off for dancing in their glen and peasants’ eyes were ripped out for seeing too much.

  For a bit of sour milk and some treats, the supernatural would leave you alone for a time. They wouldn’t rip your babies from their cribs and leave someone else in their place, they wouldn’t skin your husband alive and wear them like a suit, nor would they take you away to the Unspeakable Place. So, I needed to bake cookies for the Gentleman.

  Oh, you have no idea what fear and trepidation accompanied this perverse realization. No child hoped to bribe Santa Clause or placate the monster under the bed than I had the terrified realization this was the only way I could get the Gentleman to spare me further torment.

  I was not afraid of death, indeed were suicide a possibility I would have welcomed it even then, but the thought of being forced to do my ‘penance’ was sanity tearing. I hoped, foolishly, that if I managed to placate my new master that he would not make me go through the horrible thing he’d forced upon me.

  I’m sure you must think me quite mad or a great liar. Indeed, by the look on your face, I suspect you are already thinking of calling the police or at the very least asking me to leave. A part of you, however small, thinks I’m either telling the truth or more likely deranged enough to believe I am. You possibly think I’m violent. I beg you, however, indulge me a few more minutes. I do not have any ill-intentions to you or your household.

  I swear by him. Now where was I? Oh yes, cookies.

  The belief that cookies, sugary crumbly pieces of baked flour, could set me free from the hands of a being able to dance between the spaces of God’s own kingdom was a mad-mad thought but one I latched on with force beyond measure.

  Unfortunately, acquiring them wasn’t as easy as it sounds. I had never been a baker and knew precious little about the kitchen my apartment contained. My wife and I subsisted on take-out and sandwiches, ignoring the fineries of the culinary arts.

  I also knew, perhaps instinctually perhaps because nothing could be so easy, store-bought cookies would only enrage the Gentleman. Given his earlier actions towards me were spurred on by only, I think, mild irritation, I did not have any desire to test the being’s patien
ce further. No, I would have to master the art of cookie making on my own and create such a spectacular confection as to delight the taste buds of a creature with no mouth.

  The Gentleman was kind enough to let me out of the apartment for this journey, perhaps sensing I was to make him an offering he’d appreciate. For the past week, I’d been trapped in my apartment with the door to the outside leading to my bathroom and the windows opening up to an apartment identical to my own.

  Several times, even, I caught a glimpse of myself entering said apartment only to look over at me as I looked over at him. I feel for my doppelganger and occasionally wonder what he did to incur the wrath of the Gentleman but we were discussing my inability to make a decent tasty treat.

  Oh, the desperation at the grocery store counter when I realized my escapades had drained my finances dry. I had not been to work in almost a month and overdue bills had long since obliterated my meager savings. At the grocery store counter, I considered killing the woman behind and making away with my supplies before I remembered there was still a little money left on my credit card.

  I didn’t want to do her harm, of course, but hope is a more dangerous beast than despair. A man who despairs cannot be harmed and, truth be told, I wish I’d fallen to it completely. Unfortunately, I saw an escape and that makes monsters of all us. Whatever the case, I bought enough supplies to bake cookies for an army.

  Ugh, you should have tasted the first of my creations. Vile disgusting things with too much sugar and burnt from top to bottom. I spent hours retrying the recipe, reading through the literally dozens of cookbooks I’d checked out of the library as if they were sacred scripture and trying them all. Several times I threw up, having not eaten in days only to fill my belly with sweet but nutrition-less confections.

  I didn’t sleep for almost two days until I came up with something I believed which would satisfy the Gentleman. It was hubris, of course, a madness shared by Perseus and other great heroes who thought they could walk amongst the gods without being struck down.