Blood and Betrayal

by S. K. Sayari

  Despite how badly she wanted to devour the ration, her duty came first. She had always known that sacrifices would be necessary when the clan had named her chief after her father’s death. Perhaps her mentality was why they had chosen her as opposed to Soren, who was three years her senior.

  Soren.

  The clan had begun moving northwest, away from the Scourge, three days ago. It had now been ten days since Solveig’s brother had gone to fend off the Witch-Dragon, and her heart was full with needles of worry. She wondered if he was hiding or fighting, whether he was safe or hurt.

  Elmir grinned toothily, snapping Solveig out of her thoughts. He gulped down the water as Solveig poured it into his mouth. When he was finished, she patted him on the head, and then he took off running.

  “Is that everyone?” Solveig asked, scanning the others. Weary faces nodded back at her. “Good—then let’s keep going. We will rest once again at nightfall.”

  A horn sounded, and Solveig’s heart danced in her chest as she spun on her heel. Three camels appeared from the side of a dune, two loaded with sacks and satchels, the third bearing a woman who radiated Light itself.

  The Lightbringer.

  When the Lightbringer descended from her camel, Solveig threw her arms around her. She smelled of the cacti flowers that were woven into her auburn hair, and the smell made Solveig warm inside.

  “I’m glad you were able to find us with your Light, Mother. I’ve missed you!”

  “And I you, my child.” The Lightbringer raised her hands to Solveig’s cheeks, softly stroking them with her thumbs. “You’ve taken care of the people so well. You’re a fine chieftain.”

  “One day I’ll pass the role to Soren. I want to be a Lightbringer, like you.”

  Darkness flitted across her mother’s eyes. “You will not become a Lightbringer.”

  “Why not?” huffed Solveig. “You help the people, too, by warding away the Scourge whenever it turns the sands dark. If I can help you in any way, I will.”

  The Lightbringer hesitated. A smile touched her lips, and she kissed Solveig’s forehead. “My dear, sweet child. All life bears a signature—one that I am able to sense. But your brother’s…is strange. I cannot sense him—, save for that he is in distress. Where is he?”

  “Soren…Soren went to battle the Witch-Dragon.” Solveig raised a hand to her chin, biting her lip. “He really thinks he can drive it away with his ‘magic’ and ‘deduction.’ I’m just worried about him. I wish he’d never gone.”

  Solveig’s mother flinched and swayed, her head snapping east. Solveig looked in that direction—that was the way to Soren. Her mother must have sensed the Witch-Dragon, she thought, prickles running up her spine. The Lightbringer lowered her hands, arms trembling at her sides.

  “What is it, Mother? Did I say something wrong?”

  “N-no.… I must go. Soren…my son. I need to…” The Lightbringer rubbed her right wrist, then smiled at Solveig. The gesture did not reach her eyes as it usually did. “I’ll be back, my love.”

  Solveig stepped forward. “Do you want me to come with—”

  “No!” shouted her mother, voice cracking, before she cleared her throat. “No, stay with the people. They need you.”

  With a slow nod, Solveig stepped aside, and her mother rushed back toward the camels. Throwing herself on one’s back, she snapped the reins, ushering the camel into a gallop. Solveig shook her head, tempted to follow. With a sigh, she brought the remaining camels to the heart of the camp and removed the goods slung on to their backs. Food, clothing, and water.

  She glanced southward. The darkness was close now, the stench of rot and mire threatening to overpower her senses. The clan would have to flee soon.

  Solveig sighed yet again and clenched her fists. One day, she would herald the Light.

  One day, she would become a Lightbringer.

  Soren and their mother returned to the new camp the next morning. The Lightbringer’s eyes were dull, her hair a mess, her clothing torn. Soren’s cheeks were more depressed than usual, his posture rigid and his movement stiff.

  Solveig ran toward the two, kicking up a flurry of sand in her wake. “What happened? Did you fight the Witch-Dragon?”

  The two nodded, silent. Solveig swallowed. It was unlike Soren to be so dreary, and even more unlike their mother to look so tired. Something had happened, but Solveig didn’t want to push them too hard for details. Details could wait.

  “If either of you need to, rest up. We need to leave this part of the desert soon. I’m sure the Witch-Dragon is recouping, and when it heals, it will come for us.”

  “Hey, Sol,” said Soren, kicking at the sand. “I, uh, need to speak with you.”

  “About what?” asked Solveig and their mother in unison.

  Soren smiled, the lines deep around his mouth. He never smiled, and Solveig wondered if the battle with the Witch-Dragon had sent him mad. “Just to apologize for my rash actions.”

  Solveig tilted her head to the side. Rash actions? Did he mean how he had decided to face the Witch-Dragon alone?

  “Finally, my son is learning respect.” Their mother chuckled, then grimaced. “I am weary. I must rest.… Should either of you need me, I’ll be in my tent.”

  Soren stood as still as a rock until their mother was gone from sight. Solveig tapped her fingers on her thighs, curiosity coursing through her body. “Well? What did you want to apologize for? We need to start—”

  “Come with me.” Soren grabbed her by the shoulder, his grip as cold as the desert night and as strong as the day’s heat. “Quickly. Quickly!”

  She protested as Soren led her past the tents, not stopping his course until nothing but sand was in sight. Solveig crossed her arms and clicked her tongue in irritation. Why in the world had he dragged her away from camp? “What is it?”

  “I saw something,” he whispered, his face ashen.

  The expression sent spirals of fear through her mind. “What?”

  He sucked in a deep breath. “I managed to wound the Witch-Dragon on its foreleg. A paltry wound that’ll heal over time, considering it’s immortal, but…”

  “But?”

  “Mother has a wound on her right wrist.”

  Solveig raised her hands in a questioning gesture, though something scratched at her mind. An inkling—but of what, she didn’t know. “And?”

  “It’s the same shape as the wound I caused on the Witch-Dragon’s foreleg…its right one, at that.”

  Solveig’s fear turned to red-hot anger. “Just what are you implying? She’s our mother! She raised us!” she snarled, fire coursing through her veins. “The Lightbringer is the only one who can combat the Scourge and the Witch-Dragon. Her Light is everything to us!”

  “I’m not implying—” began Soren, his eyes guarded, his lips trembling. “I’m simply telling you what I saw. The rest is up to you…Chief.”

  Solveig opened her mouth to retort, but Soren was already marching back to camp. She shuddered, her breaths ragged, and then she fell to her knees.

  Nothing made sense.

  Solveig avoided eye-contact with her mother, fiddling with the hilt of her dagger. It had been but hours since Soren had told her what he’d seen, and already doubts wormed through her mind like maggots, corrupting every image of the Lightbringer she had in her head.

  What could it mean, that the Witch-Dragon and her mother had the same wound? Coincidence, perhaps. It had to be coincidence. Solveig couldn’t think—or perhaps wouldn’t think—of anything more, nor anything less.

  She jumped, letting out a yelp, when someone gripped her shoulder.

  The Lightbringer smiled at Solveig, tilting her head to the side. “It is time for us to travel far away, my sweet daughter. The Witch-Dragon approaches; we could only stave it off for a short amount of time. We must tuck our tails and flee.”

  Solveig ground her teeth together. A dull throb pierced her forehead, and every breath she took reeked of cacti flowers. “No.”

>   The Lightbringer blinked. “What?”

  “I said no. I will battle the Witch-Dragon.”

  Her mother jerked as if she’d been slapped, spreading her arms. “You cannot!”

  “Why not?” challenged Solveig, narrowing her eyes.

  “Because you are not a Lightbringer.” Her mother smiled and raised her hands to Solveig’s face, but Solveig turned her head away.

  The gesture had once soothed her soul. Now, it raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She cast her gaze toward the Lightbringer’s right wrist—but it was covered in cloth.

  Solveig sucked in a deep breath, raising her chin. “Then you shall come with me.”

  Her mother’s smile faltered, darkness flashing across her eyes, but only for a moment. “Very well, Lady Chieftain. I shall accompany you to battle the Witch-Dragon of Barasthar.”

  “Good. Bring Soren too.”

  The Lightbringer nodded, deliberate and slow, before she stepped back, allowing Solveig to pass. The chieftain shouted orders, and the clan scrambled to the ready, gathering their supplies and beginning the march west. Solveig’s fingers trembled at her sides, her flesh crawling. She would find out the truth.

  Or die trying.

  The Lightbringer was quiet. Eerily so. She lowered her head, her illuminated robes rustling in the gentle breeze that brought with it the stench of death. Solveig stood to her right, and Soren to her left. Solveig couldn’t help that her gaze kept slipping to the Lightbringer’s right wrist, even though it was still covered. Her mouth was dry with fear, or anticipation, or perhaps both.

  Light had barely begun to tip over the horizon, but it was enough for her to see the tar-like sphere in the sky, now hovering above their abandoned camp. It dripped, the mire sizzling as it hit the sand.

  The Scourge contorted and expanded into a black maw, churning and twisting. It pulsed as if alive, and three creatures oozed out of its core, falling to the desert sand. The creatures would have resembled humans were it not for their rot-riddled forms, their skin peeling as bones jutted out at odd angles. Where they stepped, the sand turned black and steamed, as if it were smouldering.

  Solveig pushed down her urge to retch at the acrid stench of burning sand. “We have to deal with these abominations first. Come, Soren!”

  Drawing her dagger, she bared her teeth at the Scourgelings. They uttered guttural laughs in return, striding toward her. Beside her, Soren raised a hand, purple mist oozing from his skin. The Scourgelings burst apart as the mist made contact—but more kept falling from the pulsing sphere.

  Solveig slashed and whirled, the Scourgelings barely faltering at her strikes. She gritted her teeth, leaping at another one of the dark creatures, but it lashed out with inhuman speed. Solveig stumbled, her breath catching in her chest.

  “Behind me!” shouted her mother, pushing Solveig to the side.

  Light pooled in her mother’s outthrust palm, spilling out toward the Scourgelings. They screamed and withered, turning to dust, and the Scourge shrank in size.

  Solveig’s heart rampaged in her chest, the maggots of doubt receding. Instead, a scathing guilt grew within the pit of her stomach. Her mother was Light. There was no way she would do anything to harm her people. And now Solveig had put her and Soren in danger, all because—

  A thudding stole her attention. As rhythmic as drumming, the thudding grew closer.

  A behemoth stalked over the dune, freezing her limbs with its gaze—piercing jet-black eyes, deep-set and reptilian, bored into her soul. Dark, rotting skin peeled away to reveal wasting muscle and black bones, as pitch-black as its long horns, deadly claws, and sharp teeth. The only things that weren’t black were the ribbons—scarlet satin tied around its horns, fluttering madly in the frenzied breeze. A Witch-Dragon. The Witch-Dragon.

  “Mother,” Solveig whispered, the dagger slipping from her grasp to thunk into the sand. “Mother, do something!”

  The Lightbringer opened her mouth, her lips trembling. “We must run!”

  Solveig nodded, backing away, but purple mist whirled on the wind, streaming toward the Witch-Dragon’s face. It howled, clawing at its eyes. The Lightbringer screamed.

  Her face was marred.

  Solveig’s vision went hazy, her breaths becoming ragged and heavy. Why? Why had her mother’s face been hurt too? Solveig wanted to scream, to cry, to rip her hair out one strand at a time. Nothing made sense!

  “They are tied together! Light and Dark are one!” shouted Soren, running toward her.

  Their mother shook her head, wringing her hands. “My daughter, don’t listen to your brother! I’m your mother! Help me—save me! You must run from the Witch-Dragon—you mustn’t—”

  “You lied to us this whole time. You betrayed me,” hissed Solveig.

  “I had to! The only way for me to wield the Light is to betroth the Darkness…. Do you really think I’d—”

  “I don’t know what to think!” screamed Solveig. The woman in front of her was no longer safe and kind and gentle.

  Soren grabbed at Solveig’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. “I’ll take care of this. Don’t worry, Sol.” He waved at their mother. “Mother…I’m sorry. This is for our people. This is for Sol.”

  The Lightbringer gasped as purple smoke touched her hand, singing it, and the Witch-Dragon snarled as well, its foreleg burnt.

  “You wretched traitor!” screamed their mother. “How dare you turn on me!”

  “If I kill you, our people will be free.” Solveig snatched her dagger from the sand, advancing on her mother. “If I kill you, we’ll be free!”

  Soren raised his hand back at the Witch-Dragon, battling the creature with his magic. Solveig spun on her heel, whipping her dagger at her mother’s face. The Lightbringer screamed as steel sliced flesh.

  “You are the traitor! I am your mother! I am the Lightbringer! I—”

  Solveig pounced, colliding with the Lightbringer. They rolled in the sand, her mother’s grip like a snakebite on Solveig’s throat. Solveig convulsed, her vision darkening as the Lightbringer’s grip tightened. Using the last of her strength, she slashed at her mother’s throat. Remembering the way her mother had always picked her up when she fell, sung her to sleep, and patched her wounds, Solveig’s heart shattered the moment the blade connected.

  Crimson spurted from the Lightbringer’s throat, and she choked, her hand slipping from Solveig’s neck. Solveig took a deep breath, her fingers shaking.

  The Witch-Dragon collapsed, its own throat dripping black blood, its breaths rattling. The Scourge twisted and writhed, growing smaller until it imploded. Soren fell to his knees, lowering his head.

  Solveig sobbed, stumbling to Soren, helping him to his feet. He was panting, his body quivering. “We did it, Soren. We…”

  The Witch-Dragon shuddered, rising once more, black flames licking its lips. The Witch-Dragon…how was it still moving? Solveig looked frantically to her mother’s still body, then back to the beast. Were they wrong about the Light and Dark being connected?

  Or was the Witch-Dragon stronger than the Lightbringer?

  It growled, low and guttural, and ice pierced Solveig’s heart. She grabbed Soren’s robes, dragging him away, but he was slow, exhausted.

  “Run, you fool!” Soren hissed. He lurched forward and Solveig ran after him, looking frantically over her shoulder. She couldn’t take her eyes off the Witch-Dragon as they scrambled up a dune, her mouth dry. With its dying breath, it breathed black flames that tumbled and sizzled as they ripped across the sand.

  The flames were unearthly, too fast. Solveig sobbed, faltering. They wouldn’t make it.

  She reached out, and Soren took her hand.

  Cursed In Blood

  Jay Rose

  Selena let go of the knife, propelling it from her hand and into the piece of wood a few paces away. She ignored the groans of men around her and picked up the second knife. All she needed was one more strike and victory was hers. The knife sat against her palm as though it belong
ed there. With a simple flick of her wrist, she threw the blade at its intended target and smiled when it hit the red circle.

  A perfect score.

  “Pay up.” Selena held out her hand to the man who’d challenged her.

  His face was grim as he counted out money from his wallet. None of the other patrons in the pub dared speak as he finished.

  Around her, smoke twisted and curled in the gloom. The patrons that weren’t watching the massacre were caught in their own conversations. A jukebox at the far end of the room played a fast and hard tempo, the rhythm on the verge of hypnotic.

  “I knew you were going to regret that challenge. Now she’s going to gloat.” Paul, the bartender, shook his head as he wiped a glass.

  “It’s what I do.” Selena shrugged, pulling herself from the music, and snatched her winnings out of the man’s outstretched hand. She gave a sigh of relief as she stuffed the bills in the pocket of her jeans. This would get her a few more nights at the motel. It wasn’t as luxurious as her former home, but staying there had brought too many memories, too much pain. The smell of blood and decay didn’t quite help matters either, and everywhere she went she was reminded of the one who had turned her into this beast. Her master.

  Her recent opponent pursed his lips and started to open his mouth before his friend grabbed his shoulder.

  “Are you willing to lose more money, Frank? Let it go.”

  “Listen to your boy.” Selena winked, waved to Paul, and left the man to gawk at her recent target.

  Outside, the moon peeked between the clouds, full and bright—which meant she had more work to do before retiring to the tiny room she called a home. She threw on her leather jacket, fending off the cold. This side of town was quiet tonight, save for the thump of music from the few pubs that littered the street. One of the lampposts flickered on, and she stuck her hands into her pockets.