by Sean Hinn
She walked to her bedchamber and worked her way out of her silken gown, the fine fabric yielding flesh reluctantly as she pulled it down over her supple form. Standing before her washtub, she felt the cool twilight air wafting gently against her exposed body from the open window. The tingle of raised bumps on her skin caused her to shiver slightly, but she enjoyed the feeling; the senses of the body had a way of distracting the mind. Waving her hands in an intricate pattern, she filled the tub with water in but a moment. In the next, a silent spell heated it to just the right temperature, not quite hot enough to burn, but only just. Breathing deeply, she then sent her will to the garden outside the window. Hundreds of flower petals in a variety of colors floated in through the window, fragrant aromas riding the currents of the minor spell, scenting the room with hints of jasmine, lilac, rose, and daffodil. The petals descended into the basin gently, imbuing the water with their fresh perfumes. Mila climbed into the steamy water slowly, the pleasurable sensation of intense heat gradually, exquisitely supplanting the chill of her skin as she sank into the basin. She closed her eyes, wanting nothing more than to empty her mind and savor the feeling, but the ghosts returned.
She decided to indulge them, lest they never leave. In Kehrlia, as she had undergone her training, she had done much she was not proud of. Yet she had forgiven herself those misdeeds; she had never caused serious harm to another, and in fairness, the environment was not conducive to virtue. The competition was fierce, and many of her peers would not have hesitated to kill, or even worse, if they thought it would improve their chances at graduation. Mila never allowed herself to cross that line, nor even to tread near it. Surely, she had been manipulative. She had relied on the allure of her beauty as much as her intelligence and cunning to succeed. Cunning as she was, she had not foreseen, however, that her discovery of Flightfluid would lead her to the path she now walked.
That was when everything had changed. Sartean had helped her complete the remaining trials of her fourth year in exchange for her promise to dedicate herself to the mass production of the potion upon graduation. She had agreed. She had no choice. She had no illusions about his intentions; she knew what Sartean was. But her refusal would have led to her expulsion, and that could not happen. From there, the slope became predictably more slippery. She could not extricate herself from her agreement with the wizard; she needed Kehrlia and its knowledge, or her life’s purpose would be for naught. And she could not maintain her principles while keeping that promise. As she saw the awful effects of her labors take root, she began to rationalize the harm she caused. She developed a habit of justifying her offenses, and the task became easier the more she practiced it. Necessary evils, she thought to herself for the hundredth time.
And for the hundredth time, the ghosts of her conscience whispered accusingly. That is when you became culpable. And surely it was. When she had seen that she was causing harm, and chose to continue to do so, even though she truly felt her purpose justified her actions, her guilt was enshrined. As she soaked in her perfumed tub, the idea came to her: While perhaps crucial ends could be said to justify malicious means, the stink of that malice is not so easily washed off.
A booming knock at the door interrupted her contemplation. Who in Tahr would dare visit me tonight? Mila sent her awareness through the door to see who disturbed her, so she could decide whether to bother answering the knock.
She smiled as she discovered the identity of her guest.
Curious, she mused. The wagon loader had impressed Mila during her first meeting with him, and continuously since. The bulky, simple man had proven himself a sharp contrast to those she had spent time with in Kehrlia; in fact, he was nothing like any man she had ever known. Immune to her advances, devoid of ambition, and clearly content with whatever task was set before him, Mila admired the man’s uncomplicated demeanor–among other things. She had spent more than one afternoon watching him work. His thick black mane of hair would fall loosely about the bulging muscles in his neck, muscles that would barely stretch or strain as he alone carried barrels that three ordinary men could scarcely lift. He worked tirelessly, without complaint, never uttering an unkind word to another. And he would have nothing to do with her potion, though he had been offered often enough.
It was that fact, more than any, that brought Mila shame when she thought of him. If a man of this caliber was turning his nose up at what was, to this point, her crowning intellectual accomplishment, it could be no accomplishment at all. Despite her attraction to the man, and the pleasant fantasies that accompanied her thoughts of him, Mila knew that it was likely his ubiquitous presence that had caused her to doubt herself of late. Yet, she was delighted he had come.
Mila smiled to herself. Perhaps a diversion is just what I need right now. She rose from the water and reached for her bathrobe, tying it loosely. With a thought, she opened the door to the farmhouse.
“Come in, Earl, join me for some wine,” she called.
Earl entered, peering around to see where the voice had come from. The farmhouse was small, having only a few rooms, but he did not feel comfortable wandering about to look for the sorceress.
“I’m in the doorway. Where are you?”
Mila laughed whimsically, deciding on a game. The farmhouse suddenly went black.
~Follow the light, Earl.~
The words came from within Earl’s mind. A tiny dot of white light appeared before his eyes, darting left and right, up and down, finally alighting on the tip of Earl’s nose. He swiped at it angrily.
“Dammit, woman, I did not come here for games.”
~Aw, come now, Earl, play with me just a bit, I have been so bored today. Follow my light.~
The glowing orb danced playfully before Earl as he considered simply walking out and leaving the sorceress to her darkened rooms. No, you came here for a reason, he reminded himself. Do what you came for.
~And what did you come for, Earl?~
“Get out of my head!”
~Not until you find me. Follow the light…~
Earl resigned himself to play her game, at least until he had said his piece. He walked towards the dancing orb, unable to see anything else at all. It cast no light nor shadow on the objects in the room, nor on himself, nor the floor or ceiling. The effect was disorienting, making it difficult for Earl to maintain his footing. He walked slowly towards the moving light, cautiously, sensing he had passed a doorway. He knocked a shin against a piece of furniture; it hurt awfully, but he stifled a groan.
~So strong, Earl. Follow the light, now…~
He continued slowly, arms out to avoid bumping into a wall. His fingers brushed another doorway, and the dancing light grew dimmer...dimmer…
The moist, full lips of Mila Felsin tasted his own. He did not immediately resist.
Mila broke the kiss and allowed the light to return gradually to the room. The sorceress was hovering a foot above the floor in her bedchambers, the levitation necessary to lift her mouth to Earl’s. Slowly, holding Earl’s gaze, she let herself drift to the floor.
“See, was that so bad?” she asked innocently, teasing a curl into her hair with her delicate fingers.
Earl steeled himself. “This is not why I came here.”
“Is it not?” she asked with a teasing smile. “Do my charms have no effect on you?”
Earl took a breath and stepped back. “I like the taste of a woman’s mouth as much as the next man,” he said. “But Mila, you are one wicked woman.”
Mila frowned. “Am I? Tell me, Earl,” she said as she walked past him from her bedchamber into her office. Earl followed. “What exactly do you know of me, and the kind of woman I am?” Her tone had grown colder, offended by the rejection. She pulled her robe more tightly closed and sat behind her desk, motioning for Earl to sit across from her.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Of course I am. Tell me.”
Earl sat, the wood of the chair creaking beneath his great frame. He considered whether to respon
d or to change the subject to the reason he came. Careful, Earl, he thought to himself. She might just burn you down if you say the wrong thing.
“I will not,” she said aloud.
Earl frowned. “Alright, since you asked, I will. For one, you’re a liar.”
“When have I lied to you?”
“Just now, when you said you would get out of my head if I played your damned game.”
Mila’s cheeks reddened. “I am sorry. You are right. It is a difficult habit to break.”
“And that says it all, right there. You’re in the habit of bustin’ your way into people’s heads, and that’s a damned wicked thing to do.”
Mila cocked an eyebrow at the man. “Tell me, Earl, if you had the power, would you not do the same? Would you not wish to know when you are being lied to, when you can trust another and when you cannot?”
Earl sneered. “I don’t need to creep into people’s heads with magic to know the answer to that one, Mila. I don’t trust anybody. And if you spend as much time as you claim reading other people’s thoughts, I’d guess you know why, better than anyone.”
Mila shrugged her agreement. “Well, I suppose you’re right about that.”
“So no, I wouldn’t want that kind of power. And if I had it, I’d wish I didn’t. Now let me ask you a question. What in Fury are you doing here?”
“Here, in this room?”
“No, Mila. Here, in the farmlands, making this damned poison.”
“Well…I wouldn’t exactly call it a poison–”
“Does it kill people?”
Mila stiffened.
“Well, does it?”
“No more than drink kills a drunk.”
Earl scoffed. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that. ’Cept I have a drink from time to time, and I ain’t dyin’. Can’t say the same about your potion. I seen the graves.”
Mila stood and began to pace behind her desk, visibly upset by the directness of the accusation. She turned to the man.
“Who are you to judge me, wagon loader? You have no idea why I do what I do.”
“Don’t need to. I can see the results. Can’t you?”
“Fool. You only see so much. You do not know my aims!”
Mila shook with anger. Earl knew she was beyond furious - but not at him. She was angry with herself. He could not read minds, but he knew people, and this was a woman who hated herself, hated what she had become. He decided to risk pressing further.
“You call me a wagon loader like it’s something bad, something I oughta be ashamed of. Lady, I load wood for building homes. I load coal, to heat those homes. I load hay and clay, to make bricks, to make walls around those homes. I load food, to feed the people in those homes. Now you think about that for a minute. I may just be some big bag of muscle, like you said today, but I’ll bet you right here, right now, that I done more good for the people of Mor than–”
“Stop.”
Earl eyed the sorceress. She was trembling.
“Please. Stop. I… I want you to leave.” Her voice lacked its usual command and confidence.
Earl did not move.
“Now! Leave! Get out!” Tears welled in the woman’s eyes.
Earl stood, reaching into his pocket. “Alright. But I came here to say something, and I’m gonna say it.”
“Say it and go.” Mila turned her back to the man.
“I’m leaving.” Mila heard the distinct sound of metal clink onto her desk. “That’s your crown. I don’t want it. I came here to tell you to your face because I don’t quit a job without sayin’ why. And now you know why.”
Ealr turned to leave. The room went dark.
Earl reached for the dagger at his waist. “Dammit, you said you wouldn’t–”
“Shut up,” Mila said. “Please, just shut up.”
Her meek tone made it clear that Mila did not intend him harm. He released the knife.
“Watch, and please do not speak,” she pleaded.
Earl stood passively as the vision swirled into clarity.
Small hands hold two beautifully crafted dolls between a young girl’s crossed legs. One in a dark cloak, a man. The other with curly golden hair, wearing a blue dress. The girl plays with the dolls, making them dance as she sings to them softly. In a nearby room, adults speak in hushed tones.
“She ain’t normal,” a man says. “She ain’t natural.”
“She’s our daughter,” a woman replies.
“I know. And you know I love her. More than the world. But she ain’t natural, and we ain’t gonna be able to hide it.”
“She is our daughter,” the woman repeats.
“Dammit, I know that! But I ain’t gonna let that Sardine Cadaver get his hands on her!”
“Quiet, damn you. You know better.”
“Yeah, well, to Fury with that one. We gotta leave, Millie. We gotta get outta Mor.”
“And go where?”
“I dunno. Maybe up north. Maybe we take her to the Grove…”
The girl begins another song, the dolls continue to dance. On their own. The girl moves her hands rhythmically above the twirling pair.
“And what, give her to the elves? She is our daughter, Shane!”
“I ain’t sayin that! But I dunno what else to do. What if she burns down the house next time?”
“It doesn’t matter where we live, Shane…”
The scene fades to blackness. Another replaces it.
The room is dark, but not black. The light of the Twins shines through a window, casting faint shadows across a pillow. A tiny hand reaches for a blanket.
A crash from another room. A scream.
The hand pulls the covers over. The scene goes black.
A malevolent voice spoke. “Are you surprised to see me, Shane?”
“Please… please leave Millie alone. Please, I beg you. I… I’ll do whatever you ask.”
“Oh, I know you will. But alas, dear Shane, our sins fall like rain on those around us.”
A woman’s cry cut short. A tearing sound, a splash. A man screams in horror. A blade is unsheathed.
“TO FURY WITH YOU, WIZARD-”
A whoosh of air, then silence.
The vision darkens to the sound of a child’s sobs, the next scene opening on a bedchamber. A small, trembling hand carries a lantern. Slumped on the floor, a woman’s headless body lies in a puddle of gore. The child screams. The lantern falls, a flash of fire. The vision fades to black.
The light returned to the room. Earl found Mila Felsin huddled in the corner, sobbing, her racking, tortured frame no longer appearing to Earl as that of a formidable sorceress, but rather of a tiny, horrified child. There was no doubt: this was the little girl whose eyes he had seen through. He was not convinced that the woman he had been speaking with a moment earlier deserved his pity, but what he saw before him was not that woman. His heart broke for her. He bent to the weeping girl, kneeling, wrapping her protectively in his powerful arms.
“Shh. Easy now, Mila.” Earl stroked her hair and wiped the dripping tears from her delicate cheeks. She did not resist him.
She spoke quietly, unsteadily through mournful moans. Earl could just make out her words.
“That is not my name.”
XV: BELGORNE
King Garne stood wearily at the foot of the cracked dais upon which the Sovereign sat, reading the names. The great seat no longer appeared to Garne as a testament to the glory of dwarven heroes past; it was now little more than a worn relic of a fallen kingdom.
The kingdom of Belgorne had fallen, into the depths of the mountain in which it stood. The entire northern matrix of tunnels that housed the dwarven population had fallen into the fiery abyss below; only those dwarves whose homes were nearest the central passages, or who dwelled with the army in the eastern barracks, had survived the cataclysm. Fully two-thirds of the dwarves of Belgorne were dead, gone, forever lost. Entire clans had been swallowed whole. Remarkably, cruelly, the devastation had been chiefly localized to the li
ving quarters. The royal chambers, Shan’s Hall, the forge, the smithies, the central markets, and the mines remained largely intact.
When General Brandaxe–or “Hatchet,” as many called him–had presented his report to King Garne, it had not been necessary to name the worst of the horrors, though Garne could think of nothing else as he stood with his back to the assembly. The children…there were simply no more children in Belgorne. A few, dozens at most, had survived. Many of those that did were injured, some critically, and most had been orphaned by the quake. And the women…the female population of Belgorne had been decimated. The dwarven army was composed mostly of male dwarves. The soldiery spent half of each cycle in the barracks, the other half in their homes. The sum of it was this: General Brandaxe’s report was not so much a casualty report as an estimated survivor count. A tenth of the women of Belgorne remained, approximately five thousand. Fewer than a quarter of the men had survived, not quite fifteen thousand. Of those, nine tenths were infantry. Few dwarves who possessed skills unrelated to warfare remained. The craft masters, the teachers, the bards, the stoneworkers… nearly all had been asleep in their homes, and would wake next in Stonarris.
In a typical royal assembly, King Garne would stand before the dais and remove the Axe of Belgorne he wore strapped to his back, handing it to his son J’arn, who would bear it until the king adjourned the session. In J’arn’s absence, the most senior dwarf present would serve as the King’s Second; in this case, Prince Dohr waited to receive it. The Second would hold the axe at the ready; if a threat presented itself, the king would descend the dais and the Second would toss the weapon to his liege, who would personally address the threat. Being the Second was a ceremonial duty, for no threat had ever presented itself in Shan’s Hall, but an important tradition nonetheless: unlike in other kingdoms, in Belgorne there was no king’s guard, no contingent of soldiers to protect those in the hall. The king was the guard; the king was that protection.
Yet on this day, King Garne did not relinquish his axe to the prince. He would not ascend the cracked and battered throne; he could not bear to. He no longer considered himself a worthy king. He had failed the people of Belgorne. Tears of guilt and sorrow washed thick channels of soot and dust from his lined face, collecting in his ashen beard.
