The Blessing of Equinox

by Kathryn Reynolds

  The demon screamed at him once again, and he screamed back in its face as it hobbled on a hamstrung leg to turn and face him. Beyond its horror, he could see Marsilia watching them from across the creek.

  Go, he silently urged her. Save your forest. Leave this to me; save yourself.

  But as he glanced again to her dark clad figure in the dwindling light, she did not depart. The demon screamed again, dark clouds pouring from its mouth and he hunkered down once more under his shield. In the distance, Marsilia knocked an arrow and began chanting. She raised her bow, higher and higher, aiming into the sky, and released.

  Lightning lit the valley and thunder shook the very earth below him. His lungs screamed for air and his eyes burned from the noxious cloud around him. The nuckelavee lashed out again, claws tearing at his already damaged shield. The wood began to splinter and crack further under the onslaught.

  Then the rain began. It was only a couple of drops at first. As they hit the demon’s body, it shrieked and recoiled, giving Fjell time to lurch to his feet and desperately gasp for air. A deluge followed those first drops, so sudden that it could not possibly be natural. Through the rain and the dying light of dusk, he could just make out Marsilia, arms raised, chanting at the sky.

  A grin tore across the dwarf’s face and he charged the screaming nuckelavee. His shoulder slammed into the demon’s chest, driving it back into the creek. As it thrashed and bellowed in agony, it began to dissolve, the rain and the swelling, rushing creek, washing it away.

  Chapter 9

  The rain eased down to a light sprinkle as Marsilia ended her incantation and lowered her arms, the majority of the storm’s strength spent. Fjell stood on the opposite side of the creek, watching as the final remnants of the nuckelavee washed away in the stream. As the last of the creature melted away, he looked up and met her with a fierce grin. She couldn’t help but smile with pride in return.

  “You’re alright?” she asked, glancing at his shattered shield.

  “Aye,” he said, still grinning from the victory. “Thanks to ye. That was a clever move.”

  He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

  The sun had fully set and darkness blanketed the hill behind him, further obscured by the rain. Yet as Marsilia followed his gaze, a deep unease settled upon her. The dark witch was still out there, even if she could not see the shadow creature now. The white witch only hoped that they could not be seen either.

  “Come on,” Fjell said, turning back and trudging through the stream. Unlatching the broken shield from his arm, he slung it over his back again. “We need to get inside before she sends something else down on our heads.”

  Marsilia turned to follow him as he trotted towards the base of the mountain. “But what about the deer?” she asked. “That was supposed to be our price to your king.”

  “We’ll figure something else out,” he answered without looking back. “I wouldn’t trust it now. The damned kerling could have corrupted it, and ye don’t want to risk giving that to the king.”

  “Alright,” she sighed.

  The adrenaline from the fight was beginning to wear off. Even as she jogged after Fjell, she began to shiver from the wet and cold. Her hair was plastered to her head, dripping down her face. Her linen dress clung to her legs, making the attempt to keep up with the long-legged dwarf very difficult. The last of the sun’s faint light faded under the growing clouds. It took only a moment for her to lose him in the dark.

  Slowing her gate, the witch stared into the darkness before her. “Fjell?” she called tentatively, raising a hand to the beads still hanging around her neck.

  “Over here,” he answered from somewhere ahead of her.

  Frowning, she continued to make her way forward more carefully. Rocks jutted out of the ground and she felt her way around them, barely able to make their shapes out. A hand touched hers lightly and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “I forget ye humans can’t much see in the dark,” Fjell said beside her and she gave him a very irritated look. Though she couldn’t see his face, just a vague outline of his form, she could certainly hear his chuckle. “I’ll guide ye.”

  Taking her hand gently in his, Fjell began to pull her along. She couldn’t help but think of how useless she would have been if he’d fallen to the nuckelavee. With no clue where the entrance to his mountain actually was, nor able to see even if she knew, she would have been stuck out in the rain with the dark witch still hunting.

  As if that thought was a cue, pain erupted from her shoulder as a force knocked her forward, her hand breaking away from Fjell’s as she tumbled. She caught a glimpse of light beginning to glow behind them, illuminating the dwarf’s face as he looked back at her in surprise. He lunged forward, catching her just before she hit the ground, and they both looked back to the source of light.

  The shadowy dark witch stood at the creek, facing them, and fire was climbing up her arms. In the light of that fire, Marsilia could just make out the face of a middle-aged woman, her gaze set in fury and hate so deep there could be no humanity found. The kerling raised her hands to either side and let forth a scream that would have deafened the demon she had sent before.

  “Fanden,” Fjell cursed, his eyes beginning to glow gold.

  Without any warning, he scooped Marsilia up in his arms and began sprinting towards the mountain. The pain in her shoulder pulsed with each jolt of his run, but she ignored it., She watched over his shoulder with mounting fear as the fire grew bigger and brighter around the dark witch. The beads around her neck began to warm.

  “Fjell,” she said, her voice rising in warning.

  “There!” he replied.

  She jerked her gaze forward. The glowing line of a door began to brighten, opening slowly from the darkness. They closed in on it and she looked back to the dark witch again. Fire poured forth from the shadowed figure, lashing out across the ground and racing towards them.

  Marsilia tried to reach up to the clouds once more, tried to call upon their rain again, but there wasn’t enough power left in the storm. The flames were nearly lapping at Fjell’s heels when they burst through the entrance. Reaching up, he jerked the necklace over her head and tossed it down the hall. The stone door slammed shut behind them, snuffing the trail of fire following them and plunging the hall into utter blackness.

  Fjell slowly lowered her to the ground and the two held their breath, listening at the door. Distantly, she could hear the fire roaring against the stone. After a long moment, it faded and only silence remained.

  “Are ye injured?” Fjell finally asked from beside her.

  “My shoulder,” she answered, reaching back to touch it. The cloth there remained unsinged, but the area ached. “I need some light.”

  “Wait here,” he answered.

  His footsteps retreated down the stone hall for a long moment, pausing once before continuing. Marsilia stood in silent darkness, shivering from the damp cold, from the pain throbbing across her shoulder. Far down the hall, a door opened and the warm light of a fire silhouetted the dwarf. He turned back to her, his eyes glowing gold once more.

  Taking a deep breath of relief, she began to make her way towards him. The complete darkness of the hall after their fights and pursuits had been oppressive, and the warmth of that doorway was a welcome invitation.

  She made it halfway down the hall before dizziness took her. The glowing doorway before her tilted and swam. Her breath caught as she felt the world begin to spin, and she found herself on the ground, her bow clattering across the stone floor as she sprawled.

  * * *

  “Marsilia!” Fjell called in shock as the witch collapsed. He sprinted back down the hall, dropping to his knees beside her. “Marsilia,” he repeated, rolling her over. “Are ye—”

  Her fur stole fell away from her shoulder and he sucked in a sharp breath. Grey stone grew out from under her gown, covering the skin around her shoulder and creeping up her neck. As he watched, it edged up a fraction more.


  “I’m just dizzy,” she slurred, eyes drooping. “Probably need to eat…”

  “Yer a bit worse off than that,” he answered, scooping her up in his arms once more, careful not to jostle the growing stoneskin. “Ye’ve been cursed, Marsilia. I need ye to stay with me, tell me what to do.”

  “Cursed?” she asked, confused, resting her head against his shoulder. “No, it was just a bruise.”

  “Yer skin is turning to stone,” he answered flatly as he entered the main chamber of his home. “Do ye know how to stop it?”

  She didn’t answer, and he glanced down to find her asleep against his shoulder. Cursing under his breath, he moved back to the bed chamber. It was a simple matter - a rack hung with his clothes, a fireplace in the corner, a bench for dressing, and a stone slab raised against the wall to serve as a bed. The bed was piled high with thick furs and pelts. Gently, he laid her down on them, then patted her cheek softly. His hand was nearly the size of her face and in that moment, she looked so painfully fragile.

  “Marsilia, come on, wake up,” he said sternly, pushing down the panic welling in his chest. “I need ye to tell me how to treat a curse.”

  Her eyes fluttered, half opening. “What curse,” she muttered, her gaze shifting in and out of focus.

  “Skin turning to grey stone; loss of consciousness,” he answered as precisely as he could. “Do ye have a potion? Herbs? What should I do?”

  Her hand moved, fumbling weakly at the pouch at her side. He moved her hand aside and opened the pouch. “What am I looking for?”

  “Black bottle,” she muttered, her eyes drifting shut again. “Rub the oil in and… say the spell…”

  Fanden. Digging in the bag, he found a small black bottle and held it up before her. “Is this it?” Her eyes remained shut and he shook her uncursed shoulder. “Marsilia, I need ye to focus. Please. Is this the bottle?”

  Her eyes fluttered open again and it took her a moment to lock her gaze to the bottle. She nodded mutely.

  “I cannot do the spell,” he said, speaking slowly and clearly. Her eyes began to droop again and he grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. Those flutters of panic were growing stronger in his chest. “I can put the oil on ye, but ye have to speak the spell. Can ye do that?”

  Her brow furrowed and she reached toward the bag again. “Green vial,” she whispered, the words so slurred he could barely make them out. “Yellow ribbon… I need to… a sip…”

  He dug in the bag again and pulled forth the bottle she described. Pulling the stopper, he showed it to her. At her nod, he gently lifted her head and put the bottle to her lips, tipping it to trickle into her mouth. A shudder ripped through her thin frame and she grimaced before opening her eyes once more. Those blue eyes met his and focused for a moment before fighting against swimming again.

  “Can ye do the spell?” he asked, still supporting her head.

  “Yes,” she answered, exhaustion and pain tingeing her otherwise clear speech.

  Nodding, he laid her head back down on the furs. “I have to undo the top buttons on yer dress to get to the curse's spread with the oil.” She nodded in understanding and he recorked the green vial before laying it aside with the black bottle.

  There was no telling how long she would remain lucid from the concoction she drank. Quickly, he began unfastening the buttons along the front of her dress until he could pull the dress and under layers down her shoulder to reveal the full extent of the spreading grey stoneskin.

  “Roll on to yer side,” he ordered. “And get ready to say yer spell.”

  Nodding, she groaned as she moved, the stone straining against the motion. As gently as he could, he helped her adjust until all of the stoneskin was exposed.

  “Are ye ready?” he asked.

  At her nod, he uncorked the black bottle and poured a pool of the oil into his hand. It was as black as the bottle that contained it, flecked with ground herbs. As his hand made contact with her cursed flesh, she took a sharp breath of pain, ground her teeth and began chanting.

  Carefully, he smoothed the oil over the hard, grey skin, taking care not to apply any pressure that could cause it to break. As he focused on the task and her chant echoed through the room, his panicked heart thudded in his chest. This would work. This had to work.

  Yet, the stoneskin grew, edging up Marsilia’s neck towards her jawline. Dumping more of the oil directly onto her neck he continued to smooth it over the horrid grey flaking stone, and past it, to where her flesh remained whole. Her voice strained with pain as the flesh along her jaw began to stiffen. Fjell felt his throat constrict, desperation edging past forced confidence.

  Her voice rose in volume and focus, the fire behind them flared at the strength of her call. Suddenly, her skin began to soften beneath his touch, but likewise began to dry as it absorbed the strange black oil. He quickly dumped more into his hand and continued to smooth it across her shoulder, back and neck. Her chant softened, the words starting to slur together.

  “Marsilia,” he called and she jerked, the string of foreign words growing in strength again.

  By the time her words began to falter and slow again, the black oil started to turn clear on her skin and he could see it was once more the same rosey porcelain as the rest of her. For a moment, he considered waking her again, to ask if anything more need be done. As he watched her slow, steady breath and the peaceful rest on her face, he refrained.

  If there was any more to the curse, he could not see it, and she needed the rest. Standing, he set the bottle on the edge of the stone bed and wiped his hands on his ruined tunic. He considered her for a moment before leaning back down. Unfastening her belt, he pulled the elven sword free and collected her bags and quiver before setting them all aside in easy sight of the bed. He drew up the blanket from the foot of the bed to cover her and turned a glance to the fireplace in the corner, willing it to greater warmth.

  Brushing her wet hair back from her face, he sighed. “Rest well, white witch,” he said quietly. “I’ll have food ready when ye wake. And ye had better wake.”

  Chapter 10

  Fire crackled happily below the small cast iron pot, a stew of root vegetables and wild boar bubbling from the heat. Fjell lounged in one of his stone-carved chairs near the fire, watching it. The first hour that Marsilia had slept, he’d gone in what seemed every few minutes to make sure she was still breathing, that the stoneskin was not coming back. A few hours passed and he now left her be, instead mulling over his own thoughts.

  Nearly twenty years had passed since he’d last stepped foot in the dwarven lands, let alone the Fae Realm. A part of him wished himself a less honorable person. By the letter of his agreement with Rohesia, he could simply open the portal and let Marsilia through to find her own way. He was not bound to escort her.

  Of course, if he was less honorable, he wouldn’t be an outcast.

  That last thought held a bitter ring to it that he did not like, and he chided himself, pushing off the chair to stand. What was done was done, and he could not change the past. What he could change were Marsilia’s chances of completing her quest.

  He moved by rote through the room, past the stone slab table, the various chairs that had never sat a guest, the shelves that were only stocked with enough food for himself. Pausing at the entry to his bedchamber, he glanced in. Marsilia still slept, curled in upon herself and nestled within the furs. He would need to wake her soon, to ensure she was recovering as she expected and to get her to eat and drink.

  He was not a healer as she was, but he knew enough about recovering from injuries and curses. Magic could cure a wound, but the body still needed the fuel of food to fully recover. Watching as her shoulders rose and fell with steady, even breaths, he finally turned and continued to the other side of the room. Another doorway waited there, this one closed behind a heavy stone door.

  Pushing the door open, the smells of his forge rushed to greet him - coal and ash, metal and oil, old sweat and leather. He breathed it
in deeply, closing his eyes, let its comfort settle into his heart and soul. For as much as dwarves were great warriors, more than anything, they were craftsmen. When he chose this mountain as his home, his forge was the first room he built out, even before carving his bed. It was by far the largest chamber in his entire home.

  Overhead, the ceiling rose to thirty feet and a series of small holes that let the heat and smoke escape. The workshop itself was laid out meticulously, each area set up to his preferences for each of his crafts. The forge at the back of the room was flanked by fuel and ore to either side. His anvil stood a few yards before the furnace, and behind a rack was filled with his hammers, tongs, and other tools of smithing. A stone table stood cleared to the side, and great vats of oil and water awaited beyond the table for tempering and cooling.

  To his right was a smaller enclosed kiln, a dome crafted of clay with a stool nearby. A low table sat beside the stool, covered in more tongs, clippers, mandrels, a small vat of clay and dozens of other instruments of manipulation. A finished pile of glass beads sat on the table beside the tools, awaiting the rest to be completed for his next necklace.

  On the opposite side of the room, to his left, was his third and final workstation. A stone table and chair sat against the wall. Above the table, the wall was lined with pegs—dozens of delicate instruments hung from them - pliers, tongs, engraving chisels, and more. Small bowls lined the back of the table, filled with thousands of gems - some cut to shape already, others still raw. Lines of gold and silver wire were wound to one side and stamps and forms awaited on the other side, leaving the center of his jewel crafting area clear.

  Fjell paused as he entered, taking in each station in turn. His fingers itched to return to work, to craft and create, as both catharsis and for the onslaught of ideas that hit him as he entered the room. Another necklace to lock dark magic; a ring to repel stoneskin; arrow tips that would cause the wounds to become more difficult to heal; a sword that could summon and release fresh water upon cutting…