The Marechal Chronicles: Volume VI, The Crucible: A Dark Fantasy Tale

by Aimelie Aames

  “Nevertheless,” she replied, “I learned your story, the legend of the goddess Lys, and the part you played therein. If I’m not mistaken, the witch reminded you of her and that what you have done here was for love of her in her memory.

  “You are not evil. Not now, at least, if ever you were.”

  Was I evil … am I no longer?

  The voice of the great beast speaking within her mind grew thoughtful.

  Do the tales that speak of me recount that long before I was called to the goddess Lys, I happened upon a strange plant while foraging with my family? Its aspect spoke to my every instinct of danger, yet I was inextricably drawn to it and I found that it tasted of bitter disappointment and salted earth. Yet despite all that warned me to the contrary, I could not stop myself until the plant had been eaten to the ground.

  Afterward, the treachery of my sire and mother became apparent. Suspicion grew in my heart like a poisoned flower and when it blossomed, the violence I wreaked upon all that I loved was beyond measuring.

  The talisman of the goddess’ Tear was, at last, the antidote that quieted the violence staining every fiber of my being.

  It might interest you to know that the poison that flowed in the swordsman’s veins was derived from that same plant. It is known as Lierre’s Wrath.

  Melisse swallowed, her eyes wide.

  “And who is this Lierre — one of the gods, like Lys?”

  Aye, but she is lesser than most and the sole whose actions in the world of men are plain to see for any who care to look. The others are … subtle to the point of an apparent and utter indifference.

  “And what of you?” she asked, her curiosity aroused, “The witch said that you were called from beyond the veil of creation. Does that mean you have become one of them? A god?”

  No. It does not.

  While it is true that the Throne of Ruin lies empty and waiting for any who dare seat themselves upon it, I discerned long ago that the throne remains vacant for a reason. And I do not covet rule over gods or men.

  The Boar’s voice changed, as if what it said was of vital importance.

  Have you yet not understood? They, just as you humans, are doomed to resonance throughout time unending. Lierre, herself, is half-sister to Lys, and long ago she learned to loathe her sister who was more beautiful and more powerful than she.

  Does this not remind you of anyone?

  Melisse’s lips drew tight as Helene’s face flashed in her mind.

  My belief is that the gods, for all their foolish vanity and their misplaced sentiment as rulers of destiny, they may well be but the shadows cast by the human lives they think they master.

  In truth, I think that the Throne of Ruin will know a ruler of all Creation anew one day and that it will be no god seated there.

  “I confess that I’m not sure I understand,” Melisse said.

  Your understanding is not required.

  The Boar’s tone was dismissive. The great beast chose that moment to move, turning away from Melisse with a lumbering gait.

  Then it paused without looking back at her.

  Heed this warning. It will take time, but the lesser creature sent to witness you and your magic will be missed eventually. They are furtive, discreet for now, but the gods do not forget, child of fire.

  “I don’t care. All I want is to return to my home and see that all is well.”

  The kindly face of Mathilde came to her, then the image of that face twisted with chagrin and sorrow over all that had come to pass since Melisse’s departure.

  Then go back the same road which brought you here, but do not do so too swiftly. Despite myriad doubts gnawing at me, this counsel is sure.

  And even with its great and ponderous size, the Boar slipped away, this time the sound of its footsteps silent as if it had passed from one breath to the next behind the veil that separates mere mortals from the paths of higher powers.

  She waited a long moment, not moving, simply breathing the fresh morning air while feeling the building warmth of sunlight upon her face.

  Then Melisse set off.

  Alone.

  She considered the word as she walked, only then realizing how cold and stark such a word is.

  Her burden, the task set to her by the alchemist, was gone.

  The Black Boar and his solemn words of guidance were gone.

  But worst of all, the Marechal, the man she knew who would always come to her aid no matter how far or how difficult the circumstances, even when she had outwardly spurned him and his companionship for his own safety … he was gone as well.

  She discovered how unprepared she was for the hole, the empty place, that now gaped in her heart and her mind where the Marechal had once stood, his long lashes framing his calm grey gaze while belying the startling efficiency of his well-honed intelligence and shining blade.

  Despite the growing warmth of a bright day, Melisse shivered.

  She was alone in the world, and no sun could lighten the dark mood that descended more fully upon her with each step onward.

  And even if she traveled alone, she had dutifully taken the Boar’s advice and had chosen the same road that had brought her.

  She also took care not to travel too quickly.

  Before long, the reason behind the Boar’s counsel made itself perfectly clear.

  Her eyes went wide and she drew a deep breath in her surprise.

  “No, wait!” Melisse shouted.

  She had just turned a corner of the road only to see a man walking steadily in her direction.

  Her heart began to gallop as she took in his dark hair and familiar, easy smile.

  “Wait, I said. Don’t come any closer.”

  He did as she asked, stopping in his tracks to stare back at her, then he chuckled with a low sound that pulled at her, from somewhere deep inside.

  “You’re dead,” she said. “I saw it. You burned up in that barn.”

  The young man put his hands on his hips, then laughed out loud.

  “Oh no I didn’t. Although there were times when I had to wonder if I wouldn’t have been better off if I had.”

  Melisse could not imagine what he meant when she finally noticed his unlikely attire.

  “Is that a bag you’re wearing?” she asked, then despite all that had happened, she was forced to stifle a chuckle of her own.

  There were white smudges of flour on his face and on his bare legs. Other than a ragged sack turned upside down with holes torn out for his head and arms, he wore only a pair of sandals.

  He began walking again, and Melisse could not deny that she recognized him.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Well, I haven’t been back long, you see, and there was an abandoned mill along the road …”

  He shrugged with a rueful smile on lips.

  “If not this, then it meant I was going to bid you good day while wearing nothing at all.”

  This time, Melisse did laugh, but only for a moment.

  “Stop,” she said again, her tone grave. “Please.”

  He did, although it was with a quizzical air about him.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t trust me. Not now, not after all we’ve been through,” he said.

  … all we’ve been through

  His words seemed to carry far more weight than they should have.

  Despite her misgivings, Melisse could not deny that she was intrigued by the man before her, at once familiar and as much a stranger as any odd traveler on long, lonely roads.

  “What are you saying …” she began, then seizing her courage she continued, “Is … is your name Silas?”

  A smile broke upon his lips.

  “Yes. That is my name, just as I told you,” he replied. “I’m glad you remember it.”

  She shook her head, trying to clear the fog that lay over recent events.

  He spoke before she could.

  “Considering how deeply the spell had been laid upon you, I worried that you would never escape.”

  Melisse
’s eyes went large and round.

  “I dreamed of you.”

  Silas began walking toward her again.

  “As I did of you.”

  Melisse took one step backward.

  “But that wasn’t real,” she whispered.

  “Wasn’t it?” Silas asked. “It seemed very real to me.”

  She looked away from him, as if searching the horizon for some explanation for the impossible.

  Except that the voice she heard issuing from his mouth was one and the same as that she had encountered in a drear, grey place that had veered from a stifling prison of an open, featureless landscape into that of a hand that held her in its inhuman grasp.

  His was the voice of a man who had come to her from nowhere. He was the man who had reawakened the fiery beast within her from somnolence into the inferno that had allowed her to break the enchantment imprisoning her.

  “I dreamed of you,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

  He nodded.

  “As I did, of you … Melisse.”

  He came to her then, and she did not resist as he took her hand.

  “You risk your life if you think to be near me,” she said, her voice deadly serious. “Anyone I care about dies and even though you survived the barn, there is no guarantee that you will the next time.”

  Silas smiled as he raised his other hand to touch her cheek.

  “You’re even more beautiful than I remember.”

  He looked into her eyes and his visage became grim as he spoke again.

  “I know what I risk. You should know that I, of all people, am perfectly aware of what could happen. You should also know that I have changed and am now proof against anything you might do to me, Melisse. Even proof against your fire.”

  Her breath caught.

  “That’s not true,” she said.

  Then his mouth met her own, and his lips were soft and strong and she could feel how he smiled as she kissed him back.

  Silas pulled away from her gently, his hand still holding her own, and tugged her into walking with him.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I have a long story to tell you that I think will convince you. It’s all about being kidnapped, tormented, then thrown in a prison cell before escaping with the help of a magical creature.”

  She fell into step within him as clouds that existed only within her mind allowed a ray of sunshine slip past to warm her chilled heart.

  “A magical creature?” she said, the lilt of her voice teasing him. “And where is this supposed savior of yours now?”

  He laughed.

  “Don’t take that tone with me. It’s true. I swear it. Only just as we started to get close to here, she decided to leave me to it. She mentioned being more than a little afraid of you and what you might do if you saw her.”

  Her curiosity was piqued.

  “Very well,” Melisse said. “But I, too, have a story and it will be quite a long one in the telling, I think.”

  Silas laughed, not just with a chuckle but with a hearty voice that rose in the air as the sun shined down.

  “Not to worry. The road is long enough for both our stories. And when we leave it, I promise you now, I will not leave you.”

  Melisse nodded.

  “And where shall this road take us, Silas?” she asked, fascinated by the way the sound of his name felt upon her lips.

  “Why to your home, of course. To House Perene and to your sister, for I can’t help but harbor doubts that she has learned her recent lesson in humility well enough.”

  This last remark nearly brought her to a stop, but Silas’ rhythm of walking was infectious, as if optimism itself buoyed him up and along.

  “ ‘... a lesson in humility?’ “ she quoted him as he pulled her along with him. “I hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms. But, you’re right. She’ll find some way to thwart me before long.”

  “In this case,” he said, “you and I shall thwart her back. Twofold. And if that doesn’t work, why I’ll throw her over my knee and give her a good spanking.”

  Melisse jabbed him with her elbow — hard.

  “Ouch! Alright, never mind the spanking. Let’s begin, instead, with my story then you shall tell me yours, Lady Perene.”

  Silas paused just long enough to sketch a deep bow before he took her hand in his own once more.

  And together they went on their way, talking gently to one another as league after league passed under their feet, unnoticed, for they had eyes only for each other and when sunlight turned to starlight it was the bright warmth of their hearts that lit the way forward.

  The End

  Afterword

  A human might have imagined there to be one thousand drums pounding out a rhythm that threatened to topple the great stones that made up the amphitheater. That human would have been mistaken, for it was not drums but instead the tails of six-legged lizards resounding like endlessly rolling thunder.

  All of them, each to a one, had its eyes riveted on the figure below them, a warrior unlike any in living memory returned in triumph from another world.

  For he had joined battle against one of their worst foes and he had returned the victor with battle scars plain for all to see.

  He was not of an unusual size, nor was his color particularly remarkable, but his skill in combat had been proven beyond all doubt as the elders observed his every action so far removed from their own world.

  They had seen him battle the feathered monstrosity named the Evangeline. They had been witness when the creature managed to sever one of their warrior’s limbs. Then they watched, their great fanged grins growing ever wider, as the brown-skinned warrior brought the Evangeline to heel, then forced her flight back to her masters, her own life all but extinguished.

  Now he stood before his people and his torso was girded anew with a silver chain similar to the one he had worn before setting out on the quest set him by the farseeing elders.

  However, this chain was one permitted only to the highest level of fighting class, for this warrior was no longer a Flail, but now a Scourge, and his chain-linked weapon was clad with alternating sections of myriad cutting blades. These, in turn, were designed to spring open once wrapped around an adversary’s neck or limbs, set to slice into flesh as the chain was ripped backward in a Scourge warrior’s grasp.

  It was a redoubtable weapon, almost as much as for its wielder as for his foe. However, for one skilled enough, it was horridly efficient.

  Their greatest living warrior stood up high, the silver of the chain, both weapon and armor, shining brightly.

  As one, the onlookers stood, the sound of drums was silenced, then they bowed to him.

  He did not bow in return. This day, the honor was his alone, and he owed no sign to any beast beneath him.

  A wizened elder came to the pedestal, beckoning to the Scourge, and with that signal the ceremony was finished.

  The two of them walked away from the center of the amphitheater and were lost to view as they passed into a tunnel leading to secret passages known only to the most ancient of their race.

  They remained silent until they came to a stone door mostly covered in lichen and moss. It barred the way forward, but the grey-skinned elder raised a twisted claw and with a gesture in the air, there was the sound of a locking mechanism springing open, then the door swung silently inward upon unseen hinges.

  Together they walked out into a forest of deep greenery.

  Will you tell me now where we go, Elder?

  The silent answer spoken from within the old lizard’s mind was gruff.

  No impertinence … First Scourge. Patience.

  The warrior held his mental tongue. He knew from past dealings with the elders, from the time they had revealed their plans for the chosen warrior, that his new status would mean little to them except for how he might serve them next.

  For theirs was a world seen from so far away and from so long ago, it went beyond the ken of any in the race of the Donglin. />
  Their designs were their own, an enigma requiring only the utmost respect.

  They stopped and before them were enormous boulders lying in the forest, somehow completely incongruous while inspiring awe. Their darkly mottled surfaces were smooth, with a height of at least five lengths of a Donglin lizard, while their full breadth and length remained hidden by trees and patches of dense underbrush.

  The Scourge looked to the Elder who in turn appeared to study the strange, massive stones.

  His question for the warrior was sudden and unexpected.

  Tell me, First Scourge, what is your estimation of your mission? Was it successful?

  The warrior did not reply at first. He sensed some kind of trap, even if it was about to spring from words and not from some adversary of combat.

  I did as you and the other Elders asked, he replied carefully. The undying man led me into battle with our great enemy, just as you had foreseen. The outcome was its retreat, beaten nearly unto death, there where I could not follow.

  Was that not the success you had envisioned? That our people might remember some measure, through me, of our former glory? he finished.

  No, the Elder replied. Nevertheless, success was, indeed, achieved. You proved that battle with the enemy can take place, even though we and the race of thieves have taken an oath that binds us to never again trespass in the other’s realm.

  But better still, the maggot known as the Evangeline has fled her masters. In her possession, proof of the encounter, and it will serve to trigger one last great spawning upon the bellies of the white worms from which she comes. She will cease to be the last. She will become the mother of multitudes, a horde of death on cursed wings.

  The Worms of Heaven, Elder? the Scourge asked, incredulous.

  It was a thought too unimaginable to be believed. It was said that the worms were great dragons of hoarfrost and ice that rode the skies far overhead and from whom it was believed that creatures such as the Evangeline had sprung.

  It was the stuff of legends that had no place in the mundane reality of the Donglin, a beaten people whose own god had fallen so long ago. As for the proof the Evangeline carried, he understood. His limp had improved greatly, but the limb that had grown out from the one she had taken from him would never be as strong as before.