Chariots of Wrath

by R. L. King

  Mara is seated on the far side of the ritual room—in the flesh now, not just in my mind’s eye. She is silent, and offers me neither greeting nor help, but her pride continues to project from her shining eyes and her bright, happy smile. We’ve been working closely together for two years now, and she knows I can do this.

  I go to the table and collect what I need, selecting each item with confidence. I move neither quickly nor hesitantly, but with deliberate calm. Even though this is probably the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life, I’m still not nervous. In a way, it doesn’t feel like any more of a big deal than cooking dinner. I’ve done that dozens of times since I was a kid, to the point where I don’t even think about what I’m doing anymore. I’m thinking here, but only a little—only enough to double-check the changes I make to the circle. This isn’t a dangerous ritual, but any summoning can go wrong if you don’t pay enough attention. That’s part of what they’re testing.

  The last thing I pick up is the small, brown vial containing an ounce of my blood. I gathered it earlier in the day, and joined with Mara to prepare it. Most summoning rituals, even minor ones like this, require a personal touch from the summoner, and blood is best. The vial feels warm in my hand. I put it safely in my pocket and begin my task.

  Customizing the circle takes about half an hour. I carefully check each stage of my effort, resisting the temptation to glance at Mara for approval. I know she’ll step in to correct me if I’ve done anything horribly wrong, but aside from that, I’m on my own.

  There. Done. I step back, admiring my handiwork. The stark beauty of the basic circle has been augmented now, embellished with chalk lines, bits of colored sand, candles, crystals, and small pieces of paper carefully lettered with notations related to the subject I plan to ask the summoned spirit about.

  That’s the mundane check—but the important one is magical sight. I shift, my faster heartbeat mirroring my anticipation.

  I’m sure some poet would have just the right words to describe what my circle looks like in the astral realm, but I’ve never been much good at fancy language. My breath catches in my throat as the circle’s unseen aspects—the ones that really matter—spring up before my eyes.

  I haven’t ever tried to explain to a mundane what properly-made circles look like. If I tried, I’d probably have to mention CGI, or maybe one of those traps in heist movies where invisible laser beams shoot back and forth across a hall. Neither of those would be enough, though. When you set everything up in a ritual circle, the orderly, brightly-colored lines fit together in a way I can only describe as “true perfection.” There’s a mathematical beauty to it, though most of my family would scoff at that idea. They don’t think of it that way, but only as “the way it should be.” But I bet if I were to show this to someone else who both appreciated math and had the capability to see magic, they’d probably have some kind of epiphany. Or maybe wet their pants. It’s that amazing.

  And it’s mine. I did this.

  Okay, Bron. Stop admiring your handiwork and get on with what you’re here for.

  I check the circle one last time, and only when I’m sure I’ve got it all correct do I look up.

  Mara is still there, relaxed, still smiling. Pleasure fills me, warming me from the inside like a cup of strong, rich coffee.

  I’ve done it right. I’m ready to move on to the next step.

  I take my place at the far side of the circle, fully focused now. Mara fades into the dimness, using magic to make herself unobtrusive so she can observe but not distract.

  It’s all me now.

  I begin the incantation, chanting the words I’ve memorized. There aren’t many—the circle does most of the work, so the chant is nothing but a call to the spirit. Sort of like the ring of a magical phone, alerting it to my presence. My family has worked with this spirit many times before, so it knows what to expect. That doesn’t mean there isn’t still the potential for something to go wrong—no spirit is truly “friendly,” and all of them, no matter how cooperative, constantly seek ways to break free of even the most benign control—but I won’t be asking much of it. Certainly not anything that might cause it distress.

  The most important part of the incantation occurs at the end: the recitation of the spirit’s true name. With that, I’ll have full control over it. It will have no choice but to follow my orders and do my bidding.

  I speak it now, my voice strong and steady. At the same time I remove the cork from my vial of blood and, using a levitation spell, move it to the circle’s center and pour it into the lit brazier there.

  The brazier flares a bright red, and a form begins to take shape inside the circle. I don’t know what it will look like when it’s finished materializing; that’s another thing that isn’t revealed to an apprentice until she’s successfully completed the summoning. But as far as I can see, everything looks fine. The spirit is only vaguely humanoid, a swirl of white and black vapor shifting back and forth within the circle’s protective confines.

  So far, so good. Everything’s progressing fine, just the way I expect it to.

  I’ve got this.

  When everything goes wrong, it happens fast.

  One second the vapor swirls around, slowly coalescing into a semi-humanoid form as I prepare to address it with my three questions.

  The next second, the vapor scatters, replaced by…something different.

  I can’t even describe what happens, not completely—I don’t have the words to convey it. The little spirit is gone, replaced by something large, muscular, and impossibly potent. It’s not humanoid either, and my brain doesn’t want to process what it does look like. It’s shiny black, with too many eyes, too many arms, too much presence. Every one of its eyes glows with a malevolent red light, and the sound it makes is like the dying cries of a roomful of slaughtered pigs combined with the triumphant roar of some primal beast from the center of the earth.

  I freeze. My heart pounds. Sweat springs up all over my body. Everything begins to move in slow motion.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I never trained for anything like this.

  The circle was correct. The incantation with the spirit’s true name was correct. The blood was properly prepared.

  How could I have gotten the ritual so catastrophically wrong?

  How did Mara not see this coming?

  But I can’t blame this on Mara. It isn’t her fault.

  It’s mine.

  I did something wrong, and now this horrific thing I can’t even look at properly is here and it’s terrifying and I don’t know how to get rid of it.

  I try. I can say that much for myself anyway—I do try. I scream out the words of the only banishing incantation I know.

  The spirit doesn’t even react.

  Of course it doesn’t—I’d learned that incantation specifically to deal with the benign little spirit that was supposed to respond to my call. It’s possible to banish a spirit, even a powerful one, without a specific incantation including its true name, but certainly not for a fledgling apprentice who’s just had her confidence shattered.

  This is it. I’m dead. Or worse.

  But the spirit isn’t going after me. It doesn’t even appear to notice that I’m in the room. Instead, it rises up, easily breaking the thin bonds of a circle wholly inadequate to contain it—and then it’s on Mara.

  Her scream rises, growing louder and louder until it’s little more than an incoherent shriek rising up to smash against the ritual room’s high, raftered ceiling.

  My heart pounds harder.

  I want to look away, but I can’t. Something prevents me from turning my head, from closing my eyes.

  The thing, whatever it is, grabs Mara and yanks her free of the chair, holding her suspended high above the floor by both arms. She’s still shrieking, flailing her feet, her magic forgotten in favor of sheer physical panic. As I continue to look on in horror, the monstrous thing spreads its own ropy, muscular arms to both sides, stretchin
g Mara’s with it.

  And then it keeps pulling.

  Oh, God, don’t make me watch.

  Where is Selene? I scream her name, but my voice barely carries above Mara’s as her arms are pulled free of her body with a pair of wet, ripping squelches. She drops to the ground in a puddle of blood and tries to scrabble away, propelling herself backward with her feet, but there’s nowhere for her to go. The monster plucks her up again, in much the same way a huge cat would play with its prey before killing it.

  “Selene! Where are you?” I scream. She was supposed to be watching, observing the ritual from someplace outside, a second line of defense in case something went wrong. But I don’t hear the door opening, and I don’t see any sign of anyone arriving.

  I can’t describe what the creature is doing to Mara. My mind shuts down as I’m forced to watch it, submerging the images into the darkest corners of my psyche. I’ve never seen a human being torn apart before, and I’ve never in my life felt this weak, this ineffectual, this…useless. This monstrous thing is killing my beloved mentor, Twyla’s mother, right in front of my eyes, and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it.

  I should have passed out by now. Something’s keeping me awake, keeping me conscious so I can witness every moment of the slaughter. I struggle to break free, to run, to bury my head in my arms and shove my hands against my ears—anything to make it stop.

  Where is Selene?

  Mara’s dead now. She has to be. Nobody could survive that. She’s not screaming anymore. There’s blood everywhere, staining the walls, the floor, the circle. It covers the gold inlays and the sparkling gems until they’re all red too.

  Everything is red. Except the creature, which is so unrelentingly black that light seems to disappear into it. It raises up, blood dripping from its clawed hands and whatever passes for its face.

  It twists around, turning toward me. Its burning red eyes, all of them, settle on me.

  It doesn’t smile—it doesn’t have the anatomy to do it—but I still get the impression of one.

  No…

  And then, only for an instant, I spot something else. Something behind it.

  Beyond the creature, past where it crouches over Mara’s torn, ruined body, I see another shadowy, indistinct form.

  Unlike the creature’s, though, this one is not only humanoid, but familiar. The hunched posture, the lined face, the glittering eyes—all of them are almost as familiar to me as my own face.

  It’s Nana.

  She’s not there, not really—I can see the other side of the room through her. But I can see enough of her face to identify an expression of profound horror, combined with surprise and deep, deep sadness.

  And then the creature is on me.

  It leaps forward, its long arms extended, blood dripping from that fathomless black hole where its mouth should be, and its claws clamp around me. As it begins pulling my body apart, my scream rises until it engulfs everything around me.

  Oh, God, Selene, where are you?

  “Bron!”

  Something hits me in the face, hard.

  My eyes fly open. I have no idea where I am. Everything around me is dark. My head pounds. My heart pounds. I’m bathed in sweat, and my every muscle feels like I’ve just spent the last couple of hours spinning inside a cement mixer. My breath comes out in puffs so fast I can barely get enough air.

  “Bron! Wake up!” The voice comes from far away. Something grips my arm.

  No! You won’t rip me apart! You won’t! I jerk free with the last of my strength and roll to the side. My body plummets over the edge of a cliff and crashes to the ground.

  The light switches on.

  As I struggle to sanity, a face looms over the edge of the cliff. I realize the cliff is my bed, and in my panic I’ve rolled off onto the floor.

  The face swirls and takes shape: it’s Twyla. She looks terrified. Her eyes are so wide I can see the whites all around them. “Bron! Come on, it’s okay. It’s okay! You were having a nightmare!”

  A nightmare?

  No—there’s no way that could have been a nightmare. It was too vivid, too immediate, too clear.

  I let my head sink back onto the floor and let my breath out with a loud whoosh. My heart still feels like it’s doing a drum solo. From somewhere, my clock radio switches on to play soothing classical music.

  “Thanks, Alice…” I mutter. I didn’t even know there was a classical radio station anymore.

  Twyla drops down to the floor, grabbing the comforter off my bed. She pulls me up and snuggles it around my shoulders, then drags me into a tight hug. “It’s okay,” she says again. “Just a nightmare. You want me to get you a drink or something?”

  I close my eyes. “A drink would make it worse.” My voice sounds ragged, like I’ve just smoked a whole pack of cigarettes. “Just—stay here, okay?”

  Rory peeks out from under the bed. I must have scared the crap out of her, but she’s a brave little thing and she loves me, so she risks crawling into my lap. When nothing attacks her, she settles in and begins a nervous purr.

  Twyla holds me tight, pulling me close to her. Normally I would hate that—I’m not a hugger—but right now, any sort of human contact, especially from somebody who isn’t trying to kill me, feels like a pretty good idea.

  “Do you…want to talk about it?” she asks hesitantly after a few minutes of silence broken only by my raspy breathing.

  Do I? I don’t even know. It’s not fading—I can still picture it as clearly as ever. I’ve had nightmares about the day of Mara’s death before, but this one feels different. I keep feeling like there’s something about it I was supposed to notice. To remember. “I…don’t know.”

  “It might help…You want me to get you a glass of water, at least? Cup of tea?” Her voice shakes too—I must have scared her as much as I scared Rory. I wonder if I woke up any of the neighbors with my screaming, and they’re just too polite to say anything about it. I’m pretty sure a couple of them think I’m crazy anyway.

  “No. Just…please, stay here.” I’m craving the contact, the warmth. Rory’s helping, but she doesn’t have the strength or the surface area to really make a difference.

  “Okay. I’m not going anywhere. I could use a drink, though.” She’s wearing a shorty nightshirt; she tucks her bare legs under her and pulls part of the comforter over to cover them. “Come on, Bron…tell me about it.”

  I look away. “I don’t think you want to hear it.”

  Her eyes go wide again. “It was about…the day?”

  “Yeah.”

  She pulls me tighter. “I’m so sorry. Having me here has probably stirred up old memories.”

  I wonder how many nightmares she’s had about that day. Just because she wasn’t there and didn’t get to witness it firsthand doesn’t mean her subconscious couldn’t spin up some pretty effective facsimiles. I bow my head, unable to face her. “I’m sorry,” I mumble.

  “Don’t be. Come on, it’s okay. Yeah, I still feel horrible about it—of course I do. She was my mom. But, Bron…I’m telling you, I don’t think it was your fault.”

  I don’t answer. At her words, something has snapped into focus in my mind. Something about the dream.

  I’ve had similar dreams dozens of times over the last five years, but this one was…different.

  “Bron?”

  I hold up a hand to stop her, keeping my eyes closed. As hard as it is, I try to focus, to clear my mind of external distractions, and visualize the dream. I’m convinced there were things there that I was supposed to notice, if only I could—

  “Where was Selene?” I snap, opening my eyes and pushing away from Twyla so I can face her.

  “What?”

  “Selene. She was supposed to be watching the ritual.”

  “She said she was there.” Twyla sounds troubled.

  “She was there when I woke up.” My voice shakes. “But…”

  Oh, gods, why didn’t I realize that before?

&n
bsp; “What is it?”

  I stare straight into her eyes. “If she was there…how did she deal with that thing I summoned?”

  “What?” She’s still looking confused.

  It’s no wonder—my thoughts are flying around so fast I can barely get a handle on them. It must be even worse for anybody who isn’t inside my head. I grab her arms and shake her. “Twy—don’t you see? If she wasn’t there like she was supposed to be, then who saved me from that…that thing that killed your mom? Who drove it off? Come on—I only made it two years into my apprenticeship, and even I know once spirits are summoned, they don’t just leave. That thing broke out of the circle. Why didn’t it kill me?”

  Under my hands, her arms stiffen. “But if she was there, like she said she was—”

  “Then she dealt with it somehow. She got rid of it before it attacked me—and before it broke out of there and attacked her.”

  Twyla looks like some part of her doesn’t want to accept what I’m saying. “But…maybe she did. She’s a powerful mage—more powerful than my mom was. Maybe she drove it off.”

  “No.” I shake my head back and forth several times, and Rory watches with interest. “You didn’t see that thing, Twy. It was huge. It was horrible. There’s no way she could have banished it. Not without its true name.”

  A thought slams into me like a bucket of ice water. I jerk back, letting her go. Rory leaps out of my lap. “Oh, gods…I just realized something.”

  She’s looking scared now. “What is it?” she whispers.

  “It’s…not possible.”

  This can’t be. How did I not see this before?

  Because you were wracked with five years’ worth of guilt over making the worst mistake of your life and getting your mentor ripped to pieces by some extradimensional nightmare?

  Yeah, that could be enough to keep other thoughts from surfacing.

  “Bron, tell me! You’re scaring me.”

  I get to my feet and drop down on the edge of the bed, swallowing hard. I do think I need a drink. “Twy…what if Selene did have that thing’s true name? What if that’s how she got rid of it—because she knew it was coming all along?”