Magic's Genesis- Reckoning

by Rosaire Bushey

  Hokra grasped his spiked hammer in his hand and crouched, standing on the balls of his feet, his eyes moving slowly across the scene in front of him, searching for movement among the remains.

  “There is nothing for you to fear here, kind Hokra. They are all dead.” The voice was familiar but not. It was the smoky, raspy voice of a woman who has seen the world, but who was not old. He could tell from how the noise fell upon him that when he turned, she would be taller than him, but nonetheless he was surprised to see a grown version of Truna before him. Her linen dress remained with its long sleeves and lace cuffs and wooden peg buttons clasping the fabric all the way to her throat. Her hair remained the same, but her eyes had sunk, and her smooth skin was more weathered, her eyes and lips wrinkled as if she’d seen too much sunshine.

  “Your prize awaits, and your way is clear. Go, my love, so that we may be together when you return.”

  “My love?” Hokra’s voice played only in his head and he stared up at this strange woman. His face, however, betrayed nothing of his confusion, a large-toothed grin spreading across it before he turned happily toward the gaping blackness of the cave, his collar glowing as he raised a shield around him.

  In the shadows of the meager light, the silhouette of Truna grew many times her size, and Hokra turned to watch her body bloat, the hips and stomach spreading wide and four additional arms pushing their way out of her chest and abdomen. Each of the arms ended not in delicate fingers but in a wide, short blade. As the arms reached out, her feet and legs collapsed upon themselves and her extended torso sat upon a giant stump of flesh where her hips once were. She rippled with putrescence and the only thing resembling Truna anymore was her head, although it too had engorged, eyeballs enlarged and barely contained in their sockets and a slobbering mouth of rancid teeth in a dislocated jaw. In that mouth, which could easily engulf him, Hokra saw small flickers of light, faces screaming their agony through a throat that no longer knew words.

  The creature that was once Truna raised herself up as high as she could go, six arms held out to their widest points, and she screamed. The only noise Hokra had heard that would come close to the wail of the creature before him was the voice of a dragon, and even that did not fully imitate the brutality of what he heard. Coupled with the noise, the beast before him radiated the foul stench of decay, making every breath an exercise in trying not to retch. Finally, with no more notice than had she blinked, the blades were on either side of him, inches away, glowing as the blue light of his magic kept them from slicing him like bread. He could feel the pressure she applied to the blades, and he reached deep inside himself and threw out his own hands, his collar blazing like a small sun in the darkness and pushing the creature’s arms away from him and into the air. The move carried such force and was so unexpected, the Truna creature stumbled backwards, her undulating, rolling skin moving like a slug trying to keep its balance.

  With the burst of magic, Hokra realized the bones around him were those who had tried to recover the ring. In this place, at least, a second death was possible, but it was not a true death. It was a death of unending misery and despair in the gullet of a creature with only one appetite. While the creature regained its balance, Hokra put his hammer on his back and instead reached into the ground, power radiating around him. Hundreds of sharp white ribs glowed blue and raised themselves from the dead floor nearby, turning so their points faced the creature, and then as one, they rushed forward, slamming into the creature and driving deep into its corpulence.

  The strike didn’t kill the beast, but Hokra could see he had hurt it. It did not rush forward to attack but stood stunned at what the Chag had done. Milky, clear puss ran in rivulets across its greying skin everywhere a rib had struck home. In the space of several breaths, Hokra realized he was still standing, wondering if Lydria had been wrong about magic being unable to kill. And as he jumped backward and into the air to avoid two sword strokes that embedded themselves deep in the ground where he had stood moments before, he finally understood the truth that because everything in the Nethyn Plains was already dead he couldn’t kill anyone.

  Floating far above the ground, at eye level with the creature, Hokra smiled, the new knowledge filling him with assurance. A blow from the flat of the creature’s blade struck his magic shield as he was preparing a strike and threw him far from his adversary. Pulling himself quickly to his feet, he jumped into the sky, high above the creature, and pulling his spiked hammer from his back, he hurled the weapon at the creature’s head, enlarging it as it flew so that when it arrived, a spike the size of a small tree burst her left eye like a bubble in a cascading pool.

  The prince didn’t wait to see how the creature would react, igniting the bones embedded in the creature’s thick hide until the stench of burning skin overwhelmed the odor of sorrow and despondency it had been radiating. The creature tried removing the wicks of burning bone with its six hands, but the flailing produced only more wounds as the blade-hands cut deep into its own flesh. Finally, recalling the Sword of Wilmamen, Hokra conjured a blade of pure magic, it’s blue light crackling with power and a desire to be used. He swung it with all his might at the creature, below its mouth, across what he thought might be its neck.

  For a moment he thought he might have missed. The creature stared at him surprised to see him still standing in front of it. A blade on either side raised back, prepared to strike and the creature’s lone eye bulged as if it had just come to a startling realization. It never recovered from shifting its weight back to strike at Hokra, and as the boulder-sized mass that was its head toppled to the ground, the white lights in its mouth flickered like the final sputters of a spent candle wick and the screaming voices from the creature’s throat stopped. The back of the creature’s head hit the ground and exploded like a rotten melon dropped onto rocks, and the torso which had hung suspended in a curious pose, toppled backward, the six arms falling limp to the ground.

  Lowering his shield, Hokra walked toward the remains of the fallen head and was met by the bloodied but intact face of Truna, her tongue black against pale lips and only the top of the collar of her pale dress still attached to the remains of her neck.

  There was nothing of the little girl he had seen, and Hokra felt no remorse for her as he turned away. He set to work immediately burning to ash any bones he could find before summoning a magical wind to scatter the ashes.

  The work went on for a long time, but the magic was not taxing. Whether it was because he worked in the Nethyn Plains where one did not need to eat or sleep, or if it was because he worked with small magic and the passion that comes from a battle, he did not grow tired, and when the way was clear he resumed his walk to the cave entrance, stopping once to retrieve something from the ground. Standing up, he put the stem of the bird of paradise through a hole in his tunic and walked into the darkness.

  14-Karjan’s Ring

  It should have been silent in the cave, but the screams of the beast and those trapped in its mouth did not immediately leave Hokra alone. Their cries dimmed slowly in his ears as he made his way deep into the cave where pure darkness reined. Even for his eyes, there was little to see by. With a brief flicker of blue, a small sphere floated above his head and he sent it forward to see what lie in front of him.

  If he expected traps, he found none. If he thought there were creatures in wait, they did not attack. Slowly through the blue-tinged darkness he walked, following the lone path until it opened onto a chamber where the small orb’s light caught the familiar sparkle of gems.

  Hokra looked around from the edge of the tunnel and took his first cautious step into the chamber. The space was lit by a warm orange light whose source Hokra could not find and in front of him was a short distance of paved stone followed by a moat that looked as if it could be crossed with a running jump. There was also a single bridge over the moat, and he walked toward it with something like frustration tugging at his senses, causing him to look at everything he saw as an enemy, an obstacle to be d
ealt with. Reaching the bridge, he smirked recognizing the familiar pattern of gem planks he had crossed earlier - red, green, aquamarine, blue, amethyst, and diamond.

  Annoyed, Hokra dismissed the bridge and attempted to fly across the span, his magic propelling him forward until he stopped in mid-air, an unseen wall stopping his advance. His magic kept him above the bridge, but he realized that if anyone had tried to jump the pit they would have run into the wall and fallen to their deaths for the moat was not a simple container of water, it was a deep, even by the standards of creatures who lived underground. He could tell by the feel of the air that came up from the pit that falling would take a long time, and there would be no crawling back up.

  Hokra landed again at the end of the bridge and reached out with his hands to feel the gem planks. As with the carpet in the shop of Abulet, the stones were alive, and they bade him continue to follow the aquamarine. Moving across the bridge, he noticed for the first time a tall obelisk of onyx standing in the exact center of the small dark island the moat surrounded. Hokra wrapped himself in a magic shield and touched the stone, letting his hand slide off the cold, dead surface. He knew climbing it would be pointless, so he raised himself from the ground to look at the very top of the obelisk. Where he had expected to find a point, he found instead that the obelisk was capped with a flat surface and resting upon it was a ring of black gold with a rectangular stone crossing four fingers and flowing like liquid fire. Tentatively moving his fingers toward his prize, he could feel the heat of the ring. He pulled his fingers away and looked at the top of the obelisk which was not made of onyx as was the rest, but by black diamond, a gem so rare it was rivaled only by Farn’Nethyn in value. The ring rested in a small square of black diamond the depth of his finger, capping the onyx plinth.

  From his height he searched around him and saw the live energy of the bridge and lowered himself to the edge. Considering the diamond bed upon which the ring sat, Hokra reached out to touch the bridge’s diamond plank, gathering his strength and pushing his fingers into the gemstone. It was difficult as diamond was likely to be, but he knew it would yield and he worked his hands until they found the natural weakness he knew existed. Moving his fingers along the width of the plank, Hokra knew what he needed and soon he held a square of diamond which he continued to shape and bend as he made his way back to the obelisk.

  While he shaped the gem into a box to contain the ring, he considered Truna’s words, that Alabast had hidden the ring. Karjan did not seem to be a dangerous beast, while Alabast seemed oblivious to ideals such as decency and morality. Finished with his work, he floated to the top of the obelisk again and placed his new diamond box securely on top of the black diamond, contained the ring and its heat in a container that would be far more valuable than almost any other piece of jewelry that could fit inside. Staring at the light reflecting from its diamond case, Hokra conjured a smaller version of the magic sword he had used to fell Truna, and neatly cut the top from the obelisk, sealing the box with magic only a wielder would be able to open

  The radiance of the fire ring refracted in hundreds of directions; beams of red splintering across the darkness providing a crimson light to guide him from the caves.

  His time with the diamond had told him all he needed to know about the bridge, and when he approached it again, he followed the broken brilliance of the last plank, carefully avoiding its neighbor and made his way from the cave and across the freshly cleaned space by the entrance, and headed for the granite cliff. No one hindered him. No sound encroached upon him. No hint of breeze or unpleasant odor followed him. The walk to the cliffside seemed to be over before he could properly think about what had happened.

  The granite was happy to feel him again, and Hokra’s only regret was that such a wondrous piece of the world had been hidden away in such a lonely place. He climbed down slowly, using his fingers carefully, making new holes and lingering as much as he dared while he descended. From the base of the cliff, it seemed only moments until he stood again at the edge of a diamond path that he followed into the basement of Abulet’s rug shop.

  Alabast was the first to notice the shift of the light in the room and he leaked a barely audible gasp that was picked up by Lydria almost immediately. The white guide snapped his jaw closed quickly, but not fast enough to hide his surprise, and by that time Haustis noticed the shift in light as well.

  “It appears Hokra returns,” Dravud said coolly, shifting his own gaze toward Alabast, and offering a hint of smile. “What happens, dear friend, if this one returns with the ring? What then? Do you offer it up on a gold dish for your mistress?” Dravud moved to Alabast’s side as he spoke, putting himself between the white guide and his own charges who moved to the head of the rug where Hokra had left them.

  Alabast said nothing, but Lydria noted he did not look comfortable under Dravud’s towering gaze.

  “Lydria, if you can hear me, say nothing, but move yourself away from the white guide. I will be there shortly.”

  The message from Hokra came abruptly but Dravud’s position blocked her from view of the white guide so he did not see her startled. Then the voice continued, as Hokra kept repeating what he was saying, until they could see his silhouette making its way down the rug again.

  When Hokra finally stepped onto the basement floor, he was greeted with the excited hug of Lydria and the more restrained congratulations of Haustis.

  “Alabast, I am sorry,” he said, extricating himself from the welcomes of the two women and moving to the center of the room. “I could not find your ring and so returned home when it became apparent my searching would be fruitless.”

  “You lie.” Alabast, still blocked by Dravud, was beyond upset by the Chag’s words. His pure white skin had gone pink, and his face a dull dark blue. “There is no way to return without the ring, Tru…” The white guide stopped quickly, his eyes shifting from Hokra to the others, and equally quickly, he picked up where he had left off. “Truly, no one has ever returned without the ring, it is a miracle.”

  Hokra laughed lightly but aloud, and looked at Alabast directly, ignoring the looming form of Dravud, and silently telling Lydria and Haustis to move away. As they did, Lydria shielded the three of them, unsure of what Hokra was going to do.

  Hokra stepped forward and Dravud looked to the young prince and stepped aside, clearing the path to Alabast. “Truly?” Hokra mocked the guide. “Truly? Do you expect me to believe you, truly? Or perhaps, you meant Truna? She sends a gift.” Hokra removed the bird of paradise from his shirt and pushed it into the chest of Alabast, who reflexively grabbed it with three of his long fingers.

  “What have you done?” Alabast’s voice was slow and measured, possibly fearful, Lydria thought.

  “No. That is not the question. The question is, what have you done? Where is this beast that you supposedly trapped? Why did you hide Karjan’s ring from her?” Dravud’s question was pointed and demanded an answer.

  Alabast stared at Hokra and turned to Dravud, raising himself and trying to maintain an equal eye level with the other guide, and seeing the futility, he turned again to Hokra. “How did you escape Truna? Certainly, she wasn’t bought with this.” He held out the flower and crushed it between his fingers, tearing the petals apart until the floor under him was flecked with orange. “You are either extremely lucky or extraordinarily stupid, but I have to accept that you are here, when you should not be. Regardless, you cannot continue without the ring. You may stay here and help Abulet. And you,” he turned to Dravud. “Your work here is done – they have failed and here they will stay – unless you want me to send them back to you at that filthy beach.”

  “I will say when my work is done, Alabast. As to sending them back, that is your right as guide in this kingdom. I will not interfere.”

  True to his word, Dravud stepped aside and Lydria watched as Alabast’s fingers began to spin and soon arrows and daggers were flying from his hands and stopping inches short of their targets in bursts of blue energy.


  “What….”

  “I’ve had about enough of you,” Hokra snarled, raising his hands as his collar brightened. He was deprived of whatever satisfaction he was looking for by Lydria, who encased Alabast in a block of ice, his astonished face and twisted fingers locked in their last position.

  Hokra turned on Lydria, his face dark brown and his chest filling, his exhales sharp. “Why?”

  “We will bring him back to Karjan. Perhaps if she hears of his duplicity, she will allow us to carry on to Agubend.” Haustis put her hands on Hokra’s neck, the warmth of her amulet helping to calm the prince.

  “I understand, but I would dearly have loved to destroy him.”

  “This is an interesting choice,” Dravud interrupted. He was standing in front of the column of ice and staring at Alabast. “I do not envy him this prison. Why did you choose this?” He turned to look at Lydria with no more judgement than had he asked how she chose the name of her dog.

  Lydria considered the question. Would it not have been easier to let Hokra have his way? “My father used to tell me, that it was the mission that mattered. Sometimes you have to do things you do not want to do to achieve the greater good. Wynter and Vul Griffis are our mission, not Alabast. We need Karjan’s help and killing her steward is unlikely to make her feel benevolent toward us.”

  “I understand that, of course,” Dravud answered. “But what I asked was why did you choose ‘this’?” He pointed to the ice encasing the white guide and tapped it with is finger.

  “I don’t know. It seemed a good way to keep him from attacking us – and a good way to prevent us from attacking him.”

  Dravud made a noise in the back of his throat and seemed to accept her answer before speaking to the face of the white guide. “I know you can hear me, Alabast, and I think you also know that the fate this woman has just chosen for you is far worse than whatever the Chag Ca’Grae had planned.” Dravud smiled widely and whispered so that only Lydria and the white guide might hear, “I hope, at least, that to be the case.” He pulled his face away from the ice and motioned for the others to follow him up the stairs where they rolled their prize up in one of Abulet’s largest rugs and left the shop without saying a word.