by Lani Lenore
Certainly, it was true that magic existed in the world. Perhaps such mystical illusions were the devil’s work. Perhaps not. He’d heard of doctors as well as criminals trying their hand at magic. Himself? No; he’d never seen the need. He had plenty of brawn and brain to suffice.
But apparently, not enough to solve this mystery.
He trudged up the stairs, ignoring the few servants that had stayed up late to receive him. Armand just wanted sleep.
There was a fire lit in the hearth within his spacious bedchamber, thick with tapestries and rugs. It was warm here; just what he needed. Sleep would be good for his weary mind.
6
Clara had followed the charming white stag through the frozen woods. When she’d fallen behind, it had stopped to wait for her, and step by step it led her away from the castle. She hardly noticed, laughing gleefully as she bounded after the graceful creature.
She was a snowflake; the stag was a gust of wind. The girl followed the majestic beast until it disappeared.
Clara stopped, uncertain of what to do. She realized where she was then–stuck in the middle of the dark, freezing woods with no real idea of how to get back to her bed. A wolf howled in the distance. The child shivered, trying to think of a way she would get out of this.
It was a tendril of smoke and the smell of burning wood that finally gripped her attention. The promise of something familiar in this wilderness led her to see the house nestled within in the trees. Her feet picked up, and she hurried through the snow to get to it.
The drifts were growing deeper and deeper, but she managed to get through and reach the stoop. Her small fist rapped against the door, hoping that inside did not rest some angry old man or some hungry ogre. She hoped for a kind old lady or a familiar face. After only a short time, a light began to emerge from a widening crack in the door. Someone had responded! The princess awaited the face that would appear, and when it finally came before her, she gasped in surprise.
“H–Herr Fuchs?”
The man looked down with his own surprise to see that the young princess had come wandering to his door. Of course, Clara had never suspected that it was he who had led her here in the first place with his glowing illusions.
“Princess!” he exclaimed. “Whatever are you doing out in this bitter cold! Come inside swiftly!”
The girl went inside without hesitation, and the sly magician glanced about in the silent woods to assure that no one had seen.
7
Within his warm room in the castle, Armand awoke with a feeling of dread in his stomach. What was the cause of it? He couldn’t manage to close his eyes again, stirred from within. Something in his mind nagged him.
It was pure instinct that dragged him out of bed, leading him to lift the candle from the table and leave his room. His aim unknown to him, he found himself moving toward Clara’s chamber down the hallway on this second floor of the castle. Was he worried about her for some reason? He didn’t know, but he knew he had to see her.
Armand pushed open the wooden door and stepped into the quiet dark.
He moved toward the bed to make sure she was tucked in sufficiently–just to make sure she was still there. In a tired daze, his hand reached toward the blankets to touch her shoulder lightly. He reached further…and his hand pressed flat against the mattress.
Was he dreaming? Both hands searched, but felt nothing except fur and linen and down. Taken by sudden panic, he could hardly think.
“Clara?” he asked, digging further into the blankets.
The candle didn’t give much, but by its use, Armand could finally see that the bed was indeed empty. Years later, he would feel a similar feeling when a woman that he loved was taken away from him, but at this moment, everything was new.
Armand flew around the room, searching every corner and shadow, disrupting every space the child might have been. It was only after he’d ripped through everything that his skin registered the chill that had passed across it, and it was only then that he noticed that the window was open.
The foggy pane was opened slightly, for the wind had blown it back inward but not quite closing it. Was this familiar? Had he seen something like this before? Armand tromped to it quickly, pushing it open fully to lean out. The first thing he saw was the ladder.
It shimmered like the snow itself, pure white, running from the sill all the way to the ground. For a moment, the prince knew that he was dreaming. He had to be dreaming, for how could any of this be real?
He reached out to grip the first rung, but the entirety of the ladder vanished beneath this hand as if it had never been–a desperate illusion so that he might make some sense of the girl’s disappearance. That was what he thought until he examined further.
His blue eyes showed him the disturbed snow on the ground below the window, leading into the woods, and then he knew that none of it was a dream.
Clara!
Armand tore from the room, suddenly not caring if all this was a dream or not. He wasn’t sure what spirit had possessed him, but he did not even remember pulling on his shoes or coat and rushing back down the stairs to the door. He didn’t hear the servants, finally retiring for bed, ask him where he was going. In fact, he hadn’t even thought to take a weapon.
He found the footprints in the drifts that were already beginning to fill up with the new snow that was falling down. Armand began to run.
He forced his body through the woods, the trees passing in blurs. The prince followed the footprints as well as he could in the dark, for he’d left the candle burning in the girl’s room. He followed the trail until he’d nearly lost it beneath the new snow, but then in the distance he saw a dark structure.
It was a house, set off in the tress by itself. There was light inside, and smoke was rising from a chimney.
Armand had hardly ever pumped his legs so fast, rushing straight to the front door. The house was neither fancy nor large. Without hesitation, Armand began to pound on the door, not noticing how cold he was becoming or how his long hair was tangled by the wind. He stood there, hammering against the wood with an unrelenting fist, but even though he caused the disturbance for several moments, no one answered.
He took his attention away then, knowing that no one would respond. But there was someone here. That someone had Clara.
Armand stepped back into the snow. The shoes he’d absently chosen had become quite wet by this time. He ignored it. He moved around the side of the house, passing by all the dark windows to find the first one that was lit.
He peered through the frosted panes there, and instantly, his eyes widened at the sight that he saw.
Clara, his beloved, with her golden curls, was sitting near a fire. She was wrapped up in blankets, but simply sitting there, staring into the flame as if entranced. In fact, it reminded him of his own fire–gazing. The toymaker was nowhere to be seen. Something was not right…
Armand knocked on the window to get her attention. He called her name, but none of that seemed to move her. Perhaps she had in fact been touched by a spell? Absurd? Or not?
It was then that a man emerged into the room. He wore a dark robe, and he hadn’t seemed to notice Armand at the window at all–and Armand knew him. It was that bastard toymaker, Fuchs, and Armand was not sure he’d even been so enraged. Augustus sat down in front of the girl who stared into the fire, and even though he blocked her view of it, she was unmoved. The prince cringed when the man reached out and touched the child’s smooth, young cheek–a loving caress that was disgustingly inappropriate. He flew into a rage when the vile demon leaned forward and kissed the girl’s unresisting lips.
Armand smashed his fist into the glass as hard as he could, trying to break it. He hit against it again and again, but even with all his strength, he could not even manage to crack it. What was this sorcery! The desperate man moved onto a different window–any that might get him into that house, but the same thing happened each time. His fist was growing sore from the effort. Some of his fingers had poppe
d, possibly broken, and still the glass would not break.
Armand went back to the door, kicking it roughly so that the latch would give way, but the wooden door held like stone. For all of his frustration and inner torment, he released a roar of rage into the air. What could he do? What could he possibly do against this? He swallowed great gulps of the freezing air.
Once more… Don’t give up.
He pulled up his foot, smashing it again into the door just at the latch. This time–as magically as it had been held–it burst open. Armand did not waste a moment moving inside.
His nose was overwhelmed by smells of animal and urine. He saw the cages filled with mice and rats but did not stop to look at them. He passed straight on through the interior, hearing the door slam behind him as he finally stepped into the one room that was alight.
The room was filled with dolls and curiosities, also with jars of pickled things like eyeballs and crow’s feet, but Armand was only interested in one thing in this room. The owner of the house was standing before a workbench with his back to Armand, busily working with something small in his hands. The angry father could not see what it was, and neither did he care.
“Where is she?” Armand demanded firmly, not neglecting to notice that the girl was gone.
Augustus did not turn around from the workbench.
“Who?” he questioned with a certain degree of boredom.
Armand did not bother restraining himself. He moved heatedly toward the one who defied him.
“Don’t try to feed me that. I’ll rip you apart for touching her!”
His hand reached out to grip the back of Augustus’s robe, to jerk him around and likely cram a fist in his mouth, but before he had the pleasure, the shorter man turned around.
“You mean this little dear?”
Armand stopped at the sight of the object that the man held in his hands so gingerly. The prince squinted to try and comprehend it better, but it was only interpreted as a scrambled mass of thoughts in his mind.
That’s not her. It can’t be. It’s impossible, because that’s a doll. Made of glass, not flesh.
In Augustus’s hands, he held a tiny doll dressed in blue with cuffs of white rabbit fur. There was a hat on her head of the same fluff. The doll’s curls were perfectly arranged. Her blue eyes of glass stared out with no emotion. Armand shook his head in disbelief–but he could not take his eyes off the doll.
“Isn’t she so much more precious like this?” asked the weasel of a man before him. “It’s just how she was meant to be!”
“What are you talking about?” Armand’s head was pounding. His eyes showed his fear.
“One could tell by looking into her face. I delivered her. Her soul has gone on but her body has now been locked in its rightful state, ageless and immortal. She’s protected by magic. She will never decay.”
Augustus looked on at Armand’s confusion, reveling in it.
“Actually,” he went on, “you should thank me for what I’ve done.”
Armand’s sanity cracked. Did the man believe those words he was saying, or was he simply saying them out of hatred? Did he expect the heir to the throne to believe that this toymaker had stolen his daughter and performed some sort of magic that had turned her into a doll? He expected that Armand believed in sorcery? Certainly, he’d not doubted that it existed–somewhere–but he’d never dreamed that it would touch close to him.
As Armand stared at the doll’s eyes, he was made a believer.
He stepped forward across the wooden planks, reaching for his sword as he did so, only to find that there was no hilt to grasp. No matter. He would strike down this wretch with his bare hands! He moved closer. Augustus raised his hand–
Armand was flung across the room with the weight of an unseen carriage crashing into his body. He hit hard against the back wall, gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of him. He saw the other man advancing. Armand tried to pull himself out of the way, only to find he could not move. He was pinned against the wall by an invisible force.
Armand fought against the thing that held him, but it was of no use. Augustus was directly before him, looking boldly into his face with a sly grin, and all Armand could do was look back and clench his teeth.
“You’re right if you’re thinking that I also took those other girls,” Augustus told him. “I did them the same favor as I have done for our little Clara. They’re more perfect now, and one day will have their places in my kingdom.”
Kingdom? What was this lunatic talking about? Armand would have loved to ask him, but for the moment, his tongue was frozen within his mouth.
“I have told all this to you,” the magician said darkly. “So of course you must know that I have no intention of letting you leave here.”
Augustus rested his hand against the prince’s firm stomach, admiring the feel of the muscles as he let his fingers dance across the flesh.
“That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m going to allow you to die. Did you know, Armand, that if I wanted, I could ignite the marrow within your bones? That I could completely melt you from the inside out?”
Armand could not answer. He could only stare. His irises shook with fury as the man’s hand trailed up his chest.
“But death–even a painful one such as that–might be too good for you. I never liked you, and I know you never liked me. I know you never trusted me with your dear, precious Clara. But that’s not fair, is it? Neither of us truly knows the other.”
A firm jerk tore open the prince’s shirt, and the magician would have been lying to say he didn’t feel a certain arousal just for the domination of it, but that was not his purpose in the action.
The two men stared into the depth of one another’s eyes, and in that moment they recognized each other as more than simple competitors for a young girl’s affection. They were, and had always been, enemies.
“I have something just for you, Armand,” Augustus hissed, and with a sneer tugging at his lip, he gathered the power that resided inside him and pressed his hand on the warm flesh above the prone man’s heart.
For the first several seconds, Armand felt nothing save for a bit of stiffness in his limbs. His fingers straightened and he noticed that he could no longer feel his toes, but shortly after that first, fleeting moment, pain.
It started within, as if all of his organs were compacting. He could feel them stretching and tearing. Dead ends fell off within there, disintegrating into nothing. His genitals, tight and hard, retracted up into his body. He opened his mouth to yell through his torment, but no sound emerged.
His skin began to grow heavier, hardening. His face became stiff. His muscles pumped with blood and throbbed with pain, but they too were hardening as if he’d suddenly clenched them all. The color faded from his hair. His hearing seemed fine, but at that moment, all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.
8
Sweat was running down the face of the magician as he laid the curse on, whispering an incantation that Armand could not understand. Augustus was draining himself, but it would be worth his rest.
He raised his eyes to the man whose skin had become wood, only to find that rage–filled gaze still staring at him. Even through all this pain, Armand had the audacity to stare at him so accusingly and hatefully? Augustus would put a stop to this.
At his command, Armand’s blue eyes slid back into his wooden head until they could no longer be seen. The sockets became dark and empty and finally Augustus was free of seeing that stare. He watched with satisfaction as dark blood began to pour from those sockets in cascades.
He allowed Armand to scream then, just to hear the agonized sound, but what came forth was unlike anything he’d ever heard. There was pain in it, yes, but there was so much rage that it could only have been compared to the roar of an animal. The noise sent a chill through Augustus that he didn’t want to admit, and he finally pulled his hand away from Armand’s flesh.
The spot where his hand had rested over the hear
t had not turned to wood like the rest of his body, but it was of no consequence. He would cover it up with a few other finishing touches.
Greatly taxed by now, Augustus clapped his hands together only once, and Armand’s new body dropped from the wall and fell to the floor with a hard and heavy thud.
Augustus stared down at the nutcracker in his hand, quite pleased with it. The make was convincing, dressed in a wooden suit of dark blue that suggested a soldier, long white hair that seemed real, and ridges of iron beneath his arms so that he might perform the service for which he was designed. Augustus had tested them out on a pecan, and now he munched away at the innards of the nut as he smoothed down Armand’s hair and placed the prince’s new form in a box of wood. Once it was closed, he latched it tightly.
“You’ll wake up soon, Armand,” the man said gently. “And when you do, you’ll find yourself in a very different place. It will be dark and very cold, and if you do manage to break yourself out of this box, you will find that you are several feet underground. The worms will come for your blood, but even they won’t be able to kill you. You can dig against the frozen earth to see if you can get yourself out, and if you do, you can have the pleasure of wallowing in your sorrow for all eternity.”
The nutcracker did not respond, his stern mouth remaining closed within the box. Augustus reached over and lifted up the doll that had once been Clara.
“Don’t worry,” he said, sitting the doll down atop the box and putting the enchanted green marble into her lap. “I’ll take good care–”
His words fell off at the sound of fists pounding at his door. A jolt of fear ran through the magician. Guilty conscience.
“We’re of the King’s Guard,” a strong, muffled voice said from without the house. “Open the door, citizen.”
Augustus shrank back, not even reclaiming Clara from the box top before he did so. The Guard–they must have followed Armand here. Wretched, bastard prince! The nervous magician rubbed his hands together vigorously.
