by S McPherson
‘That was shocking.’
Rolling my eyes, I scream again, louder this time.
‘Again,’ he orders, and I do.
‘Again!’
As if to shut him up, I scream with all my might. I expand my chest to take in more air and then release it as a high-pitched, warbling cry. It feels absolutely fantastic.
‘AAARRGGHH,’ I wail once more and am startled when Milo hollers back.
‘AAARRGGGHH,’ he roars.
Pressing back my laughter, I scream again and again, louder each time. Milo does the same, and soon our voices are bouncing back and forth like balls in a tennis match, until we are both breathless and in fits of laughter. Panting, I clutch my stomach and will myself to stop, to quell my aching cheeks.
‘Better?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I wheeze.
Grinning, he leans in and kisses me and for a brief moment I feel as though I’m floating.
‘And now, even better.’
He doesn’t move away immediately, but regards me with an unreadable expression that somehow I know is a good one. Then, seeming to remember why we’re here, he takes the gethamot from around his neck and presses it into my hand.
‘It’s time,’ he says, and the portal springs open.
I ignore the pang in my chest as the avocado swirls rage out around us.
I take a deep breath and step back into the opening. ‘Don’t forget me,’ I call.
‘Never,’ he vows.
AS GENERATIONS GO
The Court gather in the great hall, buzzing with idle chatter as they wait for their senior to speak. They chat about nothing, each one really wondering what today’s summons will bring.
For a while, Vladimir watches like a rock sculpture carved into the very table he stands by, taking them all in, those he has sworn to rule with, those he has sworn to die with. It was never a task he asked for, just something he was born into. He expels a small puff of air as he runs over what he is about to tell them: more hunting, more war. He hopes, when they swore their allegiance, they truly did mean ‘Until the end’.
Finally, he holds up a hand and the hall falls silent.
‘Friends, family, warriors,’ he calls, reciting his rehearsed speech, ‘as you all know, Feasting Season is fast approaching and for the first time we may have the upper hand. No more does the Borum wolf howl at the night and no more do the vampires drain us of our blood. We have freed ourselves from the Vildacruz’s clutch and we are trapped…no more!’
‘No more!’ exclaims a buxom lady at the back. She has small, beige eyes that sparkle and a podgy neck that she swivels from side to side as she seeks agreement from the others.
‘However, the Exlathars still remain and as you all know, they are the worst of the lot.’ Vladimir strides around the table as he speaks, thriving on the unfailing energy of his audience, ‘I’m sure they think they’ve already won, that we’re cowering in their shadows. But hear me when I say this fight will never be won, will never be over…unless we are its victors!’
The air vibrates, everyone except Brixen roaring with enthusiasm.
‘To the Coltis!’ Baxter booms heartily.
‘To victory!’ belts out another.
‘What about the poison?’ asks a woman with bright red hair in which there’s a twisted lock of blue. She stands with folded arms, her charcoal eyes questioning.
The animated hum dies down and everyone turns to Vladimir, expectantly.
‘I have been in the ward and studied the progress of all those injured in our last battle,’ he states. ‘The Repairees tell me that the Extroosal is working well, that the sooner it is applied the better. That is why, this time, each of us will be armed with a case of Extroosal until we devise an antidote. We are also putting together weapons strong enough to withstand the demons’ toxic flesh.’
Once again, the crowd buzz with excitement and curiosity, looking eagerly from one to the other.
‘The department of weaponry is gathering the materials needed and Amethyst will instruct us on how to use it,’ Vladimir then says, bending down and retrieving a satchel from under the table.
Now all heads swivel to Amethyst who holds her own head high. Though by birth she is a Premoniter, she always had extraordinary skill in warfare, as though a Fuerté. Her father had been one, and, fascinated with all things Corporeal, had always encouraged her to spend much of her time studying Humanitorium and the art of combat.
‘The Coltis are always so quick to fall on spells and potions,’ her father would say. ‘What if there is no magic to save us?’ and she would grin. Now, his teachings should finally pay off, and she be seen as more than just a Premoniter.
‘Amethyst?’ snapping her out of her thoughts, Vladimir motions her to join him at the table, which she does, swiftly and with silent grace.
‘This is a prototype,’ Vladimir announces and draws a weapon from its bag. It is a folded stick, the colour of polished bone with willowy golden leaves at each end. Everyone peers at it, confused, intrigued, saying nothing.
Vladimir hands the stick to Amethyst, who steps away from the table and prepares for her demonstration.
‘I call this weapon the xyen,’ she tells them, then whispers ‘Ku-ta’ and flicks her wrist. The xyen promptly unfolds into a long sturdy staff, a plume of sharp gilded leaves at either end, their deadly points jutting out in all directions. Embossed along the length of the stick are the seven symbols of the empires.
Everyone gasps as, light-footed, Amethyst leaps about, wielding the weapon in an array of directions, thrusting and jabbing.
‘Ku-ta!’ she yells as she slams the weapon shut and the sharp leaves meet with a clash, sure to skewer whatever gets in their way. With another ‘Ku-ta’ the staff again elongates.
‘Ku-ta,’ and she bends it over her head, one end forking threateningly behind her whilst the other stretches out ahead.
‘Ku-ta’, a swift whack on the table and the staff shines, a sudden blow of white. She stabs the floor and again the weapon glows. She does this over and over, swiping at the walls, lashing the ground, until at last the shield of white falls from the weapon, leaving behind a stick of gleaming black marble, erratic lines of electric-white snaking through it, the leaves still bright gold and forking menacingly.
‘The xyen glows whenever it makes harsh contact and each layer it leaves behind has a certain number of contacts in it before it sheds, revealing the next.’ Amethyst is barely breathless as she holds up the changed staff for everyone to see. ‘This one is just a prototype. The ones we use in battle will be equipped with more contacts, so they will see you through to the end. How it will perform against an Exlathar is hard to say, but it is certainly the strongest weapon we have.’ Lowering the xyen, she murmurs ‘Ku-ta, Ku-ton’ and the weapon folds itself, the pointed leaves then hanging limply from its ends.
‘Sounds good to me!’ a woman hollers from the back and soon everyone is agreeing, patting Amethyst on the back and breaking into enthusiastic conversation.
Vladimir raises a hand. ‘I’m not finished,’ and once again the room falls silent. Lexovia stares at him in awe. She has never known anyone to command a room so effortlessly, not something she could do even with her supposed elevated status.
‘The Prevolids have searched the land, and last night they discovered a new Exlathar base…here,’ and he directs everyone’s attention to a large map of Coldivor splayed out on the table, pointing to an area in Taratesia then circling it with a twig dipped in snickleberry juice. ‘We will set off at the tenth hour. Arm yourselves well.’
The night is still, the only movement the united march of the Court and its guard. Everyone is cloaked in black, moving as one mass of shadows. The Prevolids lead the way, their dark eye-shaped glasses reflecting the glow of the moon.
Lexovia glances at Howard beside her where they’re buried in the midst of the army’s long column. ‘Do you have your extroosal?’ she asks, her white hair hidden beneath her hood.
&nb
sp; Howard nods, patting the satchel slung across him. ‘Got yours?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good,’ Howard sneers. ‘Now the gits can try to kill us a much as they like.’ He blows his fringe from his forehead, his face stern. His eyes seem to thirst for the future, one filled with hope, peace and no doubt roosenbick sandwiches, Lexovia realises.
The corners of Lexovia’s mouth twitch upwards. ‘You’re fearless,’ she notes with a hint of envy.
‘I’m a Fuerté,’ he shrugs, ‘it’s in my blood.’
But Lexovia is not convinced. ‘No one is making you be in the Courts Guard, Howard.’ She looks earnestly at him, keen for her friend to understand just how much she admires his strength. ‘You’re very brave.’
Howard basks in the compliment, pushing back his shoulders. ‘So are you.’
‘I don’t really have a choice.’
‘Everyone has a choice. Besides, if you were a Fuerté or Ochi or anything other, would you choose to be anywhere else?’
Lexovia considers, though she already knows her answer. She thinks back to years ago, of the night her mother, fierce and unafraid, marched into an Exlathar base with nothing but herself as armour. She vowed to save the empires from the fate they now suffer and ever since that morning Lexovia awoke to learn her mother did not survive, she swore she would save the empires in her stead.
She shakes her head. ‘Not a chance.’
Howard cocks his head, as if to say ‘I told you so’.
They continue their march through the throng of trees, remaining closely grouped like the legs of a giant beetle, their shields held over their head, encasing them. Above fly those on terraduchins, hanging back and surveying the land ahead for any possible ambush.
At last, a man, a Prevolid, in the vanguard holds up his hand, halting them. He removes his eye-shaped glasses that bind his gift and his eyes glow a pale white. Then, crouching down, he presses his nose to the ground, peering through and beneath the earth. His eyes can see past the twisted roots of plants, the layers of dirt and soil and the insects burrowing their homes. They gaze beneath it all until finally seeing the Exlathars in their underground shrine, their silhouetted figures lit by the gleaming green air it holds.
Rising, the man signals for the others to follow, and together, the Court of Coldivor and its guard, roll on through the tall and strong blades of grass that looks so much sharper than any swords.
Lexovia adjusts the satchel across her body, surprised by the weight of her flask of extroosal. She surveys the faces of those around her, each stern, determined, some she recognises, some she still can’t place.
A wind shudders across them and the thick strands of grass stand stock still, as do the soldiers hidden within. Every passing breeze could be the rapture of an Exlathar’s wings. They wait, in trained silence. If anyone is frightened, they do not show it, their expressions severe and focused—it was just the wind, after all.
Their resumed march becomes a rhythmic thumping, like a beating heart. The grass begins to thin and the coolness of the breeze reaches them more easily, and soon only mud lies beneath their feet. As well as an army can, they creep forward, following the Prevolid until at last they come to a dark cave entrance.
As one, they lower their shields, every eye shining, a rainbow of reds, blues, ambers and violets as they all tap into their inner power, just enough to light their way through the darkness. The air within the narrow cave is hot and damp. The Prevolids keep watchful eyes, squinting through the rough stone walls and the earth at their feet, seeking the best place to strike.
‘Here,’ a Prevolid whispers, practically pressing his eye to the ground, ‘if we descend at this point, we will destroy a lot of them.’ The other Prevolids nod their agreement.
Vladimir steps forward and kneels, soon joined by Brixen and Baxter, spheres of power swirling in the palm of their hand.
‘Lexovia,’ Vladimir hisses, ‘come on.’
She frowns. Is she expected to join the seniors?
A non-too-gentle hand presses into her back, urging her forward. She glares back at Howard who flicks his fingers, telling her to hurry up.
Now standing by Vladimir, Lexovia summons her power, the familiar flow charging through her like a rush of icy thorns. Unlike the others, Lexovia’s gifts do not only swirl in her hand but spark from her fingertips, and everyone steps back as fire-bright amber turns her to shadow.
She crouches down by Vladimir, the others crowding in nearer, legs braced for the impact of the fall to come. They have practiced this: leaping down from great heights, landing with barely a scratch.
Lexovia looks at Vladimir who looks at the Prevolids watching what only they can see below.
‘Now!’ they hiss and the four of them launch their globes of reeling magic at the earth. The ground quakes with the thundering blast and the members of the court descend like bats on a scourge of mosquitoes. Rocks cascade and tumble around them as they dive onto the demons.
The high-pitched screeches of now airborne Exlathars ricochet off the damp stone, adding to the discord.
As hoped, many of the Exlathars are crushed by the fearsome force of the plummeting rock, but sadly just as many remain. The Court are ready, though: spears poised, shields up and hurling potions.
More Exlathars take to the air, merging with the darkness of the cave’s slick black walls, soon releasing their inner venom. A haze of yellow swarms about the cavern like a rush of vibrant bees. The screams that follow collide, drip from the jagged rocks and swell from the high ceiling.
Tyria Bloon, an Ochi with small, purple eyes, gasps as the mist slithers around her. Her eyes quickly glow—a violet light sailing from them, freezing the toxin as she fumbles in the pouch hanging from her shoulder. Her power’s lilac haze is already sizzling under the toxic sting of the venom.
Ripping the lid from her case of extroosal, she douses the new gashes and charred flesh, but her movements become stilted and jerky as the desiccant poison clearly takes its toll. She winces, crying out in pain. The extroosal seems to bubble on her skin until at last it seeps in. She staggers back no longer harmed and races away from the poison.
They’re staying airborne. Lexovia watches as the Exlathars swoop down long enough to unleash their toxin then charge back up, their only fight with those on terraduchins.
Lexovia rises like a dawn’s blazing sun; her whole being flickering red as she bursts through the air, her amber eyes ablaze. As she flies past Collin, she holds out her hand and he passes her a vial of hot, fiercely crimson-glowing Nepatin: the only potion strong enough to injure an Exlathar if thrown at close enough range.
Above her is a screeching beast. She charges it, its mouth snapping open at the sight of her and from which cascades a stream of yellow. Lexovia dives out of the way, the venom falling onto an unfortunate Premoniter. The man puffs, clutching his throat as he rolls from his terraduchin, his eyes sailing from their sockets, his skin gone ghostly white—dead before he hits the ground.
The Exlathar chuckles and soars higher, the downdraught of its wings throwing Lexovia back, the serum held out before her.
From the arch of the creature’s wings, she can tell it is about to turn, to unleash another rain of yellow. Pressing the lid between her teeth, Lexovia rips it from the vial as the beast turns and stretches open its jaw. She ascends like the wind, plunging the potion deep into its now wide-open mouth.
The Exlathar shrieks and howls, its leathery wings whipping the air, dislodging rock from the wall and sending it tumbling down. Its once vibrant green eyes now dull to vapid holes and it snarls, baring its jagged teeth as it crashes down like a giant pterodactyl bathed in black.
‘Look out!’ Lexovia hollers, swooping down after the beast, praying no one is caught in its fall.
We can’t do this for much longer, she realises just as Vladimir voices those very same words from beside her, balancing effortlessly on a terraduchin, vials of Nepatin strapped across him.
She’s just abo
ut to respond when a loud voice booms out ‘Get off her’ from below.
Lexovia looks down and sees a man charge an Exlathar that’s crouched hungrily over the body of a woman, her muscles those of a Fuerté. The creature screeches and backs away from the man’s brandished spear, its toxic yellow cloud left behind. The man cradles the Fuerté as she gasps for air.
‘Melena,’ Lexovia hears him beg, but then he shudders and leaps away, as though scalded, yanks out his case of extroosal and smothers himself in it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he tells Melena, his features pinched. ‘I would hold you if I could.’
The woman gapes at him before her eyes slowly bulge from her head, leaking blood as her now sallow skin quickly shrivels.
The soft trance-like music sails from my speakers, seeming to merge with the serene surroundings. My building’s communal garden is brilliant for a bit of meditation. A tranquil waterfall ripples down three of its four surrounding tiered walls and an array of shrubs and blossoms border its lawn. I admire the splashes of lavender and pink leaping out from between the strands of green. Tall, lustrous trees stand in each corner, shrouding one wall and lining the entrance. At peace, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, waiting for the voice to begin over the music.
‘What are you doing?’ a voice I don’t expect says. I open my eyes and see Nathaniel standing in front of me.
‘Affirmations,’ I tell him with a half-hearted shrug. ‘Supposed to help make life more bearable or something.’
He considers, pursing his lips. ‘And?’
‘And?’
‘Has it been helping?’
‘I think so.’ I run my fingers through my hair, aware that the video I’m playing has now moved on to statements I am supposed to be reciting. ‘Just, with everything that’s been happening lately, I figured it couldn’t hurt.’
He nods. ‘It can’t.’
‘Every little helps; right?’ I add with a wry smile.
‘You sound like a Tesco’s commercial,’ and he chuckles.
