by Lila Dubois
The ground vibrated as the centaur came up beside her, standing on three legs and kicking at the ground with his right front hoof.
“The circle is down,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, surprised and a bit wary of his help. It was dangerous to leave a partially open circle, and to have another magic worker check for remnants of power was a blessing few witches ever received.
“You are welcome, witch.”
Hitching the cauldron high on her hip she nodded to the centaur and started into the forest. When she was twenty feet away from the clearing breathing grew difficult. Thirty feet away there was an odd tightness around her chest. Moira stopped. The feeling didn’t go away, but did not worsen. She turned back to the clearing. The centaur had not moved. He still stood on the border of her grounded circle.
“Do you feel it?” he asked her.
“What?”
“Constriction, binding.”
“It feels like something is squeezing my chest,” she called out.
“Aye,” he said angrily. “It’s the spell.” With a leaping start, he galloped to her. Moira swallowed and stood her ground, though her instincts demanded she jump out of the way. She remembered the shopkeeper’s warning that the spell would require them to remain close, but she had not imagined it would have such a physical manifestation.
When he stopped beside her, Moira could see the cuff’s inlay glowing red. The closer he got to her, the dimmer it became, until the runes lay unlit within the metal as he stood next to her. Moira turned and started walking, the centaur falling in step behind her.
“How’d you know?” she asked as they made their way through the trees.
“Know what?”
“That the spell would cause that? Have you been under this spell before?”
“No.”
Moira looked over her shoulder. The centaur was bent forward, arms outstretched to push branches away from his face, struggling to negotiate his impressive form through the tight-knit trees.
“I’m sorry. This was the clearest path I could find,” Moira murmured.
Watching him struggle through the branches, the guilt she had been repressing surged up. She bit back a second apology. Every word she had said in the spell was true. Her need was great.
Without his help she would not survive.
Kiron pushed one branch aside and ducked beneath another. He did not like this dank forest. The trees of his homeland were different, not so close together, better for a centaur. This dense, dark place he’d been kidnapped to was polluted. He sensed humans all around, their fetid byproducts leaching into the ground to kill the trees from the root up. The forest smelled wet, as if the sun shunned the forest floor, and the ground felt soft beneath his hooves, carpeted in a layer of dead leaves and decomposing animal matter.
Kiron stared at the witch’s back as she trudged through the undergrowth. Her apology had taken him by surprise. The words were meaningless, humans lied as easily as they drew breath, but her tone had been sincere.
She stopped. He halted, closer to her than he would have liked. Backing up was not an easy thing for him, so rather than attempt the ungainly process he remained where he was. A warm scent, dark and rich, rose in the air. He scanned the forest floor, looking for the source, wondering if there was true life struggling through the contaminated soil. There was nothing.
He looked again and the witch’s hair, a streak of blonde in the dark of the wood, caught his attention. Kiron drew a deep breath and snorted in surprise. The scent was coming from her, a scent that he couldn’t identify and was unlike any human’s he’d been in contact with before.
The witch’s head twisted side to side, her eyes closed. The hated cuff around his wrist began to glow again, the runes filling with murky red light. Kiron lifted his wrist to examine it. The dark metal band was fused to his skin at wrist and mid-forearm, but moved as he twisted his wrist. The metal was not static, but fluid, allowing him full range of motion.
The light in the cuff flared brighter. The witch was drawing on his power, the power of The Wild.
“What are you doing?” he asked, curious as to why she’d stopped to toy with the spell. He would have preferred to remain silent as an expression of his displeasure, but curiosity consumed him.
“They’re coming,” the witch whispered, a hollow desperation in her voice that caused the hair on his arms to stand on end.
She crouched and set down the cauldron, slipping the strap of the bag off her shoulder. When she straightened, she reached over her shoulder and grasped the sword handle.
Moira struggled to breathe. Panic and fear swirled through her, making it hard to concentrate, and the magic she pulled from the centaur did not help. Like him, the magic was wild, pure Wild. His magic was pure as lightning, and that’s what it felt like, lightning in her veins.
“The…the magic.” She paused to breath, centering herself. “It’s strong.”
“Yes.”
“How do I—”
The centaur snorted and stamped his hoof. “You enslave me and then expect me to advise you how best to use me?”
“I just… I need…” Deep breathing wasn’t working. The magic and her emotions combined to rob her of coherent thought. She felt like a glass full of swirling liquid, the contents coming dangerously close to the top.
Distracted as she was, Moira’s instincts were good, magic born, and those instincts had her turning away, dropping and rolling on the potent forest floor as a gargoyle swooped between the trees, claws spread and ready for her.
The centaur reared, front hooves pawing the air. “What is that?” he yelled.
The gargoyle made a second pass, stone wings breaking off whole branches as it dove between the trees. Moira rolled sideways, moisture from the ground soaking into her clothing. As the gargoyle rose out of its dive, Moira lifted one hand, palm facing the gargoyle.
“I call away the veneer of life. What was once stone is stone again.” She threw a punch of power behind the same spell she’d used on the snake. The spell leapt from her hand in a ball of atmosphere, winging, nearly invisible, through the night. The gargoyle was twenty feet in the air when the spell hit it. The gargoyle’s wings stopped moving. Moira held her breath.
The moment of suspension broke, and the gargoyle tumbled to the ground, a thousand pounds of stone crashing into the forest floor. Stone claws sank deep into the earth, rooting the inanimate sculpture there. The centaur reared back on his hind legs when the heavy thing hit the ground.
Moira jumped to her feet. “Yes! It worked. I knew it could. All I needed was more power.” Elated and slightly power-drunk, Moira turned and smiled at the centaur.
“Did you see that?” she demanded, pointing at the fallen gargoyle.
“Aye.” His gaze darted between her and the gargoyle, “What was that—”
She never saw the second one. This time her instincts failed her. One moment she was looking at the dark outline of the centaur, the next, pain seared through her shoulders. This gargoyle dug granite talons deep into her, hooking them around her collarbone and shoulder blades. A single beat of his stone wings lifted her from the ground.
Moira screamed, her legs kicking in the air. Pain and panic welled. She tried to turn her hand to direct the spell, but could not move her arms. Each beat of the monster’s wings took her further away from the safety of the Earth.
Focus, focus. She shouldn’t need to direct the spell. The monster was touching her. “I call…call…away the veneer of life. What was once stone is stone again.”
The beating wings faltered, but did not stop. She needed the same power level she’d used in the first casting. She drew against her spell with the centaur, pulling raw magic through him. The Wild’s magic flooded her, consumed her. She’d pulled too much. She couldn’t control it. The magic leached out into the night.
No.
Kiron watched the strange grey beast lift the witch into the air. He could feel her drawing on the spell. H
er pull was uneven, panic driven. He saw the faint green glow of his power as it leached from her body, out of her control. There was no doubt in his mind that she needed power to use the spell that had felled the first beast. He was also sure that this time, she could not do it. The connection between them allowed him to feel her panic and fear. As she rose in the clutches of the unnatural beast his arm began to ache, the runes of his cuff flooding with angry red light.
He could withstand the pain in his arm. He could allow the beast to carry her away. Undoubtedly what was intended for her would break the spell, and he would be free of this enchantment. Free to return home. All he had to do was wait. Wait and do nothing.
“Goddess bless me,” he growled. Damning himself for being ten kinds of a fool, he reached up and snapped a large branch from the tree closest to him. At his touch the curved branch straightened. The limbs and leaves were stripped away until he held a six-foot lance. Tightening his grip, he transferred magic to the branch, filling it until the wood fibers crackled with white light.
Kiron planted his hooves and drew back his right arm, twisting his upper body. With a roar he threw the javelin. Straight and pure, it arched through the night, striking the beast forty feet in the air. There was a grating crack, and the beast split. The gray speckled wings separated from the massive body, each of the four limbs splintering, as the snarling head separated from the neck.
Kiron smiled in grim satisfaction as the pieces began to fall Earthward. Tumbling among the chunks of grey was another shape.
He had not saved her from the monster only to let her frail human body be broken by the impact. He darted between the trees, branches lashing at his bare chest and face. As he galloped, he threw up a shield around the place where she would land. A thin silver bubble arched up out of the forest floor. Making a hard right around a tree, hooves slipping slightly, he galloped into the bubble. Looking up, he saw large chunks of the beast falling fast. One particularly large piece was headed right for him. Kiron stood tall, searching for the witch among the tumbling debris.
There. He saw her. Moving forward and to the left, Kiron kept his eyes on the witch. The first chunk of rock beast fell and struck the dome of magic, bouncing off and thudding to the ground. Around the bubble the other pieces fell, ricocheting and slamming into the forest floor, some striking trees so that the trunks rattled and the sleeping beasts within set up a din of calls. Kiron noticed none of this. He held out his arms.
The witch passed through the dome and fell into his outstretched arms. With a grunt, Kiron caught her, pulling her in close against his chest, as the sky fell around them.
Chapter Three
Moira turned her face into his chest, gasping for air and fighting down the terrified sobbing that welled in her chest. Her back and chest ached from the stone talons.
She’d come close to losing this time. If the centaur hadn’t been there…
“Can you walk?”
His words rumbled through her where she was held to his chest. His body heat scorched her even through the layers of damp clothing.
“Yes, I can walk,” Moira murmured, teeth chattering slightly.
The arm under her knees let go, swinging her legs free. With a man this might have meant her feet touched the floor, but with the centaur her toes dangled far above the ground. She sucked in a hard breath as his hold across her back transferred her body weight to her abused shoulders.
The centaur grunted, wrapping his free hand around her waist and lifted her, alleviating the pressure.
“How bad is the damage to your body?” he asked, tone cool and calm as that of an ER doctor.
“I…hurt, but I don’t think it’s too bad.”
Slipping his other hand to her waist, he lowered her to the ground. He held her for a moment as she steadied her legs. Tears welled along Moira’s lower lashes. It had been a long time since someone had offered her help or comfort with a touch.
This time the centaur led, picking between the trees and fallen chunks of stone. Moira let her aching arms hang limp at her side as she plodded along behind him, fighting to regain her composure. As they passed the severed stone head of the first gargoyle, its thick lips pulled back over long sharp teeth, the slitted, pupilless eyes seemed to stare at her.
Moira must have made some sound because the centaur flicked his tail at her, the course strands of hair whipping against her thigh.
“Do not look at it,” he commanded, and, worn out as she was, Moira just nodded, focusing on plodding behind him. They passed between two trees into a stream of moonlight, and Moira got her first clear look at her centaur.
Had he been a horse alone he would have been eighteen or nineteen hands, but with his human torso atop that he was over ten feet tall. His coat was glossy black, like liquid obsidian stretched thin and taught over bone and muscle. The tail he’d flicked her with was black as well, the strands dull when compared to the high gloss of his coat.
His human half, rising smoothly from the pool of obsidian, was golden. Hair, shoulder length and curled, was black, and as glossy as his coat, the ends brushing the top of his shoulders. Every inch of him, be it human or horse, was muscled and defined—without flaw.
The centaur stopped, and Moira moved up beside his shoulder. He’d led them back to the spot where she’d sloughed her bag and cauldron. Moira searched the underbrush for her fallen sword. When she located it tangled in a bush, the leather-wrapped handle peeking from between leaves, she pulled it free, her injured shoulder protesting the movement.
The scabbard still hung across her chest, waiting for the sword. Moira raised the blade, trying to lift it up and over her shoulder to slip it into the scabbard, but her arm shook, the sword wavering dangerously close to her face.
The centaur pulled the sword from her grasp, jerking the scabbard over her head and off. Moira let her arm fall.
She was both ashamed of her weakness and relieved to have him take the sword from her. Moira was exhausted, injured and more than willing to give up control for a few moments.
She turned to see the centaur shrug the scabbard over his shoulder. The rich dark leather emphasized the glow of his golden chest. He effortlessly swung the sword over his shoulder and slid it into place with one long smooth stroke. The moon was behind him, keeping his face in shadow. She had yet to see his features.
“It looks like you’ve done that before,” she commented.
His head turned, a few locks of hair swinging forward to dance against his jaw. “The Wild has known its share of human war.”
“I thought The Wild did not get involved in human matters.”
“Sometimes the humans give us no choice.” He lifted his arm and the dark cuff caught the moonlight.
Moira lowered her head, too tired to continue her protestation of need. The silence hung, heavy and dark, between them. The forest was quiet. Their still figures blended with the silence. Moira’s shoulders and head bowed under the burden she carried.
The silence broke when he moved away, the beat of his hooves more felt than heard. He moved to her bag and cauldron, bending his front legs forward, kneeling so he could pick them up.
Moira jumped forward. “I can carry them.”
“You cannot. You could not lift the sword.”
“I didn’t call you to be my servant.” Steeling herself, Moira reached out, placing her hand against his shoulder, which was nearly level with hers in his kneeling position. Heat soaked into her fingers. “You have no reason to believe me, but I’m telling you the truth when I say that I didn’t cast that spell lightly.”
“That I believe, for it is only when they are desperate that humans are so foolish as to call something they do not understand.”
He rose, her brightly colored gym bag and cauldron each clenched in a hand, her own hand sliding away from him. She curled her fingers into a fist, holding on to the last of his heat.
“We must go. Your enemies have located us. It is not safe to remain,” he said, motioning with his he
ad for her to lead.
Moira nodded and turned away, leading them from the forest. It took almost twenty minutes of steady walking before the wood thinned, trees giving way to bushes, tangled undergrowth turning to grass.
A field bordered the forest. In the distance the wild tangle of grasses gave way to uniform green mowed grass and beyond that a parking lot intruded into nature, a lone vehicle the only occupant.
Moira moved to the centaur, tentatively gesturing at her gym bag. He grunted and held it out, half of the bag crushed in his massive fist. Moira unzipped one of the exterior pockets and pulled out a ring of keys and a chunk of crystal on a chain.
“What is that?” he pointed to the crystal.
“It’s a crystal, something I use to hold a spell. It’s late and no one should be around, but we can’t risk having some see you.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Please, we can’t risk—”
“When I say I do not need it, it is because I do not. I can make myself invisible to human eyes.”
“Fine.” Moira stuffed the crystal back into the bag, zipping it closed. “We’re headed for that truck over there, do you know what a truck is?”
“I am not completely ignorant of the polluting and lazy ways of humans. I know what a truck is.”
“Good.” Moira stepped back, jiggling the keys nervously, watching him.
The centaur stepped out of the trees, and for the first time Moira saw his face in full. He was beautiful, not the pale beauty of slender artistic men, or the overly polished beauty of the famous. High sharp cheekbones were matched by a strong jaw. It was a sculpted face, the hollows between cheek and jaw shadowed in the moonlight. His eyes were large and dark, glittering beneath straight black brows. He turned to her, feeling her gaze, and Moira was caught by his. His eyes were black, completely black, no white surrounding.
“Your eyes…they’re black.”
Those obsidian pools took her in, examining her head to toe.
