Winters of Alnora_Birth of the Dark Angel

by Kevin J. Kessler

  “What do you assholes have?” a voice asked.

  “Little street bitch thief got herself a nice haul today.” Alnora saw five more armored Knights of Lux congregating there, laughing and jeering at her mad struggle for freedom.

  “Here, Cap’n. This one has some fight in her,” one of the braying men crowed. The crowd parted, and a voice cut through their laughter and made Alnora’s blood freeze.

  “Well, well, well,” the stranger crooned.

  But it wasn’t a stranger. The sound of his voice, those exact words, brought back a horrifying flash of memory. It had been two years now since the last time she was nearly pinched by a knight. But this one had chosen not to arrest her. This one took what he needed and then…discarded her to die.

  She remembered the tickling closeness of his stubble, the hot smell of rancid whisky on his breath. How he had pinned her to the ground with an impossibly strong hand upon her six-year-old chest.

  Well, well, well… he had said on that day, just as he did now. Then he had done horrible things. Unspeakable things. He had taken from her that which was most intimately hers. He had violated her in the most personal manner possible. And when it was over, he had savagely beaten her, kicked her into the gutter, and left her to die.

  But the only thing to die on that day had been Alnora’s childhood innocence. Her hope, her compassion, and her smile had all perished in that gutter, but the girl’s heart stubbornly continued to beat.

  This creature that wore the face of a man visited in her dreams every night. He was the ultimate evil in Alnora’s life, and he was going to take her again. He leered, baring a mouth full of rotting teeth.

  “Well, aren’t you a pretty little rosebud. Not flowered yet, eh?” He licked his lips savagely as though she were some foreign delicacy the depraved horror couldn’t wait to sample. Alnora realized in that moment that the despicable man from her nightmares didn’t know her. The son of a whore had no idea who she was or what he had done to her. To Alnora, it had been the most horrid, heinous, despicable moment of her life. To this man, it had been a Wednesday.

  “I don’t think the stockades are right for this little plum. Can’t pick a fruit before its ripe. But maybe looks are deceiving. Maybe we have a little taste first.” The demonic man brought his face down, his lips quivering as they moved to impact those of the young girl. The men around them snickered and laughed at her plight. Alnora whimpered at first, the cold edge of her darkest nightmares returning to her in one horrifying instant.

  Then came the smell of his breath. Two years and still that same reek of whisky came soaring back to her nostrils, this time accompanied by the putrid scent of rot. That smell stirred something in her, transported Alnora back two whole years as she cried and wailed beneath his touch. Back in the present, the man removed his right gauntlet and slid his quivering fingers up toward her leg.

  The feel of his fingertips against her pale flesh broke something in Alnora’s mind, and she screamed at the top of her lungs. Her voice rushed out past her lips, but with it came a shuddering cacophonous burst of violent force. Her wail was impossibly loud, and the air in front of her was visibly distorted by it. Windows shattered, the men around her covered their ears, and her would-be abuser was tossed violently back, shooting fifty feet into a nearby wall, where he crumpled to the ground in a slowly moving heap.

  The man holding the eight-year-old dropped her, and Alnora landed on her feet in the alleyway. As she ran out of breath, the supersonic power of her otherworldly screech died, and a horrifying normalcy returned to the world.

  “What the…?” one of the knights exclaimed, lowering his hands from his ears. All of the knights stared at the girl in silent horror. All except the object of her assault.

  “Gut the little cunt!” he screeched to his men. There was a second’s hesitation, but soon they were drawing their weapons and advancing upon the girl.

  Alnora tried to scream once more, but this time, her voice came out absent of the power that had aided her near escape. She looked up in terror, horrified at the approaching warriors. She was not going to be a victim of their whims, and she was not going to prison. They were going to cut her down where she stood.

  A loud single click reverberated through the alley, echoing as it washed over them all. Alnora and the knights turned, and all the oxygen seemed to push from their lungs as one. The Dark Angel stood at the mouth of the street, still shrouded beneath a long, black cloak.

  “D…Dark Angel!” Alnora’s tormentor exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “You…Your Grace.” He bowed respectfully to the man, his knees knocking together in abject horror. Alnora gazed around at the Knights of Lux and noted how all of them were trembling to such an extent that you could hear the rattling of their armor.

  “I am no king, boy,” The Dark Angel replied, his voice deep and harsh.

  “Of…of course. My men and I meant no disresp—”

  Before the disgusting monster could sputter out his pathetic excuses, the sorcerer’s gloved fingers flicked. Three purple barbs made of magical energy erupted from their tips and tore through the necks of three knights, who collapsed amidst a shower of blood that sprayed about and splashed Alnora along the face.

  The remaining four warriors recoiled as The Dark Angel raised one hand into the air. Instantly, the quartet was dragged up, helplessly hovering three feet above the damp pavement, clutching at their necks as they struggled for breath. The specter in black made a forceful fist, and their necks snapped as one. Alnora gasped as the life left their eyes, and The Dark Angel thrust his fist forward. Their lifeless bodies flew back, slamming into the wall around their terrified captain, who squealed like a pig in horror.

  The Dark Angel extended his hand once more, and Alnora’s tormentor was dragged through the air, violently whipping past his intended victim until his throat came to rest in the sorcerer’s palm. The Dark Angel held him aloft with ease, bringing the monstrous captain close to his shrouded face. The powerhouse mage hissed like a snake in the face of this potential prey. The captain cried and sputtered, tears, snot, and spit mixing upon his face. Alnora also heard the steady trickle of liquid hitting the inside of the knight’s steel crotch guard. He had pissed himself.

  The Dark Angel turned his gaze to the young girl, and she felt the white-hot intensity of his stare burn into her. Alnora fought the urge to take a step back and instead kept her gaze void of emotion, staring with baited breath, waiting to watch this creature die. The Dark Angel gave a humorless half-smile and violently tossed the man back. He screamed as he once more crashed into the alleyway’s back wall and crumpled, unconscious but still breathing.

  Alnora turned her eyes back to the man, the edge of fear creeping into every cell of her body. He had saved her, come to her rescue. But why? What could someone who controlled all the black magic on Azulia want with her life? The thought that perhaps it had been a noble action never occurred to Alnora. To her, everyone always had a price. What would be the sorcerer’s?

  “You knew this man?” he asked her, though he clearly knew the answer to such a query.

  “Yes,” the girl replied, meeting The Dark Angel’s shrouded gaze with no hesitation.

  “And he…committed an atrocity?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did that make you feel, girl?”

  Part of Alnora’s mind wanted to run screaming, another was confused by this all-powerful wizard’s desire to question her. But another piece of her mind was endlessly intrigued and burned with desire to answer The Dark Angel’s question. “Powerless.”

  The Dark Angel made a reflective noise and brought one hand up to absentmindedly stroke his bearded chin. “You know who I am.” It was not a question, but Alnora wanted to answer it anyway.

  “You are The Dark Angel.”

  “Yes, but I was not always. Do you know how I came to hold this title?”

  “I…” Was this some kind of trick question? How could she possibly know? “No, sir.”

&nb
sp; “I was taught by my master. He was The Dark Angel before me. And his Mistress held the mantle before him.” This was a hefty revelation. There had been other Dark Angels? “I was once powerless like you. But I had talent, and I was taught, and I took my power back. Tell me, Alnora, do you intend to remain powerless?”

  He knew her name… How did he know her name? Such a question had no simple answer.

  “I never want to feel that way again,” she answered truthfully.

  The Dark Angel’s lips twisted into what was almost a half-smile. “As you said, I am The Dark Angel. I have not always been, and I will not always be. But there must always be a Dark Angel. One to embody the night, one who empowers the shadows. One to feast upon the darkest impulses of the mortal soul.”

  What was he driving at? Could it be?

  “Tell me, Alnora, urchin of the streets of Caelum, victim of the darkest corners of the city of light, can you embody the night?”

  “Yes.” The word could not leave her lips fast enough. Was this truly happening? Was he actually offering what she thought he was dangling before her?

  “Can you empower the shadows?”

  “I can!” She sounded hungry, almost desperate.

  “Can you feast upon the darkness of the mortal soul?”

  “Yes!” She shouted this positive exclamation. The alley seemed to melt away from her. The world seemed far off. All that remained in this space were she and the man who embodied a fascinating and tantalizing power. She recalled the strength of her scream, her unnatural ability to remain unseen, to wordlessly bully other thieves into subservience. It all made sense. She was gifted, touched, and destined.

  “Kneel before me, Alnora of Caelum.” He slowly gestured with one hand toward the ground before him. Alnora bounded forward with two steps, nearly falling over herself in her rush to obey this first command.

  The first of many, she thought. The Dark Angel threw back his hood, and the face she saw there sparked the full fury of her curiosity. He was deathly pale, his ebony beard and long cascading hair standing in stark contrast to his waxen skin. The flesh around his eyes was wrinkled and weathered, but the man looked to be somewhere in his late 30s by her estimation.

  His eyes were a sickly jaundiced yellow and seemed to pulsate like a heartbeat as he took in her kneeling form.

  “Nevermore shall you be known as Alnora of Caelum.” He gestured at her forcefully, and a jolt of purple light sped between them. The spell struck the young girl around the throat and knocked her to her back. She could feel the magic sliding along her flesh, bonding to it, clasping together around her neck just over her spine. She clutched at it for a moment, this smooth, cool artifact that sealed itself to her skin. It felt permanent. She panicked at first…but only at first.

  This was scary, but it was no less horrifying than what she had already endured. Turning onto her hands and knees, Alnora gazed down into a puddle of water and caught sight of her own reflection. There, around her filthy neck sat a black, polished collar, in the center of which there was a pulsating purple gemstone. It was beautiful; it was powerful. It was her.

  “Now and forevermore, the truth of you shall be Alnora of the Night. Heir to the darkness. Now rise, my apprentice.”

  Alnora of the Night took one last look at her reflection in the pool of water that sat below her. The face of a thief, of a beggar orphan, of a victim. She slammed her palm down into the still water, disrupting the vision of her features until all that could be seen was the purple light of her collar.

  Alnora stood slowly and turned to face her new teacher, a look of hunger and gratitude etched over her feral smile.

  “Thank you,” she said, bowing her head, “my master.”

  Chapter Two

  Alnora of the Night plunged the dingy cloth into a murky bucket of putrid water with a grimace of disgust. She growled under her breath as she pressed the rag into the stone floor and scrubbed. Three years had done nothing to quell the fires of unrest that raged within her at the menial and demoralizing tasks she had been forced to endure under the tutelage of The Dark Angel. Though to call what she had thus far endured tutelage would be an extreme overstatement.

  When she had first left Caelum at the powerful sorcerer’s side, her entire body tingled with excitement. This was the moment she had waited for, the time in which her true life could finally begin. She traveled for days with the dark mage, sitting dutifully in the back of his wagon as the enormous black horse pulled them farther and farther from everything Alnora had ever known. Her new master was not one for conversation, and silence was the norm throughout the trip.

  The journey was long an arduous, but The Dark Angel had a fully stocked wagon, and Alnora was fed better than she had ever been in her life. They passed through settlements and centers of commerce, never stopping, never wavering from their pace. The winter air chilled her to the bone and only became more frigid as they journeyed north, far from the realm of human beings.

  Alnora began to feel the tug of fear at the back of her mind. Where did a being such as The Dark Angel reside? With the immortal elves, whose northern cities had never been glimpsed by human eyes? Did he dwell beneath the surface of Azulia like the Dwarf Lords in one of their vast subterranean mining cities? Or did he go over the north mountains into the land of the giants?

  Alnora had shuddered at that last thought. Tales of titanic, beautiful creatures who saw the smaller races as naught more than pets, playthings, and, in the worst-case scenario, snacks, had often filled her with dread. But with one as powerful as The Dark Angel by her side, need she fear anything? Would even a giant bend before the might of her new master?

  As it turned out, The Dark Angel’s mysterious home lay in none of those locales. Instead, the wagon had plunged deep within the enchanted forests of the west, where none but the fae were known to dwell. Alnora had watched, utterly fascinated as the lights and melodic tinkling sounds of faeries in flight met her senses. The enchanted forest seemed like a living being the way the trees, vines, and landscape shifted to allow her master’s wagon safe passage. This did not feel like traveling along a forested landscape but rather across the flesh of some vast unknowable fully conscious creature.

  Then, when it seemed as though they had reached the edge of reality itself, the trees parted once more, and Alnora gasped at the massive structure that loomed before them. It was the largest castle she had ever seen, easily dwarfing the Palace of Caelum several times over. It was blacker than death, and its sharp towering spires ended in glistening points that looked as though they could draw blood from the night sky. This fortress of dread was where it would happen. This castle of fear was where she would learn to harness the power of darkness, to bathe in the black magic of Azulia, and force a life for herself above that of even the Paragon himself.

  That was what she had thought upon first entering the vast gates of her new home. Three winters later and Alnora was no closer to unlocking those dark secrets than she had been whilst sitting in the back of that wagon. She swallowed a snarl and a curse as she continued to scrub at the floor of the east wing, completely alone in the sparsely lit chamber. Her shadow stretched out behind her in the dim flickering light of a wall mounted torch, and Alnora gazed at it with the longing of shattered potential.

  What was the point of this? She had come here to learn magic, to tame the planet itself, to succeed her mighty master as the new Dark Angel. She wanted to make the world that had so abused her shudder at her feet.

  But in three years, she had not once left the castle. The collar around her neck ensured that. The unnatural accoutrement had grown with her, stretching as she had matured, permanently affixed to her flesh. Once, when she had tried to venture outside the castle walls, the collar had burned fiercely, scorching the flesh of her neck and causing the girl to shriek in agony. It seared so violently that Alnora had believed her head was about to explode. She had thrown herself back along the floor, desperately rolling away from the main gates of the palace as if trying
to douse the flames that burned her from the inside.

  Then, and only then, once she had conformed to her master’s will, did the pain stop. This was a sobering lesson. One of her first. Disobedience or betrayal would result in death.

  In three years, she had learned not one bit of magic. The burst of her powerful scream in that Caelum alley had been the only taste of true power she had experienced. When they arrived at The Dark Angel’s shadowy residence, Alnora had been ready to undergo his training, ready to feel that burst of power once more and to control it. But the lessons never came. Instead, The Dark Angel had set her to task with duties befitting a scullery maid, not one who was meant to succeed him as the heir to his great power.

  She was a servant, and her master seemed to view her as nothing more. Their conversations had been brief and always with a purpose. A barking order here, a weathering glare of disapproval there. These sparse exchanges with The Dark Angel had been the only human interaction she was allowed. The other servants of the castle were not to be disturbed or approached, according to one of her master’s very first orders.

  A black-clad figure stumbled past her in the east wing hall, and Alnora ignored it as she had done these past several years. All the castle’s servants were adorned the same—a floor-length, tattered, black cloak and a face hidden behind a raised hood. They all walked in a slouched and twisted manner. Some limped, others practically slid their legs along the floor in their slow shuffle from place to place. None had ever addressed her or even acknowledged the young apprentice’s existence. She had never heard one speak, never seen their faces. It was yet another frustrating mystery of her life.

  Alnora gritted her teeth and glared with seething hate at the limping figure as it meandered down the shadowy hall, leaving filthy dirt-caked footprints upon the surface she had spent the last three hours scrubbing. Life on the streets of Caelum had given her a wealth of emotions. The hopelessness of her former life had given her a bitter sense of melancholy dread. But her isolated “training” at the hands of this mysterious specter had given birth to something new—an all-consuming rage.