The Dark Levy: Stories of the Nine Worlds (Ten Tears Chronicles - a dark fantasy action adventure Book 1)

by Alaric Longward

  She wanted to make it through the Fanged Spire. She wanted to be free. I gazed at her as she said that. What was free to her? Was it a roaming existence, learning of the worlds? Perhaps. Or was it something like Euryale wished for? Riches and power? All she spoke of was freedom. She held me close. I was the key to that. She was my sister.

  I owed her. She had killed Ron for me.

  I had been horrified by what she was able to do, but she had been loyal to me, despite her drive and issues. I would trust her to look after me in the future. I would do so as well, I decided. What else was there? For her, I endured Bilac and Cosia, hunger and cold and the constant snickers of the others, even if I loved them. Their mockery was painful, the jests still there for reasons I still could not grasp. Happily, they also liked me fine, most of the time. They were as much freaks as I was, in one way or another.

  I said we learned to hold power.

  We had seen hints of wondrous things, bits of magic, spells of fire and airy shackles. There were Cherry’s disappearing act, Ulrich’s fiery face spell, and Albine’s cinder storm and I, of course, saw the spells Euryale had cast. In fact, I remembered all the spells they had cast so far, saw and quickly recalled the way they were constructed, but in the training, they demanded only one thing. Every morning we sat in a line, Lex, Cherry, Dana, and me. We were to the right of Ulrich, Anja, Dmitri, and Alexei, all gathering power, harnessing the spell of Fury. I called for the healing magics, wondering at the ice and the rime, freezing water and withering wind I was holding, Frigg’s Gift. Hand of Life? Healer and advisor to elven kingdoms? I snickered. Hardly.

  But we all learned to hold more and more of the power, and what seemed tedious and strenuous, limiting and insulting, even, was nonetheless as important as endurance is for a marathoner. We had the ability, the guts to dwell in the unknown, deep waters of the Shades, but we were children in the art of spell casting.

  We had to grow.

  That was to be our primary duty that first year. Bilac and Cosia kept us down in the shattered war hall for hours and hours. It was punishing in ways an outsider could not witness. We were always concentrating, holding and caressing the power inside, always to the very limit, then pushing the painful limit further and were not readily allowed to release it. It was like holding a dangerous serpent. It felt like walking a line above the clouds and ever so dangerous, for at some point you had to let go of the energy, and often you were too tired to let it go safely. Once, Alexei fell forward as he struggled, and gouts of rebellious fire burst forth, leaving Anja with singed hair and scorched skin. I healed her, and the others eyed me carefully, their faces expressionless, and so did the two lesser gorgons. I realized they all, even the jailers looked at me with respect. That was something I had never had.

  The price for the respect was Euryale. In the afternoons, she whisked me away from the door.

  She did what Bilac and Cosia did. She made sure I ate first, though. I had succulent meats with a delicious, salty sauce and a drink of sweet nectar after, but she was far more brutal than Cosia and Bilac. She pushed me, not by words, but by using the spell Bilac and Cosia had used, entering my mind, forcing me beyond what I would have dared. She pushed me to grasp more and more, to go ever further, and there were days I passed out in agony and I bled from nose and ears, for sometimes she went too far. ‘You can do this,’ she told me after I woke up, ‘and you can heal the damage.’ She would sit there and see to it I did, heal myself. ‘I see what you do when you grasp the spells, to a point. You see parts of the Shades none others do. I was right.’

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ I would tell her. I did not feel special. I felt like a victim of a brutal assault. I would finish the food, push back from the food with scared jerks, and she would teach me. Every day. Yet, every day, I would hold the power of the ice, the tides of the frigid rivers. I would wonder at the sheer beauty of the brilliant power, wishing to see the nine rivers of Niflheim. Every day, with the others and with Euryale, I grasped the familiar spell of healing and held it though I was ever tempted at trying to discover new spells, new ways of pulling together compelling, interesting effects. I was hungry to probe and sample the power that was our birthright, but she would make sure I did not.

  ‘First, you have to grow familiar with it. Do not dive into the dark waters, Shannon, before you know how to swim and even dive. Many die if they do, others live but are never the same again.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  So it went on, for months until we could no longer count. We bathed in the evenings, endured the stench of excrement, ate the damned terrible slop, played with the rag ball when we had the energy, even with Ulrich occasionally. I spoke much with Able, wondering at Albine’s silence and Cherry’s glinting eyes and endured Dana’s calculating looks as she stared at the people I had grown to like. She was thinking of ways to survive, and I was trying to remember we were to do so even at the expense of the merry Alexis and sad Albine. And Cherry, who was ever with me. We would occasionally play games before we fell asleep, and Cherry taught me to dance though we had no music. She had quick feet, and she showed me intricate dance steps, one foot shooting in front of another, then back. She giggled at my clumsiness until I got it right and rolled her eyes when I pretended fatigue was to blame. We also scratched a chess game on the stone and used pieces of rubble and wood to play though she was far better than I. I rarely stood a chance for more than thirty minutes, and even then I tarried to stave off the inevitable. She still did not speak but slept next to me, her hand around my waist while Dana was nearby on the other side. I would untangle Cherry’s short hair as she did, wondering about her story. Able would sit and smile at me as I finally fell asleep, and I liked his gentle smile.

  Gods, I prayed. Where are you?

  They did not answer.

  Then, perhaps nine months into the training, something happened and the routine broke.

  CHAPTER 11

  At midday that day, I again heard Euryale call out. ‘Come,’ she said, filling the room with her voice as I was summoned to exit the door. Bilac pointed up lazily with her whip, and so I went. Only the door cheerfully greeted me. ‘Enjoy your day, young mistress, and do come back.’ I was tempted to slap the door for its cheerfulness, but I did not get a chance, for my mistress waited for me beyond the door. She would stand there in the shadows, gather strength, her four, powerful arms would fly to her sides. She would envelop us in the dizzying darkness of the portal, pulling me through alleys of mists and swirling night shades to her chamber. There she once again sat me down, and under her glowing eyes, she forced me to fill myself with the power, more power than ever before. She brutally took me higher and deeper to the power than what Bilac and Cosia ever forced on us. She ran a finger across my hand as I wept, her mind inside mine, pushing me and opening up my consciousness, and I felt older, fey and grim as the thing inside my mind hammered at my limits, painfully raking at me. When she entered my head, I felt the tingle of her intrusion, and I tell you it was not unlike waiting for someone to saw your foot off.

  I hurt. Terribly so.

  That time, while torturing my mind, even further than before she also spoke to me. ‘You have enemies in your group. You have grown complacent and friendly with most, but the enemy is still there, waiting.’

  ‘They don’t, I mean, Ulrich does not …’ I said with a shudder, panic welling as I wondered at the power tingling inside me. ‘The others mock me sometimes, but I do not think they would threaten me. Even Ulrich has been giving me some space.’

  ‘Well, Shannon, you are a bit strange. You are speaking to yourself,’ she said as she pushed at my mind, and I nearly howled, seeing white rime and ice and feeling sort of unglued.

  ‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Madness? But that is just delicious, my little human girl.’

  I shook my head in denial, hazed by the pain as she forced me even further. Would I know I spoke to myself? No. The mad never do. Why had nobody said
anything? Mother. Father. Grandma? Only Dana had told me I have issues. Is that why they laughed at me? Now Euryale told me? How would she know? Of course, she would, she knows everything.

  Mother and Father. They had sent me to a shrink, had they not?

  Gods, perhaps I was crazy.

  ‘Hold it,’ she said, seeing my turmoil. ‘See? I tell you the truth when others are content to enjoy themselves with the entertainment of your small craziness. You do not have actors and theater in your chambers, so likely you are the best thing there is. After your games with the rag ball.’

  ‘That is bullshit,’ I said angrily, uncertain it was so. ‘They like me.’

  ‘Humans are mean little things,’ she smiled, ‘but think what you will, Shannon. Learn to love them, if you wish. Yet, doubt not there are those who think evil of you amongst those who smile at and with you. Fear him, and them all, actually. Even I have feared in my life. Such fear is an excellent and useful tool for a warrior. It teaches your mind to embrace every breath, to be cautious every second of your life and not spend a moment in idle enjoyment, complacent in false feelings of safety. You will die if you are not paying attention to your surroundings and people. Ever think about what is going to take place, if you let it. Manipulate your future, manipulate your foes. Your sister is like this, I think. But this, Shannon, the spell you hold? It is a weapon. Healing is a weapon indeed. Use it carefully, withhold it from those who hate you, use it as you would a hidden blade. Do not give the blessing freely and only use it if you are about to die. Now, hold it! A bit longer! And if someone comes for you, Shannon, fight. They think you weak, but I see you are not. The wise wait while the rash move.’

  ‘Would they not …’ I asked, for the pain of holding the spell was making me shake with misery, pushing me to tears, ‘be careful not to attack me if they thought me strong?’

  She smiled. ‘No, Shannon. Best appear weak, and then surprise them. The powerful always move boldly if they see a weakling. I remember once, a thousand years past, a time of some turmoil I enjoyed greatly when I was visiting Vaultar, a city for trade near Trad to the west, and there was a prince. This prince was an elf, and as elves go, this one was more arrogant than others of its hugely arrogant ilk. Imagine, lovely Shannon, a face so pinched in arrogance and maliciousness that you could not possibly picture a smile, a grimace of pain or even a yawn in that face. He had the eyes of a pig as well, for not all elves are beautiful, like you, child. A terrible thing that piece of offal. I thought I might sneak into his bedchamber and feed on him, just to see if he truly had no emotions, but I was robbed of the pleasure.’

  ‘Someone dared to rob you, mistress?’ I asked, cringing with pain, swooning as she pushed me beyond excruciation. I felt like I would piss myself, my brains on fire.

  ‘No, child,’ she chuckled. ‘I was hunting him on the roof, eyeing his entourage traveling the muddy streets of the city. I was learning about his personal ways and limits of powers, and while I was flitting from shadow to shadow, an old man pulled a barrel out of an excellent tavern, the Mutton’s Root. An elegant place, Shannon, even by the standards of the mortals, that tavern. Nothing like our halls where we lived once, of course, but it had a certain rustic flair I have ever enjoyed. The prince saw the man, an old man he was, his beard long and twisted, eyes rheumy, and he was struggling in the mud with the cumbersome barrel. The elf could have stopped if he had been kind. He could have gone around, had he been in a true hurry. But he was of a different sort. He kept riding, his face pinched like an over-ripe plum. The old man saw nothing from his toils, certainly not a prince of the House Daxamma approaching as he pulled the barrel over and the thing fell on its side, spattering the elf. Oh, he stopped his horse. He looked down at his dragon leather boot, formerly a glimmering, noble thing, now decorated with some red mud. I was sure he was to roast the man where he stood. But no. He pulled a spear. A shiny, sharp elven weapon. And dismounted.’

  ‘And?’ I asked, gasping in panic. ‘I cannot hold this much longer.’

  She chuckled and brushed my hair. ‘You are so eager for stories usually, eh? Hold it! Well, what followed was simple. The elf wanted to kill the man, he wanted to bloody his spear for slaying is a thrill all elves embrace, but the old man was more than an old laborer. He was, Shannon, the retired champion of Grinning Blade Company, mercenaries of Himinborg, and the elven arrogance and disrespect for your kind would be costly for the House Daxamma. The old man was brave. Even if he knew he would pay for the deed with his life and perhaps those of his kin, he did not flinch as the maa’dark approached. Then the elf died with that fine spear in his ass. He was kicking his life away in red mud as the sullen, gleeful humans stared. I was not entirely robbed, for he did look much less arrogant and very insulted, humiliated, and, of course, supremely pained, and so I did find out something about the bastard, after all. House Daxamma nobles die with a grimace, even if they claim they will never flinch in death.’

  Another lovely story!

  ‘What happened to the man?’ I asked, white of face, the spell demanding to be released. My fingers were frozen, and I flexed them, and I could not see.

  ‘They killed him, of course, and made the witnesses corpses. Yet, the prince was gone. Be like the old man. Look fragile, like a flower of the Barren Mountains and when their foot comes to crush your petals, let them step on you. The step will be experimental at first. They try you, test the resolve, and make demands of you, suggestions. Then, if you cave in, eventually they will try to crush you. They will either kill you when you do not expect them or push you to dark paths you should never tread. When they try to pluck your life away in these manners, Shannon, slash the offending hand and let them bleed to death. If they wish to attack you one day, like Ulrich inevitably will, best act subservient and let them think you weak. Do so, pretend, and you will finish the nasty business. That way you do not have to look over your shoulder for them in the future. Though, of course, there will always be others. Be friends with them, Shannon. Let them make suggestions and demands, but always remember to keep true to me. Release the spell! But not like you usually do, but at the chair!’ She pointed to the side at an old, dusty chair.

  And I did.

  Icy tendrils of healing ripped from my fingers, dragging me to my knees as I emitted a stream of power so intense and swift the chair flew in the air, shattered to the wall and the fragments whipped crazily across the room. For a second, I contemplated turning the healing stream at her, but she snapped her fingers, and I lost the spell. ‘Impressive. You held so much healing power; you could have killed with it, at least by pushing someone over a cliff. And you thought of doing that to me, no? It is in the human nature to contemplate on murdering those you fear and did you not learn it from the gods? Yes. But never make the mistake of battling me, spell to spell. I am more than the flesh you see, girl. And there is always the Rot.’

  ‘My shoulder? It's numb, but …’

  With that, she moved like a spirit for the wall. I must have looked flabbergasted for she smiled. ‘Remember what I told you about the Rot? That I am the only one who can cure it?’

  ‘Yes?’ I said, rubbing my shoulder.

  ‘You have been marked by a Sister, girl. Here,’ she grinned viciously. ‘Look.’

  She yanked the cover off a painting. But it was not a painting. It was a window. Outside, light was shining brightly with golden color; birds were flickering in and out of the alcove of the window. It was painful to my eyes, a candle went out in the sudden burst of air, and I shaded my sight, desperately trying to see the marvelous light or even a wisp of a cloud. ‘Look at your shoulder, girl.’

  I did. I peeled the robe back.

  And stared.

  Around the skin, scars were visible where her fangs had struck me. There were pinkish depressions in the skin, but that did not concern me, for those wounds were healed. Around the wounds, there were tattoos, of sort. Live ones. They were not pictures of mermaids, flowers, or even twirling gothic designs. I
saw figures, stick figures indeed, and some obvious skeletons, others something else. Some were moving, others still, some were laughing, their movement jerky, and there were some ten of them.

  I blanched and forgot about the light and the birds. ‘What the hell is it?’

  She waved at my shoulder. ‘I told you. It is called the Rot. Only I can stop it, of course, Shannon. Exposed to light, they shall multiply. In the darkness, they do so quietly, slowly and so you have been spared for a longer time. In the light of Mar, or under the Two Hounds, our moons, they grow active and hungrier. You see they look starved. They are starved and starving and soon, they will begin to feast. I shall not bother you with the details of what they would do to you, no. Yes, I shall ask you this. Have you ever seen a carcass of a beautiful animal and what maggots and ants do to the wound?’

  I had. ‘Mistress …’

  ‘Mistress now, yes, yes,’ she giggled, not in control of her mirth as she admired the horrible little creatures on my skin. Her voice grated on my ear for the longest of time and finally went quiet as she stared at me. ‘It takes a year to advance, Shannon, to the point where they multiply and eat you to death,’ she grinned. ‘Some months from now, you will begin to bleed, and you shall lose flesh. Darkness has kept you for now. Do not worry, Shannon, for if you keep your part of our pact you shall disappoint them, they shall starve, and I will wipe them away. Remember this. One day, I could be at your mercy, for gods and worlds are not constant and even the mighty can fall. But despite that improbable scenario, you will die a terrible death if you fail me,’ she told me darkly. ‘And I can bite others.’ Dana. She was talking about Dana.