Tales of Magic and Misery: A Collection of Short Stories by Tim Marquitz

by Tim Marquitz

  “Watch your tongue old lady.”

  “Or what, you’ll take it from me?”

  “Temper, brother.” Lamia says softly. “We didn’t travel this far for a fight.”

  “At least the child shows me respect.” The seer’s knees crack as she bends to sit. The once shattered log rests healthy and whole under her weight. She turns towards them, the bark peeling under her robe.

  Lamia takes a few steps, but stops short. “We only seek your help—”

  “You have your mother’s beauty.” The seer interrupts, her words reflected in Lamia’s grin.

  “We’re not here to discuss our mother.”

  “I know.” The seer looks at Mordon. “But the thought of speaking your father’s name churns my stomach.”

  “How dare you speak ill of my father.” Mordon’s face burns red.

  “I hold no empathy for that demon.”

  “He is a god!” Mordon’s sword wavers in his hand.

  “Once he was.” The seer nods. “But now he is nothing more than a prisoner.”

  “Which is the reason we sought you out.” Lamia explains.

  “I know why you are here.” The seer grabs her knees and leans forward. “The question is why you think I would help set him free.”

  “He doesn’t deserve to be there.”

  “He killed a god, Mordon, his very own brother. A man you once called uncle.”

  “So have others,” he argues. “Why should he suffer while they rule without consequence?”

  The seer pauses, rubbing the white whiskers on her chin. “You have a point.” She winces, her lower back popping as she straightens. “The void is not without faults, a fact you have already exploited.”

  “Yes, but only a portion has leaked into this realm.” Mordon explains. “I need the key that opens the gate.”

  The seer grins. “Don’t you understand, boy. You are the key,” she says, her eyes roaming towards Lamia. “Well, one of you is.”

  “But how?” Lamia asks. “We have done all Mordon has foreseen in his dreams.”

  “You have not died.”

  Mordon laughs. “Die?” He turns to his sister. “She mocks us.”

  “Quiet.” Lamia tells him, her voice trembling.

  “You must die to be reborn, or you will not be strong enough.”

  “She’s trying to trick us.” Mordon cringes, the muscles tightening in his jaw. “She wants to trap us in the same hell as our father.”

  The seer rises, her joints no longer stiff. “Only the void will prepare you for the half-god.”

  “What half-god?” Mordon asks.

  “Only his blood will free your father.”

  “Your rambling make no sense, seer. Are we not gods ourselves?” He slams his chest with an open hand. “Why make us slaves to the darkness?”

  “You’re already slaves. Do you think just because you walk outside the void you are free?”

  “I am no prisoner,” Mordon argues.

  “Then you are blind and too weak to fulfill your duty.”

  “I am not weak!” Mordon swings, tip of his blade catching the edge of her throat.

  “No!” Lamia shouts.

  The seer grasps her wound, blood seeping between her crooked fingers. She stumbles back, the edge of the fire sparking her robe, engulfing her tiny frame in a pillar of red and yellow.

  Lamia stares, the old woman’s silhouette dancing with the flames. “You fool, what have you done?” Lamia shoves her brother, her eyes still fixed on the seer as she topples onto the coals.

  “She insulted us. She called us weak!” His words foam at the corners of his mouth.

  “She called you weak, and you proved her right.”

  Mordon smashes the back of his hand against Lamia’s face, knocking her down. “Stop calling me that.”

  Mordon breathes heavily. Lamia rolls to her back, grasping her chin. He balls his fist, as if to strike again, but refrains, distracted by an uneasiness creeping up on him. The hair lifts on his neck, a sudden chill extinguishing the fire’s warmth. He swings back with his sword hitting nothing but air. Paranoid. The smoldering remains of the seer confirm his thought.

  “We need to get out of here.” Mordon’s temper subsides, the reality of his actions settling in.

  “How?” Lamia cracks her jaw. “We’re captives.”

  “We’ll backtrack.” Mordon offers his hand for assistance.

  She takes it. “I don’t think it’ll be that easy.”

  “The void.” The idea seems to ease him. “It’ll reach us soon. It’ll lead us out.”

  “The void?” A woman’s voice echoes in the shadows. “Your void does not exist in this world.”

  Lamia shutters at the sound, her eyes widening as she looks into the fire and sees the corpse missing.

  Vorum is flung from the woods into the circle. He lands hard near his siblings, the impact jarring him from his sleep.

  “What the fuck?” Vorum crawls to his feet.

  “Get up.” Mordon helps him stand.

  “What happened?” Vorum staggers, his head spinning from the blow.

  “Mordon pissed off the witch.” Lamia explains.

  “You found the seer?”

  “Oh, he did more than find me.” A sweet gentle voice whispers over their shoulders.

  The three turn slowly, the snow shifting under their boots.

  “How is this possible?” Mordon stares in disbelief.

  A young woman, peeks into their souls with deep green eyes. Her skin, soft and smooth, no longer bares the wrinkles of old age. Her red hair, long and wavy, rests freely on her breasts, partially covering her nipples.

  Naked and exposed to the cold, she runs the tip of her fingers over the healed but noticeable scar on her neck. “I wonder, Mordon. Do you still wish to kill me?”

  He does not respond with his words, but his wandering eyes catch her attention.

  “Maybe you’d prefer to ravage me.” The woman massages her crotch. “Like those poor village girls you’ve raped.” She presses hard. “Would you like that?”

  Mordon lifts his head, ignoring her advances.

  “Well if you won’t.” Vorum grabs her by the wrist.

  “Don’t.” Lamia’s warning falls on deaf ears, her brother enchanted by her beauty. The seer accepts his invitation. Reaching through his clothes, she slides her hand down the front of Vorum’s pants. He grins and lets out a moan.

  “There you go.” He closes his eyes, expecting to be pleasured.

  Looking back at Mordon, she smiles and says, “One should always control their urges.”

  She squeezes Vorum’s scrotum, crushing his testicles. He yells and grabs her forearm with both hands, trying to pry himself free. He looks to Mordon for help but finds his brother stepping away.

  The witch head butts Vorum’s face. His nose cracks and he tumbles on his ass.

  The woman wipes her palm on Mordon’s shoulder. “You see.” She points to Vorum riving in pain. “A simple minded ogre, tricked by the most basic spell: lust.”

  “You bitch!” Vorum cries.

  “Be grateful that I did not tear them off.”

  “Be still your tongue.” Lamia raises her hand but resists the urge to slap him, unaware the seer is behind her.

  “The wisest of three.” The woman runs her hands under Lamia’s shirt, the warmth of her touch soaking into her skin. “It is the sweet taste of her lips that I covet.”

  “Then take her and give us the answers we seek,” Mordon says.

  “If she so desires.” The seer kisses Lamia’s neck, a gentle gesture of her intentions. Lamia leans, pulling away from the woman’s lips. The witch pauses. “But I don’t think my affection is to her liking.”

  “We just want your help,” Lamia pleads.

  The woman slips her hands away from Lamia’s waist. “I can no longer help you.”

  “Give her what she wants.” Mordon barks at his sister.

  “It is not her but you, Mordon.
Or did you forget crossing your blade against my throat?” The witch walks back over to her log. “You do not care to listen so why should I help you any further?”

  Mordon bites his lip and kneels, bowing his head. “Apologies, my lady.” He grovels, his words filled with discontent. “I am weak as you say.”

  “Shallow lies from a spoiled child.” She scuffs the ground with her heel, showering him with dirt. “You will be the first to die by Roman hands.”

  Mordon lifts his head, the dust clinging to his sweat. “The Romans fear Britannia. They will never cross the water.” He wipes the dirt from his lips. “Besides, they war with the Gauls.”

  “On Roman steel you will fall.” The seer’s bright green eyes grow dim. “Lamia will be the last; a shameful loss.”

  “Even if we do die, what difference will it make? We already walk within the void.”

  “You walk amongst the living, Mordon.” A raspy tone claims her voice. “You must walk amongst the dead.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lamia says.

  “There is still a glimmer of humanity in you, a fragment of your mother.” She tightens her hand into a fist. “The void will strip you of it, transforming you until all that is left is a creature of pure hatred: a demon.” The woman ages, her hair growing gray and brittle. “Only then will you be strong enough to kill the half-god.”

  “A demon?” Lamia mutters.

  The seer nods. “The void corrupts, changing even a god into the vilest of beings.”

  “How long before the Romans reach our soil?” Lamia asks, her eyes filled with worry.

  “Not long from now.”

  “Not much of a time frame.” Vorum crouches, caressing his swollen testicles.

  “Time is irrelevant to me.” The seer stands and enters the fire of her own free will.

  “She’s killing herself.”

  “No brother. She’s changing,” Mordon replies.

  The flames roar, towering above her, diminishing her size in the inferno. The figure moves, a tiny foot slipping out from the fire.

  “It’s a child.” Mordon rises from his knee, cautious of the little redheaded girl.

  “Tell me, Mordon. Do you fear me now?”

  He nods. “You disguise yourself as innocence.”

  The child grins, a glimpse of satisfaction.

  “How is it she still lives?” Vorum stands straight, unconscious during her first act of deception.

  A fierce look from the child knocks Vorum back to the ground.

  “I don’t like you.” The little girl scorns.

  The girl walks over to Lamia and takes her hand in hers. “The death of innocence, the blood of a child can set you free.” She pulls at Lamia’s arm for her to pick her up. Lamia lifts her with one arm. The seer wraps herself around her neck for support, tucking her cheek into Lamia’s chest. “Only then will the game truly begin.”

  “What game?” Mordon asks.

  The young girl doesn’t answer. She rolls free from Lamia’s embrace, her body stretching as she slides down. Her bare feet braced by the cold surface of the ground, she alters her appearance, once more dawning a woman’s youth.

  “I’ve told you how to free your father.”

  “You give us broken answers.”

  “I give you enough.” The fire roars with her voice, her patience thin. “Destiny will do the rest.”

  “Is there no other way?” Lamia asks. “Must we give our souls to the void?”

  The seer sighs. “If you choose to return with your brothers, you will share their fates.”

  Lamia lowers her head.

  The seer brushes Lamia’s cheek. “Stay with me and I will free you from the bondage of these savages.”

  Lamia touches her hand. “I wish I could.” She kisses her wrist. “But he is my father.”

  The seer grins. “So sad,” she says. “How different this could have been.”

  “What is she talking about?” Vorum gets back to his feet.

  The seer lifts her arms. “The void summons you.” Mist rises from below their feet, swirling around their legs, creeping between them until they are consumed by the fog and blinded from each other’s view.

  “Brothers?” Lamia grips her axe. Her heart thumps, a memory from her childhood causing panic. “Where are you?”

  “So sad a loss.” The seer whispers in her ear.

  The mist fades. The vessel’s crew stares at them.

  “We’re back on the ship.” Lamia lowers her weapon. “How is this possible?”

  “The seer has returned us to our realm,” Mordon replies.

  The mariners, superstitious in their traditions, reek of fear. They step away from the siblings, reaching for whatever can be purposed as a weapon: wooden clubs, short swords, knives, and rope. The crew views their unheralded return as a bad omen, a sign of black magic.

  “Don’t even think of it.” Vorum draws his sword.

  “The witch has cursed us,” an old man with dark leather skin cries hysterically. “A plague on our ship.”

  Hearing enough, Mordon plunges his sword into the man’s gut and out his back. He puts his foot on the man’s waist, pushing off and sliding his blade free from the flesh. The body tumbles over the side, splashing into the dark abyss of the sea.

  A young man tries to stab Mordon with his back turned. Lamia swings her axe, crushing his skull and littering the wooden planks with fragments of bone and hair.

  “Enough!” shouts the captain. The mariners lower their weapons. “We will return them to the shore, as per our arrangement.”

  The crew members grumble, slow to attend their positions, but unwilling to disobey their captain’s orders.

  Mordon kneels and wipes his sword on the dead man’s back. “Keep your guard.”

  “We are still a long way from the mainland,” Lamia observes.

  “Why not kill them now,” Vorum suggests.

  “Then who will man the ship?” Mordon asks. “No, they will bring us back to Britannia.” He leans in and whispers. “Then, have our men slaughter them before they can escape back to the sea.”

  V

  The seer, young and beautiful, sits quietly next to the fire, dressed in her white priestess robe. She waits patiently.

  A man in a red tunic and baggy pants approaches from behind, a traveler familiar with these woods.

  The seer smiles; comforted by his return. “You’re home, brother.”

  Lucifer sits next to her. “I did not go very far, Diana.”

  “I see your throat has healed.”

  “Twice now.” He rubs his neck but there is no scar.

  Diana places her head on his shoulder. “I hope you know what you are doing my twin.”

  He kisses her forehead. “It must be done this way.”

  “Titans have remained imprisoned for eons without fear of escape. Why do you worry about one low level god, a treacherous creature never considered our equal.”

  Lucifer rests his cheek in her soft wavy hair. “Because he will have the aid of man.”

  Unity

  Adrian Collins

  Turic looked down at the sword-slashed body of Uzven Dragonbreath and grimaced. The pyromancer had been watching Turic’s back for months, protecting him from the Visich army besieging his ruined keep just as much as from the men he commanded.

  “He should have worn mail, like you kept saying,” said Jorgen, Turic’s walking oak tree of a champion.

  Turic looked down at his own war weary excuse for mail, and nodded. “Aye. He should have. Since we was boys, Uzven always insisted the fire gods loved him.”

  Jorgen gave Uzven a light nudge with his boot. “Don’t seem like it. The gods do love a good last stand though, eh, Warden?”

  Turic sighed long and hard. The sun was rising into a clear sky on a windless mid spring day, and another assault would be underway soon. Without Uzven to throw flames into the charging enemy they’d do well to survive ‘til dusk, and like as not this had become a last stand. In fact,
without Uzven, the damned border lords that King Von Rudric had forced under his command might kill him, toss him from the walls, and hand the keep to the Visich before this shitty situation actually got the chance to become a last stand.

  Wrapped in expensive armour and rich cloth, the border lords glared at him from across the keep. Damned fops weren’t even subtle about waiting for their chance to kill him and break away from Von Rudric.

  “Aye, they do,” said Turic half-heartedly, realising he’d left Jorgen waiting. He squatted down, and they grabbed Uzven by armpits and ankles, and lifted.

  As they shuffled Uzven towards the pit, Turic glanced at the western rampart, imagining the open land beyond it. If luck would just smile on him for fucking once, King Von Rudric would march over those green hills with fifteen thousand men today, lift the siege and pull the border lords back into line. Von Rudric was king, after all. It was his job to mesh the different peoples he’d forced to bend the knee into a kingdom, not Turic’s.

  Luck had been spitting on Turic for more than a few years now, though. He knew those hills held nothing but grass.

  He stole another look at the border lords, just to make sure they were still on the other side of the keep. One of them, that little brat Lord Solarion with a face all fair skin and sharp angles, attitude sitting him somewhere between the last Realm Emperor and the gods, watched him like Turic was the village idiot trying to rut with a pig.

  “That boy’s waiting for his chance to kill you, Warden,” said Jorgen as they swung Uzven into the pit. “Won’t be no Reaper’s Game, neither. It’ll be a knife in the back, no mistake.”

  Turic grabbed his knees and sucked in a few deep breaths, then motioned Jorgen over to the pile of ruins doubling as their forward defensive rampart.

  After a short climb Turic took a seat and gazed over at the mass of men, beasts, and siege engines arrayed well out of bow-shot from his spot upon the walls. He sighed longer and harder than he had all day when he saw the wingless dragon tethered with chain and thick stakes.

  Where did they get one of those?

  A couple of hundred tonnes of impenetrable scale, meat, teeth, and a bad attitude glared back like it was sizing him up for breakfast.