The Sting of Victory

by S D Simper

  “Half-giants make up a significant portion of our population, and Clarence thought it would do them well to see one of their own on the council. Which isn’t to say he didn’t earn it. There’s a certain wisdom you can gain only through suffering.”

  Half-giants only existed because of slavery, bred as the result of atrocity and violence between giants and humans. Their lineage continued only because of the profitability of selling the offspring as slaves. In some countries, they were mere cattle, auctioned for their strength, sold as gladiators or cheap labor and bred amongst themselves to create the perfect workers, the perfect fighters, the perfect monsters . . .

  Flowridia thought of Thalmus – gentle Thalmus, with his quiet demeanor and the thousands of scars littering his body.

  Etolié released a soft sigh, her jaw quivering slightly. “‘Etolié, Savior of Slaves,’ they call me. My legacy continues. They sing songs of my deeds, light candles for my worship, and those in captivity pray to me for liberation. But you can’t save everyone, Flowers. Sometimes, despite a lifetime of prayers, the Savior of Slaves never comes.” Now, she shut her eyes, and a few silent tears spilled down her cheeks.

  In the tentative peace of night, Flowridia’s hand ran soothing lines along Etolié’s thin figure.

  * * *

  Mother slept serenely in her bed, though one eye opened when Flowridia entered.

  A lazy smile spread across the witch’s face. “What mischief are you up to, Flower Child?”

  Flowridia shut the door behind her, the plate of muffins balanced carefully in her hands. “I know you haven’t been feeling well, so if you can’t eat them, it’s all right.”

  Mother chuckled and beckoned her forward. “Help me stack the pillows. I’ll sit up and take a few bites.”

  Flowridia set the plate down on the bedside table and helped Mother sit comfortably in her bed. Her womb protruded quite obviously now. A month more, and Flowridia’s sister would join them in the world.

  Mother’s sudden pained groan evoked panic from Flowridia. “Are you all right?”

  Mother nodded, visibly forcing a smile. “Nothing your baking can’t fix.”

  “Forgive me,” Flowridia dared to say. “This seems like so much pain, but for what?”

  Mother laughed, though her pale face betrayed her illness. “This is nothing compared to the pain of childbirth. But I’ve done this before. I’m perfectly capable.”

  “Aren’t there any spells to help you? I could try and make you something.”

  “If you, my clever girl, wanted to try, I wouldn’t stop you. But life requires sacrifice. We come into this world through blood and pain. Most of us leave the same way.”

  Flowridia paled at the thought, shying when Mother began to chuckle.

  “I will be fine, Flower Child. I have a plan, I have sacrifices prepared, and all will be well. Little Demeter will be brought into this world, and you’ll have a sister to love.”

  A hand on her wrist caused Flowridia to stiffen, but with care Mother placed it gently on her swollen stomach. “If you wait a moment, she might kick again.”

  Flowridia kept her hand still, sitting on the bed as she waited. There it was, a slightly nudging against her hand. She nearly laughed, so wide was her sudden smile.

  “Magical, isn’t it?” Mother said, and she released Flowridia’s hand and placed her own atop her stomach. “I wasn’t much older than you when I gave birth to my first daughter. A fierce little thing, and the only one I raised from infancy. But she died centuries ago, felled by soldiers from the Theocracy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Flowridia whispered, but Mother shook her head.

  “It was long ago, and I took my revenge. Those soldiers were the first to feed my garden.”

  An eerie thought, but Flowridia sincerely contemplated a moment if she’d do the same for her own child. She offered the plate of muffins forward. With a smile, Mother accepted and took a small bite of one. “You’ve always shied away from the men who’ve come here.”

  Her hands turned white as they gripped the plate. Chilled by the statement, Flowridia set the plate down for fear of dropping it.

  “There’s no shame if you don’t feel ready for children-”

  “I’ve never really considered it,” Flowridia interrupted, hands fidgeting as she debated how to change the subject.

  “No? Never spent your days as a little girl dreaming about a prince to sweep you off your feet?”

  “Did you?”

  “Many times. I grew up terribly poor, so I spent many nights dreaming of rich men carrying me off to their castles.” She cracked a wry grin. “Funny how fate works.”

  Flowridia jumped at the opportunity for a subject change. “A castle would be lovely.”

  “But you wouldn’t fill it with my granddaughters?”

  Her slight shrug caused Mother to chuckle. “Like I said, I’ve never considered it. I don’t think I could ever love a man enough to have his children.”

  “You don’t have to love a man to have his children.” Then, a wicked glint in Mother’s eyes caused Flowridia’s limbs to grow cold. “You don’t even need a man at all, with the right spells . . . and the right woman.”

  Blushing fiercely, Flowridia’s hands began to sweat as they gripped at the other. Stammering, she managed to say, “T-That’s not what I meant.”

  “But it’s what you want.”

  Flowridia could summon no response. When Mother laughed, she shut her eyes, willing away embarrassed tears.

  “My little Flower Child,” Mother said, wrapping her arms around Flowridia’s stiff form, “who spends her nights dreaming of princesses to sweep her off her feet.” Mother’s chin rested on her shoulder, and she planted a kiss into her hair. “It’s uncommon, but far from unheard of. The elves and the angels have done it since the dawn of time, penning great epics of beautiful women loving beautiful women. No need for shame, little angel. You are full of surprises.”

  Tears did leak from Flowridia’s eyes, but of relief. No more fear.

  * * *

  For seven days, they travelled. Seven roses lay secured in her bag, and with each addition came a growing sense of dismay.

  Tonight, the elusive twelfth rose would be delivered. Flowridia hoped Ayla held enough tact to not deliver the promise of her body with it, acutely aware of Thalmus and Etolié’s proximity.

  A slight headache weighed on her, minimal sleep having taken a toll, she figured. Peering from the window, the landscape held odd protrusions. Grasslands, yes, and cleared forests, but in the distance, enormous dirt towers stood erect.

  Flowridia frowned, realizing holes littered the surface, reminding her of termite towers she had observed in her youth. With Aura by her side, Flowridia had once spent hours watching them skitter within a fallen tree. Their strength came from numbers, thousands of them steadily tearing it apart.

  “Thalmus,” she asked, “what are those towers?”

  With some difficulty, Thalmus managed to strain his neck enough to see out the window. “Skalmite structures.”

  “What’s a Skalmite?”

  “When the planes converged, creatures other than demons and angels touched our world. Giants, gnolls, merfolk – creatures not meant for our atmosphere. Most acclimated. Skalmites never did. They weaken in the sunlight, and it’s rumored the presence of magic drives them mad.”

  Etolié’s voice and a fist against the back wall interrupted their conversation. “We need to stop. Flowers, grab your suitcase.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop. Flowridia swung open the door, allowing Demitri to jump out before letting her bare feet join him on the dirt road.

  The surrounding guards all attempted not to gawk, but Etolié simply frowned, her wings serenely floating behind her back, apparently unperturbed by fact that she was entirely naked. Flowridia stopped, averting her eyes. “Etolié, what happened?”

  “Can’t you feel it?” Etolié asked, staring out into space. Her translucent wings did little to shiel
d her modesty. “The magic here is twisted, like the strings got tangled. Don’t try casting any spells, Flowers. You might get murderous results.”

  Thalmus appeared behind her, but the moment Etolié came into view, he immediately spun on his heels. He braced himself against the side of the carriage, growing stiff, avoiding Flowridia’s eye when she came around. “Can you get me my suitcase?” she asked, and she wondered at the panic in his eyes as he processed her words.

  Then, he released a steadying sigh. “What happened to Etolié’s clothing?”

  “I’m assuming she’ll tell me once I get her a dress,” Flowridia said carefully, sensing something raw and festering beneath Thalmus’ stone exterior.

  She watched as the stark shock on his face faded into something more void and resigned, annoyed even. Slowly, he reached up above the carriage and pulled her bag from the pile. Once he’d placed it on the ground, he hurried himself back into the carriage, slamming the door with more force than Flowridia deemed particularly necessary.

  Flowridia carried her bag to where Etolié waited. “None of this explains why you’re naked.”

  “Illusion spell. Fabric irritates me.”

  Frowning, Flowridia stopped. “You mean to tell me you never wear clothing?”

  “Not a single day you’ve known me, Flowers.”

  Perhaps she tossed the dress with more force than necessary, but at least Etolié had something to wear. She quickly reshuffled the contents, unwilling to answer any questions about the roses cushioned by her underclothes.

  “I’m going to have to ruin this. Wings and all.”

  “It’s not mine, anyway. It’s one of Marielle’s.”

  Etolié ripped the back of the dress, creating enough of a hole for her wings to slip through. “Thanks.”

  Flowridia stood on the bench and managed to shove her suitcase back onto the roof. She sat beside Etolié, holding Demitri secure in her lap once the carriage began to move. “You never wear clothes?”

  Etolié shook her head.

  “Don’t you get cold?”

  Again, she shook her head.

  Realization struck, and with it, horror. Flowridia struggled to find her voice. “So, when you loaned me a dress at Marielle’s ball . . ?”

  “It was as real as you believed it was.”

  Now that she thought about it, it had disappeared come morning. She’d assumed Etolié had taken it back. “What about your flasks? Where do you keep things?”

  This time, Etolié grinned. When Flowridia cringed, she burst into laughter. “Flowers, it’s all magic. I keep them all in my room, or in an extra-dimensional space, or even in the carriage, until I need them.”

  Flowridia frowned at the Celestial’s crass implications. “You say all this like everyone has this knowledge.”

  “We’re all born with different gifts, Flowers. I can manipulate planes and cast illusions. You’re all about healing, and damn good at it too. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Flowridia shrugged. “All the talent in the world will mean nothing if I can’t cast.” Frowning, she added, “Etolié, what did you mean earlier, about murderous results and such?”

  Etolié opened her mouth, and then shut it again, suddenly thoughtful as she looked from Demitri to Flowridia. “I don’t know quite what it’s like for you, having a familiar,” she said slowly, “but as a Celestial, magic is an innate part of my being. I feel it. I breathe it. But here I feel . . .” She trailed off, biting her lip. “I feel muted. If magic is a tapestry, all the strings are crossed. I fear if I try to pluck at it, I’ll touch the wrong one, or pull a few extras with it. I think if I focus, I might be able to conjure up something, but the risks of unintended results are astronomically high.”

  Flowridia considered this and the headache clouding her senses. “Demitri, what do you think?”

  To her horror, Demitri simply stared. Understanding met her gaze, but no words filtered into her head.

  Pure magic connected the two. Staring, she spoke again. “Demitri, if you’re speaking, I can’t hear it. Nod your head if you can understand me.”

  Demitri nodded, giving a slight bark as he did.

  Flowridia pulled him close, realizing now what part of her senses were muted. “Etolié, I can’t talk to him.”

  “It’s a risk,” Etolié said, reaching out to scratch the little wolf, “but if you focus, you might be able to hear him.”

  Flowridia shut her eyes, focusing, reaching out her senses to try and touch upon the natural world. She felt it clearly, as Etolié had said – it was as if a fog covered the tangled mass of magic surrounding them. She searched desperately for the single string connecting she and Demitri.

  She knew the feeling of total isolation. After Aura’s passing, her connection to her talents had vanished. This was something else.

  Focused, she searched, hoping to navigate the minefield of energy. Several minutes of silence, and then a perfect, young voice. I feel you!

  Flowridia’s eyes shot open, and she smiled as she kissed him. “I don’t know if I should do it again. But if you need me, we can talk.”

  “That said, Flowers,” Etolié interrupted, “be careful. We don’t know what’s causing this.”

  “Have you ever felt anything like this before?”

  “There are substances that can mute magical energy. When the Convergence happened, all sorts of nasty things fell into our world . . . stones, crystals, and other cursed things. I once met a slaver who utilized collars imbued with maldectine – a crystal that creates a void of space no magic can penetrate. Which, yes, if you snapped something like that on me, I’d be useless. Can you imagine the nasty weapons you could make out of that?”

  Flowridia’s breathing became steadily hurried. “And we’re walking right into this?”

  “If we can’t use magic, neither can anyone else.”

  Then, a cry from afar. “Oi! We have guests!”

  Flowridia immediately perked up. The carriage stopped. But the return cry was more vicious. The guards surrounding the carriage rushed forward, the hooves of their horses swift upon the ground. Sora, from her own horse, came from the front, stopping before Etolié and Flowridia, dagger drawn.

  Thalmus burst out from the side of the carriage, nearly ripping the door from its handles. Set on the outside of the carriage, he took his treasured axe, one fashioned from the glass he lovingly tended.

  An arrow embedded into the throat of one guard, blood spurting as he fell to the ground. Flowridia grabbed Demitri, instinctively cowering as a group of men appeared from behind an outcropping of trees. Small in stature, but stocky; they were unquestionably dwarves.

  One met her gaze, and Flowridia saw animalistic fury. Scars ravished his skin, barely visible behind the tangle of hair grown into a beard. Brutal red sunburns blasted his form – all their forms – skin peeling in droves. Flowridia knew dwarves to be sophisticated and rational, if at times stand-offish; these men had lost their minds, it seemed.

  Six of them rushed, all wielding large battle axes. Etolié grabbed Flowridia and cried, “Disappear, Sora!” before she shot into the air. Ethereal wings burst from her back. Translucent and floating, pure light radiated, but a shriek filled the air as arrows pierced the stunning display. Etolié spiraled downward, clutching Flowridia to her body as arrows began to rain into the air.

  Etolié fell. Flowridia braced herself as her stomach threatened to fly out of her throat.

  Stone arms stopped their impact. Thalmus held the three of them – Etolié, Flowridia, and Demitri – in one hand while wielding an axe in the other.

  Guards cried out from the other end of the carriage. Thalmus swung, and four of the dwarves were swiped away with the ease one might brush aside saplings in a forest. Not dead, but flung aside, leaving only two.

  Flowridia wrenched herself out of Etolié and Thalmus’ grip, falling to the ground but managing to roll onto her knees. Just in time – a dwarf swung an axe at her shoulder.

  Thalmus brought h
is weapon down. Through the skull, down the spine, splitting her would-be attacker in two. The halves fell aside, gore spilling onto the road, and Flowridia covered Demitri’s eyes, but failed to protect him from the spray of blood.

  Thalmus’ axe swung again and missed, stunted by Flowridia’s proximity. A dwarf leapt toward his knee, but a sudden kick to his stomach from Thalmus’ gargantuan leg sent him flying.

  But more dwarves appeared from the road, all as bloodthirsty as the rest. They came from the hills, the road, the trees, and Flowridia heard the horses cry out in terror. For all their talents, she knew they would be overwhelmed in moments.

  “Tell them who we are, Thalmus!” she cried, and she leapt onto the bench of the carriage. “Tell them we were called from Staelash!”

  With that, the dwarves suddenly stopped. Thalmus trembled from adrenaline, axe high in the air as the swarm of men slowed.

  One spoke. “You’re royalty?”

  Flowridia felt her courage falter but managed to nod.

  The dwarf turned to his companion, one with a bloodied face, and the two swapped words in a language Flowridia didn’t understand. He turned back, victory etched into the cracked lines of his face. “We’ll escort what’s left of you to our leader,” he said simply.

  Looking out, Flowridia counted thirty armed dwarves staring back at them. Even if all the guards had survived, they were outnumbered twice over and more. To fight meant death. Flowridia stepped down from the bench and stood beside Thalmus.

  Etolié groaned when Thalmus moved her into a cradled position, and Flowridia thought she might cry from relief – proof the Celestial still lived, pained as it was. Thalmus, however, stared at the crowd of dwarves, his dark eyes visibly calculating. “I need a moment to stabilize this woman,” he said, but when he knelt down, an arrow flew past his head and into the carriage wheel.

  “You’ll be coming with us first,” a dwarf said, bow readied.

  Thalmus surveyed Etolié’s limp form before standing, murder in his gaze. But he followed when told, and Flowridia grabbed his hand, fearful of separation.