Charms of the Feykin

by Charles E Yallowitz

  Returning to where they were first attacked, Sari skids to a stop and leaps back from a clawed limb that she barely registers as a faint haze. The creature materializes and hunkers down to stop the champion from escaping, the dangerous tail curling over its body and harmlessly lashing its armored hide. No longer racing around, the monster is unsure what to do with the gypsy since all of its previous attacks have failed. The fear in her eyes and the way she cautiously backs away gives the creature some confidence, but it gets the sense that the woman is capable of faking such things. When Sari crouches, the beast growls and glances at the trees to see which one she will infect.

  “You’re worried that I’m going to kill another,” she whispers with a smirk. A pus-oozing blister on her enemy’s shoulder causes the gypsy to lick her lips, a darkness looming from the back of her mind. “You’re really scared because you’re connected to the orchard. The Order made it so that destroying their food source will kill you too. No wonder you attack so aggressively. Not sure why they’d keep you under a sleep spell though.”

  “Don’t fight it!” Dariana shouts in Sari’s head, startling the gypsy. It is enough of a distraction to give the creature a small opening, its swinging head knocking the blue-haired woman to the side. “Sorry about that, but you only have to run. That thing is a chimera, which the Order put into the orchard to keep the Feykin away. It can’t cross the border, so focus on escaping because you can’t kill it. The trees and soil give it energy, which means it will heal all the damage that you do to it.”

  “But it will get hurt if I destroy the orchard,” Sari replies, rolling away from a stomping foot. Getting a closer look at the chimera’s mouth, she can see that her original slices to its gums have disappeared. “This thing can’t be left here. We need to kill it and strike a blow against the Order. Imagine if they took it out of the orchard and used it onto the battlefield.”

  “As much as I agree, this isn’t the way,” the telepath insists, pausing to send an irritating buzz into the creature’s brain. The beast grunts and roars as it violently bangs its head against the earth. “Yes, the Order uses this place for their main food source. Yet I just read the creature’s thoughts and learned that the local villages use it too. They can enter without harm even if they fall under the sleep spell and awaken this thing. All of the obstacles we’ve faced were designed specifically for your people and not the innocents who are simply trying to survive. Destroying this orchard is a blow against more than the Order, so I’m begging you to escape. Your war isn’t worth putting other people in danger of starvation. We can report this to the others and come back. Maybe Fizzle undoing the sleep spell is enough and now nobody can get in because the chimera is free of its masters. It isn’t ideal, but at least the orchard will still be around for us to save later.”

  “You’re right,” Sari sighs before a jagged pain ripples through her head. Glancing at the chimera, her emerald eyes focus on scraps of Feykin within its teeth. “I’ve lost too many followers to this place. If the locals cared so much about my people then they wouldn’t stand by while we are murdered. Let them learn the lesson that being idle and ignorant is still a punishable offense.”

  “No! I can’t control you, so listen! Don’t do it!”

  Sari plunges her hands into the dirt and summons the distant lake to her hands, barely sensing the fish that are dying in the empty basin. Churning and corrupting the water, the gypsy has it explode beneath the soil and surge into the tree roots. The sun is blotted out by every bird taking flight and the deer race out of the orchard, the herd running faster when they hear the cheering Feykin. The terrified animals watch from afar as every leaf withers and crumbles into dust. Beautiful apples melt off branches that sag and snap from the trunks that struggle to remain standing. Acidic sap seeps out of gashes in the dark wood and the liquid kills any animal that is hiding within the trees. Crying and groaning in a female voice, the chimera crashes to the ground in twitching agony. The creature’s insides are melted by toxic blood and its wings fall off, one of them still flapping in the steaming mud.

  Satisfied with her victory, Sari takes her time leaving the orchard and steps out to the applause of her people. She grins at Dariana and Fizzle, her friends still staring out over the decimation and barely acknowledges the gypsy when she gets close. Disappointed that her friends are not celebrating her success, the young woman shrugs and turns to see what has them stunned into silence. She can see the rotting carcass of the chimera now that there are no leaves and branches to block it from view. Something about the sight makes Sari stand straight with pride, which goes unnoticed by her mortified companions. A chill runs up her spine when she notices a solitary figure at the edge of the empty lake. Even though it is too far to see details, the gypsy gets the sense that the person is staring directly at her and snarling. Wanting to return to Rhundar, she whistles for the other Feykin to follow her, but stops when she gets a mischievous idea.

  “Do you think the Order will come to investigate?” Sari asks, tapping Dariana on the shoulder. She steps away from the vacant stare that she receives and clears her throat as if she has a cough. “I plan on leaving a little trap for them. Guess it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. I’ll be right back, so keep an eye on the injured. Okay?”

  “I won’t be going anywhere,” Dariana replies in a numb, distant voice. As she watches her friend search among the ferns, she masks her voice from the Feykin. “Is it wrong that I hope Sari never recovers? Just let her stay like this instead of returning to her true self?”

  “Why you want that?” Fizzle asks, wiping a few tears from his face. “Sari friend and in trouble. Not mean harm. Still need be saved.”

  “I know, but-” the telepath replies before taking a shuddering breath. Sensing the angry goddess in the orchard, Dariana sends out a promise to repair the damage along with a flimsy defense of her friend’s action. “Do you really think the real Sari would be able to live with what she just did? I know she’s under somebody’s control, but it’s so hard for people to rationalize these types of actions. What if reviving her also condemns her to a life of guilt and pain that she can never be free of?”

  “Fizzle no know.”

  Dariana tries to remain calm and hope for the best as she watches Sari jog back into the orchard. The gypsy disappears among the oozing trees, one of her hands stretching to run a finger along the crinkling bark that can be heard from far away. After a few minutes of silence, the telepath is no longer sure which of her dark thoughts is more upsetting. One is that her friend has crossed a line and forever damaged her already wounded heart, leaving another scar that will never be fully healed. The other is a strong temptation to turn Sari’s mind off and save her from a life of misery.

  10

  “Disagree with me one more time and I’m knocking you out,” Delvin threatens while impatiently tapping his shield. The other Feykin stand behind him, their eyes filled with blind loyalty to the champion. “You’re outnumbered here and haven’t suggested anything better. Once night falls, Nyx and I will disguises ourselves as cultists and sneak in with half of you pretending to be new prisoners. Timoran will take the others around the back and bust through the wall to get the guards’ attention. Once his group is inside, the rest of us can attack and free the real prisoners. Nyx and I will handle the warden. How is this a bad plan?”

  “It’s complicated,” Phelan points out, hoping to get a few nods of agreement. The lack of support causes him to curse and cautiously step out of the human’s reach. “What if you can’t get inside? They could recognize you and Nyx or they may even execute your fake prisoners at the doorstep. It isn’t like you’ll have proof that they’re being moved from the smaller jails, which might not be in operation anymore. Let’s also remember that this is their best prison and Dariana said that only dangerous transfers are made to this place. All others are here because it was the closest place to where they were caught. Nobody here looks like they would count as a real threat except for the barbarian. No of
fense.”

  “That is actually a compliment,” Timoran replies with a smile. Putting a firm hand on the Feykin’s shoulder, he subtly moves himself between Phelan and Delvin. “I understand your concern, but there is risk with every plan. Take a look through the trees and tell us what you see.”

  Humoring the polite warrior, Phelan walks to the edge of the barrier that Nyx has constructed to hide them from view. Making sure not to disturb the channeler, who is in a relaxing trance, the Feykin takes in the sight of their target. A large area of jungle has been cut down and burned to leave a circle of desolation around the dark red building. Built over the river without interrupting its flow, the prison is a distant hive of activity. Armed guards can be seen on the spike-topped walls while archers stand motionless in the corner towers. Gargoyles adorn several sections of the structure, some of them nothing more than grotesque faces looming out of the stone. Phelan assumes that the offices and cells have been built lower than the wall to prevent invaders from choosing an easy target. A series of high dirt piles sit near the western side of the prison, several shovels left impaled in the moist soil. The sight makes the Feykin’s blood boil as he realizes that the covered holes are mass graves for his executed brethren.

  “I see a heavily fortified structure that is protected by monsters,” Phelan replies while returning to the others. Needing to keep his hands busy, he takes a seat on a rotting log and draws his dagger to check the edge. “I still say your plan is too risky. Why can’t we have Nyx destroy one of the walls? Then the rest of us will charge in during the confusion. If not that then I can get us down the river and under the prison to attack from below.”

  “Are you strong enough to push all thirty of us against the river current without revealing our presence?” Delvin asks while pointing at a woman’s untied boot lace. Checking the gear of his warriors, he takes the other man’s silence as an admission of weakness. “I thought not. As for the other idea, it is simple and would cause a lot of confusion. It’s also stupid and puts everyone in danger. The prisoners might be kept within the walls, so blowing one up risks killing those we want to rescue. Not to mention we’d still have to charge across the open area, which leaves us exposed to the archers. The chaos won’t stop all of them from looking in our direction even if we put Nyx on the other side of the clearing.”

  “I could take three or four from your prisoner group,” Phelan suggests as he points his dagger at the distant river. A murmur of agreement comes from the others and he stands with renewed confidence. “Two of you approaching with so many Feykin would be suspicious. The Order has strong agents, but those are probably known to the guards. You’d raise too many questions before Timoran’s group crossed the clearing. Not that I think they can do it without being seen even in darkness.”

  “Mud and crawling very slowly,” the barbarian replies before Delvin can respond. He scratches the scar on his shoulder, the old wound red and irritated from bug bites. “Phelan does have a right to be concerned, my friend. My group will be leaving for the other side of the clearing before you depart. There will be no way to communicate once we separate, which means the chances of failure are high. I will be the one to break the wall, but only if I am sure the prisoners are not in harm’s way. My attack will be the sign that the battle has started. Beyond that, I do not know of any way to relay changes in the plan.”

  “We’ll keep a low profile and collect information until you attack,” Delvin states while gathering the weapons of those in his group. He can sense their fear at the prospect of being unarmed within the prison and flashes a comforting smile. “Nyx and I will be staying with the group. There may be times where we have to strike you, so do your best to move with the blows that I promise will be half-hearted and faked to the best of our ability. Once the battle begins, act afraid and wait for me to deliver your weapons. Nyx will be using her magic to cover us without revealing our presence, but I don’t want anyone to attack until every warrior is armed. This is going to be very dangerous and our top priority is freeing the prisoners. The healthy ones will add to our numbers while the injured and sick must be protected. Most importantly, do not leave a single enemy alive.”

  “What if they run?” asks a woman as she hands over her longbow.

  Delvin smiles and puts a gentle hand on her cheek, his touch delivering a surge of warmth through her body. “Then shoot them or chase them down. Think of all of your loved ones who have been killed by the Order and take strength from those memories. We’re making a statement here.”

  “I still think-” Phelan starts to say.

  The Feykin is floored when the champion whirls around and delivers a smack upside the head with his shield. Delvin approaches the fallen hunter and makes sure the man is still alive, a faint pulse relieving his twinge of guilt. The former mercenary starts to rise, but an afterthought causes him to take the time to bandage Phelan’s wound. A few dabs of healing ointment are enough to stop the bleeding and prevent infection, which means Delvin will not have to worry about inadvertently killing Sari’s boyfriend.

  “Tie him up, gag him, and stash him somewhere safe,” the brown-haired warrior orders two of his men. They spring to action without hesitation, but immediately avert their eyes from the glaring barbarian. “Is there something you want to say, King Wrath?”

  “Only that such action has reduced our small numbers and made your issues with Phelan more difficult to mend,” Timoran replies as he watches the Feykin take care of the unconscious hunter. When he thinks of how one of the spotted jungle cats may find the young man in the canopy, he tosses the others a bottle of musk that will keep predators away. “I understand that you think Phelan brought it on himself, but I worry about the shortsightedness of incapacitating him. If he wakes and gets loose before the battle then he may go through with his own plan. Not to mention, your return to Rhundar will be sullied by his report to Sari. Things are already very delicate between you and her, so I do not want to see it become worse. After all, you two are friends.”

  “Of course we are,” the brown-haired warrior replies, though his voice does not hold the honesty that the barbarian had hoped for. Delvin pats the bigger man on the arm and leads him to where Nyx is barely aware of her surroundings. “I’ll handle Phelan when the time comes. Just keep my followers alive and do what your people are famous for. In fact, both you and Nyx need to do that. This fight requires beings of utter destruction and not a pair of overly sensitive children.”

  A wave of heat fills the area as the barrier takes on a crimson tint that the Feykin hope is invisible to the prison guards. With a roll of his eyes, Delvin walks away and leaves his friends to stew in their rising tempers. Neither of them can see the wicked smile on his face as he imagines what the enraged champions will do to their enemies. He only hopes they can hold onto their anger instead of exploding too early and ruining his elegant plan.

  *****

  “So far so good,” Delvin whispers as they cross the open field. He glances back at Nyx, who is at the rear of the group and keeping her face hidden under the hood. “Not sure why she’s acting like that. These people won’t recognize either of us. I’ve never gone into the field and all of the cultists that might her are dead.”

  The sound of shouting guards greet them at the iron doors, which open enough to let a diminutive figure through. With a shock of white hair and sapphire eyes, the dark-skinned halfling approaches the strangers and taps his finger on a badge. Shaped like a triple-bladed sword, the polished object is a symbol of the cultist’s position as warden. Leather armor flexes and creaks, patches of it bleached from being exposed to the jungle sun. An assortment of sticks are scattered around the halfling’s body, many of them adorned with a crude, dangling decoration. The warden holds up his hand to ready his archers and keeps walking while twelve swordsmen file out of the prison entrance. With the sound of clinking chainmail, the warriors form a line in front of the doors and hold their blades at the ready.

  “State your business,” the ha
lfling demands, his eyes narrowing in the darkness. His pupils widen when Delvin attempts to talk, but only a muffled whisper and cough comes out. “Do you know who you are talking to? I am Emil Yophid Lunkronk and I am ranked just below our esteemed leader. Remove your hood and speak to me with respect.”

  “Our apologies, sir,” Nyx says, jogging from the back and revealing her smiling face. She can hear Delvin hiccup when he sees blonde hair and soft, brown eyes have replaced her natural features. “I should have taken the lead since my companion is unable to speak. One of our former prisoners got loose and murdered the rest of our companions. I managed to kill him, but not before he damaged this man’s voice box. He’s still getting used to his handicap. Take your hood off, Nelson, because we don’t want any trouble.”

  With a deep scowl, Delvin removes his hood and gets the sense that his appearances has been altered by the channeler. Touching his neck, he is surprised to find a long scar running from one corner of his jaw to the other. The area is very tender and the warrior pulls his hand away to see that there are a few spots of blood on his fingers. When he looks in the direction of the guards, several of them avert their gaze and signal for the torches to be moved. Delvin gurgles a curse when he realizes that their hosts are putting him at the edge of the lit path that leads to the prison entrance.

  “He sure is ugly. Guessing the prisoner used acid,” the warden mutters, blindly reaching out for a scroll that Nyx is offering him. Shaking his head in pity, the halfling turns back to the young woman and enjoys the sight of her more pleasant appearance. “Of course, I have to check your prisoners before I let you in. Standard procedure since I wasn’t told about this visit, which is unusual.”