Charms of the Feykin

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “I’m not worried about that ever happening, Cunningham.”

  The bottomless pouch swallows Nyx’s arm up to her shoulder as she rummages around in search of Delvin’s collection of sparring gear. She tosses out a few wooden daggers along with a longsword and two sabers, all of the faux weapons notched from repeated use. It takes a few minutes to find a buckler that is not heavily damaged, the collection of broken shields making the audience chuckle. The pile is returned to the bag even though the channeler is tempted to light the broken equipment on fire as another display of power. With Dariana’s help, Nyx hands out the gear and pushes the combatants to opposite sides of the circle. The Feykin’s excitement can be tasted and some of them lick their lips in anticipation.

  “Is this to your satisfaction?” Nyx asks as she returns to the rock. Holding up her hands, she has the flaming dragon come closer and loom over the makeshift arena. “As a neutral party, I will be presiding over this honorable fight. We have Phelan and Sari battling Delvin Cunningham to see who will lead the army against Caurea. Seeing as you need all three of these people in fighting shape, this will go until a weapon breaks, a combatant surrenders, or somebody gets badly hurt. Fount and naiad powers are allowed, but it is necessary that you avoid lethal blows. The punishment for attempting such a move is me stepping into the arena and treating you like those trolls. There will be no questioning of the results. Now start swinging so we can get this over with.”

  “An eloquent speech,” Zohara whispers into the half-elf’s ear.

  “I hope you live a happy and relaxing life.”

  “Thank you.”

  Wanting revenge for being removed from the prison battle, Phelan charges at Delvin with the sabers. Unaccustomed to the basket hilts and remembering how Luke used his, the hunter attempts to spin the weapons and nearly drops them. With his momentum ruined, the blue-haired Feykin lurches to the side and narrowly avoids a stab at his chest. He gets Delvin to follow him, leaving the warrior open for Sari to throw her daggers. The projectiles are deflected by the wooden shield, which swings back around to crack Phelan in the side of the head. Stunned and bleeding from the ear, the hunter struggles to fend off a series of precise attacks. He is saved when Sari catches their opponent by the waist and locks her body, giving the Feykin a chance to move out of reach.

  “Can’t go anywhere now,” she says, her face pressed against Delvin’s shirt. She can only hear the clattering impact of wooden weapons, but the lack of grunts from the warrior makes her doubt her side is winning. “Just give up since you’re stuck. I’m not letting go.”

  “That’s your mistake,” Delvin growls before elbowing the gypsy in the eye. He parries the clumsy slashes of Phelan’s sabers and takes every opportunity to strike Sari in the face. “You might not move, but you still feel pain. Besides, your boyfriend is useless. I could hold this position all day and he’ll never hit me.”

  Receiving a forearm to the nose, the blue-haired woman releases her grip and staggers out of reach. Sari has a dazed expression is on her face while she watches Phelan get driven to his knees by a knee to his stomach. She stares at the cheering crowd, her eyes stopping on the other champions. Nyx returns her gaze with a look of disappointment, which makes the gypsy question why she is fighting a friend. A searing pain in her skull causes Sari to back toward the river and reach out for the calming water. She can only watch as her partner gets knocked out by a kick to the groin and a hilt strike to the top of the head. Delvin wastes no time whirling around and marching toward the gypsy, whose sweat-covered arm is still stretching for the water.

  “Something’s wrong,” Sari mutters when the river refuses to obey her. Ducking a slash to her head and diving away from the swinging shield, she picks up a nearby rock. “What did you do to me, Cunningham? My powers aren’t working. They were fine before you struck me. Undo it now!”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Delvin says as his wooden blade grazes the gypsy’s chest. Frustrated that she is staying out of reach, he fakes a lunge and hurls his shield in the direction of her dodge. The buckler collides with the woman’s side and she collapses at the warrior’s feet. “That’s a pretty poor excuse for losing. Now get up because I know you’re tougher than this. I don’t want anyone to think you let me win.”

  A burst of heat strikes Delvin from behind and he turns to find that Nyx’s fiery dragon is only a few inches away. The beast snorts at the warrior, its hot breath burning the wooden gear to ashes. Seeing an opening, Sari scrambles to her feet and is about to attack when a firm hand catches her shoulder. She relaxes under Dariana’s touch and slumps back to the ground where she crawls over to Phelan. Refusing to stop the fight, Delvin raises his foot to stomp on the gypsy, his eyes vacant of any emotion beyond hate.

  “Friend should not do that,” Fizzle says, hovering in front of his friend. Noticing that the warrior’s leg is still off the ground, the drite smacks the man in the knee with enough force to break the skin. “Nyx say you win. She also say you leave. None of us happy. Friends no fight friends. Both you being bad.”

  Without a word, Delvin marches into the crowd, most of which cheer his victory and ignore his awkward stumbling. Sari and Phelan are helped by Dariana and their loyal followers, the pair holding hands as they are carried away to be healed. Fizzle follows the injured Feykin, but remains high above them to keep an eye out for trouble. Watching the crowd disperse, Nyx and Zohara feel the waterfall’s mist drift back into its natural position. With where they are standing, the two women are swiftly engulfed in the vapor and hidden from view. Not needing the creation any more, the channeler has her dragon disappear with a mournful roar and only a smoke cloud remains of the spell.

  “You’re trying to use guilt to break them of my control,” the priestess says, her blonde hair remaining dry in the mist. She frowns at the way her gown sticks to her body, the fabric resisting her attempts to protect it from the falls. “That could work, but we’re already too far along. You would need a lot more time and constant pressure to be successful. With the battle looming, Sari and Delvin are too busy to waste time with you. Not that they will listen since now it seems all of you are abandoning them. Broken friendships are so hard to mend. Doesn’t that make you feel miserable and sad?”

  “It would if I thought they were lost to us,” Nyx replies as she grins defiantly at the other woman. Enjoying the cool water on her skin, the half-elf runs her hands through her hair and sighs contently. “Your plan doesn’t seem to be going very well. I’m not giving you what you want and there seems to be the threat of one of your sacrifices dying early. What will you do if Sari and Delvin fight each other during the battle and one of them dies?”

  Zohara pats the channeler on the cheek and enjoys the brief hint of worry that she tastes on her enemy’s breath. “You are such a silly, stubborn thing. I’ll break you when the time is right since I also know where your little brother is being kept. Don’t think Luke is out of my plans just because I had him get captured by the Order. As for Sari or Delvin dying, we have a pawn that can take the place of either one. Phelan won’t be as sweet and filling, but the lovesick fool will get the job done. See, little wench, I control everything here and nothing you can do will stop me.”

  With a musical laugh, Nyx transforms into mist and merges with the cloud. Her voice echoes along the falls and creates bubbling ripples along the river, the motions drawing fish to leap out of the water. Zohara does her best to remain unfazed by the irritating noise, but the sensation of wet fingers wrapping around her neck causes the priestess to quickly leave for her temple.

  *****

  Having dropped off the confiscated weapons at the temple, Timoran jogs to the edge of Rhundar. All of the citizens are at the falls, which gives the rest of the city an atmosphere of abandonment. The soothing illusion is repeatedly broken by the cheering of the crowd, which echoes off the empty buildings. For a brief moment, the ghostly noise reminds Timoran of the echoing screams made by the recently fallen
during a great battle. With a growl, the barbarian draws a decanter out of his bag and drinks the potent rum to settle his twisting stomach. Having been raised to believe in loyalty and honor, the red-haired champion cannot stand to see his friends fight any longer. Even knowing that they are not of sound mind does little to ease his frustration and disgust. Wanting some distance and solitude, the barbarian does not hesitate to cross the barrier and plunge into the jungle until the Feykin’s excited cheers disappear into the distance.

  Due to his keen ears, it takes Timoran almost an hour before he feels comfortable and settles next to a vine-covered boulder. He stares at a hole in the canopy, which exposes a cloud that drifts lazily out of sight. Bird song gradually returns to the jungle, the animals no longer worried about the large adventurer. The sight of orange and black butterflies helps Timoran release his worries, the insects landing on a muddy puddle near his feet. A quick shadow draws his attention to his left and he grunts at a curious jaguar, the jungle cat giving the armed man a wide berth as it passes. Small monkeys hoot with glee and leap overhead, several of them with babies clinging to their stomachs. Once the champion’s head is clear and his temper is under control, he draws his great axe and places the flat side against his forehead.

  “I know it is dangerous to request help without a specific deity in mind, but I feel that this is a dire situation,” Timoran whispers as he closes his eyes. A shiver runs along his spine when he senses several eyes peering at him in curiosity. “My friends and I have run into an enemy that has twisted and crippled many of us. Luke is in the hands of a genocidal cult while Delvin and Sari are close to killing each other. Nyx knows what is going on, but this Zohara has cursed her and destroyed our best chance of saving them. This evil woman’s power has even managed to negate Dariana. I have faith in my friends and believe that we will make it through this latest challenge. My fear is that some of us will come out of this broken and not last much longer as champions. Our path requires great strength of spirit and heart, which is being eroded. I . . . I feel helpless and frustrated. Please send me a message that will guide me to where I will be most useful. If Kerr and Ymir are the ones who are listening then I apologize for this moment of weakness, but there are some dangers that rage and muscles cannot defeat. Unless knocking Delvin and Sari’s heads together will do the job. Though I would like some confirmation before attempting that because it is very risky.”

  “I can’t tell if that’s a joke or you’re serious,” states a high-pitched voice from the top of the boulder. Isaiah drops onto the barbarian’s shoulder and taps the axe with his stick, the tiny stone chipping on the metal. “It appears my speaking spell has worked, so this will be much easier. I was curious to see where you were going once you left Rhundar. Being a monkey has some benefits since I can hide in the branches and move quickly. I have important news, but the fake Zohara will catch me as soon as I cross the barrier. Even being this close is a risk if she decides to look for you.”

  “Fake Zohara?”

  “Yes, the real one was captured by the Order.”

  “Then we must save her.”

  “Luke tried, but her double appeared and killed her.”

  “He was unable to stop the fake?”

  With a tired sigh, Isaiah climbs down the warrior’s vest and settles on his knee. “We were taken to the orchard to see the destruction caused by Sari. She had set a trap that released a demon, which allowed Luke, myself, and the real Zohara to escape. We weren’t making much progress, so Luke held our enemies off at a bridge. He was recaptured since the Order’s leader is a Placid and the fight happened over a river. By the time the double attacked, Luke had already been chained up and dragged away. I was lucky that she ignored me. After I was sure the imposter left, I raced back here without sleeping.”

  Timoran puts his weapon on his back and stretches his arms over his head, a wide yawn popping his jaw. Lifting Isaiah to his shoulder, the barbarian stands and begins backtracking toward Rhundar. Before the monkey can screech a complaint, the pair stop at a tree with ripe mangos that fall when the trunk is struck. Gathering the fruit into his bottomless pouch, Timoran hands one of them to Isaiah when he hears the caster’s stomach rumble. With his friend enjoying the delicious meal, the champion follows the sound of running water to locate a brook that he uses to refill all of his waterskins.

  “You plan to rescue Luke, right?” Isaiah asks, sweet juice flowing down his furry chin. He leaps to the ground to wash his hands and face in the crisp water, scampering back to his friend when he spots an approaching snake. “I can’t stop you from doing this, King Wrath, and I won’t let you go alone. Yet I will recommend that you let the others know about your plan. We don’t want them to worry about you.”

  “Normally I would agree, but the situation is not ideal,” Timoran answers, jumping over the brook and wandering until he finds a spot to see through the canopy. It takes him several minutes to figure out which direction Caurea is in, his memory of Delvin’s maps vague and fuzzy. “The fake Zohara is a psychic who is powerful enough to challenge Dariana. Not to mention she has hampered everyone besides me, but only because I have not posed a threat. She could easily read my thoughts and intentions as soon as I cross the barrier. Now that I think about it, there is a possibility that she has been listening to our conversations this entire time. That means I must move quickly.”

  “I still think you should contact the others,” Isaiah argues while clinging to the barbarian’s vest. The faster Timoran runs, the more difficult it is for the monkey to focus on his thoughts and speak clearly. “I never realized how bumpy this type of ride is. Do you want me to stay here and find a way to relay your plan?”

  “Too risky,” the barbarian states as he vaults over a log. Charging through a collection of thorn bushes, he ignores the dots of pain on his exposed skin. “The Feykin will march any day now and I would prefer Zohara not know I am going to be in her way. She has already corrupted two champions and cursed a third, so an attempt to kill Luke during the battle would not surprise me. It would be fairly easy to do and she could place all blame on the Order by making it look like he was executed in retaliation. So he needs to be rescued immediately. I only wish I had his sabers with me, but I left them with Nyx.”

  “He does know martial arts.”

  “Really? Perhaps he should use them from time to time.”

  13

  A warbling screech wakes Luke, who finds himself stripped naked and locked inside a circular cage. Damp hay covers the stone floor and there are only a few shafts of daylight to help him see his surroundings until his eyes adjust to the gloom. The large, open room has more cages made from bars embedded in the mildew-covered ceiling and ground. Cultists walk along the wide pathways with buckets of water and food, tossing both to strange creatures. Only a handful of the enclosures have humanoid figures, most of which are Feykin. Like Luke, every prisoner is naked and left exposed to the uncomfortable draft that is made worse when the cultists throw cold water through the bars. The remaining cages contain chimeras of various sizes and combinations, the beasts filling the chamber with a cacophony of ear-wrenching calls. The only similarity between the monsters is an undertone of misery that brings tears to the unchanged prisoners’ eyes.

  When a cultist comes to Luke’s cage, the half-elf lunges forward and tries to grab the man’s sleeve. A blue stone is tossed at the half-elf’s chest, unleashing a burst of electricity that is partially absorbed and shrugged off. Refusing to let go, the confused forest tracker gradually pulls the entire arm through the bars and snaps it at the elbow. With a violent twist, Luke makes the man shriek in pain and stops the other cultists from getting too close by gripping his victim’s throat.

  “Let me out or I’ll do worse,” he growls in a raspy voice. Vague memories of being beaten rise to the top of his mind, which cause him to become aware of every bruise on his body. “I don’t know how long you’ve kept me in here, but I want to go home. Open the door . . . all of the doors. If you do
that then I won’t hurt this man any more.”

  “Go ahead and kill him, young man, because I’m the one with the key,” Gursel announces from the dungeon’s entrance. The Placid gurgles in delight at the half-elf’s futile display and how it has brought a spark of hope to the other prisoners. “That man is more than ready to suffer for the greater good. He knows that all of you will be our weapons against the Feykin. Why would one dedicated to their destruction agree to release you?”

  “What are you going to do to me?” Luke asks, releasing the injured man. Feeling spit hit his face, he delivers a punch that knocks the cultist against another cage. The clawed chimera inside guts the grinning zealot before several lightning stones drive the beast to the floor. “I’m not going to fight for you, even as a chimera. It’s better that you kill me now, but we both know my friends will be much more dangerous if you do that. Besides, I’ll never transform for you. No matter what you say or do, I won’t give you what you want.”

  “You understand so little about your powers,” the cultist says while rolling up his watery sleeves and walking to a cage the holds a young woman. The green-haired Feykin backs away and crouches, the beginnings of bat wings already poking through her back. “Your gathered spirits will do anything to keep the body alive. With enough torture, I can force you to change either by them taking over or you doing it on your own. The more potent the spirits, the more powerful the chimera. An army of primal creatures at our command is essential to defeating the Feykin since they only expect warriors. Let me show you what I mean since this one is very close to her breaking point.”

  Gursel reaches into the cage and sends a jet of water into the woman’s face, which slams her head against the bars. Unable to breathe and desperate to survive, the Feykin’s leathery wings extend from her back. She tries to fly to the ceiling, but the geyser follows to wrap around her neck and flow into her nose. Spotted fur covers her body as her muffled voice begins to resemble the hiss of a jungle cat. Four, slender arms burst out of her sides, each one ending in long-clawed paws. A shark-like tail sprouts from her backside, the protrusion thrashing against the bars with enough force to bend several of them. Her transformation complete, the woman is dropped to the floor where she screeches at the cultists and attacks the cage like an enraged beast. The newly born chimera takes a swipe at Gursel, who lets her claws pass harmlessly through his watery body.