Among Gods and Monsters

by S D Simper

  A corpse fell to the ground. Flowridia’s own screams filled the void.

  She didn’t remember when Casvir lifted her, kicking and sobbing. But suddenly he cradled her tight, despite her protests, against his armored chest. Her strength failed; she brought her hands to her eyes, tears mingling with dirt and her own blood. She saw, amidst her tear-stained vision, a cave filled with corpses, blood staining the walls.

  The darkness dissipated. Outside, the wind stung her face. But her mind stayed blank aside from the image of Ayla’s shriveled corpse.

  Flowridia heard water. Casvir knelt and gently set her on the ground at the bank of a river. “Are you hurt?”

  She finally removed her hands, though they trembled and cramped. Sunlight burned her eyes. Casvir’s armor and hair were stained with gore; in carrying her, it had coated her too. She managed to shake her head.

  “You will clean yourself,” he continued. “I will send Demitri with your clean clothes. These ones will be burned. And then, we will talk.” Casvir stood tall, his stare firm but not unkind, and disappeared behind the trees.

  Demitri’s touch broke her focus on Casvir. He rubbed his face against her hair. Do what he says. You’re a mess.

  Flowridia leaned in and faced the water, the reflection distorting the blood-streaked horror of her face. She immediately dunked her head in the icy water and pulled out, gasping. Her hands, still stained red, ripped at her clothes, desperate to free herself of their touch and memory.

  She let the river carry them away. Naked, she stepped into the water and scrubbed, rubbing her skin until it burned and chafed.

  She shivered as she stood. One hand wrapped around her chest and gripped her shoulder. “Can you bring me my clothing, please?”

  Demitri rushed away, returning in moments, and Flowridia, more vulnerable inside than out, let fresh tears fall down her wet face.

  * * *

  Dry and dressed, though her hair dripped like rain, Flowridia let Demitri lead. Imperator Casvir, armor cleaned, his hair well-kempt, waited in a clearing alongside their horses. The undergrowth had been cut away, perhaps by Casvir himself, who sat patiently on a fallen tree. “Tell me what you saw,” he said, gesturing to the space beside him on the log. Flowridia sat. Demitri settled beside her.

  Through her tears, she relayed her tale—of Ayla in the woods, of the demon, the witches, the cave, Ku’Shya, the song they sang . . .

  “I don’t know what any of it means,” she finally finished, the birds high above mocking her fear and sorrow.

  “I had heard nothing of a war in Sha’Demoni. But I have heard little of any kingdoms’ affairs since the beginning of our journey.”

  “She said my death would stop it.” Flowridia asked as she wiped her face on her long sleeve. “She said Ku’Shya could defeat the God of Order.”

  “The Goddess of War is known for hubris. Perhaps she could have, but you will not be sacrificed for that cause. Demons cannot possess an unwilling vessel—not without powerful intervention.”

  Flowridia managed to nod, but still she felt residual terror, saw the vision of Ayla behind her eyelids, withered and dying—

  She gasped to hide her sob, wrapping her arms around herself.

  “But that is not what scared you,” Casvir said. No question laced his tone.

  Flowridia shrunk, her chest caving in. “It’s because of me there’s a war. Ayla wouldn’t have killed Khastra if it weren’t for me. She wouldn’t have died if it weren’t—”

  Shame filled her cheeks as she cut off her damning words. She shut her eyes, tears falling silently down her face. “Nothing good came of us. Not for the world. And not for her.”

  Casvir’s words were soft. “You are very young, Flowridia. Forgive my assumption, but Ayla was the first woman you ever loved.”

  Flowridia managed a nod.

  “And you blame yourself for her death.”

  Flowridia’s breath hitched as she nodded yet again. Demitri’s tongue flicked out to lick the top of her foot. She tensed at the touch, though she knew he meant it to soothe her.

  The eerie silence in the clearing stood in stark contrast to the dissonance of days past. No creatures met her ears as Casvir collected his thoughts. “Ayla was known for flaunting her conquests, but she kept close guard over what she deemed truly hers. I knew of her flirtation with you from Zorlaeus and from her own mouth when questioned, but her silence on the matter spoke volumes of her feelings toward you. She spoke of you freely one time. Only once—when she proposed a visit from your ruling council. Murishani jested with her when she mentioned your aversion to meat, teased that she would change her ways for you.” He stared at Flowridia directly now; behind the shade of her hair, she could feel it. “All she said, quite sincerely, was, ‘perhaps I shall.’”

  He paused, and Flowridia, confused by the anecdote, finally faced him.

  “The dead do not change. They are forever stunted, even the intelligent dead, physically and emotionally. Perhaps they learn, but they do not grow, doomed to stay fixed in time for eternity. It is why ghosts will linger for centuries at the place of their deaths, why vampires never tire of toying with mortals. Intelligent dead never change. So you must understand what an unprecedented, remarkable occurrence it was when Ayla Darkleaf fell in love. Something so contrary to her nature, to care for another person, but Ayla loved you.”

  Those words broke something inside her, some invisible barrier she hadn’t dared to touch. As he spoke, quiet sobs shook her body.

  “Her love for you was the only redeeming trait I ever knew in her. You tamed a monster. And her sacrifice, in service of you, was as kind and poetic an end as she could have deserved.”

  Sitting on that tree, tears streaming down her face, Flowridia felt a shadow pass across her heart, some coldness seeping into her chest. Yet the pressure within her ribs, the pain she felt upon Ayla’s memory, began to wane. Flowridia released a gasping breath. For the first time since Ayla’s passing, she felt she had drawn air.

  She wiped her swollen eyes on her sleeve, and though her heart ached, a pained heart still beat. Pain meant she lived.

  “You have been through a harrowing ordeal,” Casvir said. “We can rest today, if you would prefer.”

  “I would rather ride,” Flowridia managed, though her voice quivered. “I don’t want to stay here longer than we have to.”

  “Of course.” Casvir stood and went to her horse. From out of the chest, he pulled out an apple, which he offered to her. “Eat as we ride.” And when she stood, he lifted her onto the horse, then placed Demitri on her lap.

  Flowridia hugged her familiar close. “You didn’t growl at him.”

  I don’t like him. But he raged the entire time you were missing. Not at you; at himself. Demitri curled into her embrace, heavy in her lap. He used my connection to you to find you again.

  “You worked together?” Flowridia said, a faint smile tugging at her lip. “This is a true testament of your love for me, dearest Demitri.”

  Don’t go getting yourself kidnapped by witches anymore. I can’t promise I’ll do it again.

  Her tears slowly dried as they rode through the forest.

  The lush forest remained vibrant and green, but the darkness pervading the scene had waned. Flowridia felt that with the death of the witches, the forest might flourish as a peaceful haven once again.

  The demon remained. The thought chilled her blood. Surely she would be targeted again. And she recalled her dream, the screaming warning in her head, and knew not what it meant. Instead, she clutched at the ear, the fabric of her shirt shielding her from the cold accessory, haunted by the ghost that was perhaps more real than she had realized.

  But Flowridia did not voice those thoughts. Instead, in the evening when Casvir sat across from her, she heard him say, “You performed a remarkable feat.”

  Flowridia glanced up and saw intrigue in his stare. “What do you mean?”

  “You stole the life from the witch, then used that same
energy to immediately fuel your healing and save your own life. While not unheard of, the ability to wield dark and light energies on so fine a ledge speaks well of your finesse.”

  Behind the pain had been an exhilarating pleasure in draining the life from the woman . . .

  “Casvir? Will necromancy only kill?”

  “Like all magic, it has many differing facets,” Casvir said. “Most of it is directed in death, but some will cause only pain. And, of course, there is the matter of raising the dead.”

  “Killing the witch with it. . .” she admitted, shy to reveal much more. “It felt . . . I felt like I was . . .” She shuddered, recalling Mother, the memory of her odd appetites causing revulsion to rise in her stomach. “. . . eating her life.”

  “In a way, you were. Had you managed to sustain the magic, her energy would have been absorbed into your body. A word of warning, however,” Casvir continued. “Addiction to consuming life can hold dangerous consequences.”

  The word ‘addiction’ caused any pleasurable memories to wither and dry like the life she had drained. “Would raising the dead have similar consequences?” she asked, hoping her change of subject wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

  “No. Instead, it drains energy, though once your subject is raised, it requires little effort, unless someone else seeks to inflict their influence over what is yours.”

  So a more powerful necromancer could steal from a weaker one. Flowridia resolved to be careful with any undead in Casvir’s presence. “I’m not sure what I would do with that sort of power.”

  “Some creativity is often necessary. I use them as an army, but also as servants.”

  “Are they . . .” Her brow furrowed as she considered how to finish her question. “. . . lucid?”

  “Only if I want them to be. If I want merely their strength, they are but shambling husks, compliant to my will. But were you to die, your intelligence is something I would seek to preserve, and hopefully your mind would be strong enough to survive such a process. Your soul would be forced back into your corpse.”

  Flowridia’s fingers lovingly stroked through Demitri’s fur, a dangerous inquiry fighting to escape. “What about . . .” She bit her tongue and shook her head. “Never mind.”

  Casvir’s gaze darkened. “Ask.”

  “It’s a lost cause-”

  “You are a poor liar,” he said. “Disappointing, really, given your other talents. You wish to ask about Ayla.”

  Flowridia recalled words from long ago, spoken by the aforementioned woman. “You restored Ayla’s life with a blood ritual.”

  “I did. A blood ritual is not true necromancy, given that anyone with the knowledge and a dead body can attempt it. But it can restore a corpse of any age to pristine form, with the proper blood.” She swore his gaze grew piercing, and she shuddered beneath his intrigue. “I will seek to restore her life once more, when you sign the contract.”

  The words chilled her blood, causing bumps to rise along her arms. “You will ‘seek’ to restore her life?” she asked, refusing to give any definitive answer. Somehow, her soul revolted at the thought, despite her tentative trust in Casvir.

  “Countless rituals were performed,” he said, the flickering of the crystal highlighting every line upon his face. “For years, any prisoner meant for execution had their throat slit above her casket, but for nothing.”

  Flowridia felt her breath fade. “Years?”

  “There was no precedence on a ritual to revive her. Ayla is a unique creature—not a true vampire, yet holding the ability to create them. Surely you know she was the first of Izthuni’s?”

  Flowridia nodded.

  “I even sought guidance from The Lurker himself. There is a temple in my kingdom wherein he may manifest, but he would not appear before me. I began executing those of a higher caliber, of powerful and noble blood, but the end result surprises me, even now.”

  Flowridia shut her eyes, Ayla’s words fluttering through her head, of the memory of being awoken in a warm bath of blood. “May I ask who it was?”

  She swore she saw the shadow of a smirk upon the tyrant’s countenance. “She was the last remaining priestess of Neoma, the fallen Moon Goddess. She had been granted a familiar a millennium ago and lived across the sea within the shadow of the great valley bearing Neoma’s name.”

  Flowridia asked, “She was set for execution?”

  Casvir’s face remained the same. “By my decree, yes.”

  Nausea welled in Flowridia’s stomach. She let her gaze drift to the crystal, remembering that Casvir held a reputation for justice toward his own and brutality toward the world.

  She would be a fool to forget that.

  “I will pour all my resources into restoring Ayla’s life, upon your signature,” Casvir said, finality in the words. “But it may take time.”

  Casvir withdrew a book from the chest by his side, and Flowridia disengaged, exhausted physically and emotionally from the day’s events. She shut her eyes and imagined Ayla’s face, yet struggled between the witch she had murdered and the woman haunting her dreams.

  She dreamt of romance; no strange warnings in the night.

  * * *

  One week, and they finally reached the edge of the cursed forest.

  Casvir gave assistance with practical applications of necromancy but nothing truly awe-inspiring. More of the same—learning to summon the dark energy and hold it in her palms.

  Not quite euphoric, the feeling of holding power so visibly in her hands, but therapeutic, in a way. Thinking about absolutely nothing at all gave her spots of peace amidst her turbulent thoughts.

  The forest ended abruptly at the thick slope of a mountain. Lush greenery surrounded them, the meadow and flowers scaling the side of the mountain colorful and full of vibrant life. When they stopped to walk, Flowridia gathered a bunch, marveling at their size and lively energy as she wove one into her hair.

  By nightfall, the summit still seemed miles away. Flowridia joined Casvir in setting up the camp, but she saw no purpose in her bedroll; the grass was plush, and all living creatures scattered in the presence of Casvir, including insects.

  And so it was for three days. As they scaled the mountain trail, the scenery grew sparse. Gone were the vivid plants; all life faded as they ascended the mountain. The elevation could be to blame, yes, but the absent tugging in Flowridia’s heart spoke of something else. Casvir’s prize grew closer each day.

  The grass became rough and yellow under Demitri’s paws. None of the trees quite reached above Casvir, stunted by the height of the mountain and a force Flowridia did not have a name for.

  The sun beat down, though the breeze blew cold, and amidst the bramble and dying foliage, Flowridia spotted an emaciated figure. She stopped her horse, peering at the small, four-legged canine cowering in the shade of a tree.

  Animal life fled from Casvir’s presence, and Flowridia had no doubt this small creature—a fox, she realized—would do the same if it were capable. Sliding down with practiced grace, Flowridia’s feet landed safely on the ground, and she silently stepped toward the frightened creature. “There’s nothing to fear, little friend. I won’t hurt you.”

  The fox, though it was scarcely out of infancy, trembled at her presence but yelped when a shadow suddenly loomed over Flowridia. Casvir stood behind her. “What is this?”

  “There’s something wrong with it.” With no thought to regard his station, she added, “I need you to step away, please. You’re scaring it.”

  To her surprise, she was not struck down for insolence. Casvir obeyed and stood beside Demitri and the horse.

  Flowridia reached out a hand, the kit much braver now that Casvir had retreated. The baby fox took a shaky step forward, and she whispered, “I can help you.”

  The fox stumbled into her outstretched arms. Flowridia cradled it—her, she realized—and held the little creature tight to her chest. Maternal instinct took hold, and Flowridia stroked the soft baby fur, yet she frowned as her senses
sought for something tangible to heal and hold. There was no injury in this creature, no disease. Yet, the kit was dying.

  It isn’t hurt. Demitri’s words had never been so unhelpful. I don’t think there’s anything we can do.

  “No. I have to help.” Flowridia’s eyes met the enormous, black eyes of the fox. “I can’t leave her alone.”

  There are probably thousands of others just like it.

  “Perhaps. But this one is mine.” She stood, careful not to jostle the fox. The creature attempted to burrow into her arms when Casvir helped her mount her horse, but she soothed the dying fox with her words and tender gestures. “I promise to protect you.”

  Each step forward only seemed to weaken the kit. The land around them matched her failing health. Where there was once sparse grass grew only dried weeds.

  “How are your feet, Demitri?”

  I’m fine.

  It couldn’t be comfortable stepping on dried husks. But soon the ground turned charred and black, a scar upon the mountain. No birdsong met her ears, only desolate wind upon the dirt.

  Then, creaking. Rattling. Flowridia looked up from her sickly fox only to match the gaze of a skeletal beast. Not quite pure white, some skin still clung in macabre sheets, but any blood had long ago dried. It held a canine shape, standing much larger than the little creature in her arms. A wolf, perhaps, but older than Demitri, and Flowridia watched as it stumbled toward them.

  Casvir took little note. With a mere wave of his wand, it crumbled to the ground.

  The undead beast lay utterly still, but Flowridia shied away as her horse stepped past. “Did you raise it?”

  “No, but I did dismiss it.”

  “Are there more?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Though her heart raced, Flowridia managed to focus instead on the struggling creature in her arms. She breathed with her, the baby breaths reminding her of a much younger Demitri.