David Wells - Cursed Bones

As Isabel stared in revulsion at the creature that stood before her, the balcony filled up with the rest of the coven and the door was closed once again.

“I’m called Clotus,” she said in a cloying voice. “They won’t believe you. They don’t see me as you do, and besides, they belong to us.”

Isabel swallowed hard, facing the monster. “What do you intend to do?” she asked.

“We will cast a spell to make me look like you,” Clotus said sweetly. “Then I will go to Phane and take his magic and his life.”

The balcony erupted in a fit of barking madness.

“It would be unwise to answer any more of her questions,” the reasonable voice said.

“Yes, begin the spell,” the raspy voice said.

The voices cloaked in shadow above began to chant-guttural, dark and animalistic noise reverberating around the cave. Isabel waited, wondering what to expect. She didn’t have to wait long. A blob of spinning darkness, illuminated by flecks of sparkling purple, began to form in the air between her and Clotus. It grew in size as it spun faster and faster until it split in two with only a thread of darkness between the two halves. Very quickly the thread elongated as it spun, until a blob of darkness engulfed Isabel and Clotus at the same time, surrounding each of them with dark magic.

Isabel couldn’t breathe, coldness seeped into her very soul as the black magic worked within her. She watched in horror as Clotus transformed into a perfect likeness of her, right down to the color of her eyes and the shade of her chestnut-brown hair.

The magic abruptly faded and Clotus smiled.

“You see, I am now you,” she said in Isabel’s voice. “Phane will welcome me into his fortress and then he will fall to me.”

Her smile widened and she looked up to the rest of the coven. “This one is special,” she said. “I can feel the darkness within her. With the proper preparation and motivation, I believe she could summon Mother.”

Madness erupted from the shadows above.

“How can this be?” asked the reasonable voice.

“Yes, how?” said the raspy voice.

“She has a connection to the darkness within her,” Clotus said. “I can feel it through the link.” Her eyes narrowed and fear ghosted across her face before she snarled, “She also has a connection to the light, though Azugorath has blocked it.”

“She may be more valuable than we first thought,” the reasonable voice said.

“Yes,” the raspy voice said. “We will think on how best to use her. For now, Severine will keep her prisoner here until we decide how she can serve us.”

There was a barking agreement from the rest of the coven.

Clotus knocked at the door and a guard opened it.

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, seeming to know she was one of the witches, even though her appearance had changed.

“Take this one back to your King. See to it that she remains here as our guest until we call for her again.”

Lacy ignored the knock at the door of her cramped little stateroom. She’d been at sea for less than a day and she’d already spent most of the voyage leaning over the gunnel, vomiting into the ocean. The cold sea air had burned her face raw, so once she was certain her stomach was completely empty, she retreated from the harsh, late autumn day to her room where she was trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress her nausea.

Drogan had followed her around the ship, silently watching over her, as he had since they had first met. She tried not to think about his master. Phane was still defined in her mind by the stories she’d read. It was difficult to believe that history had been so perverted, twisted, and distorted that the whole world believed Phane was a monster when he was really the true champion of the Old Law.

She wanted to believe-desperately needed to believe-that he had come to save her people. Without help, the people of Fellenden would suffer immeasurably at the hands of Zuhl’s brutes. Reports of an army marching against the barbarian horde, flying the banner of the Reishi, gave her some measure of hope that help had arrived. Was it too little? Was it too late? The sad answer for far too many of her countrymen was yes.

Tens of thousands had already perished, maybe more. The thought of it made her nausea threaten to send her into convulsions again, even though there was nothing left for her stomach to heave.

The knock came again, this time more forcefully.

Drogan looked at her, then at the door. When she ignored them both, he sighed quietly. The sea journey didn’t seem to faze him in the least.

“What is it?” he said.

“I have a meal for you,” a strangely familiar voice said through the door.

Lacy swallowed hard against a threatened convulsion.

“I’m not hungry,” she managed.

“I am,” Drogan said, getting up and going to the door.

A grimy, weather-worn sailor stood at the threshold with a tray of food.

Drogan nodded his thanks and took the tray, turning to put it on the little table bolted to the floor across from the bunk beds. In an instant, the sailor was through the door with a short, stout club in hand.

Before Lacy could muster a warning, he brought it down hard on the back of Drogan’s skull. The big man went down with a thud, lying still, though still breathing. Lacy sat up on her bed and drew her dagger.

Flashing her a wicked grin, the sailor closed the door and threw the bolt, then spun back toward her, pointing the stout little club in her direction. “Let’s you and I have a chat.”

His voice sounded so familiar.

“You have something I need,” he said. “Give it to me and I’ll let you live … for now.”

Realization slammed into her-he sounded just like Wizard Saul did after the thing made of darkness entered him.

“You’re a quick study, girl,” the sailor said, smiling at her expression. “Did you really think a little water would stand between me and my prize?”

“You’re Rankosi,” Lacy said, the tip of her dagger shaking as she pointed it toward the creature that had been hunting her since the day she’d recovered the little black box.

“Yes, I am … now give me the keystone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Come now, Child. You’ve had it since the tomb. That box may be able to hide the keystone from others but not from me. Now hand it over.”

Lacy stood, shaking her head slowly, keeping her dagger pointed at the sailor.

“If you kill this body, I’ll just take another. Perhaps that one,” he said, motioning toward Drogan. “I doubt he could resist me, considering the master he serves.”

“My father entrusted me with this. I won’t fail him.”

“Oh, but you already have. You’re all alone on this ship, in the middle of the ocean … with me. There’s no one here who could ever hope to master me. Even if I fail to get my prize with this body, there are many others I can use.”

“No,” Lacy said. In that moment she was sure of just one thing-in his moment of greatest need, her father had entrusted her with this one task and she would not fail him while she still drew breath.

She lunged, driving her dagger toward his gut, but he was quick, too quick. He brought his club up, hitting her on the inside of the forearm, sending her dagger skittering under the table. She gasped at the sudden pain of the blow. Her arm didn’t feel broken, but she couldn’t make her fingers work.

The sailor crashed into her, driving her into the lower bunk, pinning her into the corner. His breath was rank and he smelled of sweat and brandy. His face was just inches from hers as he stared her in the eye, darkness and hate dancing in his gaze.

He seemed to master himself and then spun her around, shoving her awkwardly, face first into the corner so he could hastily bind her hands, tightly looping a piece of cord around her wrists, adding to the pain in her arm.