Colin Tabor - The Fall of Ossard

A soft breeze tugged at my blonde hair, soothing in its caress. The sun also worked to seduce me as it set my pale skin aglow with its warm and sweet kiss. And all of it combined to make me sleepy.

I’d come here to daydream and endure a headache that had struck me earlier in the day. Its lancing pain had faded, but a muffled buzzing in my ears warned that it hadn’t finished with me yet. The aches had haunted me for weeks now, at first soft and barely noticed in the morning, but recently they’d worsened to grow rough and breathtaking. My mother had been concerned at the news, overly so, but she’d always been prone to fretting.

I closed my eyes to let the sun comfort me.

A mistake.

With the distraction of my vision gone, I became aware of just how wrong things felt.

The buzz in my head gained clarity as it cleared into a chorus of whispered voices. I couldn’t make sense of them, there were too many.

Was I imagining them?

While I couldn’t understand them, the longer I listened the more certain I became. Soft and busy, like the hum of a distant crowd, it came from nowhere, yet everywhere.

What was happening to me?

And then, as if that question was the key to unlocking a door, images flashed through my mind in glaring white and blinding blue, all against a void of the deepest black. They were of flames, leaping sparks and billowing smoke, and at the heart of it loomed a forest of stakes with people bound to them. Those poor souls struggled against their bonds and screamed, but the inferno feasted on them nonetheless. In a stark moment of horror, I realised that the elementals fuelling it planned on doing so for eternity.

I was watching a witch burning, something from the past that the poor souls had been unable to escape even in death. It was of Ossard’s riots, or more correctly, of the incident that had triggered them; The Burnings.

The vision left me shaken, but also different.

The tang of blood came to my tongue – my own!

Why was I bleeding?

The voices declared, “Magic!”

What?

They chorused again, “The coming of magic!”

No, not for me!

And my breath caught as I shivered.

I didn’t want it, not to be burdened by the Witches’Kiss!

And then my headache subsided, the pressure binding it suddenly released.

My mind cleared only for it to succumb to a new sensation, it eerie, like a flow of iced water cascading into my core. Its brutal chill came as such a shock that I cried out as my eyes sprang open.

And the vista before me held such clarity it was as if every other time I’d looked out of my window it had only been for a glance.

Now I could see everything.

Everything!

Across the city, wherever I looked, I could see people walking, talking, working, loving, and so much more. It was as if I stood out there with every one of them. I discovered, to a degree, I could even sample their feelings and thoughts.

I turned in wonder from the city to watch the chores of a lone fishing boat crew far out in the sound. I took all of it in effortlessly and in beguiling detail, as three men cleared their nets while seven seagulls circled above them.

I could see everything!

That’s when I noticed the sparks.

They rained down past my window to flare with an intensity that hurt to watch. It left me in no doubt, I wasn’t supposed to see them, no one was; they were black.

Only one kind of spark could hold such a hue. I knew that from Sef’s tales; they were of the celestial.

Magic!

The sparks stretched off in a narrow trail as they headed across the street towards Newbank’s slums. I leaned forward in my chair, mesmerised. About me, the air grew cool and expectant.

It was magic, but not of me.

Someone else was casting.

The wind sounded, it heavy with the whipping of cloth. A moment later, a tall and ragged form with arms outstretched glided past. The robed caster followed the extending trail of sparks, their brilliance fading with his passage.

I supposed him to be a forbidden cultist or perhaps an outlawed mage.

The dark figure coasted on until he began descending towards a faraway alley lined with rundown tenements. Several balconies jutted out from those grimy three level buildings, all but one of them empty.

A boy with only a few years behind him and a crop of messy red hair stood there looking up. Surprisingly, the child could see him, but even at his tender age he sensed something was wrong.

I watched with growing fear.

The alleyway grew dark with the cultist’s arrival, the light sapped away by some damning spell. The figure wore a hood, but I could tell by the strong jaw and a solid frame that it was a man, probably Heletian.

He landed.

This was no persecuted cabalist, a scholar of magic, instead it was a man who’d sold his soul to the diabolical, seeking favour in return.

Without a word, he offered his hand.

I held my breath.

The child looked up to the cultist, and then reached out to take it.

My vision, so strangely clear, marked the boy in the spoiled colours of death. I knew his fate, as though I’d be there when his blood was drained.

Under the weight of that feeling, the paralysing fear that had taken me finally released its grip. I stood and screamed, “Get away from him!”

The cultist’s head snapped about, even though he was surely too distant to hear. His eyes sparkled coldly. He wasn’t afraid, not of a Flet girl standing at a window too many streets away.

As if entranced, the child took his hand.

The cultist grinned.

It set me to tears.

The cultist and boy began to drift up, the two hand-in-hand. They followed a rising path of flaring sparks that trailed off towards the heart of the city.

I heard a scream and looked back to the balcony. The boy’s mother, oblivious to her son above, looked to the street below.

With a thick voice, I yelled, “He’s above you! He’s taking him!” but she couldn’t hear me. I was just too far away.

She rushed for the stairs.

My excellent vision faded, returning to the mundane. Sobbing, I dropped my tear soaked face into my hands.

Caught in my own grief, I didn’t hear the hurried footfalls on the stairs leading to my room. The door burst open behind me. My mother charged in, Sef, of course, was right behind her. They’d heard my yelling.

She ran to me looking for any sign of what was wrong. Finally, as only a mother can, she took me into her arms.

Grateful, I took my hands away from my face.

Her supportive sounds died as her eyes filled with horror.

Behind her, Sef took a step back in surprise.

What was wrong?

She reached for my cheeks with hesitant hands. “Oh Juvela!” With trembling fingers she wiped at my tears – they came away bloodied. She whispered, “Just like your grandmother!”

And that is how it began.

I tried to forget the dark happenings of the previous week by losing myself in the preparations for my coming-of-age.

It didn’t work.

Nothing relieved the sense of guilt that haunted me. I just kept seeing that poor boy’s innocent but deathly face.

I’d witnessed one of the child thefts, and the true nature of the crime; its link to magic was as much a problem as the abduction itself. Simply, I’d seen something I should’ve been blind to. To report it would incriminate myself.

The Inquisition might be forbidden to enter Ossard, but the Church could easily arrange my arrest and send me to them. I had to be careful. Such an arrest and consequent journey to the Holy City of Baimiopia wouldn’t end well, particularly for a young woman, and even more so for a lonely Flet.

Mother demanded that I say nothing – and damn the stolen boy!