Even though she was afraid, and remembering that even though she could swim a little, she was not very adept at it yet, Calla was not willing to give up that easily. Before the creature could go very far from the surface, she kicked out; even though the water forced her to move more slowly, she felt her shoe connect hard with something. There was a bellow of pain in her ear, and one of the hands started to release her. She took advantage of it, and wiggled her left arm free of the lasso, sending a concentrated blast of power over her shoulder at whatever had ahold of her. Much to her relief, despite it not being a lethal or even hurtful blast, it enabled her to break free, clawing her way to the surface.
She barely took a moment to gratefully breathe before grabbing the plants on the shore, and starting to pull herself up. However, she had not gotten far before she was being seized again. Frantically, Calla kicked out, writhing and wrapping some roots around her hands in an attempt to anchor herself in place. In desperation, and almost instinctively, she raised her head and called out for help-in Ghoulish.*
Calla didn’t even know if there were any Ghuls in the immediate vicinity-it just came out, probably an instinctive result of her connection to Sharky. And it seemed to startle her captor; the grip faltered enough for her to scramble all the way out of the water, turn around, and come face to face with whatever it was. Which, if you hadn’t guessed already, is what she did.
It looked, more than anything, like a giant frog masquerading as a man. He had a wide, sagging mouth, bulbous, fiery gold-green eyes, a large flat nose that sunk into his face, slimy green and brown skin, and long, webbed hands. Long, green, weedy stuff drooped from his chin and the top of his head; it took Calla a second to realize that it was actually hair, albeit very lank and greasy hair. And she could see that he was dripping with algae all over.
After her brief examination, Calla, hating to do it but thinking it was the fastest way of communicating with the creature if he didn’t speak English, stared into his eyes. And was promptly overwhelmed by a flood of strange thoughts and emotions. They mostly seemed to consist of shock at the moment-shock that she spoke the tongue of the vurdalaki, and shock at how efficiently she had gotten out of his grasp, and shock at what was happening now. And with a quick scan of his thoughts, Calla learned that the creature was known as a vodyanoy. It was a Russian water spirit, like the nymphs back home, except this one seemed far more aggressive. When she probed around to figure out why he had tried to drown her, his thoughts became somewhat indignant.
Drown her! He had no such intention! The truth was, he was lonely and seeking companionship. He had been here for hundreds of years, and the only other sentient creatures in this lake were some silly rusalki** who called him fat and giggled at him behind their webs when they thought he wasn’t looking.
That doesn’t give you the right to just kidnap me! Calla retorted.
However, as she looked at his thoughts, she felt a pang of sympathy for the vodyanoy. She knew how it felt to be lonely.
Could you try going to another lake?
He twisted around in the water a bit, until he was able to hold up a fat tail. Calla began to see the problem, since this lake was completely land-locked. He was stuck here, with nowhere else to go, and despite the other creatures there, he was completely alone.
But there are other ways besides kidnapping…
She spent maybe an hour sitting by the side of the lake, talking mentally to the vodyanoy, whose name she learned was Pavel. He was overjoyed at finally being able to talk to someone, and determined to make the most of it. And the mental connection was beneficial for Calla, too; not only was she helping someone and being distracted from her worry about what was happening to Tristan, but it enabled her, after a time, to start figuring out the basics of the Russian language; in a way, killing multiple birds with one stone.
Finally, though, she had to say, I need to go back now. Baba Yaga needs me to bring these plants to her.
She couldn’t help questioning the veracity of that statement a little bit; both that the witch actually needed the plants, and that she needed Calla to be the one to go and get them. But Pavel understood; nobody around here ever wanted to cross Baba Yaga.
She would come back, wouldn't she?
...I’ll try.
Calla looked away, rubbing her throbbing temples, and cut some fresh plants to add to the bag, before going back to where she had left the mortar.
Baba Yaga barely bit back a cackle when Calla stepped into the cottage: damp, muddy, a little bloody around the hands, and windblown.
“Have a good time?” she asked innocently.
*Ghoulish had become her word for the Ghul language, if you could call it that, which her blood bond with a Ghul had kind of helped her to understand better. It’s based on a series of screeches, growls, snarls, and inflections based on current emotions. A call for help is a sort of long, high banshee-like wail, that if done right, can reach an octave usually saved for dog whistles.
**Russian water nymphs. Often purported to be the spirits of women who drowned themselves, and well-known for luring young men to their deaths by drowning or something. A lot like mermaids and other types of woman monsters in mythology, really.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Season of the Witch part 12
Meanwhile, back in my prison, my luck had started to change for the better. Not that I had gotten free, or anything as serendipitous as that. That was too much to hope for. It also appeared to be too much to hope for that Koschei would ever think to feed me. And even though I started hearing voices (from down below my prison, somehow-maybe I was on the upper floor of wherever I was), I was unable to call out to them due to the spell on my voice, or in any way make noise that would attract their attention. And even if I could, who was to say that they weren’t minions of Mr. the Deathless, or something like that?
However, I had at least gotten started on getting free from this chair.
When I’d been captured, my pack and all the contents therein, along with a few odds and ends hidden on my person, had been confiscated. However, Mr. the Deathless had not checked my insides for anything, a fact I was now using to my advantage. And yes, I am aware of how weird that sounds. But it makes sense if you understand that before I left, Baba Yaga brewed a special potion that I then drank, and therefore it was now inside of me. And it was my secret weapon.
See, something people mostly already know about gargoyle blood is that it’s really, really hot. It makes it difficult for non-gargoyles to treat us when we’re injured. What many people don’t know, and which is mostly a deeply-kept secret,* is that when we’re under extreme physical and/or mental stress, it sort of boils. That is to say, it gets hotter. It doesn’t hurt us, but it goes from burning to scorching for almost anyone or anything else. And Baba Yaga had given me a potion that would amplify that in such a way that I could use it to my advantage now.
Most doctors would probably advise against purposely making yourself bleed, especially when your blood sugar is low because you haven’t eaten or drank anything for what is probably more than twenty-four hours. But this was an emergency, so I dug one of the claws of my right hand into my palm (because I am ambidextrous, it didn’t matter which one I used). Soon enough I felt the sting of pain as I pierced my own skin, and after pressing a little harder, I felt the blood start to leak out. The pain caused a bit of an adrenaline rush, and I augmented it by thinking about all the consequences of failure: losing Calla forever, dying here, leaving Xen and Phil alone, never getting to see my family again-well, maybe not that one. Except my mother. And my little brother Elijah. And Morty, who was more or less family. I encouraged all my anger and fear and worry to rise to a fever pitch, and could actually feel my blood temperature rising. I heard more voices somewhere outside my prison now, but ignored them. Getting out was far more important.
The chair I was sitting in was solid steel, magically reinforced. However, my bleeding palm began to burn through it like the third eye of Shiva through Ganesha’s head. Eagerly, I wiggled it back and forth, feeling the metal dissolving under my hand. It took longer to eat through than I would have liked, but I doggedly continued on. Even when I started to see black spots before my eyes, and my ears started ringing, and I started having that light-headed feeling like I’d been out in the sun for far too long.
Wonder how much I’ve lost? I’ll die if I lose more than six pints. Let’s see, if one drop can dissolve up to two centimeters of metal, and the arm of this chair is about three inches thick, and if it takes .38 seconds to dissolve the steel-
I was distracted from my inane calculations by the fact that that part of the chair was starting to wobble and bend a bit. Deciding I didn’t want to waste anymore time waiting, I pushed down as hard as I could. If I’d been at full strength, I could have done it with much less trouble. As it was, I had to shove and strain and push several times, before finally, with a satisfying snap! the part of the chair broke, giving me a chance to slide my arm free, albeit with the spell attached. And as I’d feared, it then shrank to fit snugly around my wrist, like the world’s worst bracelet. But when I dripped a bit of my blood on it, it actually dissolved the part it touched, allowing me to peel it off and toss it away. Baba Yaga’s magic is pretty potent stuff.
I dissolved my other bonds, and then pressed my now-numb claw to my chest, in an effort to stop the bleeding. It ate right through my shirt, so I had to press it against my bare fur and flesh (which, luckily, it didn’t appear to be hurting). I was still trapped in this hellish place of light. I still had no voice. I was also starving, thirsty, and possibly suffering from self-inflicted anemia. But at least now I was partially free. I just needed to take a rest, just close my eyes for a moment, and then I could find a method of getting out of here…
*So be grateful that I trust you enough to tell you about it.
However, I had at least gotten started on getting free from this chair.
When I’d been captured, my pack and all the contents therein, along with a few odds and ends hidden on my person, had been confiscated. However, Mr. the Deathless had not checked my insides for anything, a fact I was now using to my advantage. And yes, I am aware of how weird that sounds. But it makes sense if you understand that before I left, Baba Yaga brewed a special potion that I then drank, and therefore it was now inside of me. And it was my secret weapon.
See, something people mostly already know about gargoyle blood is that it’s really, really hot. It makes it difficult for non-gargoyles to treat us when we’re injured. What many people don’t know, and which is mostly a deeply-kept secret,* is that when we’re under extreme physical and/or mental stress, it sort of boils. That is to say, it gets hotter. It doesn’t hurt us, but it goes from burning to scorching for almost anyone or anything else. And Baba Yaga had given me a potion that would amplify that in such a way that I could use it to my advantage now.
Most doctors would probably advise against purposely making yourself bleed, especially when your blood sugar is low because you haven’t eaten or drank anything for what is probably more than twenty-four hours. But this was an emergency, so I dug one of the claws of my right hand into my palm (because I am ambidextrous, it didn’t matter which one I used). Soon enough I felt the sting of pain as I pierced my own skin, and after pressing a little harder, I felt the blood start to leak out. The pain caused a bit of an adrenaline rush, and I augmented it by thinking about all the consequences of failure: losing Calla forever, dying here, leaving Xen and Phil alone, never getting to see my family again-well, maybe not that one. Except my mother. And my little brother Elijah. And Morty, who was more or less family. I encouraged all my anger and fear and worry to rise to a fever pitch, and could actually feel my blood temperature rising. I heard more voices somewhere outside my prison now, but ignored them. Getting out was far more important.
The chair I was sitting in was solid steel, magically reinforced. However, my bleeding palm began to burn through it like the third eye of Shiva through Ganesha’s head. Eagerly, I wiggled it back and forth, feeling the metal dissolving under my hand. It took longer to eat through than I would have liked, but I doggedly continued on. Even when I started to see black spots before my eyes, and my ears started ringing, and I started having that light-headed feeling like I’d been out in the sun for far too long.
Wonder how much I’ve lost? I’ll die if I lose more than six pints. Let’s see, if one drop can dissolve up to two centimeters of metal, and the arm of this chair is about three inches thick, and if it takes .38 seconds to dissolve the steel-
I was distracted from my inane calculations by the fact that that part of the chair was starting to wobble and bend a bit. Deciding I didn’t want to waste anymore time waiting, I pushed down as hard as I could. If I’d been at full strength, I could have done it with much less trouble. As it was, I had to shove and strain and push several times, before finally, with a satisfying snap! the part of the chair broke, giving me a chance to slide my arm free, albeit with the spell attached. And as I’d feared, it then shrank to fit snugly around my wrist, like the world’s worst bracelet. But when I dripped a bit of my blood on it, it actually dissolved the part it touched, allowing me to peel it off and toss it away. Baba Yaga’s magic is pretty potent stuff.
I dissolved my other bonds, and then pressed my now-numb claw to my chest, in an effort to stop the bleeding. It ate right through my shirt, so I had to press it against my bare fur and flesh (which, luckily, it didn’t appear to be hurting). I was still trapped in this hellish place of light. I still had no voice. I was also starving, thirsty, and possibly suffering from self-inflicted anemia. But at least now I was partially free. I just needed to take a rest, just close my eyes for a moment, and then I could find a method of getting out of here…
*So be grateful that I trust you enough to tell you about it.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Season of the Witch part 11
Three days.
Tristan had been gone for nearly three days.
It was fortunate that he had bargained for an entire week, or else the deal would already be over.
On the bright side, Calla was no longer in a constant state of fear; it had worn itself out, replaced by a sort of tired numbness and resignation. She did whatever chores Baba Yaga asked of her (which weren’t as many or often as you might think, since Calla’s magic had covered the big ones right away), ate when she got the chance, fell asleep as soon as she went to bed, and in her spare time, she talked to Lars, or Xen. She thought about calling Morgan, but wasn’t sure she wanted to distress her too, and besides, she’d probably want to attempt a rescue somehow, and then she’d be in danger. Calla supposed she should be worried about how complacent she had become, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care.
That day, after she’d made Baba Yaga’s breakfast (porridge, with milk and a drop of honey inside) and watered the black sunflower, the witch surprised her by saying, “Today I need you to go to the lake nearby and pick some of the plants that grow along the edge.”
“To add to your cabinet?” Calla asked, feeling genuine curiosity.
The witch nodded and smiled. “Feel free to use the mortar to get there. And I’d recommend taking this is well.” She held out an enormous, bone-handled knife. Seeing Calla’s startled expression, she quickly added, “To cut the plants free more easily, of course.”
Which probably means that there’s something dangerous there.
Hesitantly Calla took the knife. “Any plants in particular?”
“Oh, just whatever you can find. But I’m particularly fond of the little white flowers.”
“Okay.” Calla retrieved the bag which she kept for gathering vegetables, and slung it over her shoulders.
“Thank you, myshka.* Try not to get wet.”
After Calla managed to move the mortar out onto the porch, she climbed inside, picking up the pestle in her left hand. How was she to do this? With the carpet, you just had to tell it where you wanted to go, and it went; but maybe this contraption only understood Russian or something. The best way to find out, she decided, was to try it.
“Up, please,” she commanded.
Nothing happened.
Experimentally, she waved the pestle back and forth against the outside, as if paddling a canoe. Much to her delight, the mortar wobbled, and then, as she paddled more vigorously, rose slowly (but with a steady increase of speed) into the air.
Once the mortar got going, Calla no longer needed to paddle quite so often. However, she occasionally had to use the pestle to steer, or to gain more altitude. Finally, when she was at maybe a mile above the ground, she back-paddled a little bit, struggling because the mortar didn’t want to cooperate, until it was hovering stationary in the air, and began to search for the lake Baba Yaga had talked about. Most of the area seemed to be either trees or meadows, but finally over eastward she saw a glimmering on the horizon which probably meant water. Turning so she was facing that direction, she steered the mortar that direction.
As it turned out, getting the mortar into the air was a lot easier than getting it down. The blasted contraption wanted to stay up, and she finally had to lean on the side until it tilted, pray that she wouldn’t fall out, and dig the pestle into the air to make it head for earth. If she stopped paddling for long, the mortar would start to tilt upward again. Every time she pushed it back toward earth, it almost seemed to be sulking.
I wonder if Baba Yaga has this much trouble with it? Seeing as it’s her, probably not.
Calla managed to maneuver the mortar until it was a foot above the ground; try as she might, it stubbornly refused to land. And, examining the dirty wet muck below, she couldn’t quite blame it. So she just climbed out, carrying the pestle and the bag, and told the mortar firmly, “Stay.”
The mortar bobbed up and down in the air, and she worried it wouldn’t heed her command (assuming it even understood it). Improvising, she conjured up a rope, and tied one end to a ring on the side of the mortar, and the other to a sturdy-looking tree. Ignoring the outraged way that she was being not-looked-at by her transportation, she moved down the bank until she was right by the lake, and began to cut as many different plants as she could.
She didn’t know most of the names, just what things looked like-the white flowers Baba Yaga had mentioned, a few types of weeds, some grasses and mosses, and a plant covered in thorns that made her fingers bleed, but that she thought the old witch might especially like. Slowly, the bag started to become full. Calla was just about to finish up and climb back into the mortar-when there was a splash out in the middle of the lake. A big splash.
Naturally, the noise piqued the girl’s curiosity. She jerked her head up, and peered out at the water. All she could see were large ripples, so she finally dismissed it as just a fish of some kind, and went back to sawing through a particularly stubborn specimen of bladderwort. And of course, about thirty seconds later there was another splash, closer this time. In fact, it was about four feet away from the bank. Calla felt in her bones that something was there now, watching her.
In most stories, someone in this situation would walk right up to the side of the lake and peer in the water, trying to ascertain what was making the splash, and offering a perfect opportunity for the creature lurking just under the surface to leap up and pull them in. Calla, not being one of those people, instead tried to do the sensible thing, which was to turn away and start walking back to where she had left the mortar. So it was just bad luck that the creature happened to have a lasso, and so Calla had not gone two feet away when her arms were suddenly pinned to her sides, causing her to drop the bag, and she was being pulled off balance, seized in a pair of slimy webbed hands, and dragged into the lake by an unseen force.
*Little mouse; a term of endearment in Russian culture
Tristan had been gone for nearly three days.
It was fortunate that he had bargained for an entire week, or else the deal would already be over.
On the bright side, Calla was no longer in a constant state of fear; it had worn itself out, replaced by a sort of tired numbness and resignation. She did whatever chores Baba Yaga asked of her (which weren’t as many or often as you might think, since Calla’s magic had covered the big ones right away), ate when she got the chance, fell asleep as soon as she went to bed, and in her spare time, she talked to Lars, or Xen. She thought about calling Morgan, but wasn’t sure she wanted to distress her too, and besides, she’d probably want to attempt a rescue somehow, and then she’d be in danger. Calla supposed she should be worried about how complacent she had become, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care.
That day, after she’d made Baba Yaga’s breakfast (porridge, with milk and a drop of honey inside) and watered the black sunflower, the witch surprised her by saying, “Today I need you to go to the lake nearby and pick some of the plants that grow along the edge.”
“To add to your cabinet?” Calla asked, feeling genuine curiosity.
The witch nodded and smiled. “Feel free to use the mortar to get there. And I’d recommend taking this is well.” She held out an enormous, bone-handled knife. Seeing Calla’s startled expression, she quickly added, “To cut the plants free more easily, of course.”
Which probably means that there’s something dangerous there.
Hesitantly Calla took the knife. “Any plants in particular?”
“Oh, just whatever you can find. But I’m particularly fond of the little white flowers.”
“Okay.” Calla retrieved the bag which she kept for gathering vegetables, and slung it over her shoulders.
“Thank you, myshka.* Try not to get wet.”
After Calla managed to move the mortar out onto the porch, she climbed inside, picking up the pestle in her left hand. How was she to do this? With the carpet, you just had to tell it where you wanted to go, and it went; but maybe this contraption only understood Russian or something. The best way to find out, she decided, was to try it.
“Up, please,” she commanded.
Nothing happened.
Experimentally, she waved the pestle back and forth against the outside, as if paddling a canoe. Much to her delight, the mortar wobbled, and then, as she paddled more vigorously, rose slowly (but with a steady increase of speed) into the air.
Once the mortar got going, Calla no longer needed to paddle quite so often. However, she occasionally had to use the pestle to steer, or to gain more altitude. Finally, when she was at maybe a mile above the ground, she back-paddled a little bit, struggling because the mortar didn’t want to cooperate, until it was hovering stationary in the air, and began to search for the lake Baba Yaga had talked about. Most of the area seemed to be either trees or meadows, but finally over eastward she saw a glimmering on the horizon which probably meant water. Turning so she was facing that direction, she steered the mortar that direction.
As it turned out, getting the mortar into the air was a lot easier than getting it down. The blasted contraption wanted to stay up, and she finally had to lean on the side until it tilted, pray that she wouldn’t fall out, and dig the pestle into the air to make it head for earth. If she stopped paddling for long, the mortar would start to tilt upward again. Every time she pushed it back toward earth, it almost seemed to be sulking.
I wonder if Baba Yaga has this much trouble with it? Seeing as it’s her, probably not.
Calla managed to maneuver the mortar until it was a foot above the ground; try as she might, it stubbornly refused to land. And, examining the dirty wet muck below, she couldn’t quite blame it. So she just climbed out, carrying the pestle and the bag, and told the mortar firmly, “Stay.”
The mortar bobbed up and down in the air, and she worried it wouldn’t heed her command (assuming it even understood it). Improvising, she conjured up a rope, and tied one end to a ring on the side of the mortar, and the other to a sturdy-looking tree. Ignoring the outraged way that she was being not-looked-at by her transportation, she moved down the bank until she was right by the lake, and began to cut as many different plants as she could.
She didn’t know most of the names, just what things looked like-the white flowers Baba Yaga had mentioned, a few types of weeds, some grasses and mosses, and a plant covered in thorns that made her fingers bleed, but that she thought the old witch might especially like. Slowly, the bag started to become full. Calla was just about to finish up and climb back into the mortar-when there was a splash out in the middle of the lake. A big splash.
Naturally, the noise piqued the girl’s curiosity. She jerked her head up, and peered out at the water. All she could see were large ripples, so she finally dismissed it as just a fish of some kind, and went back to sawing through a particularly stubborn specimen of bladderwort. And of course, about thirty seconds later there was another splash, closer this time. In fact, it was about four feet away from the bank. Calla felt in her bones that something was there now, watching her.
In most stories, someone in this situation would walk right up to the side of the lake and peer in the water, trying to ascertain what was making the splash, and offering a perfect opportunity for the creature lurking just under the surface to leap up and pull them in. Calla, not being one of those people, instead tried to do the sensible thing, which was to turn away and start walking back to where she had left the mortar. So it was just bad luck that the creature happened to have a lasso, and so Calla had not gone two feet away when her arms were suddenly pinned to her sides, causing her to drop the bag, and she was being pulled off balance, seized in a pair of slimy webbed hands, and dragged into the lake by an unseen force.
*Little mouse; a term of endearment in Russian culture
Friday, August 5, 2016
Season of the Witch part 10
Very disoriented…
My head hurts…
Okay, where am I? Need to figure that out. To start with, open my eyes.
Blink.
Instant, blinding, colorful, multi-faceted light.
Return to blackness.
Okay, bad idea. Better to keep my eyes shut. Wherever I am, there’s a lot of light, ugh.
I’m sitting up, in what feels like a chair of some kind. An old-fashioned, high-backed chair that isn’t doing my tail any favors. Or my wings, come to think of it...they’re going to get really cramped if I’m here long. Can I move? Try.
Slight shifting.
No, evidently not. I’m tied to the chair somehow; it feels too strong for normal ropes, so probably magical. The ropes are around my wrists, and ankles, so I’m bound to the arms and the front legs. It’s starting to get a little uncomfortable.
Probably going to get a lot worse.
No voices anywhere within my hearing range, but do I dare call for help?
Open mouth, try to use vocal chords.
Nothing.
Feels like there’s some kind of spell in my throat that keeps me from speaking; even more effective than a gag. Shoot.
Can I maybe wiggle the chair around? Try tipping it over.
Shove, shift, push.
No good; I think it’s bolted to the floor. That probably means I’m going to be tortured...being alive for all these years, Mr. the Deathless probably has an extensive knowledge of methods of persuasion. This is probably going to hurt. I’ll just have to hold out for...for...oh my gosh, how long have I been kept here?!
I felt a sick wave of horror crash down in my stomach, before slowly rising up my throat and into my ears. What if I’d been in a sleep stasis or something? For all I knew, centuries had passed, and Calla had become the official property of Baba Yaga-
Why would he keep you here for that long?
Maybe he forgot about me.
...Not entirely impossible, but let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. Try to think that there’s still time left. Assuming I get out of here alive.
I was there for hours, feeling my limbs grow progressively more numb and cramped. A few times I dozed off, sleeping fitfully, but for the most part I just had to sit and worry, and wish I’d been able to say a better goodbye to Xen and Phil (among others), and wonder if anyone would ever be able to recover my body.
Finally, I felt my fur stand on end as a spell was enacted, and someone appeared in the room, right in front of me. Someone who smelled like every old person in the world blended together, as well as vodka, magic, a sharp tang of blood, and an overlying malice. I squinted my eyes open, and barely made out a shadowy form before the pain of the light forced me to shut them again. I heard a tongue clicking against teeth, and then a heavily-accented male Russian voice.
“Agh, you gorgul’i* and your sensitive eyes. Fine, maybe this will help.”**
A few seconds later, I felt some glasses being placed over my eyes. I opened them a tiny bit, in case this was a trick; but no, they really were shaded. With a sigh of relief, I opened my eyes all the way, and found myself staring into the face of Mr. the Deathless.
Like Baba Yaga, he was thin and old. Unlike Baba Yaga, whose hair was a mixture of gray and white, Koschei’s hair and long, full beard were mostly black, though still streaked with gray. Which made sense, considering that he was younger than her by a century or three. His eyes were very dark and penetrating, the kind of eyes that women find terribly compelling and attractive in a younger man’s face. His clothes were more modern than Baba Yaga’s: a very expensive suit with the military look common to Russian aristocrats, and nice leather shoes. Granted, he also had a fur-lined robe, and what appeared to be the crown jewels from some bygone era adorning his (extremely) bony frame. As I scrutinized him, I couldn’t help thinking that he seemed almost...washed out. No, no, that’s not the right word-drained, hollow. Like he’d had the vitality sucked right out of him, and was now only the shadow of what he’d once been. Extracting your own soul and hiding it away for hundreds of years will do that to you.
“Why did you try to steal this from me?”
Mr. the Deathless lifted Kladenets, which had been at his side, and brought it right up under my chin.
Really?
I gave him a look to remind him that I was rather incapable of answering any questions at the moment. Even so, it took him a moment to realize his mistake, after which he gave an exasperated sigh, and waved his other hand towards me. The feeling in my throat vanished, and I gave a little cough of relief once I knew that I could make sounds again.
“Why did you try to steal this from me?” Mr. the Deathless repeated, as if he thought I hadn’t heard him the first time.
“You’d be surprised what one of them things will go for on the black market,” I lied, taking on a northern Russian dialect.
Lowering the sword, the old sorcerer reached out and smacked my cheek with the back of his hand. Despite the weakness of his frame, he packed a bit of a wallop, and I could feel my cheek stinging from it. It even appeared that some of his rings had been hard enough to cut me open a little.
“Do you expect me to believe that someone like you, with no powers to speak of and only a few fancy gadgets, would dare attempt to steal from me?”
“It was the last thing you would expect,” I argued, which technically wasn’t a lie.
Koschei narrowed his eyes at me thoughtfully. After a second, he asked, “Who sent you?”
“Nobody.”
Thwack.
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody. I got the idea on my own.”
Thwack. This time on the other side of my face. If he thought this was going to break me, he’d have to try a lot harder. Sure, it hurt, but I’d experienced pain before. Getting slapped several times had nothing on getting shot in the stomach. I sat up straight again, keeping my face carefully neutral.
“Fine. You won’t tell me the truth on your own?” Koschei reached inside his robe, pulled out a glass vial filled with blood red liquid, and pulled out the cork. “I’ll see if you’re lying or not.”
I resisted. Even though I knew it was futile to do so, even though I knew that whatever I did, I was trapped, and that Koschei was going to get that substance into me whatever I did, I tried to squirm away. It was instinctive, probably anyone else in my place would have done the same. And sure enough, the sorcerer waved a hand at me, freezing my head in place. Then he pried my jaws open, and poured the entire substance down my throat.
I don’t know if any of you have ever been force-fed a potentially poisonous potion by a homicidal, practically immortal sorcerer. It is decidedly unpleasant. And it didn’t help that as I was forced to swallow it down, I realized that it was actual blood. Not any blood I was familiar with, but blood nonetheless-that sharp, coppery tang is hard to replicate. And gag and choke though I might, soon enough I had drunk it all.
Koschei stood back with a satisfied smile.
“Do you know what I just gave you?”
He released the spell that had kept me frozen, allowing me to shake my head numbly.
“Phoenix blood. If cooled to room temperature, or at least to the point that it is safe to swallow, it renders the one who drinks it temporarily compelled to honesty. Once it takes effect, you couldn’t lie to me if you tried.”
I didn’t know phoenix blood did that. Cool; I’ll have to remember that for the future.
My head was starting to feel heavy-in fact, my whole body was sort of heavy and sloshy all over, like it feels after you’ve just eaten a big, hearty meal. That didn’t bode well…
“I’ll ask again. Who are you working for?”
Still speaking in my Russian accent (because he hadn’t specifically said anything against that, or even appeared to realize that it wasn’t my native language), I murmured dreamily, “Baba Yaga.”
“I knew it!” Koschei gave a triumphant little cackle. “I knew that old letuchaya mysh’*** couldn’t resist if she found out I had it! Ha ha, perfect!” Then he looked at me thoughtfully. “The question remains, what am I going to do with you?”
“Please don’t...kill me,” I murmured. Talking, even if I had to talk honestly, was kind of difficult. Especially in a different language.
“Can you give me a compelling reason why I shouldn’t?”
“...Hard to say...with one so...old and powerful. But I need...that sword.”
Despite himself, I could tell Mr. the Deathless was curious.
“What for?”
“To save...someone important.”
His eyes rolled. “Let me guess: wife? Girlfriend?”
“No...assistant.”
The eyes stopped mid-roll, and focused back on me with some confusion.
“No romantic relationship at all?”
I shook my head-or at least, I lolled it in such a way that I decided to count it as shaking.
“Not with her.”
Silence ensued. Finally, Mr. the Deathless murmured, “That’s certainly a novelty for a hero.”
I tried to snort and say that I was no hero. For some reason, the words would not leave my lips. So instead I stared at him and tried to determine what he was planning to do.
I wasn’t naive enough to think that my reason for stealing the sword would convince him to let me go. And I had nothing to threaten or bribe him with, either. I was completely in his power, which meant that my situation looked pretty bleak.
My suspicions were confirmed when Koschei stood up straighter and said, “Until I decide what to do with you, I’ll have to leave you here. So just...sit tight.”
Chuckling at his own bad joke, he twitched his hand at me, and I felt my throat clog up again. I strained ineffectually against the spells binding me to the chair, as an image flashed through my mind of Calla, thirty years from now, being Baba Yaga’s slave, helping her to take over the world or something. And it would be my fault for not stealing that stupid sword.
Koschei vanished, leaving me alone with these dark thoughts. At least he’d also left me the dark glasses, so I didn’t have to keep my eyes closed.
*Gargoyles
My head hurts…
Okay, where am I? Need to figure that out. To start with, open my eyes.
Blink.
Instant, blinding, colorful, multi-faceted light.
Return to blackness.
Okay, bad idea. Better to keep my eyes shut. Wherever I am, there’s a lot of light, ugh.
I’m sitting up, in what feels like a chair of some kind. An old-fashioned, high-backed chair that isn’t doing my tail any favors. Or my wings, come to think of it...they’re going to get really cramped if I’m here long. Can I move? Try.
Slight shifting.
No, evidently not. I’m tied to the chair somehow; it feels too strong for normal ropes, so probably magical. The ropes are around my wrists, and ankles, so I’m bound to the arms and the front legs. It’s starting to get a little uncomfortable.
Probably going to get a lot worse.
No voices anywhere within my hearing range, but do I dare call for help?
Open mouth, try to use vocal chords.
Nothing.
Feels like there’s some kind of spell in my throat that keeps me from speaking; even more effective than a gag. Shoot.
Can I maybe wiggle the chair around? Try tipping it over.
Shove, shift, push.
No good; I think it’s bolted to the floor. That probably means I’m going to be tortured...being alive for all these years, Mr. the Deathless probably has an extensive knowledge of methods of persuasion. This is probably going to hurt. I’ll just have to hold out for...for...oh my gosh, how long have I been kept here?!
I felt a sick wave of horror crash down in my stomach, before slowly rising up my throat and into my ears. What if I’d been in a sleep stasis or something? For all I knew, centuries had passed, and Calla had become the official property of Baba Yaga-
Why would he keep you here for that long?
Maybe he forgot about me.
...Not entirely impossible, but let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. Try to think that there’s still time left. Assuming I get out of here alive.
I was there for hours, feeling my limbs grow progressively more numb and cramped. A few times I dozed off, sleeping fitfully, but for the most part I just had to sit and worry, and wish I’d been able to say a better goodbye to Xen and Phil (among others), and wonder if anyone would ever be able to recover my body.
Finally, I felt my fur stand on end as a spell was enacted, and someone appeared in the room, right in front of me. Someone who smelled like every old person in the world blended together, as well as vodka, magic, a sharp tang of blood, and an overlying malice. I squinted my eyes open, and barely made out a shadowy form before the pain of the light forced me to shut them again. I heard a tongue clicking against teeth, and then a heavily-accented male Russian voice.
“Agh, you gorgul’i* and your sensitive eyes. Fine, maybe this will help.”**
A few seconds later, I felt some glasses being placed over my eyes. I opened them a tiny bit, in case this was a trick; but no, they really were shaded. With a sigh of relief, I opened my eyes all the way, and found myself staring into the face of Mr. the Deathless.
Like Baba Yaga, he was thin and old. Unlike Baba Yaga, whose hair was a mixture of gray and white, Koschei’s hair and long, full beard were mostly black, though still streaked with gray. Which made sense, considering that he was younger than her by a century or three. His eyes were very dark and penetrating, the kind of eyes that women find terribly compelling and attractive in a younger man’s face. His clothes were more modern than Baba Yaga’s: a very expensive suit with the military look common to Russian aristocrats, and nice leather shoes. Granted, he also had a fur-lined robe, and what appeared to be the crown jewels from some bygone era adorning his (extremely) bony frame. As I scrutinized him, I couldn’t help thinking that he seemed almost...washed out. No, no, that’s not the right word-drained, hollow. Like he’d had the vitality sucked right out of him, and was now only the shadow of what he’d once been. Extracting your own soul and hiding it away for hundreds of years will do that to you.
“Why did you try to steal this from me?”
Mr. the Deathless lifted Kladenets, which had been at his side, and brought it right up under my chin.
Really?
I gave him a look to remind him that I was rather incapable of answering any questions at the moment. Even so, it took him a moment to realize his mistake, after which he gave an exasperated sigh, and waved his other hand towards me. The feeling in my throat vanished, and I gave a little cough of relief once I knew that I could make sounds again.
“Why did you try to steal this from me?” Mr. the Deathless repeated, as if he thought I hadn’t heard him the first time.
“You’d be surprised what one of them things will go for on the black market,” I lied, taking on a northern Russian dialect.
Lowering the sword, the old sorcerer reached out and smacked my cheek with the back of his hand. Despite the weakness of his frame, he packed a bit of a wallop, and I could feel my cheek stinging from it. It even appeared that some of his rings had been hard enough to cut me open a little.
“Do you expect me to believe that someone like you, with no powers to speak of and only a few fancy gadgets, would dare attempt to steal from me?”
“It was the last thing you would expect,” I argued, which technically wasn’t a lie.
Koschei narrowed his eyes at me thoughtfully. After a second, he asked, “Who sent you?”
“Nobody.”
Thwack.
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody. I got the idea on my own.”
Thwack. This time on the other side of my face. If he thought this was going to break me, he’d have to try a lot harder. Sure, it hurt, but I’d experienced pain before. Getting slapped several times had nothing on getting shot in the stomach. I sat up straight again, keeping my face carefully neutral.
“Fine. You won’t tell me the truth on your own?” Koschei reached inside his robe, pulled out a glass vial filled with blood red liquid, and pulled out the cork. “I’ll see if you’re lying or not.”
I resisted. Even though I knew it was futile to do so, even though I knew that whatever I did, I was trapped, and that Koschei was going to get that substance into me whatever I did, I tried to squirm away. It was instinctive, probably anyone else in my place would have done the same. And sure enough, the sorcerer waved a hand at me, freezing my head in place. Then he pried my jaws open, and poured the entire substance down my throat.
I don’t know if any of you have ever been force-fed a potentially poisonous potion by a homicidal, practically immortal sorcerer. It is decidedly unpleasant. And it didn’t help that as I was forced to swallow it down, I realized that it was actual blood. Not any blood I was familiar with, but blood nonetheless-that sharp, coppery tang is hard to replicate. And gag and choke though I might, soon enough I had drunk it all.
Koschei stood back with a satisfied smile.
“Do you know what I just gave you?”
He released the spell that had kept me frozen, allowing me to shake my head numbly.
“Phoenix blood. If cooled to room temperature, or at least to the point that it is safe to swallow, it renders the one who drinks it temporarily compelled to honesty. Once it takes effect, you couldn’t lie to me if you tried.”
I didn’t know phoenix blood did that. Cool; I’ll have to remember that for the future.
My head was starting to feel heavy-in fact, my whole body was sort of heavy and sloshy all over, like it feels after you’ve just eaten a big, hearty meal. That didn’t bode well…
“I’ll ask again. Who are you working for?”
Still speaking in my Russian accent (because he hadn’t specifically said anything against that, or even appeared to realize that it wasn’t my native language), I murmured dreamily, “Baba Yaga.”
“I knew it!” Koschei gave a triumphant little cackle. “I knew that old letuchaya mysh’*** couldn’t resist if she found out I had it! Ha ha, perfect!” Then he looked at me thoughtfully. “The question remains, what am I going to do with you?”
“Please don’t...kill me,” I murmured. Talking, even if I had to talk honestly, was kind of difficult. Especially in a different language.
“Can you give me a compelling reason why I shouldn’t?”
“...Hard to say...with one so...old and powerful. But I need...that sword.”
Despite himself, I could tell Mr. the Deathless was curious.
“What for?”
“To save...someone important.”
His eyes rolled. “Let me guess: wife? Girlfriend?”
“No...assistant.”
The eyes stopped mid-roll, and focused back on me with some confusion.
“No romantic relationship at all?”
I shook my head-or at least, I lolled it in such a way that I decided to count it as shaking.
“Not with her.”
Silence ensued. Finally, Mr. the Deathless murmured, “That’s certainly a novelty for a hero.”
I tried to snort and say that I was no hero. For some reason, the words would not leave my lips. So instead I stared at him and tried to determine what he was planning to do.
I wasn’t naive enough to think that my reason for stealing the sword would convince him to let me go. And I had nothing to threaten or bribe him with, either. I was completely in his power, which meant that my situation looked pretty bleak.
My suspicions were confirmed when Koschei stood up straighter and said, “Until I decide what to do with you, I’ll have to leave you here. So just...sit tight.”
Chuckling at his own bad joke, he twitched his hand at me, and I felt my throat clog up again. I strained ineffectually against the spells binding me to the chair, as an image flashed through my mind of Calla, thirty years from now, being Baba Yaga’s slave, helping her to take over the world or something. And it would be my fault for not stealing that stupid sword.
Koschei vanished, leaving me alone with these dark thoughts. At least he’d also left me the dark glasses, so I didn’t have to keep my eyes closed.
*Gargoyles
**Just for convenience’s sake, I’m going to translate most of his words into English, okay?
***Bat
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