I awoke with a jolt. A second of confusion, and then everything flooded back to me: Baba Yaga, Calla, Mr. the Deathless, the sword, capture, bleeding-how long had I been asleep?!
I jumped up, feeling an adrenaline rush-and nearly fell over as my vision became covered with colored spots. I used my left hand to grip the chair, but finally had to slump to the floor and lie down for a few minutes until I could see straight again.
Right; let’s try this again. First of all, better check my hand.
I pulled it up from my chest, where somehow I’d been able to keep it for all this time, and took a look. Thank goodness, the bleeding had stopped. Now it was just clotted with a lot of dried blood.
I miss Xen.
I tried to make some sort of noise; the spell, however, had not worn off, making it impossible even to croak. Not that I really needed my voice at the moment. It would just be nice to have it back eventually, you know? I decided to focus on getting out of here.
Now that I was actually free, and wearing the shaded glasses, I could see that my prison was made out of some kind of stained glass. It was actually quite pretty, now that it wasn’t searing my retinas and I wasn’t tied to a chair. The voices were back, too; to my surprise, their conversation made me suspect they were the voices of tourists.
“Come look at this!”
“How long do you think it took them to make that?”
“Derek! Come back here!”
“I’m bored…”
“Do you know if we can take pictures? All the signs are in Russian.”
And those were just in the languages I could understand.
My sense of smell was cut off by the glass, so I couldn’t tell if it was all an illusion or not. So I began looking around the room, trying to find any other potential spells or curses that might be set up. Eventually, in the far corner I found what looked like an alarm spell-probably set to go off if I broke the glass, since it hadn’t been triggered by my freeing myself from the chair.
Unless I just didn’t notice it went off, and he’s now watching me, waiting to see what I’ll do…
I’ve got to take that chance.
Quickly I found the loophole in the spell, and unraveled it. A very big risk, but it might buy me some time. Then I crouched down, and smashed a hole in the floor with my uninjured claw.
It turned out that I was forced to break a few more holes before it was big enough for me to squeeze out. But once I did so, I leaned my head and shoulders out, bracing my arms against the sides. Beneath me there appeared to be an entire horde of giant people walking around, examining Russian artwork. This startled me, before I realized: They aren’t giants. I’ve been shrunk!
One of the people had noticed the little shards of broken glass that had fallen, and had gone to a security guard; he was pointing at where I was, and I could make out the words, “...think the bulb burst...might want to get that fixed…”
I’m in a lightbulb? Must be something like that-those fancy stained glass light fixtures up top would do the trick, if Mr. the Deathless kept a tiny dimension or something inside one, like a genie bottle...Well, better get out of here before they come to investigate.
I jumped out of the hole I’d made in the glass, and glided down to the ground, ignoring the wave of dizziness that overcame me as a result. I landed in a corner of the room, by the doorway; a good thing, too, because a few seconds later I found myself growing back to normal size (thankfully along with my clothes).
That makes things a bit easier. Now, question: am I still in the right place?
I suddenly heard a voice call, “Stop that man!” and saw two frog-headed men* in Russian guardsman’s uniforms running toward me.
Yup, I’m in the right place.
Barely taking time to look at my surroundings, I turned into the first corridor I could find and ran.
*Disguised to any humans, of course.
Showing posts with label trap. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trap. Show all posts
Saturday, September 24, 2016
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
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Season of the Witch part 9
Calla was not enjoying her time in Baba Yaga’s clutches much. This wasn’t all that surprising, since the witch had this habit of near-constantly watching her out of at least the corner of her eye, with a deeply hungry expression that made her shiver. Even when the mage looked away, she could still feel Baba Yaga’s eyes on her. On the good side, she didn’t necessarily seem to be planning to eat her-Calla doubted she’d have gone to all this trouble for a meal, when there were so many people available in Russia. No, she seemed to be studying her for some other reason…
Soon after Tristan had gone, the witch asked Calla to do her a favor, and clean up the cottage a little bit. Even though she was sure Baba Yaga could do it herself with a wave of her hand, Calla didn’t ask questions-she waved her own hand, and the dust swept itself into a neat pile, before she levitated it out the window. She conjured up water and a cleaning rag, and wiped up all the spills, scrubbing down every dirty surface and making everything shiny. She was picking up the black sunflower’s petals and preparing to throw them out the window (which was finally without the force field from earlier), when she was interrupted.
“Wait!” Baba Yaga interceded with a wave of her hand, “I can use those later. Just put them in this jar, would you?”
She held out a glass jar. Calla put the petals inside, and the old witch quickly transferred it to her cabinet.
“Thank you. Now go out and weed my garden.”
A small, rebellious part of Calla which had only recently started to grow wanted to protest this treatment, especially since she was not Baba Yaga’s servant (and hopefully would not become such-though it was jumping to conclusions for her to already be thinking like that, since it hadn’t even been a full day since Tristan left). But, remembering some of the old fairy tales about people being asked to do things for magical beings, and the rewards/punishments that could come about based on their response, she simply went outside to do as she was told.
The garden was a small plot close to the fence, and appeared to be absolutely overgrown with weeds. Not to mention the unforeseen problem of the house still being maybe fifteen or twenty feet off the ground, and she hadn’t been able to bring her carpet, because she hadn’t even known she’d be going on this little excursion; she also wasn’t sure that she trusted the house enough to ask it to bend for her. So, for the first time in a long while, she had to use her own energy, and a spell, to lower herself to the ground as gently as possible. It put quite a bit of strain on her body-she was out of practice, and it made her arms tremble violently from trying to keep the magic of levitation focused for so long. But eventually, she was lowered to a point where she could safely drop without breaking anything, landing rather gracelessly on the wild grass and taking a moment to catch her breath.
By now it was getting close to evening; Calla suspected that Baba Yaga’s next request would be for her to make dinner, so she decided to do a preemptive strike. After casting a spell to make the weeds start pulling themselves up and being discarded in a pile, she picked carrots, potatoes, onions, radishes, garlic and parsley, conjuring up a bag and putting the vegetables in it and across her shoulder. Then, hesitantly, she approached the house. She wasn’t sure if she could levitate herself up safely, thinking of how much her arms had trembled on the way down, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask Baba Yaga for help. Something gave her the feeling that the witch was testing her, wanting to see how she’d handle all of these chores… Even if it meant nearly falling again, she did the same thing Tristan had: tickling the leg, she chanted, “Izbushka, Izbushka, lower your door to me.”
Calla stepped back, just in time for the house to lower itself to its knees and allow her to climb up the steps. And unlike when Tristan had been with her, it waited until she was safely inside before rising. Odd. Maybe she could have asked it the first time.
Baba Yaga was sitting at the table reading a very ancient-looking book when Calla came in. Without looking up, she said, “If you’re done with the weeds, I would like you to pick me some vegetables for dinner.”
“Will these do?” Calla stepped forward and laid the bag on the table. The witch actually jumped, and stared at the food with eyes widened. Though she knew she shouldn’t, the girl felt a rush of satisfaction.
After a second, Baba Yaga coughed, and said, “Yes, they will do quite nicely.” After another second, she added, “Well done. You’ll find some meat in the icebox behind the cabinet that you can use to make stew.”
Before she could stop herself, unsure she wanted to know the answer, Calla asked, “What kind of meat?”
The witch gave her an iron grin. “Good question. It’s hard for me to keep track of what they all are in there. Just use whatever looks good.”
Thankfully, Calla was able to find, via a spell, some meat that was formerly the shoulder of a cow. She didn’t check to see what the others were, because she really didn’t want to know. Instead she defrosted it, chopped it and the vegetables into bite-size chunks, added spices, and after browning the meat, turned everything into an enormous stew. By now it was close to evening, and so it was with great relief that Calla, stomach growling, placed the cauldron next to the table and announced that dinner was served.
It was lucky for Calla that she took the time to dish out a bowl for herself, because Baba Yaga devoured all the rest. It seemed inconceivable that such a thin old woman could eat so much, but eat it she did. When she finished, she gave a tremendous belch, and then retired to her private room at the back of the cottage without so much as saying goodnight to Calla. She didn’t even put a new force field on the door to make sure her collateral wouldn’t try to escape. Both the witch and the mage knew there was no need; they’d signed a contract in blood, and in the magical world, the consequences of breaking one of those were uncertain, but definitely bad.
Calla ended up conjuring a downy sleeping bag and plump pillow, and after taking off her shoes, curled up next to the dying fire. The warm embers were rather comforting, especially since, now that she was no longer being kept busy, she had time to think about just what she had gotten herself into.
There was nothing she could really do about this situation except rely on Tristan to come back with the sword, she realized. She had to hope that he could do it, and that Koschei wouldn’t find and/or kill him (she didn’t have to worry about him chickening out and deserting her; she knew Tristan too well for that). And though, of course, she had every confidence in his ability to succeed in stealing the treasure and coming back, a part of her thoughts wondered, What if he doesn’t?
If he didn’t come back, for some reason or other, within the next six days...then Calla would be trapped here forever, as a servant to Baba Yaga. She’d known the risks when signing the contract...but she hadn’t really thought about the consequences of them.
Up to then, Calla hadn’t cried about her circumstances. She’d been busy doing what she was told, and therefore distracted from any negative emotions. Even with magic to make it go by faster, being busy helped. But now she was alone, she was not quite as full as she would have liked, there was nothing left to do, and it was dark, so before long her eyes were feeling hot, and it felt like a hand was squeezing the inside of her throat, and her stomach was churning. Not wanting Baba Yaga to hear, she hid her face in her pillow, and felt the tears begin to flow in abundance.
Finally, after she-didn’t-know-how-long, Calla flipped her pillow over and fell asleep. And, due to one of the few good results of her childhood, she fell asleep almost instantly, and very, very soundly, without any dreams.
She was awakened by a buzzing in her pocket. Groggily pulling her phone out, she saw that there were two interesting things: 1) it was six in the morning here, and 2) Lars was calling.
“H’lo?”
"Calla, are you okay? I haven't heard from you all day. And I went to pick you up for our date just now but Xen said you were gone."
“Date? What-” And then she remembered. The night of dinner and dancing at Club Lusus Naturae that he’d asked her to go on two days ago. Her stomach lurched guiltily. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, I forgot about it! Sorry, Tristan and I got a case yesterday, and things haven’t quite happened the way we thought.”
"That's all right.” However, he sounded disappointed. “Where are you?"
“...Believe it or not, we’re in Russia.”
"... Huh. He has jurisdiction there?"
“Our client requested his help.” She glanced nervously at the witch’s door, in case her voice woke her. So far, so good.
"Are you allowed to tell me anything else?"
“I don’t know. But you might not want to know just yet.”
There was a sigh. "Calla, you're involved. I want to know."
I don’t want you to know, though. I don’t want to have to know that you’re over on a different continent, freaking out just as much as I am. But it would be wrong to lie about it, so…
“Have you ever heard of Baba Yaga?”
"Oh man, what are you guys doing with her?"
“I’ll take that as a yes. She’s having Tristan steal something from Koschei the Deathless.”
The line went quiet. After a moment, she could hear him taking a few deep breaths. Calla flinched, knowing that was a sign of how upset he was.
Finally she said, “He should be back within a week.” He’d better be.
"Wait, back? Are you alone with her?"
“...Yes. It was part of the deal.” Be honest. “If she doesn’t get the object, Baba Yaga is going to take me instead.”
"What?!?"
“She wants to add me to her collection if Tristan doesn’t succeed in stealing the item.”
More deep breathing ensued. Hesitantly, Calla said, “I’m sorry, there was no really good way to tell you.”
He sighed. "I know. Thank you for telling me. Is there anything I can do?"
“I don’t think so. We signed a contract with blood; I can’t break that. And even if I could, that wouldn’t be right. It seems like all we can do now is wait for something to happen.”
"Please be careful, Calla. I love you."
“I know.” She swallowed. “Tell Rosie hi for me, okay? And Isaac. And everyone else.”
"I will."
“And-and I’ll ask Baba Yaga-if things don’t work the way we hope-to let you come visit me. I’ll do-I’ll buy her raw dragon livers if I have to, or whatever else she might want in exchange.”
"Calla, if things don't work out, I'll just move to Russia to be closer to you. I won't leave you alone there."
She gave a watery chuckle. “Hopefully you can learn to speak Russian fast. Or get a universal translator.”
"Either way, doesn't matter to me, so long as I'm near you."
She really should have been used to that by now-his honest and strong feelings for her. But her cheeks still felt hot, and she smiled widely as she whispered, “Thank you.”
"Believe me, it's my pleasure."
Before she could think of a reply to that, Calla found herself yawning.
"Oh, I woke you up, didn't I? I'm sorry."
“S’okay. There’s a big time difference between there and here, you didn’t know.”
"Do you want to go back to sleep?"
“Kind of, yeah. Who knows what she’s going to have me do when she wakes up?”
"All right, dear. Sleep well. I love you so much."
“And I-I’ll send you some photos, if I get a chance.”
"I will too. And remember that if you need anything at all or even if you just want to talk, I'm always willing to talk to you. You can call any time and I promise I'll answer."
“Okay. See you later.”
"I'll see you soon, Calla. Goodnight."
She hung up, and as she sunk into sleep, realized that, what with the talk with Lars and the big cry she’d had earlier, she felt...somewhat better about this whole thing.
Soon after Tristan had gone, the witch asked Calla to do her a favor, and clean up the cottage a little bit. Even though she was sure Baba Yaga could do it herself with a wave of her hand, Calla didn’t ask questions-she waved her own hand, and the dust swept itself into a neat pile, before she levitated it out the window. She conjured up water and a cleaning rag, and wiped up all the spills, scrubbing down every dirty surface and making everything shiny. She was picking up the black sunflower’s petals and preparing to throw them out the window (which was finally without the force field from earlier), when she was interrupted.
“Wait!” Baba Yaga interceded with a wave of her hand, “I can use those later. Just put them in this jar, would you?”
She held out a glass jar. Calla put the petals inside, and the old witch quickly transferred it to her cabinet.
“Thank you. Now go out and weed my garden.”
A small, rebellious part of Calla which had only recently started to grow wanted to protest this treatment, especially since she was not Baba Yaga’s servant (and hopefully would not become such-though it was jumping to conclusions for her to already be thinking like that, since it hadn’t even been a full day since Tristan left). But, remembering some of the old fairy tales about people being asked to do things for magical beings, and the rewards/punishments that could come about based on their response, she simply went outside to do as she was told.
The garden was a small plot close to the fence, and appeared to be absolutely overgrown with weeds. Not to mention the unforeseen problem of the house still being maybe fifteen or twenty feet off the ground, and she hadn’t been able to bring her carpet, because she hadn’t even known she’d be going on this little excursion; she also wasn’t sure that she trusted the house enough to ask it to bend for her. So, for the first time in a long while, she had to use her own energy, and a spell, to lower herself to the ground as gently as possible. It put quite a bit of strain on her body-she was out of practice, and it made her arms tremble violently from trying to keep the magic of levitation focused for so long. But eventually, she was lowered to a point where she could safely drop without breaking anything, landing rather gracelessly on the wild grass and taking a moment to catch her breath.
By now it was getting close to evening; Calla suspected that Baba Yaga’s next request would be for her to make dinner, so she decided to do a preemptive strike. After casting a spell to make the weeds start pulling themselves up and being discarded in a pile, she picked carrots, potatoes, onions, radishes, garlic and parsley, conjuring up a bag and putting the vegetables in it and across her shoulder. Then, hesitantly, she approached the house. She wasn’t sure if she could levitate herself up safely, thinking of how much her arms had trembled on the way down, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask Baba Yaga for help. Something gave her the feeling that the witch was testing her, wanting to see how she’d handle all of these chores… Even if it meant nearly falling again, she did the same thing Tristan had: tickling the leg, she chanted, “Izbushka, Izbushka, lower your door to me.”
Calla stepped back, just in time for the house to lower itself to its knees and allow her to climb up the steps. And unlike when Tristan had been with her, it waited until she was safely inside before rising. Odd. Maybe she could have asked it the first time.
Baba Yaga was sitting at the table reading a very ancient-looking book when Calla came in. Without looking up, she said, “If you’re done with the weeds, I would like you to pick me some vegetables for dinner.”
“Will these do?” Calla stepped forward and laid the bag on the table. The witch actually jumped, and stared at the food with eyes widened. Though she knew she shouldn’t, the girl felt a rush of satisfaction.
After a second, Baba Yaga coughed, and said, “Yes, they will do quite nicely.” After another second, she added, “Well done. You’ll find some meat in the icebox behind the cabinet that you can use to make stew.”
Before she could stop herself, unsure she wanted to know the answer, Calla asked, “What kind of meat?”
The witch gave her an iron grin. “Good question. It’s hard for me to keep track of what they all are in there. Just use whatever looks good.”
Thankfully, Calla was able to find, via a spell, some meat that was formerly the shoulder of a cow. She didn’t check to see what the others were, because she really didn’t want to know. Instead she defrosted it, chopped it and the vegetables into bite-size chunks, added spices, and after browning the meat, turned everything into an enormous stew. By now it was close to evening, and so it was with great relief that Calla, stomach growling, placed the cauldron next to the table and announced that dinner was served.
It was lucky for Calla that she took the time to dish out a bowl for herself, because Baba Yaga devoured all the rest. It seemed inconceivable that such a thin old woman could eat so much, but eat it she did. When she finished, she gave a tremendous belch, and then retired to her private room at the back of the cottage without so much as saying goodnight to Calla. She didn’t even put a new force field on the door to make sure her collateral wouldn’t try to escape. Both the witch and the mage knew there was no need; they’d signed a contract in blood, and in the magical world, the consequences of breaking one of those were uncertain, but definitely bad.
Calla ended up conjuring a downy sleeping bag and plump pillow, and after taking off her shoes, curled up next to the dying fire. The warm embers were rather comforting, especially since, now that she was no longer being kept busy, she had time to think about just what she had gotten herself into.
There was nothing she could really do about this situation except rely on Tristan to come back with the sword, she realized. She had to hope that he could do it, and that Koschei wouldn’t find and/or kill him (she didn’t have to worry about him chickening out and deserting her; she knew Tristan too well for that). And though, of course, she had every confidence in his ability to succeed in stealing the treasure and coming back, a part of her thoughts wondered, What if he doesn’t?
If he didn’t come back, for some reason or other, within the next six days...then Calla would be trapped here forever, as a servant to Baba Yaga. She’d known the risks when signing the contract...but she hadn’t really thought about the consequences of them.
Up to then, Calla hadn’t cried about her circumstances. She’d been busy doing what she was told, and therefore distracted from any negative emotions. Even with magic to make it go by faster, being busy helped. But now she was alone, she was not quite as full as she would have liked, there was nothing left to do, and it was dark, so before long her eyes were feeling hot, and it felt like a hand was squeezing the inside of her throat, and her stomach was churning. Not wanting Baba Yaga to hear, she hid her face in her pillow, and felt the tears begin to flow in abundance.
Finally, after she-didn’t-know-how-long, Calla flipped her pillow over and fell asleep. And, due to one of the few good results of her childhood, she fell asleep almost instantly, and very, very soundly, without any dreams.
She was awakened by a buzzing in her pocket. Groggily pulling her phone out, she saw that there were two interesting things: 1) it was six in the morning here, and 2) Lars was calling.
“H’lo?”
"Calla, are you okay? I haven't heard from you all day. And I went to pick you up for our date just now but Xen said you were gone."
“Date? What-” And then she remembered. The night of dinner and dancing at Club Lusus Naturae that he’d asked her to go on two days ago. Her stomach lurched guiltily. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, I forgot about it! Sorry, Tristan and I got a case yesterday, and things haven’t quite happened the way we thought.”
"That's all right.” However, he sounded disappointed. “Where are you?"
“...Believe it or not, we’re in Russia.”
"... Huh. He has jurisdiction there?"
“Our client requested his help.” She glanced nervously at the witch’s door, in case her voice woke her. So far, so good.
"Are you allowed to tell me anything else?"
“I don’t know. But you might not want to know just yet.”
There was a sigh. "Calla, you're involved. I want to know."
I don’t want you to know, though. I don’t want to have to know that you’re over on a different continent, freaking out just as much as I am. But it would be wrong to lie about it, so…
“Have you ever heard of Baba Yaga?”
"Oh man, what are you guys doing with her?"
“I’ll take that as a yes. She’s having Tristan steal something from Koschei the Deathless.”
The line went quiet. After a moment, she could hear him taking a few deep breaths. Calla flinched, knowing that was a sign of how upset he was.
Finally she said, “He should be back within a week.” He’d better be.
"Wait, back? Are you alone with her?"
“...Yes. It was part of the deal.” Be honest. “If she doesn’t get the object, Baba Yaga is going to take me instead.”
"What?!?"
“She wants to add me to her collection if Tristan doesn’t succeed in stealing the item.”
More deep breathing ensued. Hesitantly, Calla said, “I’m sorry, there was no really good way to tell you.”
He sighed. "I know. Thank you for telling me. Is there anything I can do?"
“I don’t think so. We signed a contract with blood; I can’t break that. And even if I could, that wouldn’t be right. It seems like all we can do now is wait for something to happen.”
"Please be careful, Calla. I love you."
“I know.” She swallowed. “Tell Rosie hi for me, okay? And Isaac. And everyone else.”
"I will."
“And-and I’ll ask Baba Yaga-if things don’t work the way we hope-to let you come visit me. I’ll do-I’ll buy her raw dragon livers if I have to, or whatever else she might want in exchange.”
"Calla, if things don't work out, I'll just move to Russia to be closer to you. I won't leave you alone there."
She gave a watery chuckle. “Hopefully you can learn to speak Russian fast. Or get a universal translator.”
"Either way, doesn't matter to me, so long as I'm near you."
She really should have been used to that by now-his honest and strong feelings for her. But her cheeks still felt hot, and she smiled widely as she whispered, “Thank you.”
"Believe me, it's my pleasure."
Before she could think of a reply to that, Calla found herself yawning.
"Oh, I woke you up, didn't I? I'm sorry."
“S’okay. There’s a big time difference between there and here, you didn’t know.”
"Do you want to go back to sleep?"
“Kind of, yeah. Who knows what she’s going to have me do when she wakes up?”
"All right, dear. Sleep well. I love you so much."
“And I-I’ll send you some photos, if I get a chance.”
"I will too. And remember that if you need anything at all or even if you just want to talk, I'm always willing to talk to you. You can call any time and I promise I'll answer."
“Okay. See you later.”
"I'll see you soon, Calla. Goodnight."
She hung up, and as she sunk into sleep, realized that, what with the talk with Lars and the big cry she’d had earlier, she felt...somewhat better about this whole thing.
Sunday, June 26, 2016
Season of the Witch part 8
Inside this place, wherever it was, it was blessedly dark. I was in a long tunnel, about six feet high and made all out of brick, running away for about twenty feet, and then turning to the left-away from the floor plan of the cathedral. I glanced back at where I’d entered, and saw a faint blue glow lining the brickwork. So for now, there was a way out. Feeling some comfort from that, I settled my backpack more comfortably on my shoulders, and then jogged off, keeping a weather eye out for booby traps. Fortunately, at least to the corner, there were none. When I got there, however, I pulled out a mirror, and used it to look.
No visible signs of anything. That didn’t mean much, though, not in this world. Putting the mirror back in my bag, I had to dig around for a bit, before finding the bag of laever powder.* I scooped a bit of it into my palm, and then gently blew it into the air. And just like in a spy movie, long, weblike threads appeared stretched across the corridor. The image reminded me uncomfortably of spiders, and spider bites. But, sucking it up, I began to maneuver my way through them.
As I went, I entertained myself by wondering how Koschei got past the trap; did he use a spell to make the threads part for him? Or was it set up to only react for other people? Or did he just have a different entrance altogether that only he used, and the whole purpose of this one was to use it to trap anyone who might be breaking in? So many possibilities…
I kept my wings and tail tucked as close to me as possible, and even tried to pull the backpack close against my shoulders so it wouldn’t brush against anything.
Somehow, by sheer luck, I made it through. Just in case, I checked myself all over for any webs or spiders that might have gotten on me; as far as I could tell, though, I was safe. And right ahead of me, just one step ahead, I could see that the ground was absolutely coated in a bright red spell, spilling all the way down the hall and halting only right in front of a thick-looking door. I suspected that, unless this was an elaborate trap of some kind, this was my intended destination.
Just one more obstacle…
Yeah, right. There’s probably going to be a lot more than just that.
I’m trying to be optimistic, okay? Just humor me.
Whatever.
Ignoring my subconscious’s snide commentary, I stretched my arms out, measuring how far apart the walls were. It looked like maybe I could make it...but was it worth the risk, though? Not that I had a choice.
I did a small leap straight up, flinging my arms out and flattening my hands against the walls. Once I had a grip, I dug my feet in too. I was now about a foot above the ground.
Well, here goes nothing.
Barely giving myself a chance to think, because then I’d come to my senses and ask what the h___ I was doing, I began swinging down the hall. I would move forward by the arms for a bit, catch myself with my legs, take a moment to breathe, then swing by my legs and catch myself with my arms. As a result, I was slowly making my way closer to the door.**
I wasn’t in pain as much as many other species would be, since I’m physically stronger than most of them, and even though I’m kind of lazy when it comes to exercise, I’d like to think that I’m decently in shape. So when I finally got to the door, I was only sweating a little bit-which still worried me, thinking about the possibility of a drop landing on the ground and activating the spell.
I hung there for a few moments, catching my breath, and examined the door. There was a heavy iron lock on it, so, bracing my legs for extra support, I used my arms to shift around the backpack, and dug out another skeleton key, which I slid into the lock. It instantly changed shape until it fit, and I turned it. With a happy click, the door swung open, moving inwards; to my relief, the floor inside was unenchanted. Re-bracing my arms, I swung back and forth, gaining momentum, gathering my strength...and then let go, allowing myself to go flying through the doorway into the treasure room, as I saw it was.
I managed, by the skin of my fangs, to land lightly on my feet. I had to sway about a bit, but finally I regained my balance, and started taking a look around, after retrieving my skeleton key and closing the door behind me. So far, this place reminded me of the museum upstairs, only without the plaques or glass cases: everywhere things were put on display, on pedestals, on the wall, in the air above me. Most prominently placed was a Greek-looking pillar in the center of the room, on top of which was an enormous golden egg. The egg’s shell appeared to be decorated in a flame pattern, with hints of red flecked throughout. Based on what I knew of Koschei’s history, I suspected that it was a firebird egg. And I wondered how on earth he had managed to get hold of it.
There was a tapestry on one of the walls close to the egg, that depicted a group of creatures on horseback hunting a zmey (Russian three-headed dragon); as I looked at it, the picture slowly changed, showing that the hunters pursued the zmey all the way to the foot of a mountain, where it was temporarily trapped, until it finally turned around and flamed them all. It was a welcome change from the typical human ending.
Nearby were a gun with an engraving on the barrel that showed it belonged to someone named Chekhov, a golden hourglass that seemed to be frozen halfway through letting the sand fall, a giant frog’s head (stuffed), a long chain with an eye on the end, and numerous other odds and ends demonstrating that, like Baba Yaga, Koschei had a predilection for collecting unusual magical items. Unfortunately, so far none of these seemed like they would be of any use in helping me achieve my goal of finding the sword and getting out of here. By now feeling more than a little exasperated with this whole thing, I expanded my search.
And then I found it. Kladenets was in the farthest, darkest corner of the room, leaned casually against the wall, with only a small, easily dismantled spell covering it. I looked around the surrounding area for any traps that might be connected, or observation spells, or anything at all that could signify a potential trap if I touched that sword. With or without the glasses, I found absolutely nothing. Therefore, I was suspicious. If this sword was supposed to be so special, and Koschei was leaving it hidden in the corner like this, it was either so powerful that he was trying to keep it hidden in plain sight, like The Purloined Letter...or it really wasn’t powerful at all. Either way, at least I’d found the dumb thing.
Carefully I rolled up my sleeves to the elbows, and adjusted the glasses further up my nose. The yellow sparks were up on the guard; I dug one claw in among them, and began to painstakingly pick apart the spell. Before long, I had pulled it free, and the remaining spell residue fluttered to the ground. I checked the sword for any extra spells that might have been concealed on it by the first spell; none in sight, hearing, or smell. Finally, hesitantly, I picked up the sword.
It felt normal. Nothing seemed to be all that special about it. Normally, with very powerful magical weapons, you can feel at least some of that energy pulsing about inside, even if you can’t see the magic itself. Kladenets, however, didn’t feel like much of anything. While considering all the possible reasons why this might be, I opened my backpack, and slid the sword inside, grateful for its being kind of like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag. Then I put it back on my shoulders, and crept to the entrance.
I put the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door. And saw, much to my horror, that the spell covering the floor was no longer on the floor. Instead, it was rising up in an enormous red wave, and was just about to crash down on me.
How did this happen?! What did I do?! I was certain this wasn’t connected to anything-is it the room? Or-
And then, in that split second, I remembered that when I had swung my way into the room, there had been a slight noise, so soft that even I hadn’t really acknowledged it: the sound of the brickwork crumbling, and tiny pieces falling...into the security spell. And it appeared to have been just lying in wait for me to leave the room.
I would like to say that I was able to perform a complicated somersault maneuver just before I could be captured, or that I produced a gizmo of some kind, like the yarn, which would let me cut out a new gateway or in some other way escape at the last possible second. As it was, however, I barely had time to start saying, “Oh, da-” before it crashed down, covering me up and rendering me insensible.
*Laever juice in powdered form, a bit obviously.
**Note: I would not advise trying this at home, unless you have appropriate safety equipment, super strength and/or someone there to supervise you and make sure you don’t dislocate a limb. Just a friendly warning, ‘kay?
No visible signs of anything. That didn’t mean much, though, not in this world. Putting the mirror back in my bag, I had to dig around for a bit, before finding the bag of laever powder.* I scooped a bit of it into my palm, and then gently blew it into the air. And just like in a spy movie, long, weblike threads appeared stretched across the corridor. The image reminded me uncomfortably of spiders, and spider bites. But, sucking it up, I began to maneuver my way through them.
As I went, I entertained myself by wondering how Koschei got past the trap; did he use a spell to make the threads part for him? Or was it set up to only react for other people? Or did he just have a different entrance altogether that only he used, and the whole purpose of this one was to use it to trap anyone who might be breaking in? So many possibilities…
I kept my wings and tail tucked as close to me as possible, and even tried to pull the backpack close against my shoulders so it wouldn’t brush against anything.
Somehow, by sheer luck, I made it through. Just in case, I checked myself all over for any webs or spiders that might have gotten on me; as far as I could tell, though, I was safe. And right ahead of me, just one step ahead, I could see that the ground was absolutely coated in a bright red spell, spilling all the way down the hall and halting only right in front of a thick-looking door. I suspected that, unless this was an elaborate trap of some kind, this was my intended destination.
Just one more obstacle…
Yeah, right. There’s probably going to be a lot more than just that.
I’m trying to be optimistic, okay? Just humor me.
Whatever.
Ignoring my subconscious’s snide commentary, I stretched my arms out, measuring how far apart the walls were. It looked like maybe I could make it...but was it worth the risk, though? Not that I had a choice.
I did a small leap straight up, flinging my arms out and flattening my hands against the walls. Once I had a grip, I dug my feet in too. I was now about a foot above the ground.
Well, here goes nothing.
Barely giving myself a chance to think, because then I’d come to my senses and ask what the h___ I was doing, I began swinging down the hall. I would move forward by the arms for a bit, catch myself with my legs, take a moment to breathe, then swing by my legs and catch myself with my arms. As a result, I was slowly making my way closer to the door.**
I wasn’t in pain as much as many other species would be, since I’m physically stronger than most of them, and even though I’m kind of lazy when it comes to exercise, I’d like to think that I’m decently in shape. So when I finally got to the door, I was only sweating a little bit-which still worried me, thinking about the possibility of a drop landing on the ground and activating the spell.
I hung there for a few moments, catching my breath, and examined the door. There was a heavy iron lock on it, so, bracing my legs for extra support, I used my arms to shift around the backpack, and dug out another skeleton key, which I slid into the lock. It instantly changed shape until it fit, and I turned it. With a happy click, the door swung open, moving inwards; to my relief, the floor inside was unenchanted. Re-bracing my arms, I swung back and forth, gaining momentum, gathering my strength...and then let go, allowing myself to go flying through the doorway into the treasure room, as I saw it was.
I managed, by the skin of my fangs, to land lightly on my feet. I had to sway about a bit, but finally I regained my balance, and started taking a look around, after retrieving my skeleton key and closing the door behind me. So far, this place reminded me of the museum upstairs, only without the plaques or glass cases: everywhere things were put on display, on pedestals, on the wall, in the air above me. Most prominently placed was a Greek-looking pillar in the center of the room, on top of which was an enormous golden egg. The egg’s shell appeared to be decorated in a flame pattern, with hints of red flecked throughout. Based on what I knew of Koschei’s history, I suspected that it was a firebird egg. And I wondered how on earth he had managed to get hold of it.
There was a tapestry on one of the walls close to the egg, that depicted a group of creatures on horseback hunting a zmey (Russian three-headed dragon); as I looked at it, the picture slowly changed, showing that the hunters pursued the zmey all the way to the foot of a mountain, where it was temporarily trapped, until it finally turned around and flamed them all. It was a welcome change from the typical human ending.
Nearby were a gun with an engraving on the barrel that showed it belonged to someone named Chekhov, a golden hourglass that seemed to be frozen halfway through letting the sand fall, a giant frog’s head (stuffed), a long chain with an eye on the end, and numerous other odds and ends demonstrating that, like Baba Yaga, Koschei had a predilection for collecting unusual magical items. Unfortunately, so far none of these seemed like they would be of any use in helping me achieve my goal of finding the sword and getting out of here. By now feeling more than a little exasperated with this whole thing, I expanded my search.
And then I found it. Kladenets was in the farthest, darkest corner of the room, leaned casually against the wall, with only a small, easily dismantled spell covering it. I looked around the surrounding area for any traps that might be connected, or observation spells, or anything at all that could signify a potential trap if I touched that sword. With or without the glasses, I found absolutely nothing. Therefore, I was suspicious. If this sword was supposed to be so special, and Koschei was leaving it hidden in the corner like this, it was either so powerful that he was trying to keep it hidden in plain sight, like The Purloined Letter...or it really wasn’t powerful at all. Either way, at least I’d found the dumb thing.
Carefully I rolled up my sleeves to the elbows, and adjusted the glasses further up my nose. The yellow sparks were up on the guard; I dug one claw in among them, and began to painstakingly pick apart the spell. Before long, I had pulled it free, and the remaining spell residue fluttered to the ground. I checked the sword for any extra spells that might have been concealed on it by the first spell; none in sight, hearing, or smell. Finally, hesitantly, I picked up the sword.
It felt normal. Nothing seemed to be all that special about it. Normally, with very powerful magical weapons, you can feel at least some of that energy pulsing about inside, even if you can’t see the magic itself. Kladenets, however, didn’t feel like much of anything. While considering all the possible reasons why this might be, I opened my backpack, and slid the sword inside, grateful for its being kind of like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag. Then I put it back on my shoulders, and crept to the entrance.
I put the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door. And saw, much to my horror, that the spell covering the floor was no longer on the floor. Instead, it was rising up in an enormous red wave, and was just about to crash down on me.
How did this happen?! What did I do?! I was certain this wasn’t connected to anything-is it the room? Or-
And then, in that split second, I remembered that when I had swung my way into the room, there had been a slight noise, so soft that even I hadn’t really acknowledged it: the sound of the brickwork crumbling, and tiny pieces falling...into the security spell. And it appeared to have been just lying in wait for me to leave the room.
I would like to say that I was able to perform a complicated somersault maneuver just before I could be captured, or that I produced a gizmo of some kind, like the yarn, which would let me cut out a new gateway or in some other way escape at the last possible second. As it was, however, I barely had time to start saying, “Oh, da-” before it crashed down, covering me up and rendering me insensible.
*Laever juice in powdered form, a bit obviously.
**Note: I would not advise trying this at home, unless you have appropriate safety equipment, super strength and/or someone there to supervise you and make sure you don’t dislocate a limb. Just a friendly warning, ‘kay?
Sunday, October 21, 2012
TANSTAV part 31
Chapter 9 part 2
I wasn't sure whether or not to be glad there was no one else around. Because on the one hand, it meant we were going into the lion's den unprotected, and nobody would know where we were; on the other hand, if there was anyone who happened to see us, and Fleming noticed, he would probably kill or capture them, too. So maybe it was for the best.
We were taken at gunpoint into his house (it looked like any other house on the street, except for the fact that it had two lightning rods instead of one-odd), and then had to stand against the wall in the hallway while Jessup tied our hands behind us, with enchanted unbreakable ropes. I hated feeling so helpless; it reminded me too much of back when I had been living with my parents, and at my father's mercy, so to speak. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why hadn't I looked for the possibility of a trap?!
It's because you're too impulsive, Tristan, the nagging voice at the back of my head said. You need to learn to use your head for something other than to hold up your ears!
Shut up, I told it. This isn't helping.
Well, what do you want me to say?
I don't want you to say anything. Didn't you hear me just tell you to shut up?
At that moment, Jessup shoved me in the back with the gun, ending (temporarily) my internal conversation. Must have been very frustrating for him, having me within his grasp, and unable to do what he wanted to me, merely acting under the orders of a crazed mage. That is, if he was even aware of anything that was happening. You never can tell with hypnotized people.
The five of us left the hall, and entered the living room-only the living room was gone. The furniture had all been moved out, and the place was basically bare, except for what looked like a sacrificial altar in the center of the room, surrounded by five cages. Inside two of the cages were the senator, and the Fonin! Both of them looked the worse for wear; they had lost weight, and were distinctly shabby. They stood at the bars of their cages, staring woefully out at us. Two other cages contained a Ghul, and some small, strange, dark creatures of the phylum Annelida inside a glass container full of water. The fifth cage was empty. Something about their positioning made me wonder...I looked down, and saw that the cages were set at each of the points of a colossal star drawn by chalk, inside of a giant circle.
You have got to be kidding, I thought. This guy is using a pentacle!
(In magical jargon, a pentacle is a symbol of a star inside a circle, and apparently has magic properties. Can be used for summoning things, among other dark rituals. Very commonly used during the Renaissance and medieval ages. There has been some doubt as to their effectiveness, as they are very unwieldy objects.)
Fleming gestured to Jessup, who began leading Xen and Calla over to a wall by the side of the pentacle. Thinking maybe he'd forgotten me, I began to follow.
"Not you, Wormwood," said Fleming. "You come over here." He gestured to the fifth cage.
"What? Why me?"
"Why did you think I tried to kidnap your girlfriend?" he asked disdainfully.
"Uh, technically, she's not my girlfriend, and I assumed it was for whatever you were doing to the others," I replied. I was beginning to see where this was going.
Ignoring me, he continued, "It was to get to you. I needed you to complete this experiment, and knew you would do anything to keep her safe."
"Why couldn't you just use Xen?" I asked, staying where I was.
Looking impatient and annoyed, Fleming gestured to the cage imperiously with the splatter gun.
"I wasn't going to use her dirty half-breed blood! I need a full gargoyle, and you were the closest one available! Now get in the cage BEFORE I HAVE JESSUP BLOW HER AND THE GIRL'S BRAINS OUT!!!!"
I gritted my fangs at the slight to Xen's heritage, but I slowly went to the cage, stumbling a little on my way.
Once inside the cage (which he neglected to lock, probably because I was bound), I asked, "Before you do-whatever it is, can I ask what you are planning to do to us?"
Fleming grinned wickedly, taking the opportunity to rub his wounded side.
"You, my dear Wormwood, are going to be the final piece in this great revolution of mine. I now have the strength of a troll, the shapeshifting powers of a Fonin, the fangs and tracking ability of a Ghul, the near-impenetrable skin of a gargoyle, and the bloodthirstiness of leeches!"
"What about Jessup?" I asked, gesturing over to him with my head. He was still guarding the girls, his face still blank. You know, without his sardonic grin, he was a bit nicer-looking.
"The demon? I need his body."
I raised my eyebrow.
"Does that sound as disturbing to you two as it does to me?" I asked the girls. Xen nodded, while Calla just stood there, looking frightened.
Fleming glared at me.
"He is going to be the host."
"For what?"
"Using all six of you," he said, gesturing to my fellow prisoners and the demon, "I am going to create," his voice rose to an incredible pitch in his excitement, "A VAMPIRE!"
I wasn't sure whether or not to be glad there was no one else around. Because on the one hand, it meant we were going into the lion's den unprotected, and nobody would know where we were; on the other hand, if there was anyone who happened to see us, and Fleming noticed, he would probably kill or capture them, too. So maybe it was for the best.
We were taken at gunpoint into his house (it looked like any other house on the street, except for the fact that it had two lightning rods instead of one-odd), and then had to stand against the wall in the hallway while Jessup tied our hands behind us, with enchanted unbreakable ropes. I hated feeling so helpless; it reminded me too much of back when I had been living with my parents, and at my father's mercy, so to speak. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why hadn't I looked for the possibility of a trap?!
It's because you're too impulsive, Tristan, the nagging voice at the back of my head said. You need to learn to use your head for something other than to hold up your ears!
Shut up, I told it. This isn't helping.
Well, what do you want me to say?
I don't want you to say anything. Didn't you hear me just tell you to shut up?
At that moment, Jessup shoved me in the back with the gun, ending (temporarily) my internal conversation. Must have been very frustrating for him, having me within his grasp, and unable to do what he wanted to me, merely acting under the orders of a crazed mage. That is, if he was even aware of anything that was happening. You never can tell with hypnotized people.
The five of us left the hall, and entered the living room-only the living room was gone. The furniture had all been moved out, and the place was basically bare, except for what looked like a sacrificial altar in the center of the room, surrounded by five cages. Inside two of the cages were the senator, and the Fonin! Both of them looked the worse for wear; they had lost weight, and were distinctly shabby. They stood at the bars of their cages, staring woefully out at us. Two other cages contained a Ghul, and some small, strange, dark creatures of the phylum Annelida inside a glass container full of water. The fifth cage was empty. Something about their positioning made me wonder...I looked down, and saw that the cages were set at each of the points of a colossal star drawn by chalk, inside of a giant circle.
You have got to be kidding, I thought. This guy is using a pentacle!
(In magical jargon, a pentacle is a symbol of a star inside a circle, and apparently has magic properties. Can be used for summoning things, among other dark rituals. Very commonly used during the Renaissance and medieval ages. There has been some doubt as to their effectiveness, as they are very unwieldy objects.)
Fleming gestured to Jessup, who began leading Xen and Calla over to a wall by the side of the pentacle. Thinking maybe he'd forgotten me, I began to follow.
"Not you, Wormwood," said Fleming. "You come over here." He gestured to the fifth cage.
"What? Why me?"
"Why did you think I tried to kidnap your girlfriend?" he asked disdainfully.
"Uh, technically, she's not my girlfriend, and I assumed it was for whatever you were doing to the others," I replied. I was beginning to see where this was going.
Ignoring me, he continued, "It was to get to you. I needed you to complete this experiment, and knew you would do anything to keep her safe."
"Why couldn't you just use Xen?" I asked, staying where I was.
Looking impatient and annoyed, Fleming gestured to the cage imperiously with the splatter gun.
"I wasn't going to use her dirty half-breed blood! I need a full gargoyle, and you were the closest one available! Now get in the cage BEFORE I HAVE JESSUP BLOW HER AND THE GIRL'S BRAINS OUT!!!!"
I gritted my fangs at the slight to Xen's heritage, but I slowly went to the cage, stumbling a little on my way.
Once inside the cage (which he neglected to lock, probably because I was bound), I asked, "Before you do-whatever it is, can I ask what you are planning to do to us?"
Fleming grinned wickedly, taking the opportunity to rub his wounded side.
"You, my dear Wormwood, are going to be the final piece in this great revolution of mine. I now have the strength of a troll, the shapeshifting powers of a Fonin, the fangs and tracking ability of a Ghul, the near-impenetrable skin of a gargoyle, and the bloodthirstiness of leeches!"
"What about Jessup?" I asked, gesturing over to him with my head. He was still guarding the girls, his face still blank. You know, without his sardonic grin, he was a bit nicer-looking.
"The demon? I need his body."
I raised my eyebrow.
"Does that sound as disturbing to you two as it does to me?" I asked the girls. Xen nodded, while Calla just stood there, looking frightened.
Fleming glared at me.
"He is going to be the host."
"For what?"
"Using all six of you," he said, gesturing to my fellow prisoners and the demon, "I am going to create," his voice rose to an incredible pitch in his excitement, "A VAMPIRE!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)