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
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, June 5, 2016
Season of the Witch part 7
My mirror opened up in the corner of the Red Square, and I collapsed out onto the cobblestones, holding my gut in pain and waiting for it to subside. Thankfully, I managed not to even dry heave, and after the shaking and agony and feeling like my insides had been mercilessly played tug-of-war with had dissipated somewhat, I found myself being helped to my feet by what appeared surprisingly to be a human tourist of some kind.
“S toboy vse vporyadke?”* she asked, looking at me with concern.
“Da. Bolshoe spasibo,”** I reassured her, raising a claw and nodding. She looked me up and down, not convinced, and commented that I looked terrible. I just said that travelling made me nauseous sometimes. The tourist laughed, and said that she understood how I felt, before asking if I was sure she couldn’t take me to my hotel or something. I said that no, I’d be fine in a moment, but thanked her again for her time. She walked off with a smile over one shoulder and a parting “Dasvidaniya!”***
Once inside the cathedral, I went to the basement (not bothering with a tour guide), admiring the art and architecture as I went. It really is a beautiful place; despite the direness of my reason for being there, I couldn’t help noticing the fake brick paint job (also known as pod kirpich), the places with the genuine brick walls, the gold-covered artwork, and the walls decorated with fancy flowers. But I didn’t have time to admire it long-I had a sword to find.
Baba Yaga had instructed me to examine anything with a possible aura on it. She also knew about my ability to see magic, and had cooked up (almost literally) a spell to make it even better for this situation. It came in the shape of a pair of fake eyeglasses; when I put them on, they allowed me to distinguish what different magical auras meant, and would light up accordingly. Red meant a trap, green was just a concealment or enchantment, blue was a little bit of both red and green-type spells, and yellow sparks me showed where the spell could be disabled, if possible. It made me question whether she really hadn’t seen Mission: Impossible.
Most of the spells I found, around certain objects, and even on some of the cobblestones, were red. None of the green ones that I’d tried so far was what I was looking for. If this were any other case, I would probably have given up in frustration, and tried again tomorrow. But the freedom of someone that mattered a lot to me was at stake; I couldn’t afford to waste even a second trying to find the entrance to wherever Mr. the Deathless kept that sword.
And then, finally, it appeared that I had found something. In a corner of one of the rooms, under a window, there was a set of brick stairs. That was already strange enough, unless they opened and closed the window with the benefit of gnomes; however, there was the added peculiarity that the stairs were glowing blue. Just in case it was a fluke of some kind, I peered over the tops of my glasses at them. Without the glasses, I could still see that there was a spell. Put them back on, and the blue color showed up again. On a wild hunch, I decided to see if this was the opening I needed. I didn’t know how it was possible, but it was worth a shot. Reaching into my pack, I pulled out a few of my supplies: a skeleton key (literally made out of bone), a ball of pure white, unblemished yarn, four silver thumbtacks, and a black-and-white PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH sign (in several languages). Then I set to work.
The trick here, which could play an instrumental part in my getting out of here alive, was getting past the spell without Koschei ever finding out I was there. If his spells were disturbed, then he would definitely know someone was messing with them, and even with my little bag of tricks, I would probably end up a gone goose. As it was, I had to be careful how I touched the thing while I worked.
First of all, I hung the PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH sign on a convenient peg on the wall; even though those things mainly seem to tempt people to do just that, they are still useful in their own right. Besides, this one was enchanted to automatically encourage people to obey it. Then I pulled out one of the thumbtacks, and gingerly, trying to keep my claw from trembling, I set it down in the upper right hand corner of the stairs. Where it touched the spell, it hissed and fizzled, causing a few more yellow sparks to appear. I froze in alarm; I didn’t want it to disintegrate the spell entirely, no no no…
After a tense second, the rest of the spell sort of bubbled up around the needle part of the tack, leaving just the plastic sticking out. I exhaled slowly, and then completed the process with the other tacks in the other corners. I then unwound some of the yarn, enough to leave a long tail, and then wound the beginning of it around one of the tacks. Once I felt it was secure, I pulled it out to the tack opposite, and wound it around that tack, etc.
Once I had finished, I had what appeared to be a square laying on top of the spell and stairs, just big enough for me to go through if I tucked in my wings a little bit. Now for the last stage. Using one of my claws to cut the yarn, I stowed the remainder of the ball in my pack, and produced the skeleton key. Looking around, I decided to insert it in the left side; as I brought the key close, a keyhole appeared in the spell. I inserted the key, and turned it until I heard a click, before pulling it up. And lo and behold, the spell moved up with it, having turned into a sort of trapdoor. Mission partway accomplished.
I glanced over my shoulder, to see if anyone was watching me. Fortunately, there was nobody visibly paying attention to me. And if they were, well, too late to do anything now. It was now or never. So I reached under the new door, being careful not to touch the upper side, feeling some relief when my claws touched brick, and lowered myself inside feet first. Unfortunately, I had to let it close over me, and could only hope that either it lasted long enough for me to get out, or if the spell absorbed it, then I could find a new exit.
*Are you all right?
**Yes, I’m fine.
***Now I hear you wondering what is wrong with this picture: why would a human woman not be alarmed at the fact that she was suddenly talking to a gargoyle? The answer, again: a highly useful spell Calla created that I keep in my pocket for special occasions. It means that humans see me as just another roguishly handsome human. Even if I am rather scruffy. Very useful for these kind of situations. Every non-humanoid monster should get one.
“S toboy vse vporyadke?”* she asked, looking at me with concern.
“Da. Bolshoe spasibo,”** I reassured her, raising a claw and nodding. She looked me up and down, not convinced, and commented that I looked terrible. I just said that travelling made me nauseous sometimes. The tourist laughed, and said that she understood how I felt, before asking if I was sure she couldn’t take me to my hotel or something. I said that no, I’d be fine in a moment, but thanked her again for her time. She walked off with a smile over one shoulder and a parting “Dasvidaniya!”***
***
St. Basil’s Cathedral was just across the way. And since it was a Monday in June, and therefore not the tourist season, it was relatively easy for me to walk towards it, and buy an admission ticket at the western church. So far, so good.Once inside the cathedral, I went to the basement (not bothering with a tour guide), admiring the art and architecture as I went. It really is a beautiful place; despite the direness of my reason for being there, I couldn’t help noticing the fake brick paint job (also known as pod kirpich), the places with the genuine brick walls, the gold-covered artwork, and the walls decorated with fancy flowers. But I didn’t have time to admire it long-I had a sword to find.
Baba Yaga had instructed me to examine anything with a possible aura on it. She also knew about my ability to see magic, and had cooked up (almost literally) a spell to make it even better for this situation. It came in the shape of a pair of fake eyeglasses; when I put them on, they allowed me to distinguish what different magical auras meant, and would light up accordingly. Red meant a trap, green was just a concealment or enchantment, blue was a little bit of both red and green-type spells, and yellow sparks me showed where the spell could be disabled, if possible. It made me question whether she really hadn’t seen Mission: Impossible.
Most of the spells I found, around certain objects, and even on some of the cobblestones, were red. None of the green ones that I’d tried so far was what I was looking for. If this were any other case, I would probably have given up in frustration, and tried again tomorrow. But the freedom of someone that mattered a lot to me was at stake; I couldn’t afford to waste even a second trying to find the entrance to wherever Mr. the Deathless kept that sword.
And then, finally, it appeared that I had found something. In a corner of one of the rooms, under a window, there was a set of brick stairs. That was already strange enough, unless they opened and closed the window with the benefit of gnomes; however, there was the added peculiarity that the stairs were glowing blue. Just in case it was a fluke of some kind, I peered over the tops of my glasses at them. Without the glasses, I could still see that there was a spell. Put them back on, and the blue color showed up again. On a wild hunch, I decided to see if this was the opening I needed. I didn’t know how it was possible, but it was worth a shot. Reaching into my pack, I pulled out a few of my supplies: a skeleton key (literally made out of bone), a ball of pure white, unblemished yarn, four silver thumbtacks, and a black-and-white PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH sign (in several languages). Then I set to work.
The trick here, which could play an instrumental part in my getting out of here alive, was getting past the spell without Koschei ever finding out I was there. If his spells were disturbed, then he would definitely know someone was messing with them, and even with my little bag of tricks, I would probably end up a gone goose. As it was, I had to be careful how I touched the thing while I worked.
First of all, I hung the PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH sign on a convenient peg on the wall; even though those things mainly seem to tempt people to do just that, they are still useful in their own right. Besides, this one was enchanted to automatically encourage people to obey it. Then I pulled out one of the thumbtacks, and gingerly, trying to keep my claw from trembling, I set it down in the upper right hand corner of the stairs. Where it touched the spell, it hissed and fizzled, causing a few more yellow sparks to appear. I froze in alarm; I didn’t want it to disintegrate the spell entirely, no no no…
After a tense second, the rest of the spell sort of bubbled up around the needle part of the tack, leaving just the plastic sticking out. I exhaled slowly, and then completed the process with the other tacks in the other corners. I then unwound some of the yarn, enough to leave a long tail, and then wound the beginning of it around one of the tacks. Once I felt it was secure, I pulled it out to the tack opposite, and wound it around that tack, etc.
Once I had finished, I had what appeared to be a square laying on top of the spell and stairs, just big enough for me to go through if I tucked in my wings a little bit. Now for the last stage. Using one of my claws to cut the yarn, I stowed the remainder of the ball in my pack, and produced the skeleton key. Looking around, I decided to insert it in the left side; as I brought the key close, a keyhole appeared in the spell. I inserted the key, and turned it until I heard a click, before pulling it up. And lo and behold, the spell moved up with it, having turned into a sort of trapdoor. Mission partway accomplished.
I glanced over my shoulder, to see if anyone was watching me. Fortunately, there was nobody visibly paying attention to me. And if they were, well, too late to do anything now. It was now or never. So I reached under the new door, being careful not to touch the upper side, feeling some relief when my claws touched brick, and lowered myself inside feet first. Unfortunately, I had to let it close over me, and could only hope that either it lasted long enough for me to get out, or if the spell absorbed it, then I could find a new exit.
*Are you all right?
**Yes, I’m fine.
***Now I hear you wondering what is wrong with this picture: why would a human woman not be alarmed at the fact that she was suddenly talking to a gargoyle? The answer, again: a highly useful spell Calla created that I keep in my pocket for special occasions. It means that humans see me as just another roguishly handsome human. Even if I am rather scruffy. Very useful for these kind of situations. Every non-humanoid monster should get one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)