Through the dark void shines a light. A pinpoint at first, far into the eternity. With every step it grows, the pinpoint becoming a dot on a page, a fly, a child’s fist. Once its illuminance is big enough, a woman stands in the center of it. A cat’s eye, white and bright and hopeful. Her back is turned, baring her flesh and soul to the light. Her hair hangs long and golden, flowing like a rich waterfall over her pale shoulders and down to the small of her back. Short yet elegant, she basks in the glorious aura. There’s a beautiful melody playing within that light; a river sings on a clear spring morning. Birds join with their own harmony. Paws and hooves supply the cadence.
She stares, unblinking, into the light. The corners of her mouth form a perfect, pleased smile. Dimples show in her cheeks. Something about her tugs on my heart, screaming of a familiarity that teases just beyond my grasp. She lives in a forgotten vale clouded by mists and decades. But I know this face, seen some epitaph accompanied by an artists’ rendering perhaps. A handmaiden from the Tower in my first years there, maybe. Or someone from before those early days, a nun at a church or even the midwife who looked after me. I can’t place it, but my soul knows her.
Her eyes shine brighter than the light. A pure blue hue, deep as the ocean and as pure as the cloudless sky. In those orbs is a recognition of her own. Her lips part, maintaining that at-peace grin, and whispers a name. It, too, breathes a knowingness into me. A boy’s name of yesteryear, lost to time and stolen by usurpers. A hushed thing, whispered in the dark amongst storytellers, a secret thing. Sacred, almost. Formerly common on the tongues of the people, yet few remember it now. My own mouth may have said it long ago, even before the Tower. But I cannot form the necessary shapes now. I have no tongue for it. The woman, in her radiance and love, has silenced it.
“I’ll see you soon, my child,” she coos.
She and her golden crown blink out of sight. The light goes with an exhale, a match snuffed by the wind. Cold takes over in the darkness and its crushing weight drives me to my knees. An unseen hand forces a wad of cloth into my mouth; at least it’s clean. That same hand wrenches my arms back and binds my wrists there with an unforgiving rope. It digs into my skin, eager to squeeze so tight like a hungry snake until the digits turn purple and the hands fall off. That snake’s vicious twin finds my ankles.
Muffled voices fade into the black. While some speak free with words my foggy mind cannot decipher, another growls and curses through a gag. Despite the attempt to silence him, the tone and grit is undeniably Max. Nana, however, makes no noise. They have her, I know it. Bound like us, or worse. Fire ignites the strength within me as I fight against the ropes. They burrow into my flesh further as I struggle, but the burning pain is worth it if I can save Nana.
“Stop squirming!” bellows a man’s voice. Pelle, without a doubt.
A thud hits the ground beside me, a quick grunt joining the sound. Something solid and round collides with my stomach, sending all of the air out of me. But that flame cannot be extinguished. Growling through the gag, my arms pull apart with all my might. Another blow cuts across my cheek and forces me to the grass. Rough hands set me upright, and heavy footsteps trail away.
“Calm down, boys,” a woman chimes in, smooth and calm. Silke almost seems amused. “You’ll only hurt yourselves. Hagen, Josah, you can remove their hoods now. And don’t look away, Elysiah. Be a good girl and watch.”
“Yes, Mama,” the little girl obeys.
At the command, fabric slips up and off of my head. Max, kneeling beside me, sports a busted lip and a hatred in his eyes. He, too, dares to break the rope that binds him. Like with myself, though, they hold tight and strong. But perhaps, with enough strength and determination, they will loosen. They must.
All around, the trees show off in earned pride the light of their leaves. A bright light blue-green hue bleeds into everything, from the grass to Max, from the tree trunks to the tunics, from the cold steel of Silke’s knife to Nana’s skin. In another scene, the colors would be mesmerizing, beautiful. But the violence here makes it sick, vile, otherworldly in a horrendous fashion.
Nana stands several yards away, hands tied behind the slim body of a youthful tree. Like us, her mouth is stuffed with a cloth. Her eyes are covered with similar material, her redundant spectacles pushed to the top of her head. She looks around, her head whipping to and fro, her few strands of hair sticking to her skin. Her elegant dress is gone; Nana is left only in her previous rags.
Beside her stands Silke, something wild lighting up her dark eyes. The blade in her hand, a simple dagger, rests at her side. The intricacies in her tunic are bold in the Everglow’s grace, unapologetic tendrils circling and spiking all over. The cuffs hold a vibrant red as if dipped in a rich red wine. The shade of it even cuts through the tint of the surrounding foliage. She wears that insane smile again, wide-eyed and toothy, as Pelle approaches her. He carries something small in his hands, a dark leathery mound. His face is covered by a similar substance, a grotesque mask. A club is tucked under his arm.
Bastard. With a grunt and another test of strength, I try to free myself from my bindings. Something gives, just a little. I pull against the ropes again, and I’m certain it is not bones or flesh loosening.
“Don’t,” a boy whispers behind me, though I can’t tell which it is. “They’ll get mad.”
Part of me sympathizes with the boy. For a moment, my heart tells me that to protect him and his siblings, it would be best to let whatever is about to happen happen. But such thoughts are born and die in the same breath. They are the thoughts of a defeatist, a coward, the weak-willed.
Silke accepts Pelle’s gift and holds the leather up to her face. A wind blows through, delivering a chill that cuts to my bones. The leaves rustle in the light gust, an audience chattering before the show. The mask, like Pelle’s, looks like dead skin hanging wrinkled, loose, mummified. My stomach churns at the sight, but the cloth between my teeth convinces my dinner to remain in my gut. Shadows dance in the background, chasing each other between the distant trees.
“O! Lord Scommortod, the one true eternal Novhina, join us now as we congregate to do your bidding,” Silke exclaims, arms outstretched and disgusting face to the sky. Pelle stands opposite her, mirroring her image. Nana, poor confused woman, waits in the middle.
She pauses for a long moment, only the sound of the wind in the trees filling the space. In the farthest stretch of trees behind the fanatic, a shadow stops its game and stands still. It watches the spectacle, curious or possibly delighted. Something stretches out, a limb like a leg, and then another. It approaches. Ice fills the depths of my soul, and that feverous fight drains out of me in a rapid release. My muscles loosen against my restraints and I rest back on my heels. Numb, terrified, I resign. Max still rages next to me, unaware.
“In your righteous name, we present to you another sacrifice,” Silke continues. “We offer unto thee a life tainted by magic. As with our recent tribute, the unholy gift runs through her veins. Accept this woman, as you did the girl, and bless us with another night of your glorious presence!”
Pelle takes hold of his club. His eyes glint with a devilish grin and purposeful menace. His arm reels back, arcing high near his ear and falling in a blur. The hard thing strikes into her side. Her muffled cry is too much for my heart to take; my eyes overflow, a new tear for each blow she receives. The children wince behind us. Max, ever the protector, rages on to no avail. Silke issues a high and mad laugh into the cool air. Pelle moves around, landing a new hit on a different area of Nana’s body below the shoulders.
And the shadow presses on. Solid black, with a shine like leather to it, its pace quickens. From within itself it reaches, pulling out something just as dark as itself. Hooded, its face hidden, the tail of a coat trails behind. Scommortod, the God of Death, breaks into a run. The lessons taught to us as children always said he would walk casually whilst visiting our realm, for Death has naught but time. Patience, it seems, is not a virtue this night.
“Death to magic, for we are unworthy of it,” Silke says, enraptured. Pelle ceases his onslaught and backs away. He snickers, a feral sound. Nana moans, sobbing through her gag. Her knees beg to kneel, but her bindings to the tree keep her on her feet.
“Death to life, for we are unworthy of it.” The second verse to her prayer comes softer, more subdued, yet so much more horrifying. Silke steps closer to Nana, knife raised and aimed at the old woman’s throat.
“This is Scommortod’s Will, and I am his Conductor. Go with him, and be at peace.” The final line, just above a whisper, covers Nana’s cheek with a paralyzing breath. She goes still and silent, accepting her fate. The blade tickles the neck, but does not yet make the killing cut. It hangs there, drinking in the forthcoming macabre, taunting.
I shouldn’t watch. I have witnessed horrible things in my time: youthful flesh ripped apart by harsh biting leather, dogs bleeding to death after a defeat in fighting pits, a field of fallen soldiers baking under the sun after a battle. But this, the murder of an old woman for the sake of a cursed divine, exceeds my limit. With whatever is left in me, I beg she use that magic Silke says she possesses to get herself out of the bitch’s clutches. I plead that she calls upon the birds as she had done before to dispatch these crazed cultists once and for all. But perhaps all of that had been beaten out of her, and there was nothing left to conjure up. It is true that all must eventually die, but which of the goodly Novhina would allow a grisly end such as this for an innocent old crone?
The footsteps come silent. The shadow arrives. It wields a blade of its own, a sharp black dagger with a curved tip and a crimson groove. The being is covered head to toe in obsidian leather, blacker than the night sky. Its hood is big and obscures whatever face hides within, barely allowing the glint of its eyes to shine out from the darkness. The coat’s tail is split in two thick pieces down its length. The gloves merge seamlessly into the arms, which lead into a chest piece bearing half a dozen steel buckles and pitch leather straps down its middle.
The shadow’s blade swings down. Silke’s own knife falls to the dirt. Fingers still grip tight around the hilt. It takes a few bleeding seconds for the realization to kick in, and a few more for the screams to begin. Pelle goes into motion at the sound, brandishing his club high with a murderous roar. It is cut short as the shadow pirouettes and slices her weapon across his throat with ease. The man collapses, dropping his club and both hands doing their best to suppress the torrent issuing from his neck. His effort ends just as quickly as it had begun.
Silke stares with fury and panic in her wide eyes. Max falls into a stunned mute state. Nana no longer weeps. The children don’t even breathe. At least, none of it can be heard over the masked maniac’s shrieking. The matriarch falls to her knees, blood from her new stump ruining the clean white of her tunic. The shadow stands before her, the edge of her dagger dripping. A gloved hand takes a fistful of the dark hair, forces the head back to better reveal the treacherous neck, and holds her there for an agonizing second. The ebony blade cuts slow this time, sinking into the flesh and digging into Silke’s trachea. It waits in the new hole, letting precious red escape. The leaves hold still now, out of shock or admiration I do not know. The wind pauses its frolic. All that remains is Silke’s choking until even that comes to an end.
Withdrawing the dagger and letting a scarlet ocean spread where the woman falls, the shadow traces back to Nana. The free hand reaches out and places a gentle touch on the old woman’s cheek, a sweet caress. The blade goes behind, and Nana’s arms release forward. She falls into the shadow’s embrace, and the latter carefully rests the woman onto the dirt. Some low chant in an unknown tongue washes over Nana, the gag coming out and the blindfold untying. The old woman’s panic calms, and she rests.
The shadow rises back to its feet. Its hood turns toward us. Three shrill shrieks pierce my ears from behind, followed by hasty sprinting footsteps fleeing the scene. The shadow gives a chuckle, quiet yet soft. Slow steps now as Scommortod approaches, the trademark patience returning. Max and I look on in silence, my eyes drifting to the dagger still held in a gloved hand. The two of us would be easy kills, all tied up and presented for slaughter. If this is what is meant to be, then so be it. If I am allowed a fighting chance, I will take it happily. If not, then hopefully one of the more gracious Novhina will take me.
Scommortod stands before me, peering down from within the darkness of its hood. For a moment, I see the whites of its eyes. Human, almost, I think. Dark irises, even. But my own eyes may be fooling me, a trick of the light perhaps. Or maybe it is a slight deception on the Novhina’s part as a way to dilute my fear. The lack of a powerful aura could also factor into this theory. Though I have never been blessed with the presence of a deity before, I had always imagined there would be this knowing, undeniable feeling that such a being was divine. I guess I was wrong.
Fuck, I wish I could have seen Kym one last time.
The dagger remains at its side while the shadow runs a slow and soft gloved hand over my cheek. It plucks out my gag once the fingers pass over my chin. An embarrassing amount of drool trickles out of my mouth, the hinges of my jaw begging to finally close. With a confused wonder I watch it move over to Max. That same hand rests atop his head before the cloth in his mouth is removed as well. The shadow steps behind us, and one by one our restraints are severed. We get to our feet, shakily at first. The shadow, steps between us, stopping ahead and facing us once more. Short for a god, at least a head shorter than us both. Then again, who’s to say that Death chooses to change its form at its desire?
“Thank you,” is all I am able to mutter. The shadow simply places its blade back into the folds of its black leather coat.
Max remains in a stunned silence, mouth agape and eyes wide. Dumbstruck, I imagine, frozen. I share in his sound as the shadow turns for the last time and sprints back into the trees. It disappears in the canopies, and we are left with burning wrists and freshly formed bruises. With a blink, Max snaps out of his haze and goes to Nana. He lifts her up, carrying her in his arms like a baby. He doesn’t even look at the bodies. To be fair, I do my best to not look at them either.
“Some beds just freed up, looks like,” he says as he passes me. The little house waits behind us, ready and willing to offer us accommodation.
The quiet inside is a comfort this time around. No odd hosts to creep us out anymore. We go through the front room, its onyx and blood eye welcoming us. Past this is a small hallway; to the left is a small kitchen, and to the right are two doors. One hangs open, but the other is shut. Max steps into the open room, laying the old woman down on the wide bed there.
“I’ll stay with her tonight,” he says once she has nestled into place. I give him a nod and shut the door.
The other door opens with an easy nudge, revealing a windowless room. Against the wall facing me are two slim beds; another two beds sit along the right wall. A lone dresser waits near the door. Closing the door behind me, I head to the two beds on the far side of the room. Each wall holds a dual-candelabra, and every candle is lit. With a sturdy kick I push one toward the other. As the wooden feet scrape against the floor, something catches my eye. A little book, bound in dark red, greets me. Curious, I pick it up as I flop down onto the mattresses.
The beginning pages are half-filled with an illegible chicken scratch. Some words like “Mama” and “Papa” pop up in nearly every section, but otherwise I can’t make out most of the entries. As the pages progress, the writing gets clearer, the letters more refined. Each still only reach the middle of the page, most ending abruptly mid-sentence. Toward the midway point of the book is the final entry, the only one with an ending. It reads:
“It happened again. Another traveller came. This one was a small person, I think Papa called him a halfling. He played music for us while my brother and sister and I played with his pet squirrel. His music made fireworks every now and then. We all loved it! Except Mama and Papa. They got really mad at him. I guess it was some kind of magic. They hate magic. I don’t know why, but they always have. After awhile, they got tired of the magic. Papa got his mask and his stick and tried to attack the little man. The other kids ran and hid, but not me. I didn’t want Papa to hurt the music man. So I stood between them. Papa told me to get out of the way, but I wouldn’t. He tried to hit me, but that’s when it happened. I screamed, and some kind of force knocked Papa down. The man and his squirrel ran then. That’s when Mama showed up. She looked so sad. Papa looked even more mad when he took off the mask. Mama told me to go to my room, so I did.
“I know what’s coming. Mama and Papa say only the Novhina should have the power to do magic, so anyone who can use it is offending the gods. I didn’t mean to have magic. I wish it wasn’t in me. I’ve been trying to hide it for a couple years, but sometimes it just slips out. But it’s never happened in front of them, only my siblings. Now they know, and I know what’s coming.
“Hagen, Josah, Elysiha: If you’re reading this, I love you. If you end up having magic like I did, never let it out. Push it down as far as you can. No one can know. Especially not Mama and Papa. I don’t want you to end up like me. If you can’t control it, please, run. Run as far away from Mama and Papa as you can. Run to Hemwood. Maybe the House of Zigur will let you attend the school in the sky.
“Mama and Papa: If you’re reading this, I’m sorry. I tried to keep it a secret. I really did. Maybe this will change your mind. I hope so.
“Fendis, Penelope.”
Like with the boy’s plea, my heart aches. I can only imagine that fear, having to live with such a dangerous secret. And for it to all unravel in a single moment, for the world to collapse and the weight of the hidden truth to tear you asunder. And for it to happen to a child… I thought the Cy’s whippings were awful, but this doesn’t compare. In my childhood, we were punished and made to learn our lessons. But what this poor girl went through, and if she indeed did not survive, is beyond punishment. It’s execution. And then last night, at dinner…
Thank the Novhina her parents are already dead. Nothing would stop me otherwise.
Tyler Gohde 
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