Mary-Cade Mandus - The Spell Bound

Torin

Disembodied voices
ebbed…flowed
above…around.
The ground beneath
felt pliant…yielding
to the slightest twitch of a limb.
Heavy lids edged up…eyes focused…
hazy shadows clustered…gathered
fashioning human shapes
pressing close…staring down.
Feet prodded…probed
testing for consciousness…
signs of life.

Sobs…cries…whimpers…
hollow sighs…furtive whispers
swirled…swarmed like flies
around…overhead.

First prick of panic became a stab.
The crush of bodies…manic babel
suffocated…deafened.
Horror…terror surged at the realization…
instead of fighting…resisting
he was succumbing…accepting.

Hands gripped shoulders
violently pulling…shaking…demanding.
Head snapped forward…back
eyes flew open…widening…recognizing
Solace!
Her face
so close her breath stirred his lashes.
Her expression
an intermingling of fear…
fierce determination.

His lips formed her name…
no sound issued.
Arms yearning to embrace…
unable to find the strength.
Languor…
insidious…deadly
stole over…through
bearing him away.
She worried at him
with terrier frenzy
striving to keep him.
No use.
He couldn’t defy
the tug of nonexistence
drawing him further away…from her.
Even semi-conscious
the irony was not lost.
Now that his dream had come true…
Now that he’d found her…
Now that Happy Ever After
was within his grasp…
he was going to lose it all
and could not muster
the energy to care.

Thunder exploded
the ground swelled…shook
with the vibration.
Solace’s fingers loosened.
He was yanked up.
He was flying,
wind was buffeting
then
he was plummeting,
until
a bone-chilling cold arrested his fall.

Torin broke to the surface, choking. He was given only time to secure a quick breath before being dunked again. Just when he was positive he was drowning he was lifted from the water and set down gently on firm ground. Grass rubbed wet and rough against his cheek as he coughed and wheezed.

Nausea engulfed, doubling him over as he cautiously attempted to rise. Sweat poured, his body convulsed and spasms ripped through his stomach. Then, the retching started, so hard and furious he almost passed out from the strain. At last his stomach emptied and a noisome liquid spewed forth soaking the grass and turning it brown. Drained, his body and mind finally succumbed and he pitched forward. A quick maneuver from his liberator rescued him from a most unpleasant bed.

A sharp sting brought Torin to with a jerk. The no-nonsense gaze of a tiny wren met his. The dark brown strands spilling from her beak left him with little doubt that they’d been plucked from his head. With a haughty switch of her tail the wren took off. His waking undoubtedly had foiled any plans she had for constructing the most luxurious nest in the forest.

Wincing and gingerly feeling his tender scalp, Torin sat up. The cat, sleeping soundly upon his chest, toppled to his lap. Unruffled, it jumped to his shoulder and gently nuzzled his ear. Gratified by such an unusually affectionate display Torin returned the gesture by scratching under its chin, eliciting a rapturous purr. A deep snore overrode the purring in his ear. He turned to find that Fortenbrass lay sleeping beside him. In fact, he sat within the curve of the horse’s mighty body. Its bulk and radiating body heat had served to keep him warm and sheltered through the night.

Apparently his companions had finally forgiven his Fifth Kingdom transgression. Content, he propped back against the horse, the rhythmic rise and fall of its side beneath his back; the furry tickle of the cat against his cheek, generating a sense of tranquility and well-being that quickly dissolved when his gaze fell upon Argenbright’s cottage.

It all came back in a rush - the halfling’s tale, the awful powerlessness that had crept through him, the people who had crowded and crushed, Solace’s stricken face and the feel of her fingers digging into his arms, the icy immersing, the ghastly sickness, the liberating nothingness.

Setting the cat aside, he got to his feet and slowly crossed the yard to the cottage. Behind him came the sound of Fortenbrass stirring. At the door’s threshold, he wavered. A sturdy piece of carved oak, the door now hung drunkenly from a ruptured hingejoint, its center scarred and splintered as though from a giant’s mailed fist. Beyond the shattered frame the interior was a churning darkness, swallowing light. With only the feeble rays of the early morning sun and a vague memory to guide him, Torin dropped to all fours and felt his way to the now cold hearth. Blindly groping among the scattered cushions his fingers encountered a familiar shape. Sighing in relief he pulled the rucksack into his lap and fumbled inside. Drawing forth his tinderbox and flint he crawled forward until his fingertips found the stone of the hearth. Striking a spark he coaxed a small flame to life. Its size doubled as it fed greedily upon the bits and pieces of kindling tossed into it. The darkness retreated from the flickering light, divulging what it had been hiding.

Slumped upon his pillows
Argenbright…
beard…
once as white as driven snow
now a ruby shroud…
nests scattered…empty.

Unrecognizable…
Argenbright…
flesh scored into sodden ribbons
torn by claws…animal not avian.
Upon the tattered brow an owl sat
talons gripping…beak pecking
at hollows where eyes
no longer lay.

Stomach lurching, Torin stumbled up and froze, nausea forgotten. Galvanized into action he seized a cushion and, ripping it apart, wrapped the stuffing around a segment of firewood, securing it with strips torn from the case. Held to the fire the torch caught with a flash of blue flame, the material sizzling. Skirting the corpse he crossed to the nearest wall. Holding the torch aloft so its light cast over a wider range, he inspected the tapestry that had caught his attention. The light proved too weak, so tugging the hanging from its hooks he dragged it out into the yard, and spread it upon the grass. Then, returning to the cottage, he removed them all. Now, with the cloths lying exposed to the light he could see that it was true and his eyes had not deceived him. Each tapestry was plain, completely devoid of any scene.

It was now apparent that Argenbright, by way of an enchanted brew, had found the means to circumvent the elves’ curse and assuage his isolation and torment. But where had they gone, those who’d been ensnared within the tapestry’s threads? They had existed because he’d felt their touch, heard their suffering, and almost shared their fate.

Shielding his eyes against the sun Torin slowly rotated, scanning the forest for movement, any indication that some of Argenbright’s “guests” might still be about [if they had been freed]. Discerning no furtive stirrings or raucous scolding of disturbed birds, he was left to conclude that he, his two animal companions and the late Argenbright were the only beings within the vicinity. Silently he swore that come evening he’d make a wish upon a star that the death of the mad half-elf had indeed set his prisoners free.

He gave no thought to searching for Solace; she would not be among the freed, for she’d never been a prisoner of this dream. Odette had made it clear that only through a White Maiden could they be reunited, so the sooner he continued on to Nod the quicker he’d find her.

With Fortenbrass’ help he dug a grave and laid Argenbright to rest. After making sure the cottage’s hearth was cold and that there was nothing within or outside that might call down the attention of the elven rangers, they were well on their way by noon.