Episode Nine - Bone and Blade

 

Episode Nine: Bone and Blade

Part Twenty Six
The Black Skull

Enin came upon a hillock in the swamp, an ancient burial mound, perhaps. Judging by the trees growing upon it, he knew the mound to be at least several hundred years old, likely much much older. The sides of the hill were steep, but by clinging to branches he was able to climb it. Hoping to get a better vantage, he scanned as far as he could see, but the dense foliage in the marsh blocked his vision. Disappointed, but knowing he must be headed the correct direction, Enin sat for a moment on a large black stone that jutted out of the mound. He removed his soaking wet boots and wrung them as dry as he could.

If those stubborn birds had stayed with me, my boots would be dry. Thought Enin. But the miserable beasts refused to budge an inch as soon as that fool boy ran off to get himself killed.

Enin did not truly know what his next step was to be. For all his certainty and determination, he scarcely could admit to himself that he was making it up as he went along. He knew that locating and destroying the pillars would release the darkness. But he did not actually know where they were. He merely felt a pulling, bringing him in the proper direction. As far back as Aurelia he sensed an ominous presence looming in the swamps. Something large and dark and ancient on his path. Enin hoped that presence would be the second pillar, but now, sitting atop this hollow hill, he saw no sign of it. No pillar. No powerful being to guide him. Just cypress and black willow lording over a desolate landscape of filthy muck.

At least it is quiet here. He thought. It was foolish of me to want a traveling companion. That boy never knew when to shut up.

Enin felt something crack beneath him. Standing to investigate, he saw the black stone on which he sat had developed a fracture. He examined the stone, brushing off the muck and grime of the swamp. Its texture was smooth, but porous. Enin rapped upon it with his knuckles, producing a hollow sound.

Intrigued, the man brushed off more mud and leaves from the stone. But it didn’t look like stone. The texture was more akin to bone. He traced his finger along the fracture. It weaved its way along the surface of the strangely porous stone, like a tiny meandering river. Moreover, he surmised that his weight alone didn’t cause the fault in the surface. It seemed as if it had always been there, like a stitch. Enin thought it resembled the coronal suture that runs across a human skull. He had witnessed many in his lifetimes; while practicing medicine and while committing violence. Of course, that was preposterous. A stone that resembles a skull...one that is the size of a small hill...it simply could not be. Still, the man’s curiosity had been piqued.

Enin put his wet boots back on, cursing himself for not enchanting them to remain clean and dry regardless of the elements as he had done with his coat.

He clambered down the hillock, once more flooding his boots with swamp water. Plodding around to one side of the hill, he began to tear at the loamy soil with his bare hands.

The work took time, but soon he saw it, the unmistakable shape of an ocular cavity. Further digging revealed another cavity beside the first in mirror image. Beneath them were nasal cavities.

Enin began to frantically tear at the mud just above the water. Doing so uncovered a mouth full of teeth, each the size of his fist.

“Who are you?” Enin asked the colossal skull he had uncovered, but it did not answer.

Enin pulled at a tuft of his silver hair. Braided into it was a tress of hair not his. This lock was platinum in color and nearly seemed to radiate white light. He yanked a single filament from the white lock and tied it around one of the teeth.

Enin then breathed into the nasal cavity of the gigantic skull, while uttering a chthonic incantation. His susurrations increased in volume and intensity. Enin’s own lifebreath filled the skull as it began to vibrate. Muck and soil, roots, and branches...entire trees sloughed off of its surface, splashing into the marsh.

Enin’s eyes opened in wonder at the sight of the obsidian colored skull.

“Who are you?” he asked out loud.

A groaning noise came from within the skull.

“I bid you, titan,”said Enin, “I command you,  remnant of ancient glory, speak.”

“Orrrrrrnaxxx.” said a voice within the skull.

“Ornax?” replied Enin. “That name is unfamiliar to me.”

“I am the Lost Son. The Unmade One.”

“Where do you come from? Who are your people?” the sorcerer asked.

“My father was the first.”

“The first what?”

“The first to die.”

“What do you mean the first to die?”

“The first ever. My father was born of the chaos. The first to live. The first to die. You stand now upon his bones.”

“You are primordial?” asked Enin in wonder, “One of the first beings to live upon this world?”

“I was alive when this  world was made. When the forebears of humanity cut my father open, they fashioned the land with his flesh, the firmament with his skull, the oceans with his blood. I went into the lands of mortals to explore them. Long ago I fell. Struck dead by my enemy.”

“Ornax, you must be one-hundred, perhaps two-hundred hands tall. What enemy could fell you?”

“Darkness. The Unshaper. Ruiner of all things.”

“The Unshaper?” asked Enin, “Do you mean the black ocean? The darkness beyond the door? I have held commune with it.”

“And yet you live?” spoke Ornax.

“I am to set it free.”

“WHAT?”

“This world is old. The darkness must be released to cleanse it and end it.”

“Oh hohohaha.” the skull guffawed. “Do you think you are the first? This world has been made and unmade more times than you could ever know. All the pieces set upon the board and played with for aeons, only to be swept away and set again. There is no ending it.”

“It will be done.” stated Enin. “The darkness will come. The lands of mortals will be wrecked, the air will burn, and all will be silenced. I have already set plans into motion.”

“Half-wit!” said Ornax, “Nothing ever ends. At best you can stall the world. Pause its motions and its noise. But in time it will return. It always does. Even if it takes one thousand kalpas, the cosmos will contract and expand and recreate this world. This swamp. This stupid conversation.”

“I refuse to believe you.” Enin said. “Even if your words are true, I do not care. This world is broken and corrupted. Let the cosmos wipe it clean. If it re-forms, I will end it again. Existence is futile.”

“Well,” said Ornax, “what do I know? I am merely the vestige of a being beyond mortal reckoning. Perhaps all will go as you plan. I remain dead either way.”

“Can you guide me?” asked Enin, “I know the second pillar is not far. I know it is to the south, but I am not certain exactly where.”

Ornax became quiet for a moment, as if concentrating, then spoke, “The pillar of the earth is in a human settlement. Two days travel if you are swift. It is by the sea. Hidden in a cave beside a small fishing village near Kara Lys.”

“Two days?” said Enin. “I can make that. I will not rest.”

“Be gone now.” said Ornax and the black skull became silent.

Part Twenty Seven
A River of Magic

The Boy and the Muck Witch rode together on the south road. This highway had been built centuries ago as a causeway over the swamplands by one fallen empire or another.

“You say he was looking for something in the swamps?” Maegda asked the Boy.

“Yes.” said the Boy, looking down the embankment over the wetlands.
“He told me a force more destructive than the firestorm resides there.”

“And he thinks this ‘force’ is something he can command? Or manipulate?”

“I think the word he used was ‘release’.”

“That doesn’t sound pleasant.” said the Witch.

“Can’t you use your magic?” asked the Boy, “Use it to stop him or at least find him?”

“I don’t ‘use’ magic. Magic isn’t something that anyone ‘uses’. It’s not like a hammer or a shovel.”

“Then what is it?”

Maegda was silent for a moment before saying, “Magic is more like a body of water. Some sources of magic are little pools, others are roaring rivers. All of them are fed by a radiant ocean, the source of everything. As with a body of water, you can drink from it and swim in it. You can even find treasures within it. But the one thing you can never ever do is control it. If you try, you are most certain to drown.”

“Can you teach me to swim, then?” asked the Boy.

“I am not teaching you magic.”

“But you said I have what it takes to be a proper witch!”

“Just because you can be something doesn’t mean you should.”

“Why shouldn’t I? If I were a witch I would let all the people swim in my magical river and let them drink its water to sustain themselves.”

“Would you now?” the Witch cocked an eye at him.

“Yes.” he said, “And I would wear a pointy hat!”

“We do NOT wear pointy hats! That is just a stupid image from idiotic children’s stories.”

“Well, I’m bringing it back.” he said, which made them both chuckle.

As they laughed, the paksi stopped abruptly. Ahead on the road sat an overturned wagon.

“Stay where you are, Boy.” Maegda said, dismounting.

The wagon rested on one side with two wheels blasted to charred bits and the inner surface covered entirely in melted candles with protective symbols scrawled above them in charcoal and ochre.

“Is this magic?” asked the Boy, standing behind her.

“I told you to stay where you are!”

He ignored her and asked, “What are those symbols?”

“A sign of desperation.” she said, “Whomever crafted this makeshift shrine must have seen the end coming. The firestorm no doubt. They witnessed the decimation and performed a ritual prayer to every god they could name.”

“Do you think anyone answered their prayers?”

“Well, I see no sign of them. So maybe they managed to escape the tempest.”

The boy gazed as far as he could along the road. “I see no one ahead. Perhaps they went into the wetlands below?”

“Perhaps.” said Maegda. “Judging by the candles, they have been gone for several hours. And we already are in search of one mysterious wanderer in the swamp. I say we continue along the road. It runs to the southern hills where the marshlands end. If we are fortunate we may locate Enin when he exits the swamp.”

“How do we know he will do that?”

“There are four pillars, according to legend.” said the Witch. “Based on the meteors, we can assume that the pillar of the firmament has been shattered. I do not know where the second pillar is, but the third is known to be the pillar of the sea. I suspect it to be in or near the sea...based on the name. So we should head in that direction, either way.”

“I suppose that makes a sort of sense.” said the Boy.


Part Twenty Eight
A Sword of Silver

“Oh dearie me.” breathed the old woman as she twiddled her fingers around the spindle, twisting sparkly black fibers into a fine filament. “Such a tangled mess, but fret not. We’ll get you sorted.”

Tula had often helped her grandmother with spinning, holding fibers of cotton or wool while her elder spun it into thread or yarn. Now she watched this unknown woman doing so with material that seemed so familiar, yet completely alien.

Tula found herself lying beside the fire on a rough but not uncomfortable carpet. In that half-sleep where one is vaguely aware of their own existence she watched the woman work. Her scrawny pink fingertips danced hypnotically around the fibers as she twirled the spindle. But most mesmerizing of all was the material itself. Darker than the shadows of this room lit dimly by the fireplace, but brimming with light. The cottony fluff the woman spun was filled with tiny little stars.

Just like him. Tula thought. Just like...what was his name? Why can’t I remember him? Coo-coo bird? No. Cowbell...Cocoa ball...

Her eyes snapped open and she said, “Kokaibel!”

“Oh girl!” said the woman. “You should not be awake. You were half-dead from exhaustion when you got here. Not to mention that special soup I poured down your throat while you slept. Close your eyes, sweety.”

“No.” said Tula, sitting up. “Where is my friend? What am I doing here?”

“You’re here because that foul demon has probably been sucking the life out of you, sweetheart. He is not your friend. But you’re safe now. Don’t you mind. Once I finish spinning him, that demon won’t be able to harm anyone.”

“Spinning him?” shouted Tula, darting up into a standing position.

She nearly fell over, but caught herself, grasping the edge of a table. That was when she saw it. The thread the woman was spinning, the material from which she spun...it was...him. Kokaibel had been reduced to a pile of...stuff, like a clump of fibrous material to be turned into a sweater.

“Turn him back!” she screamed at the woman. “What are you doing to him?”

“Oh my.” said the woman, “You’ve got it bad, haven’t you? Demon possession is rough, I know. Happened to my sister once. But don’t worry. We’ll flush his dark corruption out of you. Then we’ll have a go at your queer little birdie. Now that’s a thing of power if ever I saw one!”

“He isn’t possessing me! He’s helping me. I’m the one in charge!”

“Oh honey, that’s what they all say.”

“I don’t care what you think. You’re making him right again and we’re both leaving. And the bird too!”

“Oh honey, he can’t be made right. He was made wrong to begin with. That’s the problem. He’s a mistake of the gods. No. I will keep him here on my spindle where he can’t harm anyone.” as she spoke the old woman continued to spin. The pile of Kokaibel grew smaller and the spindle grew fatter with sparkly black thread.

“You can’t just twist him up like a ball of yarn. Kokaibel is a luminous being a powerf-”

“Powerful member of the celestial court, yes yes. He already told me all that. But now he is my prisoner. And you will be free of him and that pretty birdy too soon.”

“You can’t take the bird. I’ll die without it.”

“Oh really?” said the woman. I truly expected it to be the other way around.”

“The bird is the only thing keeping me alive as far as I can tell.”

“I see now. A soul-raft.”

“A what?” asked Tula.

“Like a...vessel that carries a bit of your essence. That’s how you’re not dead even though you are missing what some may consider a vital piece of you.”

“M-my heart?”

“Yes sweetie. How exactly did that come about? You make a deal with this ol’ demon here and he switched your heart for a bird? Tch. Demons.”

“No! You’ve got it all wrong. My heart was stolen by a man!”

“Isn’t that the way of things.” the woman said.

“Not like that.” said Tula. “He ripped it out of me. Assaulted me and took what is MINE. Kokaibel was helping me retrieve it.”

The old woman looked down at the stuff of Kokaibel and back at the girl.

“Well,” she said, “be that as it may, he’s still a demon and needs to go.”

“I won’t let you destroy him!”

“Oh he isn’t going to be destroyed. Just stuck. Destruction of a demon is way above me. But I can keep him.”

“He’s been kept before.” said Tula.

“Has he? Kept by who?”

“Maegda...the Muck Witch.”

The woman dropped her spindle on the floor.

“How in the hells did you learn her name?”

“He told me.” said Tula, gesturing toward Kokaibel.

“You...” said the woman in shock. “You’re clever, I’ll give you that. But you won’t be tricking me twice. All this time I thought you were the victim. But dealing with demons, consorting with witches.”

“You’re the witch!” said Tula.

“I am no witch! I am a hierophant of Maj! A holy warrior. I slay witches!”

Tula had enough of this mad woman’s ravings. She reached for the spindle on the floor, but misjudged herself. Still woozy from exhaustion or the old woman’s magic, she fell on her face.

The woman stood up over her and reached behind her back. Suddenly in her hand the woman held a dazzling white sword that filled the room with light.

“In the name of the shaper I abjure you!” spoke the woman, “I cast you out and send you into the darkest pit!”

She brought the sword down and Tula barely managed to roll out of the way.

The old woman held her left hand out as if casting a spell while flourishing the blade.

“Your demon consort is no use to you! Your witch friend isn’t here. Now stand and be slain, you fiendish little bitch!”

Tula stumbled to her feet as the blade pierced through her blouse, dead center of her chest.

A searing pain tore through the girl’s chest and limbs like a bolt of lighting as the blade made contact with the cage where Tula’s heart once sat.

The bird fluttered behind the tiny bars of its cage as electricity crackled through the girl until it fed back into the sword. White bolts of galvanic energy poured into the silver metal blade in a climactic burst.

Tula and the hierophant of Maj blasted away from one another with deafening thunder and the smells of ozone and smoking flesh.

After a long while, Tula found her legs once more and stood on the shakiest of knees. The woman sprawled on the floor, dead, her eyes burned out of her skull. The silver sword at her side looked suddenly dull and lifeless.

“What just happened?” Tula asked out loud.

“Pig iron.” said the bird, pecking at the cage.