Fire Witch
Authors: Thea Atkinson
Fire Witch
Copyright 2015 Thea Atkinson
All rights reserved
Published by Thea Atkinson
No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form electronic or otherwise without permission from the author.
Witches of Etlantium series and all related characters and elements are copyrighted to Thea Atkinson.
All rights reserved.
Get
a FREE starter library
:
Subscribe to Thea Reads
.
<<<>>>
Aislin felt her heart pounding against her ribs, trying to rouse her and free her from the tethers of fear. The smell of scorched flesh clawed into her nostrils, heightening the sense of panic that skewered her bowels. Another nightmare; it had to be. Just one more smoke-riddled dream where she suffered beneath a shroud of linen, each breath taking in lungfuls of spiced oils and char, bound so tightly she could barely whisper for help.
This one was far worse. While those visions grew from a night-addled mind, weaving tales that dissipated with the coming of dawn, this one just grew stronger, gained frightening clarity as she fought for consciousness. Even as she opened her eyes, belly flattened against her mattress, she knew it was no dream. Something was wrong.
Memory overlaid sickeningly with the present as she raced through the great house, frantically searching for sight of her sister, her mother, anyone. Barefoot, clad in her night shift with her hair still plaited and tucked beneath a kerchief she checked each room, forcing herself to slow her breathing, pay attention to detail, hoping all the while her senses were being tricked by a waking nightmare.
No one had entered the building, that much was certain. Everything was in its place, the fire still crackled happily and it's hearth. Someone had laid out bread and cheese.
She bolted for the door.
The marauders could have come just as the sun winked over the horizon, slipping through
huts and houses alike with the spectral presence of shadows. It was how they worked: get in, find the
weak spots and the best of the horses, sometimes a woman or two, or children for slaves, and then raze the place to the ground, leaving no one to mourn or fight for the pilfered trophies.
At least, those were the stories, made true by dozens of villages over dozens of years until it became a commonplace threat told to the sentries who guarded each town in the hopes of setting off warnings to protect those within. Sometimes it worked; most times, the measures were a temporary reprieve at best. Villages several days away no longer existed, or came to a budding life only to suffer annihilation by hordes that were stronger, and they in turn suffered at the hands of the even more powerful.
Yet, Aislin's own village hadn't been touched since she'd been seven seasons old. She remembered the sounds of screaming and horses keening in their stables. The unmistakable scent of smoke had pulled her from her bed that morning, and if she gave the memory permission to enter her mind, she could still feel the shiver of fear goose-fleshing her skin. That was all she remembered, though. Her village still stood as testament to the fact that whatever fires had leapt to life that day, had been set by her own mother, and the men who dared attempt such atrocity had been the kindling used to spark the memory of it for any who might dare violate her town again.
Even so, fire a dozen seasons old inevitably turns to ash and then to a mere plume of smoke destined to disperse in the summer air. The memory of it and the witch who set it alight becomes an event lost on the newness of men. And men, when new, have no need of memories, putting their faith instead in their own prowess rather than the tales of elders to guide them through their generation.
It was inevitable that the insulation wouldn't last.
Indeed, the sun had just lifted itself over the eastern wall. She might as well have been seven again as she watched women and children being rousted from their sleepy homes, racing through the square, trying to avoid capture, their water buckets left abandoned on their sides and spilling water across the well-trod earth. Chickens and geese squawked at the paws of dogs unheeded by their masters.
This time, she wasn't a child of seven and while the fear still prickled her neck, this time she knew her mother would remind these infidels of the consequences of invasion.
She could almost feel relief wash over her. Let them suffer her mother's wrath. They'd give credence to the tales soon enough, those who might survive and escape. And should another generation of new men decide it was again time to take what didn't belong to them, she would be the temptress of flame in her own right. Given her full power. As capable of instilling fear as any temptress before her as she commanded the flame to do her bidding.
She crept to the yard and froze next to the well, scanning the chaos to pick out her mother as she walked calmy, almost coldly, through the frenzy, pointing a finger as she went, using her power to set aflame each marauder she encountered. The stink of burning hair wafted across the breeze, carried by the sound of each victim's screams. One old man, too doddering to get out of the way in time caught his sleeve on the flame from a still-blazing invader, and with an almost callous shove, Indiris forced the elder to the ground, and sent him rolling with her foot. A middle-aged woman, probably his daughter, raced to his side and beat out the flames with her skirt. Already moved on, Indiris cornered an invader who gripped a prepubescent teen by her hair.
Aislin let go a sigh of relief as she gripped the lip of the well. Everything would be all right. Her mother had everything in hand, and all she had to do was stay out of the way and make sure everyone she could help was safe.
She scanned to the left, doing her best to maintain her composure in the face of the chaos. Several children hid beneath a hay wagon, unnoticed by a large intruder striding past, his sword extracted and slicing this way and that as a means of warding off any of the men who came at him. He wore lightweight leathers and soft-soled boots and he seemed more bent on inspecting the village than stealing women and horses. His armbands glinted in the early morning sunlight, blinding her for a second until she had to cover her eyes with her hand.
Unlike many of the invaders, he seemed almost casual in his movements, not bothering with any of the young women that streaked past him. His gaze swung from left to right, his sword slicing into whoever came at him. At least three village men died his hand when they went after him with clubs and pitchforks. So ill-equipped for such violence. Although she had faith in her mother's power, she couldn't help but feel regret at Indiris's choices. When her time came, she'd make sure her people were prepared, not suffering the consequences of complacency like they were doing now.
When she scanned to the right, she saw a similar scene, another marauder dressed the same, acting just as preoccupied. Either they didn't care about their comrades who were being sent to a howling flamed death or they'd been prepared to die before they breeched the walls.
One thing was certain: this was not like the time when she was seven. In an instant, she knew her mother would not be able to keep the entire village safe. It had grown too large for one witch to protect, and there were far too many, too committed marauders. Indiris was powerful, yes, but she was still just one witch and her powers had begun to wane as she aged. If she had just given Aislin one sacred mark, she could be there beside her mother, taking down those who would dare to pillage though she loved. But that wasn't the case.
For whatever reason, Indiris refused to name Aislin as the rightful temptress of flame. Instead her mother marked an old man as her protector and a prepubescent child as her blood witch, leaving her first born waiting impatiently for the passing of power. Sometimes she could feel it swelling within her breast, racing through her tissues with the promise of supremacy. But it always stopped just short of blooming, and she knew the reason was because she should have been marked as a babe. The power was stunted within her, and so her dreams grew ever stronger, threatening to overtake her body because it had no way to release itself. Yet Indiris didn't care. And Aislin hated her for it.
She skirted the well, thinking her mother was no doubt regretting that choice as wave after wave of invaders ran at her and fell screaming to their deaths in a flaming lump. Of coarse her mother was prevailing, but no doubt there are others in the village less fortunate. If she could weave through the chaos to get to the armory, she might be able to help the strongest of the men. She wasn't exactly a trained warrior but she knew there were swords in there as well as crossbows and quivers. The blacksmith who lived next to the armory had taken a shine to Aislin during the short time he had courted her mother, and in an effort to win her favor had shown Aislin how to wield a sword. He'd been no warrior, either, but he'd understood the dance of balance and the power of weight.
Even now, she could see that her mother's Arm of Protection, a rotund man just past his prime, was struggling against four of the invaders. She could hear her mother's cold voice as she demanded an invader step aside while he was still alive or burn beneath her fingers within a dozen heartbeats.
The distinct sound of a man's agonized shriek cut through the rest of the din and Aislin was vaguely aware that it emanated from her mother's direction. One of the marauders had evidently pumped out his dozenth heartbeat.
She tried to swallow down her fear and disgust, but her mouth had dried up like the burnt lands she heard about in folklore. She just had to keep going. Weave past the children crying for their mothers, the old women fleeing toward the walls, hoping to escape unnoticed. Some of the younger men had already fallen, too poorly trained to be of use against professional invaders. Everywhere she ran, her bare feet encountered blood and filth. But at least she still ran. She could make it. She saw the door yawning open.
A scream sent a shiver over her flesh, informing her rational mind the way only a body could. Danger. Grief creeping toward her like winter, certain and dark and all encompassing. Her tissues responded in kind, powering her muscles before she could work out possibilities or select an option. She knew the owner of that voice so well that hearing it made her mouth go dry and her knees buckle.
Kasia. Urgent and terrified.
She sent out a trilling, anxious probe for her sister and heard another shriek in response. But the crowds, the noise: The din of screaming made it hard to pinpoint where one small shriek might have originated. Aislin scanned the chaos, trying to filter through the blur of clothing and leather and metal that streaked across her vision. She lurched forward, pushing past a marauder who had hefted a young boy onto his shoulder.
There. Just past a flock of geese squabbling over a thin path to safety, beyond two burly invaders fighting over a horse. Slim arms slung around the balustrade of the vacant archers' platform, her tattoos standing out vividly against the skin of her shoulder. The girl resisted the pull of a leather-clad marauder who hung onto her with one hand as he fought off two other warriors who seemed to think that the ginger-haired girl was a possession to be taken.
It was all she needed to force Aislin's feet into a headlong rush at the trio, skidding to a stop a few paces away.
She inhaled all the breath she could, trying to force it to run down her legs to fuel her muscles. She willed herself to look commanding, drawing from the countless memories of her mother's judgments. Then she shouted. No matter that it squeaked.
"Let her go."
The first man, with his fingers still clenching Kasia's tender biceps and his other gripping the handle of the sword, swung the blade in a downward thrust as the man next to him, a heavily bearded and bare-chested ruffian, tried to pull her from the other side. The weight of the sword's descent was enough to send the blade inches into the second's man's shoulder, effectively dropping him to his knees. The next movement was a quick and messy end of him with a brutal one-handed swing to the neck. Head and body separated and fell almost simultaneously to the ground.
Aislin would have felt relief except that leathered swordsman swung his gaze directly toward her, pinning her feet to the ground with the ferocity she saw within it. He might have been a handsome man but for the feral angle to his jaw.
