Flames of Awakening: Faemoch Cycle Book 1 (7 page)

"Then if I cannot have life, at
least I can rob you of your friend's." She raised her hands and chanted a
couple of short words in a bizarre language Jaxius didn't understand. Bergar,
chained to the rack, bucked and shuddered. Then the chains disappeared and the
young man fell to the floor. His skin immediately grayed, and his thick black
hair thinned before falling out. Bergar's thick body wasted, and his skin sagged
on his diminishing frame.

Jaxius dashed for the witch who was
turning to face Tolian. He grabbed hold of the
viortassi
blade and
ripped it upward, splitting the witch from her belly to her shoulder.

He looked at the two friends he had
just lost and slumped to the floor, ashamed that he had failed both.

Chapter
Eleven

There was no pain.  The relief
overcame him, so much so that he just lay there with his eyes squeezed shut.
Finally the witch's torments had ceased. He had burned from the inside out as
whatever magic she used to abuse him took hold. Now he felt no pain at all. In
fact, it was difficult to even say that he felt anything. But that did not
bother Bergar much at all as long as the hag's cruel dagger departed from his
flesh.

Bergar opened eyes that had just been
throbbing in agony and saw a great white expanse. He was no longer in the stone
room being tortured. He was alone.

Instinctively, Bergar knew what had
happened. The witch had not given up on her torture; his body had given up on
trying. He died.

Bergar wondered what the next step
would be. Would he see his father or uncle again? What about his mother and
little sister? Where would his soul spend the afterlife? He had feared and
respected the gods. Not a religious fanatic, but reverent nonetheless. But was
that enough? Would he live forever in the rolling fields of Glaochana? Or had
he failed in some way and would now spend forever cursed and tortured by
demons? Where was he? A place of judgment? Or was this his eternity, nothing at
all?

As if in response to his questioning,
a light shone brightly from far above him. He noticed the clouds parting and
rays of sunshine spilling through. In the distance the white nothingness took
form and colored green. He made out trees and hillsides covered in verdant
grasses. The wilderness grew and opened toward him.

Satisfied now that he had done well
in his life, the young warrior took a step forward.

My faithful Bergar, son of Grundar,
son of Hundar. I welcome you.
A clear, deep, manly voice came to him from everywhere at
once.
You have done we...

No,
a female voice cut in.
This one is mine. This was
my ritual and I have rights to the soul.

He has been faithful to my ways,
the man returned.

Rules are rules though,
the sultry female voice said.

The growing forest and the warm,
welcoming light shrank back and faded, and Bergar's vision was filled with a
roiling black smoke. His eyes watered, and his lungs burned as he inhaled
noxious fumes. The stench of rot was sickening. Every pain that the witch inflicted
on him and more came screaming back. Bergar doubled over and fell to his knees
in excruciating agony.

Glowing red eyes cut the black fog.
Walking slowly toward him, Bergar could see the smooth flowing curves of a
voluptuous woman. Not a displeasing woman, either, by the sight. Her skin was
ash gray, but not revolting. Her full lips accentuated her perfect face. Her
simple clothing covered just enough to keep to the barest of modesty, but not
so much as to really conceal anything. She walked right up to him, placed a
single finger between his shoulder blades, and pushed his face to the inky
ground.

"This is the proper
position," she said aloud. "Do you know who I am, mortal?"

"Carwyn, the Unworthy,"
Bergar referred to her by her derogatory name.

Her finger nail broke through the
skin of his back and sliced a gaping hole from shoulder to shoulder.

A guttural scream of pain exploded
from Bergar's mouth.

"Carwyn, yes. Unworthy...?"
She laughed heartily. Her finger twitched with every heave of her chest as she
laughed.

Sweat formed on Bergar's brow, and he
shuddered from the pain.

She finally stopped laughing and
removed her finger from his back, much to Bergar's relief. "Foolish, weak
… thing. I am Carwyn, the Lost Bride. I am Carwyn, the Spurned. Carwyn, the
Cruel, I will even allow. But I am not Carwyn, the Unworthy. These are all but
names. Do you know who I am? What I am?"

"Y... you are the Queen of the
Unnatural. You bring abominations into the world."

"Precisely. But what you call
abomination, I merely call change. I am the Mistress of Change." She began
circling him as they talked, smoke coiling around her legs like a serpent on a
branch. "I ensure that the world remains interesting, and when it gets
boring, I correct it."

"Heh. Interesting? All you do is
cause trouble. Those what follow you fear and hate you like everyone else.
'Cept they got the wrong amounts of fear and hate," the defiant Bergar
snarled at the goddess.

"Silence will be maintained in
my domain," Carwyn demanded, and his lips were no more. His mouth fused
shut. Bergar was forced to breathe the loathsome air through his nose. The
stench was nearly unbearable.

"Now, I have interceded because
my witch failed to do what she was told. Really, I am not irritated with her.
Don't misunderstand me. She must be punished for her utter failure, but I do
not think it will last for more than an eternity. But, because she did fail, I
have to make certain judgments. Aren't you interested to find out what
decisions I have to make concerning you?"

She paused as if to let him answer
and then smiled evilly when he couldn't open his mouth.

"On the one hand," she
continued, "I could use you. Or, I could release you to enjoy the chaos
that will be created. I have decided to force ... let ... you make that choice
for me."

She grabbed Bergar's head by the hair
and snapped it up. Bergar was transported back to the small room at the top of
the stone tower. Jaxius knelt in the middle of the destroyed room, tears
cascading down his cheeks. Bergar's own body lay desiccated in the
blood-covered floor. And Tolian lay crumpled near the door, not breathing.

"Look. See the scene we have
laid out before us. Your friends have defeated my creature. She was but one of
a great many. A calculated risk taken, granting me the opportunity to collect
the prize that I have before me."

She licked her luscious lips as she
watched Jaxius grieving for his lost companions.

"He is special, you know. I
shall not tell you how or why, of course. But know that he is very special
indeed. But I offer you a choice today. It will not be a good or fair choice,
but you have more alternatives than most other mortals receive here.

"You can go back to the world of
the living. Have your body back, with my blessings, and live."

Bergar raised an eyebrow, not
trusting the dark goddess.

"You are correct to assume that
it is not as plain as all that. You may re-enter your body. Just. As. It. Is.
You can have eternal life and freedom. However, your body is rotting quickly
thanks to the final spell my witch cast upon you, just before you left the
mortal realm.

"The other option," she
grinned a toothy grin, "is to enter your almost dead friend's body.
Inhabit the same body. Share all with the bard and live out the blissfully
chaotic life that you must live.

"The choice is yours, Bergar,
eternal life in service to a queen and High Goddess. Or, you can live a half
life with a pathetic storyteller. Which is it, then?"

She paused. This time it was her turn
to cock an eyebrow, but not from distrust.

Bergar's mind raced. At first he
thought the decision would be easy. Surely Tolian could stand to have a little
bit of manhood in his head. But the more he thought, the more he pondered how
weak he would be. And how he would lose his own identity. He would no longer be
heir to the clan-head. His father would not know him.

However, if he chose to live as a
walking corpse, then his people would surely not accept him. Moreover, they
would most likely kill him. That is, if Jaxius didn't slay him where he rose. Undead
abominations were just that ... abominations. That was his answer, though. The
release of well and truly dying. He could choose that path and be slain to
return to his proper life after death.

"I know what you are thinking.
You are thinking that you will just get yourself killed again, so that you can
go back to that 'happier' place. The one with the forests and animal droppings.
Well, let me explain to you another bit of information. If you die as an
'abomination,' as you call it, then you are mine. Forever."

Never. He would never spend eternity
being tormented by this foul witch. He would choose to invade Tolian's body and
share it with him. A half life with the prospect of finding a way out of this
mess was better than eternity under this one's heel. And surely the bard
wouldn't mind. It would fuel his stories for years.

"I choose to share my friend's
body," Bergar said slowly, surprised to find his lips once again in place.

"Very well," she said
smiling. "Off you go. I shall certainly enjoy watching this!"

She lifted Bergar up by his jaw from
the ground until he was face to face with her. Her red eyes blazed brightly,
and Bergar squinted to see. Finally the blinding red light engulfed all of his
vision, and he was forced to close his eyes. He disappeared from her grip with
a small pop.

That was not much like you.
The male voice filled the void where
Bergar had just been.

"No? Wait to see what glorious
chaos comes from this. Then tell me that this wasn't like me at all."

Put that way, I see. But what if he
finds a way to thwart your little game?

"That stupid brute? He will slow
the wits of the bard and make his companions appear inept. That's the best that
he could do. It will be most magnificent! Wait and see, old lover. Wait and
see."

Bergar opened his eyes to see his own
body sprawled across the room. Jaxius was between Tolian and his body, sobbing.
All new pains erupted throughout his consciousness. He had at least two broken
ribs, and his nose was splayed across his face. But he was alive, of a sort.

Chapter
Twelve

Aportus was usually grateful for the
soft leather pads at the bottoms of his servant shoes. They allowed him to come
and go silently while fulfilling his master's many demands. At this particular
time, he experienced an unfortunate byproduct of that trained silence. Obedient
to the end, however, he simply smoothed his black jerkin and inspected his
sleeves closely as he patiently waited. He dared not make even the slightest
noise. His master was known to sometimes ignore a waiting servant for over a
candle-mark while he worked through some issue or another.

Lesser servants would attempt to
politely clear their throats or even speak their presence, but not Aportus. He
would never dream of insulting his master so. That is why he had outlived many
of his master's servants. Not that he didn't have ambition. Quite the contrary.
He was perhaps the most ambitious of all the servants in the manor house. Maybe
even the world. Aportus knew the secrets to being the best servant possible.
All of his painfully learned lessons boiled down to one simple maxim: know your
master better than you know yourself.

And Aportus knew his master. He knew
that his master was a creature of extreme habit. He knew that his master was
ludicrously powerful. He knew every taste that his master craved and every
smell that he loved. He could tell his master's mood before his master moved or
said anything. He had known for some time that his master may one day rule the
known world.  He knew that to interrupt even his master's thoughts was worthy
of death. But what he did not know was what his master looked like.

He had never seen his master's face.
Or hands. Or any other part of his master's flesh. During every encounter with
the man, Aportus only saw him in shadow and fully covered from head to toe with
blackest of black silks or ebony leather.

Aportus had almost always considered
himself to be the very best servant that anyone could find in all the empires
of the world. His lot had not always been as spectacular as it was now. Shortly
after his tutelage finished, he was forced to settle for a house of an almost
unacceptably low station. The portly matriarch was petty and spiteful. The
patriarch was a slovenly ingrate. Even their children learned to complain
before they ever learned to walk. They considered Aportus, himself, one of the
common slaves of the home, even though he was technically free to come and go
as he desired. When he was paid, it was usually much less than the pittance
they had agreed upon. For years, this went on. Aportus had absolutely loathed
his life.

Then, everything changed. His current
master had come to his bedchambers in the dead of night and offered him wealth
beyond measure for his servitude. Aportus quickly agreed. Surely, anything
would be better than the insulting conditions that he was forced to endure day
in and day out. And so, he laughed to himself as he packed his things,
listening to the death cries of his former employers.

And so he found himself standing
patiently and silently waiting to learn the orders that his newest master would
have for him. He would remain like this for as long as his employer deemed
necessary. He did not abide because his master paid him precisely on time as
arranged. Nor did he wait because the amount that he was paid made him, in
fact, more wealthy than most lords and ladies of the land. Not even out of fear
did he wait. No, he remained because he respected his master, and to respect
one's master meant that you simply did what was asked of you, no matter how
difficult.

"Ah, I see you are here.
Good," his master said, not even turning to face Aportus. "I would
like for you to prepare and deliver a message for me. I want every member of
our little council to arrive at the circle of stones at Pecua in precisely
three weeks. We have much to discuss. Be sure to impress upon them the
importance of punctuality for this meeting. I do so hate having to wait."

Aportus nodded. He turned and took
several steps toward the door.

"Oh, and have someone come and
clean this mess."

Aportus turned and noticed the
speckles of glass glinting brightly on the carpeted floor where the master's
ornate mirror had been.

"Yes, sir."

"I would hate for anyone to get
... hurt."