“How close to a wayportal is the site of the original disturbances?”
“Now there’s the rub. As far as I know there isn’t a portal for fifty leagues in any direction from where the trouble started.”
Junah pondered this. When the Mirror of Creation was shattered by the insane last lord of the Wayfarers, the ancient non-human race whose arcane technology constructed the portals and seeded them throughout the Regium, the fragments were dispersed via that very portal network. The slivers could lay dormant for centuries until a suitable host, human or otherwise, had the misfortune to stumble upon one and become ‘infected’ by it. Semi-sentient, the pieces of mirror migrated through the host’s nervous system to take control and carry out their polluted task. Rather than create and enhance, their purpose was now to destroy and diminish. Outbreaks of unprecedented violence within five leagues of a wayportal were invariably caused by an awakened sliver. Mirrorsmiths, aided by their wails – the only species known to be immune to the Mirror’s effects - were trained to track down then extract even the tiniest speck from a host and contain its malign energy.
Junah tipped his beer down his throat.
“I’ll need a volunteer to guide me to this village,” he said.
“Renn can go. He hails from that region.” The Prefect snorted at the less-than-enthusiastic expression on Junah’s face. “Don’t worry, he’ll behave.”
“I’m certain he will,” stated the other glumly, “but I was hoping for a more agreeable companion to while away the hours with!”
Later that night, before he retired, Junah reported back to the Guildhouse via his comm-crystal. It was barely noon on Vargo and his old friend, Teren Lemmick, was still on duty. When Junah expressed his puzzlement at the Prefect’s ruse to get an outrealm Mirrorsmith to Abilon but agreed to continue the mission despite his misgivings, Teren was dubious.
“I don’t like the sound of this, Junah. Shall I send you some back-up?”
Junah considered the offer.
“No, not yet but there are a couple of things I could do with.”
Teren snorted when Junah finished his request.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he promised, then added, “in the meantime, Junah, watch your back. If anyone’s going to bite your ass it’s me!”
#
Two days later, just after sunrise, an immense, leather-winged dacta spiralled out of the roseate clouds and set down in the middle of a desiccated field. After the dust settled, Junah and Renn unbuckled themselves from the reptile’s back and slid down onto the ground. The dacta screeched and rolled opal eyes impatiently while they unclipped their gear, its talons raking deep grooves into the brown earth. Junah tossed the fee for the ride up to the dacta’s handler.
“Return here at this time for the next three days. Wait for an hour then, if we don’t show, take off again,” he said. The dacta handler nodded and stowed the purse inside his jerkin.
“Guild Master Lemmick said he’ll see I get paid the rest regardless but I’ll be here, rely on that,” the man confirmed. He waited until Junah and Renn reached the edge of the field then tapped the dacta with a long goad. The reptile beat its wing membranes then launched skywards in a skirl of dirt. When the air cleared once more man and beast were already well out of sight.
Renn spat into the bushes.
“Come on, Matey, we’ve a long way to go yet.”
For the next few hours Junah and Renn tramped across open pasture and patchwork fields but, as the sun began to wester, the landscape altered dramatically. Coils of smoke marked where crops had been torched, or smouldered in the bowels of ravaged homesteads. Animals lay slaughtered in yard and paddock, oozing maggots or feasted on by carrion birds that squawked skywards at the men’s approach. Sissik, curled as ever round Junah’s neck, mewed her distress.
Junah and Sissik go home now, she pleaded. This a bad place.
Junah was in full agreement. He had been to some devastated areas before but this was the worst in many a year. He desperately wanted to return to Abilon and the safety of the wayportal but retreat was not an option, for him at least.
They had paused by a stream, hoping to refill their flasks, only to find it choked with the bloated corpses of sheep. Beside him, Renn cursed and kicked at the water. The Judicar was becoming more agitated as the miles passed, clearly affected by the sliver’s proximity. Junah reckoned that the centre of the discordance must lie quite close now.
“This is as far as you go,” he told the other. Renn growled.
“My orders are to get you to Ferivan and that’s what I’ll do.”
Junah shook his head. “No, you stay here. In fact, you should go back to that barn we ate our midday meal in, you’ll be safe enough there from Mirror Madness. Your task was to guide me to the source of the trouble and you’ve done that. If you go any further the chances are you’ll turn into a dribbling idiot and be of no use to anyone.”
“Don’t worry yer pretty head about me, Matey. I ain’t no weak-brained ninny like Prefect Yennik’s son. I can take care of mesel’.”
“I’m not being charitable, believe me. If I have to watch out for you I might end up spelled myself.” Junah stroked Sissik’s tail and the wail emitted a low purr. Renn’s eyes glazed over as deeper, sub-audible notes acted on his hypothalamus.
“Now,” said Junah, “do you walk back to that barn under your own steam or do I put you to sleep right here?”
“Damn tricksy shine-merchant!” the Judicar cursed. He sank to his knees, unable to control the urge to doze off. “I’ll go, bastard, but you’ll regret this, I promise yer!”
Sissik ceased her wailing and released him. Renn clambered to his feet, face redder than a dacta’s arse, then he stormed off without a backward glance. Junah was almost sorry to see him go, almost.
The sun’s dying rays bathed Ferivan in scarlet gore. It was a typical Abilonian fishing village. Dour stone-built houses perched precariously above the shingle beach on which a motley collection of smacks and wherries were marooned by the tide. Junah approached cautiously from the seaward side, using the boats as cover. He had already evaded several packs of feral villagers, their faces contorted with hatred for all that lived, their rags splattered with the blood of their prey. Junah was feeling the unsettling effects of the sliver’s influence himself but Sissik’s crooning protected him from the worst of it.
He moved stealthily from cot to cot, clinging to the twilight shadows as he searched for the source of the shouts and jeering that had drawn him to this place. Close to the village centre he spotted a two-storey house, with outside stairs that led up to a balcony. He darted up the steps and peered over the lip of the balustrade.
A baying mob surrounded two crazed combatants who were hacking at each other with cleavers. The ground was soaked, with blood, bowels and other matter, and the two men slipped and slithered in the visceral muck, both caked to the waist in the stuff. A renewed roar drowned the screams of one of the men when his hand flew from his wrist to land in front of a dead-eyed woman. Junah’s guts churned as he realised that the entire boundary of the crude arena was marked by mounds of severed limbs and bones. He ducked back down and closed his eyes. This was the vilest manifestation he had ever encountered. Little wonder the Prefect had not wanted to risk any more of his own people.
Sissik trembled on his shoulder and he could feel her little heart pounding. What are you? he chided himself. Man or worm? He suspected that this might prove far more than he could handle alone, despite his reputation. He scooped the wail from around his neck and sat her on his upraised knees.
You know we have to do this, Sissik. He stroked her between the ears. Just promise me that if you sense me leaving you, you’ll sing me to death’s sleep before the sliver takes me.
The wail’s nocturnal eyes were at their widest and he felt he would drown in their liquid brilliance.
Sissik knows what to do she told him but Junah strong, his
heart is good.
Junah unclipped her harness and extracted his Magister’s ring from the rucksack. It was forged with gold taken from the Great Mirror’s frame itself and was both symbol of his authority and a source of added protection. Sissik clambered back onto his shoulder, wrapped her tail firmly round his neck and prepared to wail.
The mob’s attention was fully focussed on the combat circle and they did not notice Junah’s approach. His body quivered as the sliver’s velvety vibrations caressed his skin but, as long as he stayed in contact with Sissik, his mind was shielded from their malignant effect. He activated the subcutaneous crystal at the base of his throat, which served to amplify the wail’s humming, and piercingly-clear sounds rippled out to counteract the sliver’s spell. Those nearest clutched at their ears and shrieked their dismay but were powerless to block the wail’s song. Others lumbered towards Junah, faces twisted with fury, hands ready to rip and tear. Sissik wailed and, like corn before the scythe, wave upon wave of men and women crumpled to the earth till, at the last, a single cursed soul remained upright.
Junah’s heart sank. It was a girl-child, perhaps ten years old. Tangled curls framed a pale face dominated by huge brown eyes. She was filthy, emaciated, but even from twenty feet away Junah could feel the alien anger within her. Pulses of hatred lashed his senses, striving to subvert his will.
Sissik’s song intensified and Junah sang too, the ancient, eldritch melodies of the Wayfarers, not meant for human voice. The music coiled about the child, forcing back the sliver’s corrupt resonance. The girl writhed and squirmed and great, molten tears smeared pathways down her cheeks.
Don’ hurt me, mister, please don’ hurt me, she begged.
Junah’s heart crystallised. He moved on leaden legs until he stood in front of her. She tried to cower away but Junah’s will restrained her and he embraced her with his words. Grace, life, joy battled hate, death, destruction and, little by little, the sliver’s malign aura retreated before the beauty of the song.
In desperation the sliver thrust out a spear of malevolence into its nearest thrall. The man rose up, a silent, deadly wraith, and swung his bloodied cleaver at Junah’s unprotected back. The air swooshed and a bloody ball rolled up against the child’s foot.
Crimson ichor from the severed head splattered Sissik’s fur. She shrieked, but not from despair.
“Told yer it wer’a bad idea to get rid o’ me,” Renn smirked and he sheathed his sword with a snick of defiance.
“I never claimed to be infallible,” Junah bantered back, then added, “thanks”.
A gob of spittle was his only reply.
Junah looked down at the child. With the last of its energy spent, and bound by the weave of Sissik’s song, the sliver seethed in impotent rage. Junah sent a prayer to the Mirrorsmiths’ patron spirit and plunged his own narrow, silver blade into the child’s heart. A primeval scream rent the air but the little girl had been dead from the moment she picked up the shiny glass from the seashore. Junah knelt beside her and summoned the sliver from the girl’s flesh. The shard of tainted mirror emerged from the wound at his command and immediately he cocooned it in silver wire to render it harmless for transport. Only when it was stowed in his silk-lined scrip did the tears come, for lives lost and innocence ruined by a mad lord’s spite.
#
Teren Lemmick held up the sliver in its silver cage between finger and thumb and shook his head in wonder at the size of it. It was by the far the biggest piece that had been recovered to date. An image of it filled an entire corner of the Desecrated Mirror’s frame in the Great Hall of the Guild. The frame’s interior was less than a third complete, however, highlighting the length of the task still to be done. Junah was resting, and undergoing compulsory psychotherapy, but rumours of his achievement were already reaching the proportions of legend. Updates from Prefect Yennick reported that the district around Ferivan was recovering; the land faster than the people. Over two thousand citizens had lost their lives and hundreds more were receiving memory healing. As ever, the Guild’s victory was bittersweet.
Lemmick replaced the sliver onto its silk cushion. It was scheduled for destruction at midnight, the prescribed time. Sometimes he wondered if they would ever locate all of the slivers or if the people of the Regium were doomed to live in fear as the price of their freedom to travel the worlds.
A chittering and scuffling in the tree outside his window drew Lemmick’s attention. Next moment Sissik and Goss, his own wail, tumbled into the chamber chasing after each other’s tails like pups and squabbling for possession of a pine cone.
Lemmick laughed until the tears came and washed away the mirror filth.
-------------------
*About the Author*
Dee Harrison was born in Nottingham, England and brought up on the tales of Robin Hood and nearby Sherwood Forest. From this grew an abiding love for myths and legends. Dee studied medieval history at Nottingham University and decided to create her own myths.
She is currently working on a new series featuring Junah Venmark, Master Mirrorsmith and has written this special short story for Fusion. Her debut novel, The Firelord’s Crown, book one in the Firelord’s Legacy series, is set to release September, 2013.
Diary of the Gone
by IVAN AMBERLAKE
Chapter 1
Entry #4
January 8
I step inside a Shadow. It’s a black-and-white movie with no sound. I watch those who have only a few moments to live. While the rest of the world passes by with blind eyes, I see them dying, screaming into silence, and I just stand and watch death taking them.
The Shadow lasts for only a few moments, and then the movie is over. Color fades in around me, but I know the people I saw will soon be dead.
The knock on the door made me wince, and the knife bit into my index finger. Blood trickled from the deep wound, leaving splotches over the counter.
That wasn’t the way my day should have begun.
“Son of a bitch!” I let go of the bread. The knife clattered into the sink.
Not to spill any more drops onto the kitchen counter, I put my finger into my mouth and sucked the blood voraciously. The coppery taste spread over my tongue, my empty stomach rumbling in displeasure.
The knock-knock-knock came again. The source of my severe cut and pain throbbing through my finger.
I crossed the small kitchen to the front door and wrenched at the handle to see my best friend Nathan standing on the porch.
“Ah, it’s you,” I mumbled, still feasting on my finger. “Come on in.”
Though Nathan and I were the same age, I had to raise my head a great deal to look into his blue eyes and at his lopsided smile.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Just cut my finger,” I said, my head swimming a bit. I’d never been fond of blood, let alone of my own.
Nathan followed me to the kitchen, where I returned to the counter with my lunch half ready and bloodstained.
“Mmm, looks yum,” he said, eyeing my ruined attempt at making a burger.
I scoffed, happy to see that the blood stopped dripping down my finger.
“Anyone home?” he asked, taking a seat on one of the stools.
“Nope. Out of town for the day.”
“Good,” Nathan said. “I want to show you something.”
“What is it?” I opened the freezer to get some frozen French fries, tore the pack open and poured some into a glass bowl.
Nathan knew how to pique my interest—well, more often than not whatever he had to show was terrific, but today I decided to stay cool not to give away my enthusiasm.
“Can’t tell you. And it’s not here.”
“Where is it?”
“In the Swamps,” he said as I put the bowl into the microwave oven and turned it on. Nathan picked up a leaf of lettuce next to him and started munching it, looking me right in the eye.
The Swamps. The least desirable place apart from the graveyard and th
e school I’d attended for nearly a month here in Olden Cross.
“Of course it’s in the Swamps. Can it be anywhere else?” I said, trying not to show my apprehension, but the casual nod he gave me was proof he knew how I felt.
“So you’re afraid of going there, Cal?” Nathan’s lopsided grin only became wider. “I wonder if you’re more scared of your mom or the Swamps? Or maybe it’s your sister?” He shoved the rest of the lettuce leaf into his mouth.
“What about my sister?” I demanded. “I’m not afraid of her. You know what? Let’s go. I only need to grab my parka.”
Nathan chuckled as I scooped the hot fries with a napkin. “Do you know you just owned to it?”
“To what?”
“That Mom and Bev scare the bejesus out of you.”
“Will you go to hell, Nate?” I said. “Are we going or not?”
“Sure.”
I put on my old dark-red parka, scooped the keys from the bowl, and we left.
The wind whistled its mournful song as purple skies loomed lower, grim and forbidding. From what I knew about Olden Cross, the skies were always like this here.
We trudged through the mush of fallen leaves for about a half hour, the ground a mosaic of vibrant red and yellow. Trees swayed their skeletal branches while sponge-like moss shriveled under my feet.
Now that we were approaching the Swamps, my cut finger started throbbing again.
As I took another step, icy water trickled into my new sneakers.
“Dammit!” I jerked my leg up, but the sneaker was already soaked.
“C’mon, Callum,” Nathan urged, rolling his eyes. “We’re nearly there.”
He still hadn’t told me what he wanted me to see. Did I have any other choice but to follow him? As we threaded our way through the darkening swamped forest, I wondered why I listened to him and went wherever he wished.
“How much farther are we going?” I asked.
He pointed ahead with his index finger. “It’s there.”
I hadn’t been to the forest very often during the day. I didn’t know why, but each time I approached it, goosebumps popped all over my arms and back, and today was no exception. My heart raced like mad, warning me that we’d encroached on someone else’s territory. Someone we shouldn’t disturb.