Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes
In the twenty years of my enslavement, I’ve never seen the gardens like this.
Always before they’ve been featureless shadows of nothing unless Elorata herself was present, concentrating her efforts to transform the landscape into formal topiaries, flowering shrubs, and stone-edged beds of bright blossoms.
Now, for the first time, I see what has been beneath those glamours all along—a huge, sprawling garden, not unlike those in her illusions. Only this one is entirely lost to ruin and decay. The few standing trees are gnarled with tumors, and the rest lie rotten from the inside out. Dead black petals cling to the once bountiful flowering shrubs, and the beds crawl with maggots. Everything stinks of death.
Brielle’s fingers squeeze my hand a little tighter. “She’s drawing in her power,” she says softly, speaking aloud what had already occurred to me. “She’s consolidating her magic. To use on us.”
I nod. But she already knows we’re here. We must keep going.
The house looms before us. As with the gardens, this is the first time I’ve ever seen it un-glamourized. I’m surprised by how huge it is. Or rather, was. An entire castle with turreted towers, all since crumbled to rubble. Only one small portion remains intact, what might once have been a secondary keep. Elorata has built all her illusions around the memory of grandeur.
“I wonder who lived here,” I murmur. “Back before, I mean.”
Brielle grunts. “I don’t like it.” She stops suddenly and pulls on my hand. “I don’t like just marching up to the door like this.”
I don’t either. We don’t have a plan. We never did, beyond simply getting through the gates. I don’t think either of us expected to make it this far. Now that we have, however, it seems a pity to waste the opportunity. But what can we do now, unarmed and un-magicked as we are?
“Our best bet is boldness,” I say. “That, and Elorata’s arrogance.”
Brielle nods. We continue forward, our footsteps steady, our heads high. We are a good many yards still from the front door of the little building when it opens.
Elorata Dorrel steps through, ducking her head under the lintel, then stands tall before us. Extremely tall—taller than I’ve ever seen her before. She towers like a giantess of old, a good eight feet or more. Now I know where all those glamours have gone. They wrap around her, creating a profound illusion of a strong, beautiful, terrible being, like an avenging angel. Her hair flows free about her shoulders, moving on its own like a living fire. Pure power simmers in the air around her and sparks from the depths of her eyes.
Eyes which fix solely on me.
“So, my love,” she says, her voice both crooning and cruel. “So, you betray me one last time. And the bitterest betrayal of all . . . with my own flesh and blood.”
I pull back my shoulders. “It’s over, Elorata,” I snarl. “This ends here, today.”
“Oh, is that what you think? The two of you, united in love, will here and now make your final stand against me?” She laughs, a silvery laugh that flits through the air like a song. “Have you any idea, children, how long I’ve been mistress of this wardship? How many foes have tried to wrest my power from me, how many have fallen beneath my hand? I am stronger than you can possibly imagine!”
Her words pierce me like arrows, knocking me back a step. But when I look at her again, it’s as though I can see through the glamours, through the image she projects, down to the frail old woman at her core. Too frail for what she’s attempting now. If she tries to keep all her magic contained inside her much longer, she’ll break to pieces.
I hope Brielle can see this too, can recognize our foe’s vulnerability.
Brielle . . . where is she? I turn, realizing that she’s slipped free of my hand and is carefully putting distance between us. A wise precaution, no doubt, though I feel the lack of her beside me. At least now if Elorata lashes out, she won’t take us both down at once.
And maybe I can keep the witch distracted.
“It’s all well and good to posture, old woman,” I say, letting the malice in my heart pour into my words. “But what are you really? Just a series of paper masks. Pretty enough, to be sure, but flimsy.”
Her beautiful face twists with rage. She lifts one hand and begins tracing a sign in the air, creating burning lines of red light out of nothing. Runes. She’s preparing a spell.
I must stop her.
I take three lunging strides forward but hit a barrier I could not see and rebound off it, landing hard on my back. Stunned.
“Dire!” Brielle cries, and takes a step or two my way before realizing her mistake. She’s drawn her grandmother’s gaze.
“Darling granddaughter,” Elorata says with another bell-like laugh, “are you so faithless that you would break our bargain? A solemn oath sworn by your own sister’s blood?”
“Our bargain was broken the moment you cursed me,” Brielle responds, turning on the witch, her eyes burning, her fists clenched. “If only I’d realized it sooner! You have no power over me. It was all just an illusion, but I see through it now!”
Granny’s teeth flash between her too-red lips. “Young people these days. Entirely without respect for their elders!”
She draws her arm back and hurls the magic she’s accumulated. It manifests as a flaming spear, burning crimson as it streaks straight at Brielle. But Brielle still has some of her catlike reflexes. She springs to one side, and the spear strikes the ground where she stood with a crack like thunder, leaving a smoking hole behind.
Brielle lands hard but is up and running the next instant, darting in among the ruinous walls of the fallen castle. Elorata’s attention is still on her. Which means I have a chance to get in close. Now, before she draws up another rune.
I rush at the witch, summoning all the remaining animal strength I possess. I leap straight at her, arms outstretched . . . but a sudden burst of raw magic knocks me back. Like a kite rising on a swelling breeze, Elorata rides the magic up into the air above us. A radiant red glow permeates her skin, making her glow like a star.
She looks down at me as I struggle to recover my bearings. Her eyes spark with red light. “Pitiful,” she sneers. “And here I once thought you so strong, so desirable!”
Her hand moves, tracing another burning rune in the air. The next instant, a second spear hurtles for my heart. I turn, but it catches me by the shoulder, piercing through flesh and bone. I cry out and fall to the ground, pain radiating through my body. There’s magic as well, burning magic, pulsing from the spearhead like poison into my veins.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brielle spring to the top of a pile of rubble. With a savage cry, she leaps. Somehow, she penetrates the storm of magic surrounding Elorata, and her arms wrap around the witch’s waist from behind. She looks like a child compared to this swollen, magically enlarged apparition, but she struggles fiercely, trying to climb up her grandmother’s torso, to reach her neck.
Laughing, Elorata twists and flings the girl off like a limp ragdoll. Brielle lands hard and lies stunned, staring up at the red-glowing witch.
“Foolish creature!” Elorata’s voice billows like fire from her lungs. “You are nothing. Nothing! A mere dilution of my blood. The true power is all mine. No one dares stand up to me, not the coven, not even your precious Mother Ulla. One day soon, I’ll take them all, crush them, turn them to my will. Then I will become the great Black Witch of the Wood, queen of all I survey!” Her smile flashes, full of devouring hatred. “But first things first . . .”
Her hand is already in motion. The rune is drawn; the spear manifests in her grip.
She draws her arm back, aiming at Brielle.
“No!” I cry and wrench the spear from my shoulder. With all the strength I have left to me, I leap to my feet and try to run. But the burning of her curse magic is too much. It brings me crashing to my face in the dirt.
I can’t fail Brielle. I can’t watch her die. I pull myself up onto my knees, summon all my will, and get to my feet. The world spins around me. I can’t run. I can only stand where I am, using everything I’ve got to stay upright.
Elorata turns, observing my feeble struggles. “Poor little monster.” She clucks and shakes her head sadly. “Still trying to play the hero? I’m afraid that’s not how your story ends, my sweet.”
She brandishes the spear. Then lets it go.
It speeds through the air, pierces my chest, strikes the ground behind me.
I stare down at the glowing shaft protruding through my ribcage. And I feel my shattered heart slow . . . slow . . . stop . . .