Kzine Issue 2 Page 5

  “What the..?” said the bald giant exposed by his unmasking. “Where-” She darted in. Her sword chopped into his neck. His head bounced over the side of the pyramid, disappearing from sight.

  “Clara!” Tristan said, running to her side. “Are you all right?”

  Staring at the chasm left in the floor by her own shriek, she nodded weakly. The cheering of their allies below, she hardly paid mind. “Well, I don’t appear to be dying anymore. But how did I do… whatever that was?”

  He checked the wound in her gut to find it no longer bled. “In any case, I’m glad you survived. As for everything else, we’ll have to ask someone more knowledgeable than me.” Taking Damnarg’s helm from her unthinking grasp, he led her from the battlefield.

  *

  Clara awoke in her tent, groggily raising herself to a sitting position. “You’re up,” Tristan said with relief. “You had me worried the way you fainted after getting here.”

  “I just suddenly had no strength.” That, and she didn’t want to deal with anything else considering her own issues. She was glad to have missed what must have been a festive celebration, as she’d been in no mood for it. “Did you ask Francis about me yet?”

  “Yes, but he said he needed to see you to make a judgment. I figured it’d be safer to wait until you were better.”

  “I’m all right now. Let’s go.”

  They headed across the army camp, dense and noisy as men packed to leave. Arriving at the wizard’s tent, Clara took in the smell of rich stew and smoked meat. They entered to find the pudgy young mage waiting for his pot of stew to cool.

  “Clara! What is this business you want to see me about? You survived getting stabbed? Maybe your wound wasn’t really that bad, and you just rallied yourself after the initial scare.”

  She sat beside him, the stew’s warmth welcome after a trip through the cold outdoor air. “When I first managed to get up, I thought it might just be my own strength too. But then when I fought Damnarg, I screamed his magic away and blew a hole in the floor! That can’t be mere willpower.”

  “And you saw this too?” he asked Tristan. He nodded. “Well, maybe you’ve latent powers you didn’t know about. Your mother was an earth wizard, exposure to magic in the womb can do that sometimes.”

  “Never before, though,” Clara said. “I’ve been put in mortal danger many times, and nothing like this has ever manifested.”

  “All right, I’ll do a quick test and see if I can detect any magical energies from you right now. Ready?”

  She agreed, and he placed a hand on her forehead. She tensed in anticipation of possible discomfort, but none came. Almost as soon as he’d touched her skin, he broke contact again.

  “I sense no magic within you,” he said.

  “What? But how can that be? There’s no other explanation for it!”

  “Maybe you do have magic, but it’s too well hidden for a mage of my skills. Though, I am pretty good… Or, perhaps someone could have been helping you.”

  “Who? No one among our allies had the power to stand up to Damnarg.”

  “I don’t know.” With a shrug, Francis spooned portions of stew into separate bowls. “Here, have some stew. By the way, Tristan, do you still have Damnarg’s helmet? It might be good for me to study its mystical properties, too.”

  *

  Clara left with Tristan, belly full but disappointed at the lack of insight she had gained. By now, many of the tents around camp had been stripped down to pole skeletons if not completely dismantled. “Why won’t Francis take this seriously?” she asked. “It really worries me.”

  Tristan patted her shoulder. “Relax, will you? You just killed the dark lord and survived a mortal wound. Surely that should affect your outlook for the better rather than the worse.”

  “I suppose. Just the fact I don’t know how I did those things makes me uneasy.”

  Morris, burly captain of the heavy calvary, stepped into their path. “Clara! Ready for a hero’s welcome when we get home? I wager they’ll have many questions for you.”

  She looked away. “I hope not. All I want to do, is return to my duties as the Holy Mother’s bodyguard like before.”

  “I wonder what’ll become of this place now that its ruler’s gone,” Morris said. “If my opinion has any weight, I’ll make sure it goes to good use for us and our people.”

  Kill him, a gravely voice whispered in Clara’s head. She felt a surge of energy welling up inside her, but this time it gave her a chill.

  “What?” she asked, vaguely aware of the men’s puzzled expressions at her. “Why?”

  He is a creature of darkness and threatens our future. Tell them that and you will be excused.

  Darkness? It can’t be! I trust Morris, we’ve fought many battles together. Wait, ‘our’ future? Whose future?”

  Then we will act for you. The energy building inside her focused in her arm, which lashed out against her will. Propelled with more strength than even she normally had, her hand smashed through Morris’ ribs and into his chest. His eyes bulged, blood foamed at his lips.

  “No, I don’t want to!” she said, grabbing at her wrist with her free hand. She felt her possessed fingers close, and the muscles of her arm tense to retract. It meant to rip out Morris’ heart!

  With no time to think, Clara made a choice. “Clara, what..?” Tristan asked, as she drew her sword and brought it down.

  She and Morris fell away from one another, her hand still buried in his chest. Moaning with agony, she sat cradling the stump of her severed wrist. “H-help… Morris first,” she gasped. “I can wait.”

  *

  Sometime later, Morris had been stabilized by the healers and lay sleeping in bed. Meanwhile, Clara sat wincing while her hand was tied back on and infused with magic to reattach it. “What was that?” Tristan asked, eyes full of confusion and fear. “It looked like you tried to kill him, but then you saved him from yourself?”

  “I couldn’t control my arm. It filled with extra power, like my body did when we fought Damnarg, only I heard voices too. They told me to kill Morris, and when I refused… they tried to make me.”

  Beside her husband, Francis frowned. “It sounds like something must have possessed you, which would explain why I didn’t detect any magic when they weren’t doing so. But who would help you kill Damnarg, yet turn you against your allies afterward?”

  “Maybe someone who felt this land belonged to them,” Tristan said, “and didn’t want Damnarg to have it. But they don’t want us to have it, either.”

  Clara exhaled. “That would explain why they attacked Morris after he mentioned wanting to use the land. See, Tristan? When they’d just helped us against Damnarg, it seemed like a good thing. But now what am I supposed to do?”

  Francis took on a thoughtful look, grinned and put on Damnarg’s helm. In a deep, ominous voice he began, “Begone, evil spirits, leave this woman be at once! Or else you will face the wrath of I, Damnarg.”

  “Not funny,” Clara said.

  “Huh. Whoever it is didn’t want to confront Damnarg in person, either that or they did and proved no match for him. So intimidating them might have been worth a try.”

  Annoying fool someone said.

  Clara felt power fill her good arm and grasped it with the weak just-healed hand, trying desperately to hold it still. “Grab me, Tristan! Before I hurt Francis!”

  He reached towards her, his features scared. Her rebellious arm swung around in a clumsy but powerful blow, clubbing him aside. “Defend yourself!” she told Francis as the arm dragged her forward against her will. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Backing away, he raised his hands and averted his gaze before chanting a spell. The gust of flame he conjured singed her lead shoulder, but did not slow her involuntary advance. “Hit me harder!”

  The lightning bolt that followed sent her flying out of the medical tent and rolling down a nearby slope. Coming to rest on her belly, she lay there smoking and limp.

  �
��Clara!” Tristan said, running down to her. “Clara, say something!”

  “I’m alive,” she rasped weakly, her breath smoky. Her hands slid aimlessly about on the ground for a bit, then he helped her to her knees. “Seems they can only take control for a limited time.”

  “We can’t let this go on. If we keep having to hurt you every time they try something, you’ll die.”

  “Is she all right?” Francis asked meekly from above. When Tristan nodded, he started down with care.

  “I don’t think they’ll let me be killed if they can,” she said. Tristan held her, trying his best to comfort her wounded body. “They seem pretty insistent on having me for their host, whether by choice or if they can’t switch. But how do we stop them?”

  Francis shook his head. “I really don’t know. If they’re tied to this land, maybe leaving it will put you out of their reach? So it might be best just to go like we’re already planning.”

  “The simplest solution may be the best. Though, we might have to keep me apart from everyone else until we’re in the clear.”

  *

  The army marched westward home, Clara locked in a metal cage atop a wagon surrounded by heavily armed guards. Quite ironic, to go from being the big hero of the day to this. Despite the sturdiness of her prison, she wondered if the hinges could hold up to the full fury of her possessed self.

  “You’ll be all right,” Tristan reassured her, holding her hand through the bars. “We’re almost home free.”

  Almost, but it could take only seconds for the situation to change. She sat waiting as she watched peeling birches pass by along the stark mountain road, not sure what she waited for. How would she know when she was safe? She had no idea how long it would take without an outburst for her to stop living in fear.

  She found herself staring at the back of her outstretched hands. Odd. She wasn’t much of a vain woman, especially considering how rough and banged up her hands were. Then she noticed beyond them, the roots growing at abnormal speed out of the ground.

  “Look out!” she shouted, just before the roots shot in to her cage like snakes. Men dove aside and horses fell as woody tendrils coiled around the bars. Tristan rose to hack at them, but there were too many for him to handle all at once. The spirits, or whatever they were, had used her to work their magic without her knowing it? A terrifying thought, but she knew it to be true.

  When soldiers attempted to fight off the swarming vegetation, it fought back, snapping forward to spear men through the faces and throats. Other roots and vines looped their way around their chosen victims, strangling them while continuing on towards Clara’s cage. Despite her wishes she could not lower her hands, and realized the plants were still being controlled through her body.

  “Why can’t you leave me alone? What did we do to you?”

  Nothing. This is about what you will do. This is our home. We will not allow anyone to take it from us.

  All around her, allies continued to die. Tristan struggled against a wavelike mass of tendrils threatening to swallow the wagon, and her cage creaked under the pulling of the roots.

  “I don’t know who you are,” Clara said, “and I don’t care. I won’t let you use me to hurt my friends!” With that she rammed her head into the metal cage, knocking herself unconscious.

  *

  She fell slowly through thick, enveloping darkness, until at last she came to rest on a surface she could not distinguish from anything else. It was impossible to see how far or near the limits of her surroundings stretched.

  “This can’t be real,” she said. “Where am I?”

  You are inside the place you should know best, your own mind. Unfortunately, it is not your realm anymore.

  Thick vines shot in from unseen points, ensnaring Clara about the limbs. She struggled, but found it no use as she was lifted up and suspended in midair. Tears wet her eyes, not so much for fear of her foes as for a strange world whose rules she failed to comprehend.

  “Damn you! Who are you? What are you?”

  A great hulking mass lurched into view, like an incredibly stocky man bigger than a house made of soil and roots. No facial features could be seen upon it, save for short-lived mouths which seemed to appear and vanish at random all over its form.

  “We are the gods of the earth,” it rumbled in an ever-changing number of voices, “who have endured the violation of man for too long. No longer will we suffer your intrusion upon our flesh.”

  Damnarg’s dark magics had ruined the eastern lands, turning once vibrant forests and fields into barren wastes. “But we’re not the ones who did that to you. We’re already leaving!”

  “Do you think a land left without a master, will remain so for long? You heard what your friend said. But if none of you come home, perhaps it will discourage your people from moving in a little longer.”

  “You really do want to kill all of us,” Clara breathed. Her fists clenched in impotent rage. “You call yourselves gods? You’re monsters!”

  Its voice was unmoved. “Not all of you. You shall live. We will use your body to purge this land of the pests who already live here, and guard our domain for eternity.”

  “No, you won’t!” she said desperately. “When I wake up, I… I’ll kill myself!”

  “When you wake up? What makes you think you ever will?” The thing sneered. “And do you think just because you are unconscious, that we are too? Even as we speak,” it revealed to Clara’s gasp of shock, “your body is killing your friends right now.”

  *

  The roots had torn apart the once-solid cage and Clara stood with her hands out, directing the plants to continue their carnage against her former allies. They fought valiantly, carpeting the ground with severed vegetable matter, but always more came.

  “Tristan,” Morris shouted to her husband slashing away from the side of their wagon, “you have to stop her! It’s the only way!”

  “No!” he snapped, shaking his head. “How can you ask me to do that? She’s my wife!”

  Morris sliced through a cluster of reaching vines, grimaced clutching at his not fully healed chest wound. “If you don’t do it, we all die! Do you think Clara would want to live on as a slave?”

  Tristan edged nearer his wife, but lowered his sword. “I won’t kill you,” he mumbled. “There has to be another way.” After all he was the closest opponent to her, and she hadn’t targeted him over the others. That had to mean she was still in there somewhere, right? Deciding to gamble all on their love, he acted. He held his sword out to the side and rushed, tackling her off the wagon.

  “Clara,” he begged atop her, “wake up.” He smothered her lips with a hasty kiss, hoping to rouse her spirit. “Fight it, I know you can win!”

  Roots sprang from the earth, attempting to wrap about her. Tristan jumped back instinctively and she stood, encased in a growing plant cocoon.

  “You soft-hearted idiot,” Morris grumbled, slashing his way closer. “If you won’t do it, I will!” He raised a hand axe and threw. The blade buried itself in Clara’s chest, but she stood there and did not fall. He drew another one.

  Tristan shielded his unresponsive wife. “No, don’t! Clara, fight! Please, fight.”

  Morris tried to step around him. “Get out of the way, or I’ll kill you first.”

  Suddenly Tristan realized the noise of battle had grown less intense, and looked to see the attack of the plants slowing down. “Morris, stop!” Francis’ voice called over the sounds of men chopping up faltering roots. Tristan glanced at Clara to see her thrashing amid the constricting wood. “Look. She’s fighting it.”

  *

  Clara had felt much of what happened to her flesh, heard her husband’s voice and drawn resolve from the warmth of his touch and passion in his kiss. At that moment she had begun to struggle with renewed vigor, determined to break free and defeat the enemy that had invaded her mind. But twist and flail though she might, she could not break the grip of the psychic limbs. Then the gash appeared in her chest,
and her mind flooded with pain. Yet it hurt the ones who possessed her too, and their grasp loosened a bit. It was now she managed to catch a vine in her teeth and bite through.

  One arm free, she grabbed for the swords at her waist. Always there in the physical realm, they likewise remained present for her mental self. She drew one and cut loose her other arm, retrieved her second sword and unrestrained her legs. The gods of the earth loomed before her, hesitating.

  “Die!” she said, and charged. She rolled below its double-handed smash and ran up its chest, burying her swords in what passed for its face. It grabbed her, slammed her down hard. She stabbed through a wrist and tore off one of its hands. It clutched the stump and reeled back. “That was for my hand.” She leapt high, stabbed into its chest. “And that’s for Morris!”

  The behemoth punched her away, but after bouncing head over heels she flipped easily to her feet. “How are you so strong?” it asked.

  “You should have picked someone whose will wasn’t reinforced by love. In my mind, when Tristan’s life is at stake, I’m as strong as I need to be.”

  “You owe me,” it growled as Clara ran at it. “If not for me, you would be long dead.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” She scoffed. “But I was already getting up when you snuck into me, so who’s to say I would have failed?” She soared above its sweeping arms, swords coming up, and brought her blades down in an X through its neck.

  *

  On the road where the armies of men and plant clashed, all sound ceased as one entire side went limp in an instant. Tristan smiled to see awareness return to his wife’s eyes, then caught her when she clutched at the new wound in her breast and fell.

  “What was that?” Clara asked. “Somebody take a swing at me while I wasn’t looking?”

  The wound was not as deep as it could have been, thanks to the roots taking some of the axe’s impact before it hit. At least, it hadn’t gotten past her ribs. “That was Morris,” Tristan said. “Didn’t have the faith to let you take care of it.”

  “Thanks, Morris,” she said, and grinned at the perplexed look that appeared on Tristan’s face. “I needed the distraction.”