Kara (8 page)

Kara remained there a moment, knowing that
any minute something would grab her and lock her away. The market
goers looked at her lying on the ground at first, but soon glanced
away. Some huddled in groups, while others just ignored her.

Someone or something tapped at her shoulder.
“Are you okay?”

The voice sounded normal enough. And kind.
Whoever it belonged to offered help. But when she turned around,
Kara saw to her dismay that it was a talking rabbit.

Beyond her realm of reality, Kara blanked.
Emotions froze within her, not sure what to say or do. Most of the
onlookers now bustled by her, but the rabbit stayed.

Kara covered her eyes again and choked back
the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her. “I-I just…want to…go
home.”

Schunk!

Hands lifted her to her feet. Kara wanted to
look, to thank her rescuer, but she was too scared to peer through
her fingers. But, the helping hands felt human. They felt like her
mother’s, so she let them guide her away from the market. No one
stopped them along the way. Soon the noise died down from the
market.

Slowly, Kara felt a bit more in control of
herself. But still fear lingered, as well as a touch of
hopelessness. Would she ever find a way home?

Her helper guided her to a bench under a
large chestnut tree. Once seated, Kara wiped her eyes and nose with
the shawl.

“You should rest here. The market is not a
good place for a human girl to be.”

“You know? But….”

“Shhh….”

Kara took in her savior. A young woman with
vibrant red hair sat next to her. A gold ribbon held her hair back
in a ponytail. The talking rabbit had been red too.

“My name is Snowbell, or just Snow. But
please, not Snowball. I get enough of that from my brother.”

This lady looked like a good soul, kind
enough to help a human out.

“I’m Kara.” Taking to the different races was
getting easier for her. “Are you a wererabbit?” Kara remembered how
Dante explained his changing.

“I prefer ‘werehare,’ but yes I am.” Snow
smiled at Kara.

“So, everyone in your family are hares?” It
sounded rude the moment she asked, but her questions helped ease
the panic.

Snow shook her head. “The were clan is a race
of shape shifters. At birth, we are able to shift into an animal,
but only that animal. As we grow, so does our animal-self. If I was
to have any children with another of the were clan, they would be
able to shift too but not necessarily into hares. Does that make
sense?”

Kara nodded. “Then do you know Dante?”

“Yes, of course. He’s my brother.”

Chapter Six

Kreitan paced inside his war room waiting for
news. His boots sizzled with each step. A knock sounded at the
door. Two soldiers came in and stood at attention.

“Report.”

“We found no trace of the Mordock anywhere
after the girl ran to the river. He seems to have vanished.”

“What about in the village?”

“They don’t remember a Mordock fitting that
description.”

Kreitan returned to pacing. It helped open
his mind for thinking. “Bring me the cook, Cehwalie. That is, if
Tyr hasn’t killed him.”

The two soldiers saluted and left. It would
take them some time to fetch the traitor, if indeed he was still
alive and not part of the wall décor in the dungeon. That thought
brought a small smile to his face.

This innocent-looking room was his office,
his place from which he dictated and controlled the Witch Guard.
Kreitan had few possessions in this space, because he was not a man
of material goods like those he served. Power to command was enough
for him.

The rectangular mahogany box sat on a shelf.
He caressed the lid. The smooth, ancient wood felt warm to his
touch. The container held nothing, at least nothing visible.
Inside, some sort of spirit, a demon lurked. It was magic of some
sort. Kreitan didn’t know how it worked entirely, but he knew to
possess the box meant to possess great power.

Magic was forbidden in Faldoa, had been for a
century or more. Yet those laws were for the common folk, not for
him. Kreitan had used this case to uncover many a threat to the
crown. The demon box helped to loosen the victim’s resolve, make
them more responsive. Its last victim had not surrendered to the
pain though. The baker fought, even when the spirit called forth to
the conniving daughter.

Ahhh!

Kreitan slammed a fist on the table. How
could a little girl escape from his trained soldiers? She must have
had help. But who? Was there a conspiracy against the crown?

Tension built up in him. Had he been that
close to the shard only for it to slip away? Hopefully, he would
soon find out.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. The two
soldiers were back, dragging a shackled man between them. It looked
like Tyr had gone above and beyond on this man. Blood caked the
sides of his face, and one leg turned in awkwardly. Thrown to the
floor, the prisoner screamed.

“My leg….”

Kreitan nodded and the Witch Guard left.

Cehwalie moaned and tried to get his ruined
leg out from beneath him. Blood stained the floor. New stains to
cover the old. Kreitan watched the injured man pull himself into a
sitting position. A white bandage, sloppily tied around his head
hung over one sunken eye. The other eye gazed up at Kreitan, not
afraid, but with an edge of defiant calm.

The prisoner’s arms were thin, and beneath
his tattered shirt, his skin stretched taut over his ribs.
Malnourishment had taken its toll in Cehwalie’s face, making him
appear emaciated.

“Tyr has been treating you well,” Kreitan
jibbed, nodding toward the bandage. The man’s hands came up and
straightened the binding so he could see out of both eyes. The
uncovered eye was bloodshot and oozed puss from a purplish
corner.

“W’ere’s my comfort promis’d?” His words were
partially unintelligible due to the lack of teeth in his mouth.
Drool spilled over his drooping lip with each word.

“Naïve to think that you could receive such
comfort. Holding out on a king, especially King La’ard, does not
earn you a rich reward.” Kreitan paced, and the prisoner’s eyes
followed him. “Cehwalie, you could be labeled a rebel against the
crown.”

“Thatch no rebelling. Taking that chard.”
This time the words came out with spit.

Kreitan stopped pacing and approached the
man, his smoldering boots within inches of him. “Stealing from your
king is definitely a rebellious act.” He used his boot to crush the
hand of the criminal.

Instantly, Cehwalie cried out, yet underneath
the scream Kreitan could hear a sizzling sound. A new, potent smell
of sulfur and burning flesh flavored the air. Kreitan inhaled
deeply before stepping back.

Cehwalie fell over backward. He cradled his
burnt, smashed hand against his chest. Chains
thunk
ed to the
floor, harmonizing with the prisoner’s howls of agony.

Kreitan laughed. “Dirty, filthy scum!”

The cook did not try to get up from the
floor, but curled into a ball around his injured hand. Kreitan
could see red blisters begin to form.

“Names. Such fabulous things. I brought you
here because the name you gave me did not pan out.” Turning his
back on the prisoner, Kreitan approached the box. He lifted it
gently from its place and turned back around to the cook. “He did
not have the object.”

“He did! Not lie to you!” He turned his head
to spit. With a bit more effort he propped himself up on one
elbow.

Kreitan said no more and moved closer with
the crate in front of him. “No, Cehwalie… May I call you by name?
Of course I can. We are all friends here.”

The prisoner made no remark, his eyes
following the chest.

Kreitan stepped closer.
Hissss.

“There’s always been this nagging feeling
that you were not completely honest with me. You left something
out. So I called this little chat to…” Kreitan gestured at the box,
“…refresh your memory.”

Fear appeared in Cehwalie’s eyes. “Nah,
there’s nothin’ more!”

Kreitan stepped forward and lifted the
lid.

***

La’ard sat upon his throne. It felt cold. The
barren courtroom also felt bleak and uninviting, just how he wanted
it. Two months ago, this room would have been filled with activity.
But now, he smiled less, his mind traveled elsewhere.

The shard occupied his time now. Nothing more
than a silly piece of mirrored glass, but the key to freeing his
daughter from that beast.

The mirror. It all came back to the
mirror.

How he wished to hold his dear Euphoria in
his arms. To feel her hug him back.

And now, she could be lost forever. Because
of his stupid greed.

A year ago, a messenger had arrived in the
throne room out of breath. He had run from the mines in the
north.

“Sire, I regret to report to you, that there
is trouble at the mines,” he’d said. Previously that year a
rebellious mob of miners tried to overthrow his rule. The
disturbance, quickly settled by sword, prevented the uprising from
going further, and Ustonia remained calm.

“More rebels?”

“No, sire. The workers uncovered what they
thought was a tomb.”

“A tomb?” La’ard pricked up his ears at this.
Hidden tombs usually meant treasure.

“Yes, but on attempting to open it, fifteen
men died. Work has not continued and the foreman begs of you to
come help sort out this problem.”

“How did these men die? Was it some
beast?”

The messenger took a moment to answer,
gathering the courage to speak. “They all went insane and brutally
attacked each other. It was as if each were their own worst enemy.
The screams of pain and anger that filled the caverns were
horrific. Please sire, I wish not to remember it.”

A week later La’ard, with a small army of
men, traveled to the mines.

The scene in the Ustonian mines had indeed
been bloody. One man’s arm remained impaled on a stalactite twelve
feet in the air. None of the surviving miners would even go in the
cave, even at the king’s orders. The sight mixed with the smell
chased every man away.

A great stone door with two large iron rings
had been uncovered in the last blasting. Between the two doors was
a seal made of copper, gold, and silver carved into an ornate
serpent.

La’ard’s heart soared, looking upon the door,
stained with miners’ blood.
At last, something that broke the
monotony of ruling.
Perhaps this tomb would make history. His
legacy could be greater than that of any previous ruler, including
his father, King Longshanks.

Whispers of ‘magic’ passed among the miners
and soon infected the king’s soldiers. La’ard detested magic, and
like his father before him, he did not surround himself with
warlocks and wizards. On a deeper level, he feared the conjured
arts. Not only because it fed the superstitions of his subjects and
reduced their productivity, but also because such men controlled
too much power, power that only a king should have.

Established to rein in this threat, the Witch
Guard collected magical items for the palace’s vault. They
imprisoned anyone who had the smallest inclination towards the
‘dark arts,’ and fed the fear-hate of magic among the common folk.
They only allowed spooks to live.

Spooks were novice magicians or anyone
accused of practicing magic. When caught, their tongues were cut
out. They were then force-fed hot embers, which scarred their
throats and vocal cords so no coherent word could be spoken. Spooks
communicated through writing. A warlock was nothing without the
gift of speech.

La’ard motioned a spook forward. “We must
open that door,” he commanded. “See what must be done.”

Minutes later Kreitan handed his king the
spook’s assessment. There was definitely magic around and in the
tomb, he’d written. Stronger alchemy than he’d ever seen before.
La’ard was leery of this but still longed for the adventure,
something more than just sitting in the throne. He would forego his
hatred of magic for a chance to become great.

For most of a month, the spooks studied and
inspected the door. Through that time, seven died. Four like the
previous miners’ insanity, two with a horrendous disease that came
on quickly. The suffering lasted many, long agonizing days. Lastly,
one spook burst into flames when he took a hammer and cracked off a
serpent’s tooth.

This last spook made the difference, even
though he was ash. A crack in the seal appeared. A crack meant hope
in opening the tomb, a crack in the enchantment. Eventually, the
rest of the sealing magic broke, although not before claiming two
more spooks.

La’ard commanded the spooks to pull open the
doors to test whether the enchantment still existed. Kreitan
entered the tomb carrying a lit torch, followed by La’ard and his
band of nervous soldiers.

The torch light flickered off the walls of
the gigantic room, a room large enough to contain the king’s
courtroom. The ceiling, carved with symbols and archetypes, towered
ten feet above them. A throne, or what appeared to be a throne,
rested dead center on a raised platform of three elongated steps a
few feet from the back wall.

Kreitan ordered torches mounted on the walls
lit, and soon fire light flashed over everything. La’ard stood on
an ancient tapestry rug, that pictured a lion and a dragon locked
in combat, and surveyed the room. All objects in the room were
perfectly preserved and free from dust. Even the dirt the men
tracked in with them did not show. This intensified La’ard’s uneasy
feeling.

Once the room brightened, its treasures made
themselves known. The throne was solid gold, except for red gems
encased in the arms and seat back. When the light struck the
rubies, the gold appeared bloody. Many of the soldiers shied away
from it.