A Midnight Tryst

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 4 DAY 10

Surprise sizzled up Ruxian’s phantom limbs as Almerynd pressed the enchanted scissors back into Susie’s hands. Teary and confused, the blonde nun looked down and she enlarged the blades. Naya, screaming in horror, charged forward with garash in hand. Sensing she could not reach Susie in time, she made to hurl a blade when Susie turned the open shear on herself, propping it onto her shoulders. One squeeze, and her pretty head would tumble.

“I’ll not suffer your false mercy,” whispered Susie, the quaking in her hands creeping into her voice. “I’ll do it myself.”

Stop! Ruxian almost doubled in size as he shouted the command, his body flashing like a lightning bolt, forcing Naya to shield her eyes. Almerynd, alarmed, stabbed at him with a glowing fingernail, skewering the spectral hypnotist with a psychic spear. Pain, something Ruxian thought a distant memory, shot through his folds, reducing him to a wisp. Letting out a silent scream, it took every ounce of concentration to retain his form.

“Disturb not her destiny,” commanded Almerynd, redirecting her finger on Susie. “Now, girl. What do you want?”

Breathing loud and shallow, teeth chattering, Susie clutched the scissors till her knuckles went white. Again and again, she adjusted her neck and grip. Finally, she dropped her weapon and broke into stuttering sobs. With a triumphant smile, Almerynd clapped her hands, summoning two women into the temple.

“Take her to the bird cage,” the matriarch ordered. “See that she gets food.”

Ruxian recovered enough vision in time to see Susie, the woman who hounded him like a certain cyborg assassin sent back in time, dragged out of the hall with her boot heels scraping the floor. He tried to speak but the earlier assault had slowed his thoughts to such an extent that he could not form a word.

“Pardon my overreaction,” apologised an unrepentant Almerynd. “Henceforth, do not cast spells in my presence without my permission.”

Fully expecting the stranger to obey this new decree, Almerynd folded her arms and turned her disapproving gaze towards Naya.

“You disobeyed me,” she accused. “Why did you not turn back at the Grand Waterway?”

Naya swallowed. “I wanted to see my mission through.”

Almerynd glowered. “I strictly forbade you from infiltrating the Targonian heartlands. Why did you ignore my warnings?”

“Because you wouldn’t set such boundaries for my sisters,” Naya protested, throwing up her arms. “Nobody else –”

“Is a snot-nosed brat like you,” interjected the woman, gnashing her teeth in anger. “A commander needs no soldiers who cannot follow orders.”

“Then start treating me like one,” retorted Naya. “Give me the assignments as you would any other. I saw how the Targonians treat our kind. I want to fight back. Let me!”

Almerynd shook her head and showed Naya her back. “You are not ready.”

“Paerawyn would’ve drunk Ruxian had I not followed through,” said Naya, pointing to the wraith. “I think I deserve some recognition, not a lecture.”

Naya. Ruxian spoke up, having recovered most of his faculties. You were fortunate you lost a fight to Dramien. I dare say Lady Blackmoon has good reasons to be concerned about you.

Naya kicked a shoe through his ghostly body for the betrayal. “Ruxian!”

“Good to know even Otherworlders can appreciate good parenting,” remarked Almerynd, lifting her brows. “And what’s this I hear? Defeat? Did you lose a duel to a Targonian?”

“No,” denied Naya, averting the inquisitive gaze. “Two.”

Almerynd smothered Naya in a hug, their horns crossing. Shooing Ruxian away with a wave of her hand, Naya wrapped her arms around the matriarch, closing her eyes, indulging herself in the familiar warmth and fragrance.

Then came a clap.

“Mother, what are you –”

Again, two women marched into the temple. The sense of déjà vu had Ruxian flashing like a neon billboard.

“Bird cage,” declared Almerynd as she shoved Naya into the ready arms of her sisters. “One week.”

Unlike Susie, Naya went out kicking and screaming. The closing doors cut short what Ruxian suspected was the first syllable of an unimaginably foul curse.

“The tongue on that girl,” sighed the matriarch, dropping her shoulders. “Does she always talk like that?” An affectionate chuckle followed. “She really is a butcher’s daughter.”

She’s a good girl. Ruxian dodged the question. Oh, pardon my late introduction. I am Ruxian.

Almerynd nodded and fell into a pensive silence. Covering her left eye, then the right, the woman studied Ruxian with a cutting intensity that made him recoil. Extending a hand, she stirred his fog-like body, scratching the depths with her painted fingernails. Unlike the hapless templars who wilted under his touch, she remained impervious.

“Naya described your unique circumstances,” she said. “But this truly defies imagination. You are probably the first survivor of the harvest ritual. Ripping the soul out of the body is quite fatal.”

Survive. Ruxian wasn’t sure how his rueful sarcasm seeped into his psychic speech. The folklore of my world would call me a ghost, the lingering thought of a dead man.

“Lingering thought,” repeated Almerynd, smiling. “Quaint, and almost correct.”

Valnaga told me you could help me. Ruxian swirled around the woman, demanding her attention. She says you may know a way for me to return to my body.

“Old bear mother,” the woman sang. “And I’m sure that’s not all Valnaga has told you. She’s not senile yet.”

Ruxian entertained the thought of a bear with dementia for a moment. Name your price.

“You have a powerful spell,” said Almerynd. “Perceptual projection. Mighty magic fitting for a grand favour.”

What is it? Ruxian asked despite knowing he would not like the answer.

“It shames me to say that not all Dracons stand united against the empire,” replied Almerynd, bending her fingers as if to count them off. “I can’t tolerate those spineless cravens cowering behind their false peace, not while Thogar and his men repel Targonian scouts crawling all our forest.”

This was the moment when Ruxian felt grateful for leaving his television on for company in his empty apartment. It seemed he had retained more of the international current affairs programs that bored him to sleep than he’d imagined. I have neither the geographical nor historic understanding to aid your diplomatic outreach. The surprise on Almerynd’s face made him wish he still had a throat to laugh with.

“Aren’t you the diplomat?” mused the matron, nodding. “No. We’ve long exhausted peaceful engagements. The only thing I’m concerned about is how to minimise the coming bloodshed. That’s where you come in.”

So that’s your angle. Ruxian formed arms. Can’t you do this yourself?

Almerynd shook her head. “I can no more do so than Valnaga can march upon Immortrium.”

Ruxian formed a question mark over his head, a gesture that made Almerynd raise a finger. Desperate to avoid another impaling, he quickly dispelled the punctuation.

“I see the old bear still keeps her secrets close,” the woman spat bitterly. “Decades ago, I begged her to join my raid on that foul capital but she turned me down.” She rolled her hands into fists. “She’s a half-god but refuses to carry out her duties and balance the world.”

In that instant, Almerynd’s frustrated rage spilled over, scrambling Ruxian’s vision once again. It was a war movie played at eight times speed, minus the filter of a silver screen. A symphony of clashing steel, roaring flames, horrified howls accompanied flickering images of made carnage. Dracons overrunning the city walls met a hail of arrows. Necks ensnared by the garash, thrashing Targonian archers went over the side. A young Kerroth, breaking the assault, erected their standards with a victorious cry. Almerynd cut a quarrel from her thigh as she covered her unit’s escape.

“Goddess forgive me,” cheeks flushed from the inadvertent outburst, Almerynd muttered a hasty apology. “I guess I still forgiven that damn furball.”

She was quite partial to Paerawyn. Ruxian recalled Valnaga’s hesitations to answer any question concerning the emperor.

Almerynd fixed her gaze upon the horned Goddess and unclenched her fists. In his current state, Ruxian felt her frigid fury warming into a mixture of affection and pathos.

“I’m a mother too,” Almerynd conceded. “She raised that brat who suddenly popped into her forest.” She gave Ruxian a look. “He was just like you, an Otherworlder.” Her face darkened. “Just over a millennium ago, he scaled these mountains and defiled our Goddess.”