Kara Read online

  “Pretty.”

  She jerked back, startled by the voice. “I’m sor—” Her words trailed off as she saw the creature looking at her from the other side of the table. It stood only about three feet tall, its chin just about resting on the tabletop. Two huge pointed ears laid flat against its greenish head and rose two inches higher than the balding dome.

  “I, Goblin Skrag.” The thing stepped back from the table and did a mock bow to her, one of its thin bony hands waving the air in front of him. The voice reminded Kara of coins rattling around in a tin cup. The beautiful jewelry he was selling was very much in contrast to the ugly thing running the booth.

  “How I help you?” Skrag’s speech broke like that of a little child who had newly learned to speak. He paused in between his words when he didn’t have to.

  Kara couldn’t take her eyes away from Skrag’s saucer-sized, yellow eyes. His almost nonexistent nose reminded her of a skull she once saw.

  “Um…I’m just looking,” she said dismissively, hoping that he would go away. Her eyes focused back on the necklace.

  “You look good. Very pretty.”

  At first, Kara didn’t know if Skrag flirted with her or told her that the necklace was a good piece. She hoped he meant the latter.

  “Yes, it is. It just caught my eye. Did you make it?” Her hand so wanted to touch the stone, but Dante’s Don’t touch anything still echoed in her head.

  “Not Skrag. He no make. My mistress. Yes, she make. Make all.” His speech became rapid as he spoke of his employer. It sounded to Kara that if Skrag talked any more about his mistress his heart might explode.

  “Oh,” Her hand hovered at the table. Her eyes drifted over the other objects on display. They were all beautiful, but none caught her eye like the bat pendant.

  “You like. You take?” Skrag tapped the table with a stone-like, ancient nail.

  Kara stared at his finger. It repulsed her.

  “Try on.” Skrag insisted. He pulled his hands back and stared up at her. A smile, which made him beyond creepy, graced his face. Jagged, crooked teeth poked out. She wanted to run, but the stone, the necklace, the invitation to try it on held her there.

  She removed her glove, laid it on the table, and picked up the necklace. A tingle raced up her arm at first contact.

  Kara glanced at Skrag and noticed his eyes widening. What was that all about? He was the one who’d told her to try on the necklace.

  “Human….”

  My hand!

  Kara dropped the necklace on the table and quickly snatched back her hand, snagging the necklace and glove on her sleeve. She bolted from the booth. She ran in a blind panic, dodging the oncoming traffic. All these monsters surrounded her. The slave traders would capture her for sure. She had to get out of there.

  The crowd did not take notice of her as Kara skirted around them, but she was positive they all saw through her disguise. She needed to run, run, run!

  At the end of one aisle, she headed left looking for a way back into the forest and maybe even a way back home. Tears filled her eyes. Home….

  Her foot caught on a stone and she tumbled face first into the dirt.

  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 t
he 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 thunked 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, res
ted 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.

  In one corner weapons, armor, and the like hung on the wall, freshly polished, ready for battle. An ancient oak chest stood hidden deep in a corner opposite the weapons. This huge chest, easily the size of seven men, remained deep in the shadows even with a torch blazing nearby. Crafted of iron and wood, a large key lock held the lid closed. Several men approached the mysterious chest, yet few gained the nerve to enter the darkness surrounding it.

  La’ard forbade anyone to touch a thing. “There’s still magic here,” he said.

  Farther along the wall from the chest, a cabinet made of crystal twinkled. Inside were several items, ranging from a rectangular mahogany box, a chalice made out of black rock, a yellow-stoned ring, and a bat-shaped pendant.

  “Who did this room belong to?” La’ard whispered.

  “One of the ancients, or so the spooks say. They are attempting to decipher the runes for clues,” Kreitan said. He took particular interest in the enclosure.

  In the corner opposite the cabinet, stood a mirror. This mirror captured La’ard’s interest, passion, and greed, igniting them as soon as his eyes fell upon it. Thoughts of magic and enchantment left him. Kreitan watched with interest, but dared not speak a word when the royal hand touched its surface. Nothing happened, but the king’s second hand reached up to grab hold of the mirror.