The Warlord

Chapter 24: Lorelei

It happened in a flash. One moment I was staring up at the ceiling, the bright, white infirmary light hurting the sides of my eyes. The next a hole of darkness swallowed me up, and for a second, I was floating in what seemed like no where. My body, my mind, my soul, was light; a small breeze wafting on a summer wind. Then there were hands of magic, pulling at me, tugging at me, forcing me up and out of that place of no where. The resistance and drag made me black out, but I was still faintly conscious when they led me to another different, new place. A place rife with powerful and pure magic. But then the hole of darkness swallowed me up again, and I faded away.

Slowly, sight returns to my eyes, and I awaken. I feel warm, but not a comforting, home-like warm; a grainy, temporary, futile warm instead. I sit up, spots dotting my eyes, and as I come to, I feel the sand underneath me, as well as the chilly winds above me. There is little light to see my surroundings, but I make out the silhouette of several buildings around me. Looking up, faint stars greet my eyes, and the sky is a deep purple fading into a deeper blue. It is most likely dusk, which means I need to find shelter. I know little of the lands outside of Serestine, but I have heard of a deserted desert, where only lost travelers and wandering vagabonds dwell. A crossroad between wealth and poverty, between destination and the unknown. The Mhoto Desert, its name from the language of the Land Of Fire, a continent to the east of Serestine.

I need to find shelter. The thought races across my mind as I stand up and channel my magic into my palms. The magic of the witches is one that flows throughout everything, and stacks reality in layers. I sink my hands past this realm's layer, and into a pocket that I have created for myself. I pull out my satchel from the tiny portal and dig out a matchbox. I strike a match and concentrate on the tiny flame before me. In theory, witches can use all types of magic, but most are more talented at one elemental type than the others. I have not yet discovered my prowess, but I have never been good at controlling fire.

"Spin with the wind, dance across the forest. Light the air, the sky, and the sight. Be the eyes that see through the veil of darkness," I chant before taking a deep breath and blowing on the flame. The flames waft out in front of my, curling and twirling to illuminate an ivy-covered, decrepit stone home. I feel my magic waver, and I clutch my satchel as I race for the building's entrance. The fire from my spell slowly fades away as I force open the rotting, creaky wooden door and stumble into a cold, damp room. The darkness looms out at me, and I can barely stand as my legs tremble. Leaning against the door, forcing myself to remain upright, my shaky hands delve through the flaps of my satchel, searching and searching and searching. My fingers close around an ice-cold, flat surface, and I whip out a smooth, turquoise stone.

"Grant me the moon's gaze, grant me the sun's warmth. Where the iris' petals fly astray, where the faeries dance and glow, give me the clear of day!" The stone shines in my hand, and a bright light engulfs my eyes before fading away. Now my vision has a blueish tinge to it, letting me see my surroundings. I see moss-covered pillars, and a set of stairs in front of me leading up to an altar. Behind it is a crumbling mosaic, depicting a pantheon of holy figures. This is a worship site.

Slowly, I walk up the cracked steps and past the altar. This mosaic might tell me where exactly I am. Each little tile is chipped and layered with dust, and the paint is all scratched off, but I manage to make out fourteen figures. Fourteen... The word is familiar in terms of the gods I worship. It all clicks together when I study the face of one of the figures: a seemingly beautiful maiden with flowing hair, but no eyes or nose, only a plump, smiling mouth. The tiles for her outfit have all fallen off, but in her hands she holds a clump of roses, the thorns sticking out as much as the petals. These people believed in different gods. That means this place is... no! I cannot be here!

At the desert's faraway, almost unreachable heart lies a place considered sacrilege by us witches. A place where the people worshipped other foreign, alien deities. The Katacris Ruins, home to the lost Katacrisian civilization, and a spot famous for curses. The gravity of my dire situation sinks in, and my heart races, my chest feeling like a tiny ship tossed into stormy waves. The curses rumored to haunt these grounds will take me for sure. First comes sudden, blistering pain, in even more sudden but periodic attacks. Second comes an attack on the emotions, where one feels lonely and sad and miserable. Third, the mind breaks down. Finally, deprivation of all senses, and if the victim is not already dead, they will wander the ruins broken and insane until they drop like cattle.

My breaths grow more and more shallow, and panic seizes my mind. In the heat of the moment, I look at the figure standing next to the goddess. A strong, masculine man, one without any eyes or nose as well, but he has a chiseled mouth and beard on his face. His right hand grips a sword, and his left brandishes a circular shield. The rose and the thorns, the sword and the shield. Those are symbols of... Harmony and Chaos, the two strongest Primordials! But the Primordials were said to have vanished long before the Katacrisian civilization even began! Did they flee here? Were these people worshipping long lost beings?