* * *
‘I am sorry.’ Annael proffered the dagger she’d
retrieved from the darkness. A tear trailed its way down her perfect cheek. ‘I
do this for you and our son.’
‘But you ask me to wield the knife.’
‘The blade must strike true. No spark of life can
remain for them to fan into flame, or you both will die.’
He curled his thick-knuckled hands into helpless
fists. ‘I can’t. No matter the reason, I can’t.’
‘You must.’ Annael’s voice lowered, insistent. The
lyrical notes tugged at Dagon, luring, seducing, and persuading. Annael had
never turned the power of her voice against him, but she did now.
The gentle
persuasion sank into his bones. What she said was right, he must, it was
imperative…
‘Don’t!’ He yanked himself free of the soft, seductive
glamour.
‘I just –.’
‘I know.’ Reaching out, Dagon stroked his son’s dark
hair. Quiet, the baby watched him with huge, sleepy green eyes. Annael’s eyes. Must he spend a lifetime haunted by her
ghost?
‘Would you be more at peace if I did?’
‘Yes… no.’ Reluctant, his hand reached for the knife.
‘If I do this thing, I’d rather do it of my own free will.’
‘They’re here.’
High above the stone circle, something moved - a mere
hint of shadows on shadows. Only his demon eyes discerned even that much.
Annael would sense them inside her head, coming for her.
Ishafal.
‘What… what will they do to you?’
‘Imprisonment, trial, punishment. Execution. They
won’t allow me to die until they track down our son. Then they will kill him,
out of hand, like the mongrel they believe him to be.’ Her hands tightened on
the baby. His green eyes drowsed closed.
Dagon’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Punishment?’
‘Torture, if you will.’ Her shoulders hitched
gracefully, as if she were indifferent to hate, but her chest rose and fell in
quick, shallow breaths.
Torture. He couldn’t do what
she asked to save himself. He couldn’t even do it to save their son. The
passion engendered by the ardesco wouldn’t allow it.
But he could do it for her, to save her the suffering.
‘I’ll do it.’
‘You will?’ Her eyes shone liquid in the light of the
dying torch, betraying mixed surprise, fear and relief. ‘Quickly. We have
little time.’
Annael arranged herself beneath an arch, leaning
against one massive pillar. The baby lay asleep in her lap, for lack of an
alternative except the muddy ground of a rainy night.
Dagon placed the knife point at her breast and
hesitated. ‘Will I see you on the other side of the Curtained Gate?’
Annael leaned forward, heedless of the blade pricking
her chest, and kissed him, soft and slow. Her lips tasted sweet against his,
and the saltwater tang of her tears brushed his tongue. He savored the taste,
let it linger, bittersweet, aware this was the last time he would know the
touch of her in this life. A tear slid down his cheek, and another, until they
streamed down his face, mingling with the rain. She caught one on her finger,
and clutched it to her breast as she lay back against the pillar. The other
hand brushed the downy hair of the sleeping child before drawing a blanket
gently over the boy’s eyes.
The rustle of wings impervious to rain drifted down
out of the dark. A voice echoed in the distance.
‘Hurry.’ Annael’s hand covered his on the hilt of his
dagger. Perfect teeth dragged at her bottom lip and she blinked, too quickly.
‘I will see you on the other side, though I pray many years pass before you
cross that threshold. Tell our son I loved him... I loved him enough to
sacrifice everything.’
Dagon nodded once, jerkily, tears falling so fast her
flawless face blurred. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. Was he really about
to do this? The image of her broken body and disfigured face flashed through
his mind, the tiny infant dead at her feet. He couldn’t.
I
must.
He shoved the blade home. Blood spilled over his hand,
hot and sticky. Her last breath sighed from her lips. In the depths of his
chest, his heart broke with a profound silence. As though a dam burst within,
guilt, despair, and agony flooded him.
The night exploded in screams and voices calling;
Ishafal experiencing the sudden passing of Annael, and crying out in anger and
grief and triumph, an emotion for every voice.
Dagon stumbled, and fell backwards in the mud. The
tears wouldn’t stop. Deep, shaking sobs threatened to tear his frame apart.
The first Ishafal thumped to the ground bare yards
away. Dagon skidded to his feet, slipping on muddied grass. Steadying himself,
he grabbed the sleeping baby. The child woke, screaming the strident call of a
frightened newborn. Another Ishafal landed heavily to the right. Steel gleamed
in the flickering torchlight.
With the baby clutched to his chest, adrift in the sea
of his own agony, in the tears threatening to drown him, Dagon stumbled blindly
towards the torch. The two Ishafal closed on him. His hand seized the rough
wood of the torch, and he yanked the brand from the earth, the flame scribing a
line of fire through the rainy darkness as he spun.
The Ishafal behind him shrieked, and jerked back.
Dagon felt the impact of the torch vibrate up his arm. Flames erupted in
tinder-dry feathers. An explosion of light assaulted his eyes.
Dagon spun again, waving the brand and squinting into
the brilliance. The flaming Ishafal screamed, the beauty of his voice lost in desperation.
Dropping to the ground, he rolled in the mud and the wet grass. Flames engulfed
his clothing and the screams escalated to terror. The other Ishafal stared,
shocked. More winged people spiraled out of the darkness, racing towards the
pyre the Ishafal had become. A few voices lifted in shaky song, a fragmented
attempt to douse the flames with the magic of their voices.
Dagon hurled the torch at the back of a singing
Ishafal. The song faltered at the second explosion of flame and light, and he
spun and fled into the dark. The screams of the burning Ishafal drowned out the
distressed cries of the baby. Dagon whispered soothing words, and the wails
eased to whimpers.
He ducked under a branch, and ran into the cover of
the forest, trying to outrun the Ishafal, the pain, and the blood smearing his
hands.
They were distracted by the Ishafal he’d set alight,
delayed in order to save them. If he ran fast enough, and far enough, in the
dark and the rain, they’d never find him this night.
And then, when he was sure the pursuit
was lost, only then would he stop; to grieve, to shed the tears, and to cradle
close to him the only thing remaining of the woman he loved.
* * *
**AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fiction piece is part of the A to Z Blogging Challenge and has not been to an editor.**
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THE SILVER SPHERE by Michael Dadich
(Multiple Award-Winner)
