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Demi agreed, and we parted for the second time in a mere few hours. What I don’t tell her, though, is what I’m feeling in the pit of my gut, something glowing with intrigue, quite like the lantern I take back inside and plop on the table.
The book sits there, humming some terrible tune, until I pick it up and flip to the pages where I’d written my story. I read it over as my heartbeat seems to move up into my ears, enthralled and petrified by what I see before me.
The knight I’d seen in the fog had the same inscriptions upon his breastplate that I had written into my story. That couldn’t be a mere coincidence, could it?
My hands continue to shake as I find my ink and feather, feeling desperate and a bit silly as I scrawl out a few quick lines about a rodent seeking a piece of cheese. I slam the book shut and wait. The cries of pain and confusion continue outdoors but are more distant.
Hope clamors inside me as the light from the lantern runs low. I wait for a few more minutes, and when nothing happens, I blow out the lamp, feeling like an idiot.
“Just sleep now, Tessa,” I instruct myself.
I go to my bedroom this time and try to find rest. I almost do when I hear a squeaking sound that has me bolt upright, alert and alarmed once again.
I thought that it was all in my mind. Hope can do a lot to a person, even paint images that are not present, as my parents always say. It can bring to life the ghosts of longing that only serve to haunt those living in the real world.
I lit the lantern beside my bed and placed my feet on the floorboards. As I did, a small brown rodent popped its head out from beneath the bed, holding a bright, marigold shaded piece of cheese in its little hands.
“Oh my gods,” I whispered.
I scampered away from the rodent as it remained under the lantern light, almost as if to mock me, as I ran into the living room to retrieve the book. I know now that it clearly has some kind of magical power, and I cannot take that on. I threw on a hooded shawl and emerged outside, for the second time that night, to head to the nearby river.
It’s tempting to keep something so powerful in one's hands, but an idealist and dreamer such as I am would not do well with it. There are some things that shouldn’t be wished into the world. Even a writer like me knows that.
I moved to the bridge that was close to the forest surrounding the farm, away from the eyes of any wanderers, and tossed the book into the flowing rapids. I don’t let myself linger. The appeal of the book would entrap me. I just know it.
I listened to the sound of the splash. I feel grief rising in my chest, but it has no place here. In the same way that the book has no place in the hands of a writer.
I walked through the wet black soil, my shoes moving through what I know is dew mixed with orc blood. Tomorrow will be a long day of dodging questions and cleaning up the village. It isn’t the first time lives have been lost in battle, and the locals were forced to gather the bodies to help the town return to its fake harmony.
By the looks of the moon, it’s only a few hours before daybreak. I haven’t slept at all, so I get inside quickly, banishing any thoughts of longing or regret that might linger from the tossing of the book. I don’t think Abigail would want that for me … or perhaps for anyone.
I wandered back into my bedroom, pulling the sheets out to curl myself into a restful slumber. But before I can wrap myself up in their warmth, I see something on the nightstand that wasn’t there before.
I light one of the matches that I keep next to the lantern, the flame swaying in front of my face, the glow almost like a hysterical laugh. My heart rises into my throat as I see the book, dry and unharmed, resting next to my bed once again.
THREE
VARZIG
My scales are vibrating with a seething rage that I have been told since the beginning of time is normal to my nature. Gilak demons are larger than other demons, and our size difference only furthers our cravings for violence and an insatiable need for chaos.
I yank up my loincloth and breathe in deeply, ready to attack the next beast that runs through the entry door. There aren’t any battles going on in the realm, so my thirst for death and destruction has been stifled, which makes these fights for the sake of entertainment almost worthwhile.
It may be in my nature, but it isn’t the only aspect of who I am. But, alas, I’m a gilak demon, sometimes more nastily referred to as a berserker demon, and I’m made to destroy, smash, fight, and murder.
There is no doubt in my mind that I get something from it, but I want to be more than that. I want to be more than entertainment for the King.
Nevertheless, I stand at the center of the arena, awaiting my fateful foe. My scales rise up once the door of the cage slides open, and I can feel my own siren shaded eyes setting ablaze, and I go into defense mode.
As the beast emerges from its cage, I let my anger flow free. The best part about the anger of a gilak demon is that it acts as its own defensive mechanism. The angrier I get, the bigger I swell. My scales inflate along with my bones and muscles, and I become taller and thicker, my fangs as sharp as knives, and my frame as strong as iron.
The beast, though, is a part gargoyle, just as large and bloodthirsty as I am, with a wingspan that stretches far beyond the flickering torches of the venue. His body is the color of stone and just as mighty. It roars and hisses as it comes for me, but I remain still, my heart smashing in my chest like a bee stuck in a hive.
It launches itself toward me with pupils as small as pinholes and fangs protruding like little swords aiming for my jugular. I increase in size at its audacity and take hold of the teeth. I’m the size and brawn of two magicians’ pillars in front of the King’s fortress. His wings flap mightily as my feet scrape across the arena floor, hissing continuously, spittle flying into my face like venomous rain.
The entire time, I can hear the cheers and jeers of the crowd, one of the voices undoubtedly the King’s. I flashed a sly grin at the beast, whose wings continue to move rapidly and with much frustration as I’m pushed backward, but my grip on its fangs is still firm and unrelenting.
If I wanted to, I could easily snap the thing in half. But that wouldn’t give the crowd, or the King, much of a show to root for. So I let the beast think he has the upper hand as he tosses me backward, and I roll for dramatic effect.
