Whole Again

Advanced Short Story Prompt 15/9/05

Words of Power/ Character searching for a powerful word.

Titled - “Whole Again”

By Amaris

As a war veteran, Sir Dugan Baxter was an honoured, if aging man. His hair now streaked with grey was cropped short, his beard neatly clipped, his heavily embroidered houppelande buckled neatly about his still firm waistline and his half length hose perfect for a man with half legs.

Often he would dwell on that battle, the battle that cost him his livelihood and his legs from the knees down. He’d been knocked from his charger, Gallamond, and set upon by a horde of barbaric Celts and then he had woken in a stinking infirmary, surrounded by the groans and shrieks of the wounded with the knowledge he had just passed the fever stage. He had remembered the one eyed face of his closest companion as it fixed him with an unblinking stare from the straw and linen pallet by his side; dead.

In the extensive library collected and used by his now dead father, Dugan remained penned. Grey light shafted through the glass and leaded arrow slits, filtering through various chunks of raw crystal, ruby and emerald, glinting from the gold and silver instruments and coloured by the curious plumes of smokes given off by the experiments Dugan practised religiously. Around him, dusty tomes littered his work space, mostly stained by spillages. A fire roared in the broad hearth.

He knew his father had found it, found the way to create ghost limbs far stronger than any man’s. His father had had his right hand removed and three fingers sliced from the left at an early age during some almost forgotten war, yet, in his rage he had managed to throw burly men several feet into the air with what they described in their ravings as ‘the cold touch of death’ or ‘a hand of a god’. Either way it had caused the targeted to feel sorrow and depression for weeks after, a strange scar where they were grasped by an invisible hand sapped the life from them.

Dugan’s battle fervour and his father’s legendary spirit power had kept him in wary favour with the King and at a great distance from enemies while he resided within the Baxter Keep. The sedate township below the fortifications rolled on, talking in whispers of what happened within its walls, all the while upholding the age old laws set down by the Knight’s ancestor, Ludovic Baxtarus, a sorcerer by any other name.

Sweat trickled down Dugan’s smoke smeared face as he added a final ingredient to his longest experiment to date. The misty crystal powder mixed with six drops of his blood slipped into the vile smelling mixture bubbling over a controlled oak wood fire. Within in moments the powder was consumed, plumes of acrid smoke billowed forth and concoction bubbled over into the ash tray beneath the table-top fire. A mournful cry reverberated through the keep settling itself deep within his heart. Memories assaulted him from his childhood of ghoulish screams in the night and that odour of festering flesh. Dugan gagged, a dry heave convulsing his body.

When Dugan had recovered himself, his steely grey gaze fixed on the violet contents of his cauldron and the chords of silver that lanced through it. A droplet rose from the main body of liquid and froze a hand span from the surface. Another followed, and another, faster and faster they rose all the time altering as more joined the vague shape that now formed.

Tentatively, Dugan reached a trembling hand to touch his creation. It shied away as it met with the warmth of Dugan; a conscious being?

The icy, semisolid creature shivered and melded growing in height and breadth. Six limbs sprouted, a gaping maw ripped an opening as black as pitch. Silver tendrils solidified and became rows of six inch teeth, the violet darkened to midnight blue as a head rose. Three menacing eyes blinked at him. A winged demon with clawed, spindly arms and legs, horned head and spine smirked down at him. A sting-tipped tail pushed out of the base of its back. A chill descended as the glow of the fires altered to an oily blaze.

“Why have you called me here, foolish mortal,” Despite being spoken in a dark tongue, Dugan understood. Swallowing hard, Dugan began.

“I, Dugan Baxter, Knight of the land Bashina, kin to the great sorcerer Ludovic Baxtarus –“ A scream escaped the demon, souls encased within the leathery flesh echoed the ethereal wail.

“Do not speak his name!” The demon hissed. “I see what you want now, mortal, but you must first find the spell to release me from between the two plains. Speak it, mortal, and I shall aid you to the end of your years here,”

“Why should I trust you?” Dugan frowned, the chill of the room beginning to seep into the marrow of his bones. A spine-tingling laugh dripped from the beast.

“Being trapped inside your frail body is a small price to pay for a few years of freedom from the netherworld. If I sought to deceive you I would not last long. My flesh is only flesh here. The spell, mortal, speak the spell,” Already Dugan found his eyes frantically searching through pages and notes for the possible answer. As seconds elapsed the demon began to writhe in pain. “Hurry! I am called back to the netherworld-“ A wail sent tremors through Dugan.

Shaking, Dugan located the page from which the potion came. There, in spider-fine scrawl were two words. Obtinēre Malus . The spell tumbled from his lips in a rush. The demon retained its shape but its flesh swirled and flowed like smoke. Dugan’s mouth dropped slightly. In a flash, Dugan was thrown backwards to the floor along with his chair as the gas invaded his body. His scars tingled and faded; his hair lost its grey and darkened as it once was in his youth, wrinkles disappeared. Darkness enveloped him.

*

His head throbbed, his body ached. Groaning, Dugan rolled onto his front and pushed himself up onto his knees then stood. He rubbed his eyes sleepily.

“Curious, isn’t it?” Dugan whirled, anger etched his features.

“Who dares disturb me while I work?” He bellowed. “Show yourself!” Horrifyingly familiar laughter assaulted his senses. His feet danced nervously over the flagstones of the library as he turned again and again to find the intruder.

“That you, without legs, can stand so firmly,” The slick voice drawled. Dugan caught his breath and look down. In smoking eddies, limbs of a demon swirled where stumps should have been. “Whole again, mortal,”