Into the Fire Page 2

  “Now I think I will take his bitch,” the female went on.

  She stretched a hand and one of the females that had been sitting close to Uraias grasped her wrist. She pulled the beast-woman up, and locked her in a deep kiss, their long fangs clicking, their massive breasts squeezed together. A long- nailed hand squeezed the buttock of the younger female, and the crowd cheered.

  The big one in the rusted cuirass laughed and nodded. He circled his two females’ waists with his knotted arms, and they rubbed themselves against him.

  “Uraias should learn to defend his meat and his bitches,” the armored brute said.

  Everybody cheered.

  Cooked meat was passed around, and flasks of wine.

  Liane and Gisla retreated as silently as they had arrived, leaving the feast behind. They went back to the burned-out hut, and huddled together against the cold, but that night they did not sleep.

  Chapter Three - Beaubois

  The tower of Beaubois was like a gnarled finger pointing at the sky, cinder-like blocks of stone, roughly squared, wrapped in the blackened remains of a crawler that shrouded the building from its roots to the dilapidated battlements. Windows like black mouths screaming opened along the body of the tower, and a wooden door laid smashed by the side of the dark arch leading inside.

  A flight of crows, cawing ominously, greeted Liane and Gisla. The two women looked around, warily, and could not repress a shiver. The air was unnaturally still, and a tangle of sere trees and wire-like undergrowth surrounded the tower, so that only a small circle of dried grass,a ring three yards wide, circled the base of the building.

  “So this is the place,” Liane said.

  “This,” Gisla nodded, “is the place.”

  Liane walked to the archway and looked in. The tower was an empty ruin, the wooden floors and the inner stairways long collapsed and rotted away.

  “I see no flame here,” she said. “Neither blue nor any other color. Does your book say anything about where to find it?”

  Gisla shook her head. She pulled her book out of the satchel, and let the satchel fall on the ground. “It must be here,” she said.

  She walked through the archway and into the tower. She looked up, at the coin-sized bit of sky surrounded by the black walls. A crow flew above the tower, croaking.

  She opened the book, and started flipping the pages furiously, while Liane stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, staring at her.

  “It was worth the try anyway,” the young woman said.

  “No!” Gisla snapped. “It must be here. My books never lied—”

  “Listen—”

  “No!”

  She moved where a faint ray of sunlight cast a blotch of light on the floor. She bent over the book, her fingers tracing the script, her lips moving to repeat the words that were resounding in her head.

  “It IS here!” she said.

  She started walking slowly along the perimeter of the room, stopping every three steps to pound the ground with the heel of her booth. She was halfway around the floor what a hollow echo sounded beneath her feet.

  “Here!”

  Liane hastened to her side, and knelt down in the dirt, using her dagger to dig. She soon revealed a square slab of stone, with a big rusty ring set into it. She tried to pull on the ring, but the stone would not budge.

  “We need some kind of lever.”

  “Here,” Gisla said, offering her her staff.

  Liane weighed the thing, and then slipped it into the ring. “Give me a hand,” she said.

  Gisla placed the book on a window sill, and joined Liane in trying to lift the stone slab. It took them three attempts. They braced themselves and heaved, grunting in the effort, and finally the slab gave, and they pushed it aside, revealing a pit and a steep, narrow staircase, whose steps twisted into the darkness.

  Liane and Gisla traded a glance.

  Liane went outside and returned after a few minutes carrying a broken-off branch around which she had wrapped some brown, dried-up shrubs. They lit it up. The darkness swallowed the torchlight just as it swallowed the worn steps.

  “Let’s go,” Liane said, and she started down the staircase, torch in one hand and dagger in the other.

  Gisla cast one last glance at the patch of grey sky above, and then followed her.

  * * *

  The staircase plunged into the darkness, a straight precipice of uneven steps. Liane’s shoulders brushed against the moss-covered walls, and she had to be careful not to singe her shoulder-length hair while carrying the torch.

  The dancing light she carried cast her tremulous shadow on the steps. She noticed the small indent in the lip of every step, where countless feet had consumed the rock.

  “This place is ancient,” she said. Her hushed voice echoed in the passage, like a low thrumming noise.

  Gisla behind her was slowly counting the steps down.

  Soon, the blocks of the walls gave way to rough rock surfaces over which water dripped slowly, and spotted with diaphanous patches of glowing fungi.

  Gisla had counted to one hundred when finally the staircase stopped, and they found themselves in a square room, an archway in front of them. All was silent.

  Liane cast a glance at her companion, and walked through the archway.

  Her heels echoed on a polished floor, the light of the torch unable to illuminate the great chamber in which they had come.

  “This must be the place,” Gisla said. She pushed past Liane, squinting in the darkness. Her manner was becoming hectic. She found a sort of lectern, on the left side of the entrance, and placed her book on it.

  “Give me some light,” she said, urgently.

  Liane walked to her side, and held the torch high.

  “There must be some sort of incantation,” Gisla was saying. Her fingers followed frantically the lines of script, turning the pages, as she squinted at the designs and the words.

  “There must be—!” she said, her voice becoming frantic.

  Liane tried to place her hand on the woman’s shoulder, but Gisla shrugged her off.

  “Here!” she hissed. “It is here, this!” She turned. “Bring the light closer!”

  Liane looked at her strangely, but moved the torch closer to Gisla’s pale hair.

  “This!”

  The older woman stabbed at the page with her finger.

  She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. In a low, soft voice, she started chanting a long litany of words Liane could not understand. It was like a song without music, slow and dark, its syllables sharp and gnarled. There were words that returned, rhythmically, and gave the chant a lilting rhyme. Gisla stood still, her lips shaping the strange words, one hand open on the page of the book, the other holding on to the lectern like a drowning man may hold on to a piece of flotsam.

  Her voice became louder, and the echo picked up her words and multiplied them, repeating and distorting them so that soon it was like two voices were joined in song, and a hollow, malignant voice was not echoing Gisla’s words, but suggesting her all new ones.

  Liane shivered. There was sweat glistening on Gisla’s lips, and her lips were parched and colorless.

  Then she stopped, and wavered for a moment, like she was on the edge of a ravine, trying to keep her balance. She opened her eyes, and a single word erupted from her lips, echoing in the chamber, strange and twisty and so fearful Liane cringed at its sound, and its memory vanished instantly from her memory.

  With a roar and a sound of thunder, a pillar of blue fire exploded in front of them, blinding them with its liquid light.

  * * *

  Liane lifted one harm to shield her eyes from the brightness.

  She turned to Gisla. “Are you all right?”

  The other woman nodded, her eyes glued to the dancing pillar of blue flame, a faint smile on her dry lips.

  They could see now that they were inside a vaulted chamber, the floor covered in a mosaic of white and blue, whose flame-like motifs stretched over the w
alls, so that it looked like they were actually standing inside a bowl of blue fire.

  “Who built this?” Liane asked.

  “The Ancients,” Gisla said. She finally released her hold on the lectern, and took a tentative step towards the flame.

  “That is the answer one always gets,” Liane said, her spirit pushing back her awe, “whenever something strange and incomprehensible appears. Who made it? The Ancients. For what purpose? It’s a mystery. I often think it simply means ‘I don’t know’.”

  But Gisla was not listening to her.

  She was approaching the center of the room, where the pillar of blue fire roared, its top caressing the domed ceiling of the chamber. Liane started walking around it. The flame occupied a depression in the chamber’s room, about two yards across, and had no apparent fuel alimenting its rage.

  It did not give off any heat. Only sound, a roar like a waterfall.

  “Any idea how this is going to help us defeat the Hierophant?” she asked.

  Gisla was standing close to the flame, her eyes fixed on the dancing patterns inside the blue fire. She did not seem to listen to Liane.

  “Are you all right?” Liane asked once more, worry creeping in her voice.

  Gisla lifted a hand, and plunged it into the flame.

  Liane gasped, just as her half-aunt screeched and fell back, pushed against the lectern by the violence of her reaction. She stumbled and fell on the floor.

  Liane ran to her.

  “Gisla,” she said.

  She helped the other woman sit. “What got into you?”

  Gisla stared at her, blinked twice, shook her head.

  “Now that’s an interesting question,” she said.

  There was a new sparkle in her eyes as she stood.

  “This is what we were looking for,” she said. “Now I know.”

  Liane looked at the pillar of fire.

  “This will save us from the Hierophant and his minions,” Gisla went on. She bent down and picked up her staff. “This will work.”

  “How?” Liane asked.

  Gisla turned to her. She offered her hand to Liane.

  Hesitantly, Liane took her hand. It was the one she had placed in the fire, and the younger woman looked at it. It carried no sign, no burn or scar. It was warm, soft, the skin supple.

  “The power of the Flame is all we need,” Gisla said.

  “What sort of power?”

  Gisla’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “This!” she said, and she tightened her grip, twisted Liane’s arm, and pushed her into the flames.

  Chapter Four - Transformation

  Liane gasped, falling forward, engulfed in the blue fire. She could not move out of the column of flame, her limbs floating like she was suspended in a viscous fluid.

  She could see Gisla, standing by the flame, looking in, distorted as in a crooked mirror. She tried to speak, but no words would come from her mouth.

  Then with a hollow thunder, fire poured inside her, and the pain ripped her apart in a long, breathless silent scream. She felt like she was falling, infinitely falling, while a fire burned inside her body, inside her mind, inside her soul. Consuming her, turning her into ashes.

  Her clothes caught fire. Her father’s sword melted into a pool of liquid metal at her feet. Her hair went up in flames, a scorching blue halo around her head, while her skin cracked and burned and left the red tissues underneath exposed. Her teeth cracked, her bones shattered.

  The blue flame burned her eyes, leaving smoking black sockets behind, and her face melted and ran like a wax likeness. She fell on her knees, breathing in lungfuls of blue fire, her hands trying to find purchase on the mosaic. Her fingernails snapped, her fingers consumed by the heat.

  Pain cracked her mind open, and all her thoughts caught fire and crumbled into cinders. Up in flames went her cherished memories, of her father, of her family, of her childhood in Bellegarde. Her mother hugging her, her childish games with her sisters. Her emotions flared and turned into smoke, her feelings twisted and snapped and melted like iron scraps inside a furnace.

  The fire dug inside her, uprooting her courage and her dedication, her fairness and her sense of justice, her love and her passion. All that was good and bright about her was rooted up and cast in the fire, until only the barren dirt in her soul remained, and from that dirt the flame called up a powerful new spring to irrigate Liane’s whole being.

  Like a forest after a great fire, the buried seeds reacted to the new vital lymph, and sprouted, pushed through the dirt and stretched to the black sky above.

  Recklessness replaced courage, its branches heavy already with the sweet fruits of brashness and carelessness, dripping the sticky juices of excitement. Dedication flourished back as egotism, a strong grass that soon colonized every corner of Liane’s mind. Where fairness once stood, duplicity and envy prospered, leaning heavily on the strong trunk of egotism as ivy clings to an oak. Revenge replaced justice, and the pleasure of violence surged inside of Liane’s like a sweet delirium, and finally lust erupted where once was love, a zest for the obscene inflaming the young woman’s heart and throbbing in her aching pussy.

  She stood.

  The last sickly scales of her scalded skin dropped revealing a perfect skin the color of alabaster, long legs with muscular thighs, a round and shapely ass and a soft tuft of hair cradled between her legs. She arched her back, like one waking after along sleep, stretching her muscular arms, her long-fingered hands folded in fists, her large breasts bouncing as she breathed in more fire. Her long dark nipples stood stiffly up, and a magnificent mane of thick curls, a blue so dark it was almost black, cascaded over her shoulders and chest, tickling her skin.

  Her slanted eyes burned with an unknown hunger, and her full dark lips stretched in a smile that revealed strong white teeth. Each strand of her thick lashes was tipped with a tiny blue flame reflecting in her fevered eyes. Steam seemed to rise from her skin, and wrap itself around her naked body. She took a step out of the pillar of fire, and thigh-high boots coalesced over her legs. Tight blue and gold striped pants hugged her ass and her thighs, leaving her sculpted abdomen exposed, and a short dark blue and gold blouse wrapped itself around her breasts, making a display of her cleavage and her aureoles. Slashed sleeves rolled down her arms, and a tall belt hugged her hips, the large buckle hanging low in a suggestive manner.

  She bent down, and a scale sleeve covered her right arm, from the knuckles of her hand to her shoulder, as she picked up from the floor a long flamberge, the blade snaking like a flame.

  She stood in front of Gisla, a cruel leer on her lips, her strong-jawed head cast back in defiance. She cupped her own breast with her left hand. She shivered. Her fingernails were long and cruelly sharpened.

  “This is so good,” she purred, her voice a low hum. Her lips were as dark blue as her hair, full and soft, the corners of her mouth curled in an arrogant expression.

  Gisla grinned wildly.

  “Your turn, old woman,” Liane said, and she stepped aside as Gisla came forward, caressed gently Liane’s breasts, and entered the flame.

  * * *

  Liane stared as Gisla convulsed, the flame eating at her clothes and her body. The woman opened her mouth in a long silent scream, while steam rose from the cracks in her skin and from underneath her eyelids and her clothes went up in flames. She convulsed and thrashed under Liane’s amused stare.

  Then Gisla started to change.

  A ball of fire engulfed her head, and burned, fire within fire, until it disappeared down Gisla’s throat, like she had inhaled it. Her pale hair was now raven-wing black, and fell over her shoulders. She straightened up and her hips flared, while her waist shrinked, giving her an exaggerated hourglass figure. Her breasts perked up and expanded, silver rings appearing in her nipples. She ran a hand through her new hair as her skin tightened and acquired a deep tan.

  The flame began to gather around her body, in the shape of a soft flowing gown that hung from her nipple rings in t
he front, and hugged her ass behind, leaving her back exposed. An ample split revealed her thigh and calf, her high-heeled sandals laced up to her knee.

  Silver rings sprouting in her lower lip and her eyebrows, she stepped out of the flame, her hand holding a crooked, gnarled staff on the top of which a sphere of blue crystal stood.

  Liane took her by the hand and helped her up the step from the flame’s bowl, and leered appreciatively at Gisla’s massive breasts.

  “Isn’t this just wonderful?” Gisla grinned, her voice husky, her eyes blazing.

  “You are beautiful,” Liane replied, and leaned closer, her hand sliding down Gisla’s back to slip inside her dress and grasp a buttock. She pushed her tongue deep in Gisla’s throat, enjoying the gentle nibbling of the older woman’s sharp teeth. Gisla pushed her hand inside Liane’s jacket, and squeezed her boob, her talons sending a wonderful shiver through Liane’s body. Liane pushed her thigh between Gisla’s legs. Gisla rocked her hips rhythmically, enjoying the ride.

  “We shouldn’t,” Liane giggled.

  “That’s why it’s so good,” Gisla replied.

  Behind them, just as it had appeared the blue flame blinked out of existence. The two women embraced in the dark for a moment, then the blue sphere on Gisla’s crooked staff flared, casting its blue light on their groping bodies.

  * * *

  “We should go back to Bellegarde,” Liane chuckled.

  Gisla was sucking on her nipple. She looked up. “There’s time for that.”

  Liane hummed gently, and bit the other woman’s earlobe.

  “I have a bed in Bellegarde,” she purred.

  Gisla’s eyes blazed. “Is that the only problem?”

  She let go of Liane’s body and took two steps from her. Liane pouted. Gisla spread her arms, and dark words poured through her dark lips, and there where the blue flame had burned,a big four poster bed appeared, with a blue silk coverlet and dark blue sheets.