Marked For Magic by Daisy Banks Page B

vanity alone gave him hope he might be honored on more than one occasion in his life. The gods spoke clear at his dedication, and he should expect no further direct attention. He stood and took his place, now ready to open his mind to messages from other realms.
    “Gods of the waters, gods of the stones, gods of the skies, and gods of the flame, hear my plea. Use me for your will. Take my strength and use it for your will. Hear my call and allow my mind to hear yours.”
    He picked up the vial he had prepared and lifted it in salutation to each of the candle sconces. Bitter on his tongue, the earthy taste of the mushroom brew soured his stomach.
    The brew is strong .
    The effect near instant, he staggered. The empty vial slipped from his grasp as he sank down to the floor. He let the intensity of sensations sweep over him as he waited for the images gifted from the gods to fill his mind.
    The first sprang strong and mouthwatering sweet. Golden hair shimmered before him. His fingers itched to unravel the long thick plait so he could stroke through the rippling, silken strands.
    A flash of red caused a surge of desire. He would take her slow and gentle, revel in each sweet sigh she made. The weight of warm, plump, soft flesh filled his palm. He squeezed a nipple between his fingers until it became rigid and hot. The pounding heat in his groin grew painful, and tearing himself from the experience, he pushed his thoughts on, away from the temptation of Nin. He waited while the intense mirage of colors shivered and moved.
    Riders suddenly leaped sharp into focus. The horse’s manes splayed out with a golden sheen like Nin’s hair. Armed riders in blue and scarlet uniforms charged forward. Horses pounded over autumn leaves that scattered in the wind. Lord Farel’s starry standard flashed proud before the troops as they rode toward the mountains, the western frontier, and the lowland marshes, bound for all the borders of the land.
    Is it from here attacks will come?
    He saw no sign of an enemy, merely the season’s changes to ready the land for winter’s grip.
    Smoke filled his mind. Sweet incense and bitter wood fires. Each aroma took him deeper into the visions.
    The nagging doubts of the last few days returned, his apprehension and confusion intensified by the brew. He sought control, and turned his mind again to the pictures wheeling above him in living, breathing colors.
    Smoke and flame.
    Death and the reek of the unburied.
    Screams of pain he could do little to aid rang out from the people. The lifted voices of hundreds called, and he could not even give them water for their parched throats. Hands clawed at him. Fevered eyes stared blind. The open mouths of the dead still seemed to cry their terror.
    All of it streamed through him.
    He closed his eyes, but could not shut out the images of corpse after corpse, all disfigured by black bruises and swollen, purple skin.
    A breathy yell strangled in his throat. Piles of dead multiplied until a yellow, sulphurous flame consumed them. A small, mottled purple hand, extended from a red sleeve within the blaze.
    “Gods, no!”
    Echoes of his cry reverberated around the chamber until they diminished to a whisper. The vision continued, unrelenting. He could not tear free. His body shook, muscles tense with the effort as he tried to close out the pitiful sights. The images pinpointed into blackness.
    Darkness came as a relief, but only lasted for seconds before the harsh wheeze of breath, the scent of smoke and ash filled him. He caught the shadows of rasped words, but they were too hushed to be clear. The slow sweep of a brush rustled over them, and the murmurs vanished.
    Grotesque sights piled in fast, one after another. Grain rotted in the fields as men fought on horseback at the forest edge. At the base of the mountains, they fought hand to hand, armed with staves and clubs, and in what had been the fertile, orchard-filled plains, women stood to ward off any who would challenge