Amisspe

"But—" Onskava felt his throat constrict with fear. "Where are you going?!"

His mother averted her gaze, and tears glistened in her eyes.

"I must go to that summons, Onskava," she said with bitterness, and her voice shook. "I must. I cannot refuse. But when the sun rises, I will return to you. I promise."

"Don't leave me!" Tears streamed down the boy's face. He flung himself at his mother, pressed against her, knowing with every fiber of his being that this was perhaps their last meeting. "Please, don't go!"

His mother held him tighter — so tight he could feel her heart beating. Tears ran down her face too, falling onto her son's hair.

"My beloved sunshine," she whispered, kissing the crown of his head. "I will always be with you. I will always love you. Even if mortal peril forges you into the gloom of hopelessness and despair, know this — my love will shield you and show you the true path. Always."

Onskava felt his mother's love and tenderness leave, in the wake of their sorrowful parting, a priceless gift in the form of a sad yet burning kiss.

"Run," she said. "Run and don't look back."

And Onskava ran.

The house greeted him with darkness and silence. The boy burst inside, slammed the door, and leaned his back against it, breathing hard. Tears still streamed down his cheeks, but he wiped them with his sleeve and forced himself to move. He dashed to the large oak chest by the hearth, threw open the lid, and began rummaging through its contents. Bundles of herbs, vials of oils, pouches of powders — everything was here, everything with which his mother busied herself preparing remedies for the villagers.

Here were the branches of lifewood — dry, knotted, smelling of honey and bitterness. Here a bunch of blue vervain, whose flowers retained their sky-blue hue even when dried. Here a clay pot of whale tallow, thick and pale.

Onskava mixed everything in an old copper bowl — carefully, unhurried. Then he carried the bowl outside and set it directly before the threshold. He struck flint and steel and the flame leapt to life — but not an ordinary one, red or yellow. It was turquoise, cool and bright, like a piece of sky captured in fire. It burned steadily, without flickering, and from it emanated a strange scent — fresh, clean, driving back the darkness.

The boy returned inside and barred the door with every bolt — the wooden beam, the iron chain, the hook. He drew the heavy curtains across the windows. Then he climbed to the upper shelf and found a small black flask with an inscription scratched into the glass: Soul's Slumber. His mother had always forbidden him from touching this draught. She said it was dangerous. Said it was to be drunk only in the direst need. But this was precisely such a need. Onskava spread a woolen bed on the floor — the very one his mother slept in. He lay down, pulled the blanket over himself, and opened the flask. The draught's scent was strange — sweetish, intoxicating, evoking the feeling of one who had not slept for days and was on the verge of oblivion. The boy raised the flask to his lips and drank.

The taste was unexpected — sweet, almost like honey with herbs. Onskava raised his brows in surprise, but before he could form a single thought his eyelids grew heavy and the world swam. He closed his eyes and plunged into a dark abyss.

* * *

Unbroken darkness, thick and oppressive, surrounded him on every side. Yet beside Onskava, at his feet, lay a torch — burning with a steady flame, casting a faint light. The boy picked it up and looked around. He was standing in some kind of corridor. The walls were uneven, as though hewn from stone. Somewhere far off, water was dripping — measured, monotonous.

“What is this place?” Onskava whispered, and his voice echoed back from the walls.

He moved forward, holding the torch before him. His footsteps rang hollow in the silence. Suddenly, something crunched beneath his foot. The boy stopped and lowered his gaze. What he had stepped on looked most of all like a stick — only hard, pale, and stained with red and grime.

His heart lurched.

It was a bone.

Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Onskava recoiled and quickened his pace, almost breaking into a run, trying to get as far from that place as he could.

But then, from somewhere in the distance, music drifted toward him. Frightening — and yet unbearably sorrowful. As though someone were playing a Nordic lyre, and every note was steeped in grief.

"What is happening?" the boy whispered, but no one answered.

He walked on, and the music swelled, growing louder, heavier, pressing on his chest. Suddenly he stepped in something liquid. At first he thought it was water. But when he brought the torch closer, he saw the color. Red.

Onskava gasped in horror, but forced himself to keep moving. Fifteen paces. Twenty. And then he saw her.

A woman in a tattered dress, a blue scarf at her neck, stood ahead, her head bowed. She was thin, almost emaciated. Her hair tangled. Her arms hung lifelessly at her sides.

A tremor seized the boy. But he could not stop. It was as though something pulled him forward. He drew closer. Extended his hand. Lifted her head. And froze.

The face was bitten, mutilated. But the eyes — pale blue, familiar — gazed at him with an expression of terror and pain. It was his mother.

"No!" Onskava screamed and leapt back, dropping the torch.

The woman slowly, with effort, raised her head on her own. Blood flowed from her mouth. She looked at her son with those blue eyes, brimming with suffering.

"Why… did you… do this?" she rasped, choking on blood.

"Mama… I didn't want to! I didn't want to do it!" Onskava sobbed, backing away.

His mother rose. With a bony creak she turned her head — too far, unnaturally. And then sound came crashing over the boy. A thundering of hooves. Loud, resonant, echoing through the corridors. Snarling — menacing, horrifying, inhuman.

Onskava screamed.

* * *

Outside, the night storm raged with unprecedented fury. Thunder crashed so violently the walls of the house shook as though struck by an invisible hammer. Lightning — blindingly white, ferocious — tore the sky to pieces, illuminating the forest with a spectral, deathly light. It seemed as though somewhere up above a great battle was unfolding — a clash between forces beyond mortal understanding.

The boy bolted upright in bed, his heart pounding wildly. He rushed to the window and pressed his face to the glass, peering into the raging darkness. And then he saw them. Flashes. Pale blue, brilliant, like fragments of sky. They flickered in the depths of the forest — once, twice, again — as though someone there, among the trees, was wielding magic. Onskava froze, his palm against the cold glass. He knew that light. It was his mother's magic. Without thinking, the boy grabbed the lantern, flung open the door, and ran outside.

The turquoise flame of the Anabu fire still burned before the threshold, but Onskava paid it no heed. He ran — through rain, through wind, through mud — toward where the blue light flickered. Into the forest.

Entering the thicket, the boy felt the atmosphere change. Here it was quieter. The rain barely penetrated the dense canopy, but the mist had grown even thicker, almost tangible. Onskava raised the lantern and moved forward, following the flashes. His unease intensified with every step. The light of blue azure — the light of his mother's magic — flared more frequently, more brightly. But now it carried not strength, but desperation. As though someone fought with their last reserves of power.

"Mama," Onskava whispered, quickening his pace. "Please, be all right…"

Suddenly, ahead through the trees, something else flickered — not blue, but violet. Dark, ominous, pulsing like the living heart of darkness. The boy burst into a clearing. Before him, at its very center, stood the old abandoned well — the very one about which so many myths and legends circulated — and from its depths surged a flame of violet light — thick, cold, steeped in malice.

And beside the well, on the ground, lay his mother.

"Mama! Mama, no!" Onskava cried out and rushed to her.

He fell to his knees beside her, seized her by the shoulders, shook her, trying to make her open her eyes.

"Mama, please! Wake up! Please!"

Her eyelids fluttered. Slowly, she opened her eyes—pale blue and clouded with pain. Her face was smeared with blood and dirt. Her cloak was torn. Her breathing was ragged and hoarse.

"Son..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You are in danger... Why did you leave home? ... Evil is here... Run!"

"Why?!" Onskava cried, pressing her hand against his cheek. "I came to save you, Mother! What happened here? Who hurt you?"

With great effort, his mother lifted her head, gazing at him with unspeakable sorrow.

"You... you have been summoned, Onskava," she rasped. "The Great Evil... the one that sleeps at the bottom of the well... it has summoned you. It was no dream. It was a trap. It wants to drag you down to its Underground Castle. It will kill you!"

She seized his hand, gripped it with unexpected strength.

"Run! Now! I will protect you! I'll hold him back! Run while you can!"

"No!" the boy screamed. "I won't leave you! I won't!"

But then from the depths of the forest, from the abyss of foliage and mist, came a sound.

Footfalls. Heavy, measured, like the tread of a giant. And a snarl. Resonant, thunderous, brimming with fury.

Onskava slowly turned around. And froze.

From the darkness, between the trees, emerged a figure. Towering — nearly half again the height of a man. Clad in an enormous black cloak. Beneath the cloak showed a skeletal body — bones covered in gray, dead skin, sinews that pulled taut with every movement. The face was gaunt, pallid, almost translucent. Cheekbones sharp as though carved from stone. A mouth — a narrow slit from which issued a rasping breath.

But most terrible of all were the eyes. They burned with violet flame — brilliant, cold, merciless. They stared straight at Onskava. Through him. As though they saw not the boy, but his soul.

"At last," the figure spoke, its voice low and resonant, as though rising from the very bowels of the earth. "You have come, little whelp."

Onskava could not move. Fear paralyzed his entire body. He tried to breathe, but the air seemed lodged in his throat.

The figure took a step forward.

"I have waited so long for you," it continued, tilting its head as though examining prey. "So many years… But now you are here. And you will come with me."

"No!" his mother screamed, and, summoning her last strength, sprang to her feet. She stood between Onskava and the monstrosity, arms spread wide like a shield. Blue light blazed around her palms. "You will not touch him! Do you hear me?! You will not touch my son!"