The Spire

The Spire stood outside the Temple; its sandstone pillar aged by the sun. It had always been there, for longer than anyone could remember.

Fikri walked past it as he did every day. He never really gave it much thought. But today he couldn’t help himself. He had woken earlier than usual, startled by a strange dream of stars and doors. Fikri sighed, wondering what to do with the time as he sat on a bench.

He sat there for a while, sandals scuffing the red sand of the desert. He glanced at the sundial. He had time. It wasn’t dawn yet. And since his master had disappeared, he could turn up whenever he liked. Of course, he worried about the man. A lot of Elders had disappeared lately. Even some of the apprentices had vanished. Among the markets, people murmured that the Temple was cursed. Of course, he was worried. He was scared that he might be next. Besides, his master would turn up next week, stinking of Zytrakan wines. But it was nice to be his own boss, just for a while. His robes rippled in the wind as he strolled towards the Spire.

The black runes that covered the Spire seemed to call his name; a mystery that needed to be explored. The script became clearer as he stood beside it. His fingers trailed the ancient characters in awe. He couldn’t believe it. He had walked past the Spire hundreds of times and never seen the Cwuiraxian Scroll etched into the sandstone. The sacred relic was said to be hidden well. He smiled. And so, it was, hidden in plain sight.

Fikri stood there for a while, captivated by the scroll. It was beautiful. The Cwuiraxian people had long gone, invaded and conquered by the warring tribes of the south and defeated by the three witches in the Battle of Quiska. The desert sands had swallowed their stone circles and absorbed ancient magic. But here they were, right in front of him. It was as if they were still here, living and breathing inside those angular letters. It was something that always fascinated him about runes. Their letters shimmered like jewels. They would fade soon, disappearing under the fierce heat of the sun. He had to preserve them, save them, care for them

He sat down by the base and found a quill at the bottom of his satchel. He turned to a new page in his notebook, copying down the runes around the base exactly, following the words as they trailed upwards. He rummaged for his battered copy of Brina Dharakarins Translations of Cwuiraxian Runes in his bag, rifling through pages as he searched for what he needed.

The world went on around him as he sat there. People hurried this way and that, their colorful robes flapping like birds. The market started up, filling the place with the scents of spices from the east and fresh fish from the frozen lands to the north, chanting their goods to the wind. Music sounded from nearby, lyres strumming and flutes singing on the corners were markets ended and streets began again.

But he barely noticed them. He was lost in the ancient words, on the trail of something marvelous. His quill scratched like birdsong, ink flowing like a river as he translated the sentences in front of him.

He paused as the clock tower rang out. The clamorous voices of the bells resounded, bringing him back to the present. He put his quill down and reread what he had translated. He couldn’t believe his eyes. For a moment, he wondered if he had mistranslated it. But no. There it was in black and white. And this was only the beginning! He hurried to scribble more of the runes down, craning his neck to see what came next.

By sunset, he had it. He stood there in wonder, hardly daring to believe what he had discovered. Fikri waited until the square was empty again, not daring to move from his spot. He sat there, fidgeting. He wanted to see the magic for himself. But everyone seemed to be moving so slowly. His feet jiggled anxiously as he waited until the markets finally packed up their stalls and the last of the musicians vanished. At last the place was silent once again.

He stood up, brushing sand off his robes. He held his notebook in one hand and began to chant the ancient words. They felt strange on his tongue, their syllables and phenomes crackling on the air as they poured from his lips.

The runes shimmered as the Spire glowed blue. A loud creaking sound echoed. A steel spike extended from the tip of the Spire, shooting up into the sky. It seemed to grow taller as his voice grew louder. The spike seemed to stretch further into the clouds, until it reached the stars themselves. As the spell finished, Fikri stood there, amazed.

The stars shone around the Spire. The constellation spiraled around its tip, as white as snow against the amethyst sky. Stars glimmered like jewels. Comets flashed like fish, streaking through the air. It was beautiful. In the center of the constellation stood a tall circular door of blue mist. It shimmered, as beautiful as morning dew on the sand. The stars rippled and danced around it, their bright lights shining like ancient spirits. A large brass handle appeared in the center as he approached, as golden as the sun. It opened as he neared it, as if it had been expecting him. A snap sounded like the crunching of bone as the door closed behind him.

Fikri gasped in wonder at the sight that greeted him. He had seen pictures of what the world used to look like, before the land had turned into desert. But this was more wonderful than he could ever have imagined.

Tall silver trees stood around him, carpeted by intricate golden flowers and surrounded by bright purple mushrooms. An emerald river shimmered in the moonlight, snaking its way through the forest to the sapphire blue mountains he could see in the distance. A bright pink moon hovered in the sky, its bulbous shape casting strange shadows over the forest below.

Long grass rustled under his feet, softer than carpets. Fikri marvelled in amazement. He had never even seen grass, never mind walked on it. It was a comfort, not as hot as the scorching sands he was used to. He smiled. He preferred the past already.   

The square he had sat in this morning was a large meadow, covered in saffron wildflowers that grew taller than he did. He made his way towards it, blades of grass swishing against his robes. Something crunched under his feet, hard and uncomfortable under his sandals. He looked down, seeing white bones clustered around the Spire. They seemed to be everywhere. He jumped as he saw a skull protruding from the long grass blades. And another. And another. He looked around. The stone circle that surrounded the Spire seemed to be full of bodies. His heart pounded in fear. The crooked teeth of the skulls seemed to grin at him. He shuddered. Perhaps it was just a warning sign of some sort, ancient traditions long forgotten. But still, it unnerved him. And there was that cackling sound that echoed from the trees. He felt the eyes on his back. He looked around. But there was nothing there.

He shook his head. He had probably just imagined it. But something still unnerved him.

The moon was going down, disappearing into the clouds. He shivered. He didn’t want to be outside when darkness fell. He looked for somewhere to shelter.

 The Temple had always been a refuge from the frost giants and fire demons of old, protected by enchantments made by Olwen, the first Elder.  

The Temple stood nearby, just as it did in the future. He waded through the grass, making his way towards its welcoming stone arches. Fikri glanced around him. It was too quiet. There was no sound, no birdsong, no animal cry. He didn’t like it. He missed the shouts of the market sellers and the sweet songs of the musicians. He longed for the loud bells to chime the hour. Instead, the square stood silent as he strode across it.

He passed through the tall arches and into the Temple. It even felt the same, with same cold air that always made him shiver. But now, the Temple was shrouded in darkness. It was usually so bright in the evening that it gave him a headache.

 He looked around. The Temple was empty. He frowned. Something wasn’t right. Where was everyone? The people of Cwuirax didn’t just vanish, did they? If the Spire was as new as it looked, they should be around here somewhere. Even when the moon rose, they were always practicing their magic in the Temple. The myths said it was a palace that never slept, always full of Elders and apprentices discovering more of their abilities. So where was everyone?

A series of torches lined the walls, their dead flames tied to old metal brackets. He took one, finding some flint in his bag from yesterday. Click. Click. Click. The loud noise of the pieces of flint striking one another was the only sound that echoed in the silence.

The flame blossomed to life, illuminating the runes and carvings that decorated the walls. For once, Fikri saw their shapes. Time had faded them in the future, making their shapes indecipherable. But now he saw the drawings of Elders and magic as clear as day.

Tall pillars led the way into the large entrance hall. Even in the future, it had been full of servants and nobles and apprentices hurrying about. But the hall was silent. From the entrance hall, several chambers led the way left and right.

He kept going, passing through the entrance hall and into the rooms and antechambers that lay beyond. Something snapped underfoot. He flinched as he saw what it was. A severed arm. The rest of the body was flung across the room, limbs jumbled among a mix of others. His heart broke as he saw the yellow robes. They had just been servants. Some even still had smiles on their faces and jugs of wine in hand, ready to serve the long table.

He raised the torch. He flinched, wishing he hadn’t. The bodies of the nobles lay slumped in the chairs at the table. Black soulless eyes stared at him, chilling him to the bones. Their skin was shrivelled, dried of blood. Their mouths gaped open, forever frozen in a scream. Long claw marks scored their torsos, blood and gore trailing down their green robes. Limbs dangled from their sockets. Patches of skin had been torn away, ripped from the bone. Their hearts had been wrenched from their chests, aortas and ventricles snapped to pieces, tendrils waving in the wind like grass.

He fled from the room, throwing up into a vase that stood on a pedestal in the corridor. He didn’t understand. How could this have happened? His mind reeled as he thought of all the myths he knew. But none of them mentioned this. By the time the Spire was created, peace reigned. The frost giants had been defeated years ago. The witches of the north wouldn’t defeat the Elders in the Battle of Quiska for another few generations yet. And the tribes of the south wouldn’t invade for a long time after that. Something was wrong.

Every room was the same, floors littered with dismembered corpses as if they were snowflakes. Upstairs, where apprentices practiced their magic, the same sights greeted him.

Every corpse was the same. The same long claw marks. The same soulless eyes. The same torsos with their hearts torn out. Tears poured down his face. One apprentice had the badge of the Elder of Runes. He fingered the badge on his shoulder, exactly the same as the young man on the floor. That could have been him.

Not even the Elders had been spared. Their bodies were the most broken of all, their corpses barely recognisable.

 He swallowed as he saw the trails of magic that scoured the walls and floor. The river of ice that snaked around the room, stalactites as sharp as spears. The smell of burnt cloth still wafted on the air, scorch marks on the floor. Water dripped from a hole in the ceiling, sputtering like blood. The Elders stood frozen, forever shouting spells to empty air. At least they had put up a fight, Fikri thought sadly.

          He had to get out of here, go back to his time. He had thought it would be wonderful to travel to the past. How wrong he had been. He made to leave. A cackling sound echoed. Fikri shivered. It was a horrible noise, a harsh sound that pierced his eardrums with its discordant notes.

          A tall man appeared from the shadows, with eyes as black as night. Fikri froze as he saw the tattoos, the sign of ancient magic. He frowned. He recognised the man from the myths. Drikla, The Elder of Night. He was the brother of the three witches, even more powerful than his sisters. But he had been defeated, imprisoned in the stone circle for centuries. There was a rumour he was still there, buried in the sand. But here he was. Alive. Free. It didn’t make any sense. It was too early. But if he had translated the runes and travelled through time, then anyone could. Whoever had done so had got more than they bargained for.

Driskla grinned. His body seemed to shimmer; his figure illuminated in colours as bright as a rainbow against his pale white skin. Fikri trembled. Soul magic. His eyes darted around the room, looking for something to defend himself with. But there was nothing. Only the staff of one of the Elders lay on the floor. Fikri darted and grabbed it as Driskla came closer. With all his strength, he smashed it down on the man’s head. Driskla fell to the floor.

          Still holding the staff, Fikri ran back to the Spire. He stumbled to a halt in front of it. He rummaged in his bag, fumbling for his notebook. He had to get out of here.

He shouted the words of the spell as loud as he could. But nothing happened. He carried on, yelling the rest of it at the top of his lungs. But the Spire never glowed blue. The door never materialised. 

He swore. It must be a one-way spell. There was probably another spell to reverse it and get him back to the future. But he didn’t know it. He hit himself in anger. It must be on the back of the Spire. He hurried to the other side. The runes shimmered in the moonlight. But there was no time to translate it. The dreadful cackle resounded again nearby, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He prayed to every god there was to make the Spire send him back to the future. But it never did. The skulls on the ground grinned again.

Fikri trembled. He was stuck in the past, with no way out.

Driskla appeared in front of him. His body transformed, scaled wings as black as night emerging from his shoulders. Skin was replaced by flesh. Fierce fangs glinted in the moonlight, as sharp as knives. Dark magic swirled from the Driskla’s fingers, trails of ink black energy swirling and hissing on the air as they headed towards him. Fikri wriggled as they snaked around him, as tight as ropes, hooking into his skin and tugging at his heart. Driskla laughed. A long-forked tongue flicked on the air, desire pooling in his eyes. Fikri whimpered as he struggled to breathe. He tried to summon some magic. It flickered in his hands as he struggled. He could feel the claws digging into his chest as everything went black.

The Spire glowed blue. Driskla smiled. Another fool stepped through the door into the past, oozing with the delicious smell of Elder magic. Perfect.