Maze watched swathed in darkness as armed men carried stolen linen into the defiled town house. He couldn’t help but feel revulsion catch in his throat, threatening to make him sick.
With shaking fingers, he held his book aloft and placed them on the open pages.
“Sense enhance,” he muttered, while focusing his mind.
His five senses expanded, overwhelming him with sights, sounds, and smells. Scanning the building with piercing eyes, he could now sense the inhabitants inside. Speech filled his ears and what he heard contorted his face in rage.
Maze trembled and silently swore. He knew he had to calm his anger.
The King's men had thought to turn this place into the army's carnal cesspool. Sorina’s women would be turned into cattle.
Disgusting, he thought.
Maze sent tendrils of thought through the building. Fortunately, he couldn’t sense any women. He had made it in the nick of time.
Without a second to spare, he slammed his hand down on the shadowy surface of his book.
“Purge this madness,” he said in a snarl.
Above the town house appeared a tiny dark cloud. It rapidly grew until it was the size of his travelling wagon. The shapeless cloud moulded and churned until it resembled a hand. Maze’s hand.
He held up his arm and the shadowy apparition followed, soring high into the night sky and with a swift wave the dark figure fell.
Boom!
The colossal weight of the magical hand crushed the building in one solid movement. Its walls crumpled like eggshells as dust billowed from within. The cries of pain echoed out into the night but didn’t last long as the shadowy hand dissolved into stick hot liquid.
A long black wing banner that had been planted at the town house's entrance floated away with the wind.
Maze stood still, holding his book in one hand, and staring off into the ruins with a scowl. He took a few steps forward, brushing off the dust from his travelling clothes and kicking aside debris. His face was cast in a deep shadow as he searched the wreckage with his heightened senses.
There were no survivors.
The blue surface of his book slowly floated up and opened in front of him. The dull light of the moon cast a faint glow through the pale cracks within the ancient pages.
How many more scoundrels are out tonight? He wondered.
As if in answer to his thoughts, a soft echo of hooves padded somewhere in the distance. Dark shapes rolled between buildings as the scent of horses wafted towards him. Maze concentrated. It was faint but he could hear muted cries of anguish amid the sounds of hooves and churning of wheels.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
They’d come from the direction of Rose's Tavern.
So, the rumours were true, Maze thought bitterly. They planned it for tonight.
“Sick twisted bastards,” he said with a sigh. "What was this world coming to?”
Twin sobs stole his attention, forcing the overwhelming lurching sense of revulsion to assail him once more. With sickening apprehension, he knew who they'd captured.
His eyes narrowed and could just make out their shapes in the dark. They were getting closer.
Maze reached out with a hand and went to grab his book from the air only to slip. “Damn it,” he muttered. The power of the book was overwhelming him.
“Sense relax,” he said, coughing. His enhanced senses fell back, veiling the figures in the dark behind an impossible blur. Scrambling to regain composure, the old storyteller tried to grab his book again, only for the blue covers to fall to the floor with a soft thump.
Maze knelt and plucked the book from the ground and tucked it under his arm.
"What the heck?" shouted a voice.
A portly man astride a poorly constructed wagon rolled up and lurched to a stop in front of the smoked-out ruin. Maze's scowl hardened as he realised who the voice belonged to.
“Jerald bloody Naught,” he swore.
The large toll guard was, as usual, covered in grime, yet his brother was nowhere to be seen. Maze had recently found out that he had recently lost most of his bushy facial hair after attempting to assault a young girl as she walked home at night.
"Old man," Jerald said. He pushed himself from his seat and landed on the ground hard then jolted upright. "Tell me what happened here."
Maze stood quietly and examined the rear of the cart.
His jaw tightened.
"Are you stupid old man? What the fuck happened here?"
Three more wagons rolled up behind the first and slowed in a line. They all carried the same. Young women clamped in iron cages sobbing uncontrollably. The kingdom’s new line of slaves.
Two large men strode up beside Jerald and shot Maze threatening glances with brandished weapons that still dripped red.
Maze looked at their uniforms. They, too, were coated with goblets of blood. The old storyteller let out a calm breath and focused his thoughts. Neither anger nor grief would serve him well at this point. So, he pulled out his book and placed fingers between the pages then looked directly at Jerald.
Maze smiled.
The chubby man's face contorted with fury as soon as he beheld the magic book.
“Quickly! Kill him!” Jerald shouted.
“Stop,” Maze said as he held out his other hand.
The soldiers froze before they could even blink. Maze felt the cool touch of the event sap his strength as the power of the spell surged into the soldiers. The joints of their bones seized as frost turned their limbs solid.
Their eyes trembled in panic, unable to even breathe.
"The beauty of storytelling,” Maze began. “Is that people remember and cherish words." Maze cleared his throat. "Tales become timeless in the years to come. However, I regret your tale will never be told. You’ll never be part of any future.”
“What?” Jerald turned to his companions and quivered.
The event stretched and seized Jerald within frosted tendrils.
“I’ll wipe the memory of your stain from this place," Maze said in finality.
"No one will mourn you." His hand dropped to the open page. "You do not exist!"
Jerald's men felt the cold pressure from their joints release. They shared a look with their leader as he nodded. They complied and rushed forward only to dissolve into puddles of ink.
"What?" cried Jerald, in shock and alone.
"The best way to cure an infestation is to purge it," Maze said. “Burn.”
Power surged forwards as fire erupted from Jerald's unkempt beard and engulfed his face. He roared in agony and rolled on the floor madly, attempting to put out the fire.
"You thought this place would serve as your own personal playground, didn’t you?" Maze stepped over the writhing man.
The flames vanished, and the scene fell into a deathly silence. The book snapped shut under his grip and Maze closed his eyes, waiting for what he knew what was about to come. His hands shook with pain as a surge of energy coursed through his arms. Lines of blood coiled around his flesh as the pain from the book ripped through his body.