Inside Realms by A. F. Stewart

Song Rise:

The air turned cold and a swirl of mist appeared with a flare of ethereal luminosity. A roar of impelling sound, a shiver in the surrounding elements and Diarmid opened his eyes. He was no longer at the inn, but on a trail in the Kinsharra Mountains.
He looked upward to the all-embracing expanse and regretted sincerely the restraints of magic that had been placed on this region of the Kinsharra Mountains. Diarmid tucked his harp carefully back into its case slung across his shoulder, and with a regretful sigh started the long climb to Kinsharra Point.
The mountain track was snow packed, still locked in a northern winter chill, although it was the beginning of spring. He left his footsteps behind him like tiny echoes as he marched through the frozen vista scrambling to be reborn. The wind around him blew bitter, a hungry lament keening down from the caves.
"To freeze my bones," he growled through the gale. "No doubt I'll lay dead somewhere before this day is through."
He kept on walking, passing the directional marker within the hour, as the sky darkened steadily and storm clouds became the heavens.
The clouds hung low; fat, ebony shapes devouring all substance, their threat enclosing the landscape in a sunless expanse. Hoped for snow came as ice, sharp and fast, coating the trees that he plodded past, frosting them in fingers of crystal.
The ghostly panorama lay out before him, a dreary shadowed white, shades of grey and silver muting what little colour had survived the frigid weather.
Diarmid pulled his cloak folds snug, and bent his head into the squall. Feeling the chill seep from air to flesh he pulled his cloak tighter, with hope the wool and
fur would ward off frostbite. In all his two hundred years he had never liked winter.
The howling wind made the ice sting and it played a melody through the tree branches. It was a sounding of chimes, reminding him of the town bells he had heard long ago in Wyvin. The ice crunched under Diarmid's feet as he kept on, a discord amidst the windsong.
"A warm fire and ale, that's what I need, and a place to play my harp."

Legendary Debts:

I used to be mortal.

In years past, I was just an ordinary person, an attractive slip of a girl who craved some adventure. I worked in my father's inn, serving drinks and food to the trade. I had dreams of warriors and escapades.
Then I met Merlin, the great wizard, and thought my dreams had arrived.
He was handsome, fun, and I found a whole new reality in the realm of magic. I loved consorting with wizards and heroes, and I had a hell of a good time. Until I found out the cost, that small detail that Merlin had forgotten to mention.
I couldn't die.
As I found out, wizards, or for that matter anyone who dabbles in magic, absorb some of the energy they use for spells. An effect of assimilating this energy is you essentially become an immortal. So I became, for all eternity, the witch, Nimue.
I was not the only one. Merlin used so much magic to fulfill his dream of Camelot and King Arthur, he cursed us all. The great legends of Camelot fell one by one to Merlin's enticements, and embraced that world of magic. Of course, he unkindly forgot to mention the consequences.
To be fair, immortality was not that dreadful in the beginning. I rather savoured it for the first few centuries, dabbling with quite a few different lives.
I ran an inn after the Normans invaded, was a cook down in London, and was even a butcher once. But the boredom starts, when life keeps repeating, and the losses can drive you insane. We of Camelot have all felt the stress; Merlin did us no honour.

Nimue:

I came to Afallon in my first year. My mother sought sanctuary there after the death of my father, Merlin. I never knew him, my father; he died just before I was born.
I was raised among the women, the Lady of the Lake and her retinue. It was a fine childhood, in many ways carefree and untamed. I played among the wilderness and wildlife of Afallon, with the hermits, or with the children of the lake village.
I knew study and instruction, learning the old Celtic ways. I saw little of the world outside of the Maidens and the monks of Glastonia Abbey, but everyone tried to make my life seem comfortable and normal.
Somehow, though, I always carried the burden of being his daughter, the child of the great Merlin. As a small child I discovered the legacy he granted me. His great gift of prophetic visions had been passed to me. At the age of five I foretold of a flood, and at ten I saw the death of my mother before it occurred.
This disturbing gift secured me my place in Afallon. I was the heir to Merlin and all that responsibility. From my first vision I was prepared so I might ascend to that obligation. But no one ever told me how to live up to a legend.

Until the day I dreamed of a king.

The Elite of the Blood:

It was night, and I was standing in the rain, the cold wet seeping into my skin and hair. I had closed my eyes, and I could hear the thrumming of the raindrops as they hit the ground. But it was a heartbeat I was trying to hear.
Ah, there it was, the faint thumping sound. I licked my lips; I had found my quarry. She had already been pursued for three city blocks, but now the search was nearing an end.
"She is close."
I let the words carry over my shoulder to the rest of my team.
I signalled, and we moved left and down the dark street. I had brought my five best men, all well trained. With practiced ease we assembled formation, and advanced on the hunted. I was on point, tracking, all my senses open.

I am of the Elite, and serve the Vampire Order. We have been the guardians over vampire kind for nearly two centuries. The Elite keep the secrets, and implement the edicts. We protect our kind, punish wayward individuals, and enforce our law.
And that law is simple. You hunt the invisible; the homeless, the drug addicts. Or you disguise the kill; a mugging gone wrong, a serial killer never caught.
But you don't publicize. Publicity brings the interest of the Hunters. The only humans who acknowledge the existence of vampires, and live to kill our kind.
So it is not wise to break our dictates. And yet, here we were tonight, tracking someone who had broken those rules.

Eternally Lost:

I left this mortal world in the year 1093, but I still wander this earth. I am one of the Undead, now damned to walk among the living unseen, inhabiting in the shadows.
Tonight, I am watching the moon. Slivers of light are dancing upon my night, and I bathe in the moonlight, surrounded by the forest and the wind. It is silent and beautiful.
The sight has not changed in the 800 years since I died. It is still solace for the lonely.
I am, as are all of the Undead, a forlorn soul, invisible to those full of spirit and life. I can see their happiness, hear their laughter, but I have none of my own. All I have are my memories, tainted remnants of my life.
Only mortals in despair may perceive what I am, what we all are; to those people, the desperate ones, the Undead can be seen. With them I can pretend, I can reach out to touch what I was, to relive what has vanished. I have even heard whispers in the shadows, that to unshackle a despondent soul is to find your own redemption.
I wonder, now and then, if that could be true.

Harbinger:

Lucius Valerius Corvus had been sent to hunt a witch. Only years of discipline had prevented him protesting, when his commanding officer had issued the orders.
"Do you think being on the Wall has finally driven Scaeva mad?" asked Varro.
Lucius shot his second-in-command a look of reprimand.
"Our commander is not mad."
"Yet we are here in the forest, tracking down a soothsayer. You know there are better ways to deploy the men. What of those rumours of raiding parties coming from the south? We may now have to worry of barbarians crossing the sea to raid our settlements."
"Yes, I know. I am aware there have been raids in the coastal villages, Varro. The northern Picts have been showing signs of disquiet as well."
"Then why are we here? I tell you, Scaeva listens too much to these Celts and their spectral notions."
"Perhaps he has put too much credence in the Celtic leaders, and their superstitious magic, but we have all seen strange things here, in Britannia. There is nothing to say that the woman is not a witch."
"Nothing to say she is, either! Just because his nephew died after meeting her at the river, don't mean she wished him dead."
"No, but Scaeva thinks she did, so we are here to capture her."
"Bah, I still think it is a fool's errand, eight men chasing shadows. We have been searching the river and the villages for three days, and nothing. No one knows
of her."
"They know, Varro, but they are afraid. Their faces showed that, whenever we mention a woman at the river."
"This is where Scaeva gets his foolish notions. He listens to the stories of that village woman of his. He should heed his own soothsayer and our Roman Gods,
and not put credence in these Celtic ways."
"Perhaps. But it is never wise to dismiss magic of any kind, and never anger a God. Whether Roman or Celtic, anger a God and you will have misfortune."
"True enough. It does not aid us with finding this witch. Nor did our prayers or auguries. So what do we do?"
Lucius thought. He wanted to turn back, and abandon his quest. He had a bad premonition since leaving the fort. He sighed.
"We head back to the river. Maybe fate will be kind and grant us what we seek."
Lucius signaled his men, and in formation they marched back to the river once more.

Copyright 2007 A. F. Stewart
From the book Inside Realms.

About the Author:

A. F. Stewart was born and raised in Nova Scotia, Canada, and still calls it home. She is fond of good books (especially science fiction/fantasy), action movies, and oil painting as a hobby.
Ms. Stewart has been writing for several years, her main focus being in the fantasy genre. She also has a great interest in history and mythology, often working those themes into her books and stories.
Her books can be found on Lulu.com and Amazon.com

She has four novels in progress, including the first book in my proposed Song Mage series.

Interview with A. F. Stewart