Have you ever taken care of one of the Dark Souls that the Lath Magicians brought back to Yartihn?
Loriente pushed the hood off her head and reached one hand toward the tall grain that lined the edge of the village and extended outward to the treeline. The Lath Magicians’ heads raised as if they could smell her magic in the air, and like a pack of jackals scenting their prey they turned to face her as one. It was a windless day, but the golden heads of grain jerked and twitched as if caught in a gale, curling in on themselves until there was nothing but flattened stalks, black and rotting, covering an acre of land.
“Looking for death, are you?” she called across the field. “How about you hand over the baby, and the only death you will face today will be this?”
The pair who were not holding the child drew their swords wordlessly, and Loriente stepped on the first of the dead crop, her movements measured and slow as she stalked across the field. Not even a finger twitched to remove her own blade from its sheath, but leaves rustled high above the heads of the magicians and shadow and light shuttered over the ground below, feeding off the Mancer’s emotions like they would the sun. The snicker and snap of roots as they twisted under the earth could be heard from halfway across the field. Loriente didn’t miss a beat as dirt sprayed in every direction when the thick roots rose from the earth like a nest of vipers just as the first Lath Magician took a step towards her. He swung his sword hard, aiming for the base of the root closest to him, but with a flick of Loriente’s wrist it was twitching just out of his reach. She moved her hand as a puppeteer would to make a marionette dance, and dance it did, weaving until it had a straight shot. Then it struck, constricting around his throat and jerking him off his feet with ease.
As his sword fell, the rest of the roots exploded into motion as her hands conducted them. By the time his feet had stopped twitching, a pair of roots had chased the female holding the baby when she tried to run into the woods and, lashing around her ankles, placed her feet firmly on the ground so the baby would not be harmed in a fall.
The Mancer drew her saber smoothly as the free Lath Magician cried out in fury and charged for her, the one smart enough to go for the source of the power. She spun out of the way of his flashing blade, bearing her teeth as she swung her own. He caught it with his sword and it slid down to the hilt, locking them together, and he shoved her backwards viciously. She kept her balance and jerked back to avoid the full force of the blow, but felt the sting of a shallow cut across her ribs almost immediately. Batting his sword toward the ground before he could draw it back in, she stepped forward into his space and he backed instinctively into the range of her trees. Before he could blink, a branch had him hung beside his dead partner. The roots slithered back into the earth to go to sleep again.
Loriente stepped around to face the remaining magician and looked into her hazel eyes, dark with anger and threaded with fear, and she smiled. “Look at me. Look closely. Because this is what becomes of those little children whose necks you couldn’t break, who couldn’t be smothered, who couldn’t be burned at the stake.” She bit her lip, smiling wider. “Remind the other Lath Magicians of my name. Teach them the name of this baby. Because she will grow up to kill them, too.” Loriente reached out and ran her thumb over the woman’s cheek. “Now, scream for help. You won’t be getting out of this without it, and the walls of the town are thick," she said as she reached out to take the Dark Soul from her arms. She heard the woman begin to yell even before she was out of earshot. She held the little one close and talked softly to her as they left the Lath Magicians far behind, strung up like scarecrows watching over a dead crop. Walking through the fields, the plants continued to die around her until every seed, every stalk of grain was rotting on the ground. These people would remember.
Loriente looked down at the infant. She was a tiny scrap of a thing, with a soft red tuft of hair on her head and the distinct blue veins of a Ryon showing on her skinny forearm. But her strong voice, even as the squall of a baby, may have been what saved her life. The Demonlord’s name for her was fitting, as she grew to be someone just as strong and fiery--Darqa.
