Wild Magic

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Ailiki echoing her steps, Faan danced into the Sok Circle, turning and swaying in lazy eights, veiled and revealed, veiled and revealed, while the Honey Dancers split and spun around the edges of the Circle, the hordes of women dividing and dancing after then, meeting behind the STRIKER band on the far side of the Circle, swirling in a double whirl around and around-an engine of power pouring into the Honey Mother’s hands.

OW ooo OUM OWWW ooo AHHH UM The Prophet spread his arms and glared at her. “Yellow ‘Treez!” he cried. “Begone!”

Rivers of red fire burst from his palms and roared at the Honeychild.

Wild Magic became a thousand wings, brushed and blew the fire harmlessly into the sky.

Faan burned gold and white. Lightning leapt from her fingers, struck at the Prophet; it glanced off black hands that came down around him, struck several of the Cheoshim behind him and seared them to sudden ash.

The prisoners-suddenly loosed-ran blindly away.

The air in the Circle shook with heat and fire. Hair shriveled and spots on clothing smoldered.

The STRIKER band shouted CHUMAVAYAL! and rushed at the nearest women, clubs, knives, spears, torches striking at them, fists and feet striking at them. Dancing women went down, were trampled.

A woman’s skirt caught fire, turned her into a torch-

she burned in ecstacy, unafraid, leapt at a Cheoshim, curled arms and legs about him and took him with her into ash.

More women went down with smashed heads and other wounds, many dead before they hit the paving stones.

Women died and died, were mutilated, beaten, hurt.

Cheoshim died, throats ripped out by maenad teeth, smothered by women piling on them, died torn apart, arms wrenched from their bodies, wrists bitten open.

The STRIKER band died, twenty young man scattered in pieces across the Sok Circle.

For every man, four women died and another four were badly hurt, but there were hundreds of women there.

In the center of the charnel ground, the Prophet and Faan faced each other, one burning red, one burning gold.

Abruptly, the light vanished from both.

Wild Magic hovered in a fog about Faan, dulled and diminished.

The Prophet looked drained and old, though he’d lost none of his loathing for Faan and all she represented. “Begone, habatrize,” he croaked at her. “Filth!”

Faan swept her eyes along his body, feet to head, then laughed, a harsh bitter sound. “Talk about filth, louse breeder, when was your last bath? Good thing I’m downwind, or RI be upchucking my lunch.” She turned her back on him and sashayed off, wiggling her behind at him with mocking exaggeration.

The suddenly sobered women from the towers left the dead behind and crept back into their apartments; many of them took a last look around, packed up what they could carry, and went trudging across the Wood Bridge to the Low City.

The Prophet stomped angrily down a kariam, heading for the Outer Ring Road and Jiko Sagrada.