Curselock

Chapter 116: Toy Maker

There was a hymn in the air as the man’s corpse lifelessly got to its feet.

It rang through the street like a sorrowful lie, shifting the snow into warmth and the coldness into familiarity. It glistened with the weightless breath of Leland, touching upon his inner being until he felt at peace. His pain, his exhaustion, teetered away, resting his anguish wordlessly.

Something deep within the hymn churned, fluttering down past the horrid remains of the Harbingers’ battle. It drifted calmly through the black fog and nightly sky, swirling around the deceased man who stood on his own two feet.

The lustrous power entered the body via mouth, swimming down its relaxed throat as the dead muscles had yet to stiffen. Like a withering flower dying of dehydration, the hymn befell, twisting into a chant of immoral fun. A grim smile split the body’s face wide, the power uncaring of the blood that trickled from the Witch brand.

Two dark orbs took the place of the man’s eyes, their darkness a far cry from the pure snow blanketing the street. These orbs locked onto Leland.

Instantly, the warmth in Leland’s chest disappeared, rendering him limp and raw. He groaned, the illusion snapping in his mind like a harpoon bursting through a fish. He fell to his knees, the pain redoubling his exhaustion.

On his hand, his tattoo flapped its wings and silently cawed for his attention, but Leland’s splintered head was too jumbled.

“Funny mortals,” the dead body whispered, his voice thick with tar and oil, “you always surprise me.”

With Leland’s silence, the body’s deep smile shifted into a heartless frown.

Again, silence.

“What are you, mortal? A Harbinger, yes, but not one I am familiar with. Soul magic, crow summonings, bone… magic? What bastardized experiment are you?”

Leland swayed on his knees.

The body sighed, rolling its dark orb eyes. A shallow, hollow power erupted from the body, blasting into Leland without reserve or reservation. “You will answer me, mortal.”

Wetness invaded Leland’s lungs, overpowering the pain in his mind with fear. He gasped for air, straining like he was only inches from the water’s surface after a free dive. He flailed for a moment, but his hand eventually started clawing at his own neck as if to carve a new hole for air to travel.

That was when the malevolent body ended the effect.

“Answer me, boy, what are you?”

His mind reeling, his chest heaving, Leland didn’t hear the question. He coughed up imaginary water until his eyes went bloodshot from the forces.

“Mortals are so weak.”

Power rushed from the body into Leland again, this time warming and calming his spasming. The rankness of his lungs bruised over, along with a bite of relief over his fleeing thoughts. True consciousness grazed Leland’s mind since the hymn first fell from the heavens.

“Good,” the body said. “Now then, who are you and why stop one of mine?”

Leland didn’t make eye contact, not when two orbs of oblivion stared at him. “Y-you are the T-toy Maker?”

The body raised an eyebrow. “An image, yes. But that is neither here nor there. I asked you a question, and you will answer me.”

Leland didn’t respond. How could he? He was in the presence of a vile Lord in the mortal realm. That was unheard of except in folktales and legend.

“Answer me!”

The shout launched the snow from the street, creating a wasteland of frozen dirt and lifeless bodies. But the shout also cleared and bounded through Leland. It removed the fog behind his eyes, it released the daze in his thoughts.

The situation dawned on him. It truly dawned on him. He was going to die. Death at the hands of a vile Lord didn’t seem like the worst way to go. At least there would be stories about the battle. Leland versus a Toy Maker Harbinger then the Toy Maker himself!

As the Lord raged about lack of answers, a hint of a smile pulled along Leland’s lips.

The Harbinger controlled puppets, and, in his death, his body was turned into a puppet. Leland saw the irony, and had a brief moment of clarity. He found the one thing more ironic than a puppet master being turned into a puppet: a mortal killing a Lord.

Well, a mortal destroying a vile Lord’s puppet. Destroying an image, whatever that meant.

Leland turned his attention to making said dream a reality. He looked to the soul of the Damned that held the lost soul of the Harbinger. Its ethereal hand was stretched out like a stone statue of a King’s most loyal knight. It would wait for all eternity if it must.

As Leland took the lost soul from the soul of the Damned, the Toy Maker went silent. He watched with fascination, eyeing the movement like a scientist watching a rat move through a maze. He was always learning, even in divinity. After all, who knew what unique attributes he could add to his toys later on.

But when Leland’s grimoire spun directly in front of the mortal, the Toy Maker got an itch. Something was off.

“Stop that now or I will kill you.”

Leland didn’t listen. Instead he muttered,

“Dolls with hollow eyes forever cold,

marionettes whose strings forever told.

Wrath of the Toy Maker’s choir,

faith in burning Soul Fire.”

Eyes widening, the deity beckoned for his dark fog. The black walls surrounding the street rushed to their Lord’s call. They gathered at his palm, mixing with blood and bile, instantly morphing into a proper toy.

All around, civilians gawked at the sudden lack of dark fog. They looked out from their windows and the safety of their buildings, watching the remnants of war. There were only three who stood in the snow, those familiar friends and a begrudged mentor. Jude, Glenny, and the Huntress could only grunt in shock at the sight of Leland and his attacker before sparks exploded from the man’s hand.

The Toy Maker fired his spell, sending waves of ravenous impunity. The sparks consolidated and hardened, forming an outstretched mangled and wicked hand. The hand postured like an arrow, its five sharpened nails pointed forward and deadly. It ripped across the now open street for all the town citizens to see. Not that any could, not even the Huntress, for it moved too fast.

The hand met with violet fire as the soul in Leland’s hand ignited. It blazed with a flash, heatless flame bursting at the seams of reality. It hummed as it grew, burning away everything it touched. Screams of agony escaped, the soul’s last hurrah as it was destroyed for power.

The hand passed harmlessly through the fire, puncturing into Leland’s shirt like a wide needle. It didn’t break skin, it didn’t draw blood.

Originating from his hand tattoo, a force of silver and purple flared. With a single flap of its wings, the crow tattoo battered away the hand, returning it and the vile energy it possessed.

Then, the Huntress finally took her first step toward Leland.

The hand swerved mid-air, finding purchase and relaunching at the mortal only to be stopped again by a wave of purple and silver. The Toy Maker tried again and again, each time the crow tattoo blocking his assault.

“A crow?” he spit, his dark orb eyes never leaving the source. “Which are you?”

Leland didn’t answer, honestly he didn’t even think the question was for him. Instead he pushed out with his aflame palm, sending the curse off with nothing more than a gentle thought.

Soul Fire was for killing. That was the curse’s sole purpose. It destroyed at the cost of more destruction. It broke and burnt, it pounded and ground. It was a weapon that could kill Lords, it was a weapon that could kill souls. It was not something to be used lightly.

In all honesty, Leland would rather have the option of using such a curse taken from him. He could live out the rest of his days perfectly happy with his other magic. But that wasn’t the case, and this decision wasn’t made with haste.

As the violet flames traveled through the air, Leland made a promise to himself and those who cared about him. Soul Fire was only to be used on vile Lords and their Harbingers of chaos.

If that meant never using the curse past today, Leland was fine with it. If trouble never found him, he would be happy knowing the curse’s use was no more. If he never progressed due to this decision, he wouldn’t complain.

The reanimated body fell, the Toy Maker’s image having left the host body the moment the fire touched him. Violet fire consumed the body, turning all to ash while not melting the snow.

Leland's knees finally gave out and he fell, the last images of consciousness that of the Huntress, Glenny, and Jude rushing to him. He never hit the ground, caught just beforehand.

The Huntress turned to Glenny as she forced an incredibly high-grade healing potion down Leland’s throat.

“Explain,” she commanded.