Wild Magic

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– Honey Mother seized Faan.

Her eyes blurred, vanished behind a facetted darkness.

She opened her mouth wide, a deep pulsating HUM poured out of her.

She danced.

Stamp. Sway. Whirl.

She danced to the music of the earth, boom ba boom ba boom, the heart rhythm. Waves of dark and light pulsed from her, rings of honey light, rings of hot dark.

She danced along the ways and wynds of the Low City and as she danced, girls came from the houses and the groves, from the rooftops and the gardens. Mouths wide, eyes dark, staring into dream, the Honey Dancers followed her.

Black clouds swirled above the Barrier, laced with wire lightning, crooked yellow streaks that jagged from lobe to lobe. A few drops of rain fell. Pause… A few more. Then again a few more.

A SOUND rose within the city.

People appeared on their roofs, handtalk drums beating a counter rhythm to the Anvil and the drumming pages.

Honeychild and Honey Dancers wove along the South Gatt Road, mouths stretching in the Abey HAUMMM.

Honey Light gushed over the Low City, yellow light that thickened and darkened, boiled and seethed. It drove back the Red Mist, filled in the Eaten Places. It grew higher and thicker and stronger, magic amber swallowing the houses and the people.

. The Red Mist faltered.

On the Iron Bridge, the Primes beat faster and harder, grunts torn out of them with every stroke. The kassos’ Chant grew louder, hoarser, then began to tear apart as the strain took its toll of individuals within the choir, old and young driven beyond their strength, collapsing to the iron tiles of the Bridge floor.

The High Kasso’s voice soared strong and serene, singing on and on without a break. Somehow. As if breathing were not necessary. On and on…

Until the Red Mist came rushing back, and whirled in a funnel round and round the Primes and the High Kasso, then it sank into the Anvil on the Sacred Forge.

The Hammers fell to the tiles; the Primes collapsed.

Juvalgrim’s voice soared a moment longer then cut off as he fell in a heap on the iron tiles.

The choir’s chant shattered into discord, broke off. The pages fell, their drumsticks clattering on the pavement of the North Gatt Road.