Mystery Of Merrie Part 4

“Spirit-callers.” Piccaron said it plainly to Gaia. “You’re an ancient tribe — one with a very particular method for manufacturing wandering ghosts. Nearly impossible to engineer normally. But with the ancient sorcerer’s magic saturating this place, and children’s souls used as—“ he paused, choosing the word deliberately, “—lanterns. Even then, it should’ve taken you decades.”
“We’re the first to manage it.” Gaia’s smile didn’t waver. “How did you work it out?”
“The fragment of the incantation. The great sorcerer never meant to punish Merrie forever — there’s a limit written into that curse. From what I understand, the closer a curse gets to its expiration, the more unstable the mana becomes — it spikes, uncontrolled. You’ve been harvesting that instability. Do this while the curse is still at full strength, and the backlash would kill you too. That’s why this ‘solution’ of yours only appeared in the last few decades. You lied to this city — told them the curse was endless. And the ritual devices I found along the path just now confirmed the rest. You’re skilled, I’ll give you that. But being found out this fast—“ He let the sentence hang. “Tell me. Whose spirit are you trying to wake? An ancestor?”
“The one who cursed this city. The great sorcerer.” Gaia’s voice carried something close to reverence. “The binding is already formed. The soul-lantern is nearly complete. As a spirit, she’ll become the greatest weapon our tribe has ever held. If we wanted, we could use her to reverse the curse entirely — lift it from Merrie forever. Our intentions are good, aren’t they?”
“You actually believe you can control an ancient sorcerer?” Piccaron asked.
“Of course. This is the greatest technique our tribe has ever developed. Our people are down to a scattered few now. With this, we regain our strength — rebuild what’s left of us.”
“Well. Unfortunate for you.” Piccaron’s smile turned cold. “I’ve already set my eyes on this city. I’m its conqueror. Which means I have to kill you.”
“Then you’ve chosen to die!” Dozens of spirit-callers unleashed their incantations at once. Gaia raised her hand, magic pouring out of her, and it hit Piccaron like a wall.
His mind screamed. His body felt like it was being torn along every seam. It wasn’t like taking a blade — a blade had an edge, a direction, something to brace against. This came from everywhere at once, pressure closing in from the inside out, like his own blood had turned against the veins carrying it.
“Unfortunately for you,” Piccaron managed, forcing the words out through gritted teeth, “you can’t kill me quickly enough. Merrie’s soldiers are already fighting Timurr’s.”
“Oh? Impressive that you’re still standing.” Gaia’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
Blood began to run from Piccaron’s nose, his mouth. His thoughts scattered, edges dissolving, and for one long, ugly moment he genuinely didn’t know if his legs would hold him through the next breath.
“What exactly were you thinking, little runt? Facing down dozens of us alone?”
Piccaron smiled. As if this were an ordinary day.
“You’ve only got magic.” The moment he said it, he straightened, the pain gone from his face as if it had never touched him at all, his body whole and unbothered. “I’m a killer.”
“You—!” Gaia’s composure finally cracked, panic bleeding into her voice.
“There’s a reason I was chosen for this job, miss.” Piccaron’s confidence hadn’t wavered once.
Meanwhile the battle between Merrie’s soldiers and Timurr’s forces was still raging. Strange as it seemed, Merrie’s men were holding their ground — tougher than anyone expected.
Pine had lost count of how many times he’d swung his blade in the last hour. His arm had gone past aching into something duller, more distant, the kind of exhaustion that made a man’s grip start lying to him about how tight it actually was. A Merrie soldier came at him wild, more desperation than technique, and Pine put him down with a strike that felt sloppier than anything he’d have allowed himself on a normal day.
“They’re not supposed to fight like this!” Serena’s voice cut through the clash beside him, her own blade catching a strike meant for his exposed side. “A city under a curse — half-starved, half-mad, that’s what the reports said!”
“Reports were wrong.” Pine spat blood that wasn’t entirely his own. “Or something’s changed.”
May moved through the chaos a few paces off, her spellwork the only thing keeping a knot of five Timurr soldiers from being overrun on the eastern flank. She could feel it now, clearer than she had all week — something underneath the fighting itself, a pressure in the air that made every Merrie soldier’s blade come down a fraction harder than a starving, cursed city had any right to manage. It wasn’t just desperation driving them. Something was feeding it.
“May!” Serena’s shout carried over a fresh wave of screaming. “Left flank’s buckling!”
May didn’t have the luxury of finishing the thought forming in her head. She threw herself toward the left flank instead, weaving a barrier just in time to catch three blades meant for a soldier who’d already gone down on one knee, spent.
Pine caught sight of the mayor’s guards holding position near the square’s edge, watching the whole thing unfold with something closer to calm than fear. That wrongness settled into his gut before he could name it properly.
“You’re strong, I’ll give you that.” Pine’s voice cut through the noise, aimed at the mayor himself now, close enough to be heard over the din. “But you’re going to break. Mayor — say the claim. Say it now. Say Merrie belongs to the kingdom of Timurr.”
“Ha. Any moment now, Merrie’s protector will arrive.” The mayor’s confidence hadn’t cracked yet, and that, more than anything Pine had seen all day, was what finally made the back of his neck go cold.
Merrie’s protector did arrive. Just one of them. Or — more precisely — one corpse. Piccaron walked in carrying Gaia’s body and held it up for the whole square to see.
“People of Merrie—“ His voice carried, sharp with satisfaction. “Your false protector is dead.”
Every face in that crowd went red — soldiers, townsfolk, even the mayor himself. They turned on Piccaron as one, every method of killing him suddenly worth trying.
“You bastard—“ the mayor’s voice tore loose, “—you’ve killed our protector— the curse— the curse—! Kill him! Someone kill him now—!”
Pine and his men scrambled to make sense of it, moving instinctively to shield Piccaron. But everything stopped when Piccaron opened his mouth.
*A cold wind takes its shape,
And every flower falls to earth,
A greedy heart carries
A mad head, raised toward the sky.*
“That’s—“ the mayor’s voice failed him. “That’s the sorcerer’s incantation.”
“Would you like me to continue?” Piccaron asked.
The fragment should have ended there. No one alive should have known what came next — barely a handful of the city’s own elders knew the full verse. It was their curse, their inheritance. But Piccaron —
*The elders stand in silence,
What wrong did their hands commit?
Now none shall know the hour,
All shall be made to grieve —
That is my oath.*
“Stop— stop it—“ The people of Merrie had gone the color of ash, unraveling before his eyes, as if the curse had just fallen on them for the very first time.
“Where did you—“ the mayor started.
“Doesn’t matter.” Piccaron’s voice was flat now, final. “Say the claim.”
The mayor didn’t resist.
“I, mayor of Merrie, on behalf of my people, declare our submission — recognition of conquest — to Picc—“
“To the Kingdom of Timurr,” Piccaron cut in, loud and clear.
The mayor’s voice steadied, resigned. “I repeat — I, mayor of Merrie, on behalf of my people, declare our submission and recognition of conquest to the Kingdom of Timurr.”
And with that, Merrie fell.