It was always a strange experience, but Iris felt as if she were in two places at once.

  In the most strictly true sense, she lay floating in a sensory-deprivation tank that stank of salt, because the water had enough in it to keep her floating, even if she lost consciousness. She wore a green, one-piece, military-issue bathing suit and a matching skullcap that kept her hair from being problematic.

  At the same time, she also invisibly stood in an open field full of armored corpses, which had been a battlefield just hours before. The mixed stenches of putrefying blood and burnt flesh were awful. Crows were already hard at work on the bodies, though the flies had beaten them to the punch. Most of the bodies wore the yellow sashes of Skobia over their armor, though a handful bore the green sash of her own people. Little, white flowers stuck up between some of the corpses, though most of their petals and stems had been splashed with blood.

  Iris hated the scene and wished her nation would make peace with Skobia, though she knew that was extremely unlikely. Skobia was losing the war, but according to government propaganda, they refused to give up, with the intent to fight to the last man, despite the fact they lost nearly every battle, due to the power of witches and their magic.

  There was no way that wasn’t all a lie designed to manipulate the public into accepting the invasion of a neighboring country that was rich with natural resources, but Iris was far too attached to breathing to express her opinions on the matter, especially after all she’d seen.

  For example, after being told Skobia had refused to talk peace for the eighth time, a member of Iris’ remote-viewing unit had mouthed-off to a superior officer, “Is that the truth or the truth as the King would have us see it?”

  “Shut up.” Had been the open response, but the witch in question hadn’t shown up for work the next or any day to follow and everyone had been desperate to avoid the same fate.

  “Help me!” The ragged voice of a man stirred Iris from the unpleasant memories, “I’m in so much pain!”

  Iris turned and looked with compassion on a man in a yellow sash, who was missing both legs halfway down the thigh, because they’d been blown clean off by a bombastic spell. He was burned over much of his body, but the inner doctor of Iris examined him and realized he could be saved, especially with the application of a little healing magic. After all, the explosion had cauterized his wounds and he wasn’t bleeding. On the other hand, the skin of his legs and his armor had been seared together in places, which would make extracting him from it rather difficult, but not impossible. Looking into the man’s eyes, Iris realized he was blind, because the delicate lenses had been burned beyond use in the same explosion.

  “Why?” The poor fellow asked, “Why did you attack us?”

  Iris was chilled to the bone, but listened intently, even though she had orders to the contrary.

  The man blubbered on, “Skobia was always friendly with Dugaria! We were allies and trading partners! My father was a merchant before your witches burned him alive! Why won’t you let us make peace? Why won’t you accept our surrender?” Tears freely flowed from his eyes.

  Iris could do nothing for the man, but as she looked on, someone stepped through her invisible presence, briefly giving Iris a disturbing view from inside the sinuses of another human being, which had been little more than a flash of red, with darker lines for bone and veins.

  Iris nearly lost control of her scrying spell, due to the physical disruption of it, causing her view of things to go out of focus for a time, but with a measure of practiced will, clarity returned.

  She looked on another witch in an army uniform, complete with a pointed hat. The woman had the black hair of a native of Dugaria, along with the very slightly darker skin tone.

  She knelt over the blind, legless man and muttered with distaste as she put a hand on his forehead, “Shut your lying mouth!” As the man screamed with fear, the witch went on to speak a few quiet words in the ancient language of magic, causing her victim’s head to explode!

  Iris looked away, but was disgusted to see the man’s blood fall from the sky like rain!

  “One-thousand-two-hundred-ninety-nine! Iris, have you seen any other survivors?” The awful witch asked with a sick, eager smile as she scanned the corpses for movement, “I’d like one more, to make it a nice, round number!”

  Iris turned back, noting the woman was covered head to toe in gore from the explosion and it was clear she thought nothing of that fact.

  Iris struggled to keep her breakfast down as she lied via the bone transduction spell linking the two of them, “Sorry, but I believe that was the last, Captain Krauss.”

  In truth, she’d seen several others, but if they had any chance of survival, it would be in the hands of someone less blood-thirsty. Common soldiers, for example, tended to occasionally take the wounded as prisoners of war, for the sake of interrogation. Those were standing orders, but Captain “Killer” Krauss was totally gone in the head, obsessed with killing, and keeping a running score in her head, as if it was all some kind of game.

  The only saving grace was the fact she couldn’t see Iris, because if Krauss had ever seen the looks of revulsion, she would certainly have reported Iris.

  “A pity.” The Captain frowned and continued her search.

  Iris shuddered and got back to the work of counting casualties on both sides, because the top brass wanted hard facts, not estimates. She hated the work and was sick of the smell, but she was far more talented with scrying magic than she cared for. With such strong magic, it was just like being there, a talent that had gotten her many rewards for effective work. The others in her previous unit had often expressed envy.

  They all looked down a narrow tunnel, with no sound, while for Iris, it was just like being there, in person. For them, the restriction of their senses created an emotional distance that made it all seem far less real.

  In the end, after a particularly trying day, one of her old unit said, “I wish I had your power! Our superiors are always giving you fat bonuses for your detailed work.”

  “Have you ever walked a real battlefield and smelled the decay? Have you ever smelled burning human flesh after an Artillery Witch has blown a dozen men to kingdom come?” Iris gave the woman a serious glare.

  “No.” The other witch had answered in a quiet tone.

  “Then shut up and feel gratitude you lack my talent.”

  That had been the end of such comments, because witches gossip faster than any other group, though Iris had been glared at with pity for a time. Two weeks later, she’d been promoted and transferred into a unit of more talented witches, at which point she’d met Krauss, whom she despised with every fiber of her being.

  Every day of work was a new nightmare of wading through death and destruction. Every day, she felt as if a small piece of herself had been chipped away, because she was starting to view being knee-deep in the dead as normal. Every day, she kept up the pretense of being okay, because Amelia had a plan.

  In a strange way, Iris did feel fortunate, however, because she’d never been ordered to harm anyone. Her only purpose was to observe and provide detailed information. Marta, on the other hand, openly wept for hours on end, every time she came home on leave. She even woke herself screaming, every night, at least if the rumors passing among the maids were true.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Iris completed her tally and closed her mind to that distant battlefield, relieved to look up at the dimly-lit wooden roof of the sensory deprivation tank, where a line from the crack between the doors played across it.

  She grabbed a metal handle mounted to the ceiling and hauled herself to a kneeling position, then pushed open the door, stepping outside, onto a gray, rubber mat full of drainage holes, which was there to prevent her from having to walk on a metal grating.

  Iris looked over at a desk at the center of the room on a raised platform, where a woman sat. Despite her uniform, the woman’s reading glasses gave her the look of a clerk, which was basically what she was. She also wore the insignia of a Major on her collar, marking her as Iris’ immediate superior officer.

  “Report, Specialist Blackwell.” The Major ordered.

  Specialist was the rank Iris had earned through efficient, accurate and above all, detailed reports. She was technically a military non-commissioned officer equivalent to a Sergeant, though she had no command responsibility and was assigned to a remote-viewing unit of the WIA, the intelligence-gathering branch of the military.

  “Seven-hundred-twelve confirmed kills, seven still living, but too wounded to survive and three that might be worth capturing, if the men get to them before Captain Krauss, fifteen Dugaria soldiers killed and four more wounded, but nothing more serious than a bruise.”

  “Excellent work, as usual.” The Major scribbled at her desk for a moment, then tossed a towel to Iris, “You’re done here. Get dressed and head for room nine.”

  Iris felt as if her blood had suddenly turned to ice, causing her to hesitate, before she asked, “Did you say room nine?”

  “Yes, I did.” The Major confirmed, before her voice turned a little testy, “Did you get a little too much water it your ears?”

  Iris made a point of drying her ears as she nodded and began to shiver, but not because she was cold. She’d heard rumors about room nine for the past five years. It was said to be an unspeakable horror, because no one knew what went on within, aside from the witches that worked inside on a daily basis, which included Captain Denholm.

  Still, it had to be better than working with Captain “Killer” Krauss.

  Iris headed for the adjacent locker room, where she rinsed the salt off, dried herself and changed into her usual uniform. From there, she headed for the ominous room nine, which had a slot in it, at eye height. Other than that, it was the usual darkly-stained wood that all the doors of the Fort were made of.

  She tried the handle first, discovering it to be locked. With no better option, she knocked.

  Iris looked into a pair of suspicious eyes as their owner spoke in a female voice, “Who are you and what’s your business here?”

  “Remote-viewing Specialist Iris Blackwell,” Iris saluted, “reporting as ordered.”

  “Blackwell, Blackwell…” The slot closed as the voice trailed off, as if they were scanning a list, “Ah, there you are.” The slot opened again, “Hold up your military ID.”

  Iris produced the dogeared card from her pocket and held it up, for inspection.

  After a moment, the door swung inward and the woman instructed, “Step inside.”

  It was pitch dark within, but Iris obeyed. When the door shut, a candle lit itself, illuminating a round, cast-iron table with a crystal ball mounted in the center of it.

  “Step forward and let us have a look at you.” The voice was elderly and clearly female, with an undeniable authority, though it was oddly like that of an old grandmother, rather than a military officer.

  Iris found herself obeying without the usual thought, as if her legs had heard the order and heeded it without the intervention of the brain.

  “We’ve heard high praise about your skill from every one of your superior officers.” The elderly woman spoke from the shadows, “They say you’re the very best they’ve ever seen. They say you can smell distant places. Is that true, Specialist Blackwell?”

  There was a murmur from at least nine unseen women.

  Iris nodded her head, “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Very well, step into the light.”

  Iris obeyed, leaving her night vision ruined, due to the proximity of the candle, while the others could see her, just fine.

  The old woman explained, “The wall ahead of you is a three-foot thick mixture of stone and rubble, beyond which is an open room. Project your senses into that room and tell us what you smell.”

  “Without the deprivation tank?” Iris asked.

  “That’s nothing more than a crutch to prop up the untalented. You and I both know you never needed it.”

  Iris nodded and tried, speaking the words of power for ‘distance’ and ‘sense’ while she concentrated on the distance. She allowed her surroundings to melt away, revealing a brightly-lit room, with skylights to let in the day. She spotted a great deal of pink human skin attached to some very gruff-looking men that could only be soldiers, each of whom was totally unclothed, because they were washing in a large, communal bath, very similar to the one in the witch wing.

  Iris turned bright red with embarrassment, but noted the way the room smelled, before she allowed the spell to lapse.

  The women in the shadows chuckled and the old one ordered, “Report.”

  “Sweat, water and soap.” Iris spoke nervously.

  “What kind of soap?”

  “Lavender.”

  There were more murmurs from the shadows and Lieutenant Colonel Denholm stepped into the light beside Iris, shouting, “See, she can do it, but I think she can go even further!”

  “Perhaps,” the old one commented, and stepped beside her, “but this is uncharted territory and she’ll need backup, because King Bayard has a wizard for a grand vizier.”

  As expected, the old woman was also a military witch, though she wore a black uniform and a general’s insignia on her collar. Despite her apparent age, which placed her somewhere in her seventies, she looked quite fit, as if she’d kept up with her daily physical training for a very long time.

  Iris knew the name she’d spoken: Bayard was the King of Skobia.

  Denholm nodded, “Ixium Mildshine is no joke. He’ll get in the way, if he can.”

  “I met him once.” The old witch commented, with a wistful look in her eyes, “A handsome man in those days, but more deadly than any other wizard. Though we met at a party, I chose not to turn my back to him, because politics were afoot and I didn’t want to step in that mess.” She turned her attention back to Iris, asking, “You can scry by sight, sound and smell, right?”

  Iris nodded, “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Have you tried touching things? Have you ever tried to move something while scrying?”

  “No, ma'am, because that’s impossible, isn’t it?”

  The old witch smiled, showing off a set of wooden dentures, “Ah, to be young again, and to think I have all the answers.” Her tone became a warning of dangers to come, should Iris displease her.

  “Apologies, ma'am. I meant no offense.”

  “Forget what you know, child. That’s the first thing every witch should have learned, because there are no limits, not to those that consistently strive to reach higher.

  “Start your spell and reach into that room again, but this time, find a lone bar of soap no one’s using. When you’re ready, approach and pick it up. Don’t try to pick it up, but instead just do it.”

  Iris opened her mouth to object because she wanted to say she never learned telekinesis, but when she looked into a deadly-serious expression that emphasized the deadly aspect, Iris closed her mouth and tried again. She used the same words of power and once again found herself in the men’s washroom. She carefully looked away from the men and located a lonely bar of soap, just as instructed.

  She gingerly reached out and touched it. It slipped off its spot on the edge of the bath, falling in. She felt it brush against her skin, just before the astonishment of it made her concentration wane and she lost the spell! Surprised by what she’d achieved, Iris tried again, firmly grabbing hold of the bar of soap, which she lifted up and out of the water!

  The men of the room dropped what they were doing and stared with surprise as Iris raised the bar of soap over her invisible head!

  “Ghost!” One of the soldiers screamed and the lot of them charged out of the room, back toward the adjoining locker room!

  “Excellent work, Specialist Blackwell.” The old General smiled, “Based on the commotion echoing through the halls, I’d say you’ve done it!”

  Iris dropped the bar of soap and smiled, because it was a strangely exhilarating feeling. She left it bobbing in the water and released her spell.

  “Is that what telekinesis feels like?” Iris asked, looking at Denholm, who was famed for using that spell.

  “Did you feel it in your hand?”

  “Yes.” Iris confirmed, leading to another round of murmurs.

  Denholm shook her head, “Then that isn’t anything like telekinesis, which normally involves the manipulation of some force, like gravity.”

  “Indeed.” The General nodded, “This is far better: scrying magic has always been a form of astral projection, but in your case, you seem to have the unique ability to generate a partially physical body at your target location, or you would never be able to smell, because that’s a very physical sensation. So it is with touch, but when you willed yourself to hold that bar of soap, I presume your projected body became more solid.

  “For now, young Specialist, go home and get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll be training you for a very unique opportunity.”

  “May I ask what this is all about?” Iris cautiously requested.

  Denholm smiled evilly, “The assassination of King Bayard, while he sits on his throne, at court, in front of dozens of witnesses. With training and a little luck, you should be able to crush his heart.”

  Iris saluted and left the room. She kept the tears from her eyes until she was halfway home, at which point they rolled down her cheeks in a torrent she doubted would end any time soon.