Bright eyes seen in darkness, looking, scanning. – Wait. A squint, quick. What? Huh. What. No way. That smell in the air, though. There. There? No, there. What is that? I don’t smell anything. Right there. What is that? No idea.
*
A quiet rustling Leaves whispering, trees swaying in the sudden wind. Behind the clouds, the moon rising Peaking past dark cumuli.
*
We really shouldn’t be here. Aww. Are you scared? Haha. You’re just chicken. Guys, I mean it. Cluuuuuuck-cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck. Hehe. We really shouldn’t be here – There! Again! What? Didn’t you see that? See what? There! I swear I saw something! Guys, we really shouldn’t be here. Cluuuuuuck-cluck-cluck-cluck.
*
A sudden haunting Echoes howling faraway The silver back and shanks glide between shadows Halting once, twice; waiting.
*
A shiver, real, tingling icily down young spines.
Oooh! Did you feel that? Yeah, creepy! Nice! What was it, though? Guys, I think we need to go. Would you stop with your whining! What was that, though? Guys, I mean it. We really should go – Would you shut up already? There! Again! What the hell is that? We need to leave. Now. I’m not going anywhere. P-kawk! Chicken!
*
A lone figure standing, seeing A glance, flickering Shadows enveloping The seven hiding Six disbelieving, waiting in suspense.
*
What is that? Guys. We need to go. Now. Would you shut up! You’re spoiling everything! What is that? You can see it, too, right? Yeah. Yeah. What is it, though? Guys. There! Again! I swear to God, it moved. Guys. Now. What is wrong with you? This is amazing. We need to leave. Now. Oh, piss off! Go yourself then! This is amazing.
*
Gasping, a whispered shout: Did you see? Did you see! Look! A hand cupped over a mouth A fierce whisper Sssshhh! Heartbeats racing Silver bullets waiting Waiting for the ancient terror Lingering in the Dark.
*
See, I told you! Shut up! I told you! We need to go! Now! Shutupshutupshutupshutup!
*
The howl So sudden So close No! Shut up! There! RUN! Screams piercing the night Gunshots exploding Bright flares in darkness deeper, louder Howls and Screams Growling Too close! Too close! RUN! RUN! Confusion – Terror – Understanding
RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!
Photo by Joonas ku00e4u00e4riu00e4inen on Pexels.com
I told you! I told you! I TOLD you it’s there! SHUT! UP!
*
Crimson spreading, dripping The scent intensifying, leaving a trail Cursing – Crying – Prayers flying From sputtering lips, trembling This can’t be – They’re myths – They’re not real – They’re just make-believe!
*
That’s blood! No shit. What do we do? If we carry them together, we can move – We can’t, that’ll slow us down! The fuck’s wrong with you? In case you didn’t realise, that thing is out there! We can’t leave them here! We have to or we’ll all get killed! You monster! But that’s blood! That’s real! It’s a bite! A bite! Do you know what that means? I don’t want to be here! Stop crying! That’s not helping! I want to go home! We’re not leaving anyone behind. But -! We’re all going, that’s final! I want to go hooooome! Would you stop with the crying! MOVE!
*
Open the door! What? The car, shithead! Open the door! Oh yeah. It’s everywhere! I don’t care, get them inside! It’s all over me! Who give’s a shit! Get inside! I hate this! I want to go hooooome! Get inside, asshole! What?
AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
A scramble, a struggle Back into the car all at once Doors slamming, tires screeching Lights fleeing into the night.
*
Luna declining, silver fur gliding Under old shadows into the vast Night. Long breaths at dawn, rising Ancient spells alive, living Awaiting the full moonlight.
Mr. Krabs is skint, which is a lie, but he desperately “needs” more money because this is Mr. Krabs, The Money Addict. He cries and wails and begs Spongebob to work overtime. Spongebob being Spongebob happily agrees (he’s ready), and so the mess begins.
The sun and moon switch places three times. On the fourth day, Spongebob looks like hell. He has a five o’clock shadow, bags under his eyes, and he is begging Mr. Krabs to go home. Mr. Krabs tells him, “Come on, me boy, one more day will do you no harm!” Spongebob tries to lift his spatula, whimpers, and keels over. The ambulance races to the Krusty Krab and wee-woos Spongebob to ER.
In ER, Spongebob is blubbering pink bubbles in his sleep. The attending doctor declares Spongebob has a bad case of SuperSuds because of severe burnout. Mr. Krabs insists Spongebob has to get back to work, “He’s my best man at the helm!” The doctor snaps, “You monster!” and pushes Mr. Krabs out of the hospital, Mr. Krabs demanding, “When will I have him back? I need him back, doctor! I need him back!” The doctor yells, “Not for six weeks! Now get out!” and slams the hospital door in Mr. Krabs’ face.
*One Week Later*
Squidward is the Krusty Krab’s fry cook now. The kitchen is an unholy mess, he has already burned it down twice. Right in the middle of a new order, Squidward blows up the kitchen a third time, except the blast radius puts the Krusty Krab out of commission: whatever quantum physics Squidward triggered with his “cooking” warped the space-time continuum and opened a hole in the universe. Mr. Krabs sighs, “Not again,” and rushes to hire the contractors who know how to deal with this particular Situation.
While Mr. Krabs is busy rebuilding the Krusty Krab, Squidward’s high school rival Squilliam happens by the Krusty Krab construction site. Squilliam immediately understands what a closed Krusty Krab means for business. He rushes back home to create “a brand new burger” and hard launches a burger start-up with HotPattie™, the Pattie “with the Secret Sauce.”
HotPattie™ promptly becomes Bikini Bottom’s go-to burger patty and quickly dominates the Bikini Bottom burger scene, with franchises up and down Main Street. Enraged by HotPattie™’s success, Plankton rants to Karen about the unfairness of it all. Karen tells him to stop complaining and go infiltrate Squilliam’s company to find out what his Secret Sauce is. Plankton agrees and sets to work. He quickly insinuates himself into Squilliam’s good graces when he happens on Squilliam on his first day in HotPattie™’s headquarters.
Squilliam asks Plankton, “What do you want?” sounding a little sinister, and Plankton lies, “I want to be the best HotPattie™ manager there is!” Squilliam is sceptical, “You’re really small. Are you sure that’s what you want?” Plankton insists, “Yes.” “Really?” “Yes!” “Really, really?” “Yes!” “That’s what you really, really, really want?” Squillium frowns, definitely disbelieving now. “Come on. Be honest. What do you really want?” Thoroughly annoyed now, Plankton screams, “WORLD DOMINATION!” fire and brimstone everywhere. Pleased, Squilliam chuckles, “See. I knew you wanted something cool. You’re hired.”
And so, Plankton joins Squilliam’s team at HotPattie™, where he finds out that there is actually no Secret Sauce, the HotPattie™ is just a normal patty, “But the promise of a Secret is the Sauce,” as Squilliam grins evilly. Understanding it’s all marketing, Plankton goes into overdrive and fires every single person he meets when walking through HotPattie™ HQ’s corridors until HotPattie™ employees start fleeing when they see him. Plankton cancels designated parking spaces for middle management, has all snack machines in the office areas removed, bodily kicks out anyone who even mentions they have children, and replaces the whole processing floor with octopus robots Karen spits out in record time, which spikes revenue into the gajillions.
While extremely happy with HotPattie™’s bottom line, Squilliam quickly gets bored with commerce. He wants to spend more time on his super-yacht Daisy. He puts Plankton in charge of the entirety of HotPattie™ that is now a huge corporation, and retreats to his super-villa with his super-yacht and all the party people who follow him everywhere. Squilliam leaves Plankton with a smug, “I expect excellent Q4 reports, Sheldon. Remember the shareholders! I’m the shareholders, haha.”
In all this, Mr. Krabs is yelling at the foreman who just explained how and why the hole in the universe was causing problems with the Krusty Krab construction site. While this is going on, Spongebob is in his bed in his pineapple suffering from SuperSuds. The hospital bills were getting astronomical, so the nice doctor who yelled at Mr. Krabs had to send Spongebob home, piling a stack of Anti-Suds medication on his bed when the hospital director wasn’t looking. Patrick, who dropped by for moral support, has been watching TV in Spongebob’s living room without a care in the world, while Gary makes sure Spongebob takes his meds. Between taking care of Spongebob and doing all the housework, Gary barely gets to eat and sleep. He starts to meow more and more indignantly. Patrick, unsurprisingly, doesn’t register any of this.
Over at HotPattie™ HQ, Plankton is now CEO of The HotPattie™ Corporation. Ecstatic at holding the reins of power, Plankton promptly hikes prices, trashes customer service, and floods the market with CheapPatti™, a burger patty that is made entirely out of bad corals and garbage behind HotPattie™’s HQ.
The change for the worse is immediately noticeable, yet inescapable. Since The HotPattie™ Corporation basically owns every burger joint in Bikini Bottom now, everyone is incensed. Several dissatisfied citizens happen on the Krusty Krab construction site, and upon observing the on-site chaos (due to the hole in space-time), the citizens reminisce on how delicious the Krusty Krab Krabby Patty used to be. This leads to more and more people joining the observers. Cries for the Krusty Krab’s delicious Krabby Patty grow louder and louder, Bikini Bottom citizens begin to riot, raising banners and placards with HotPattie™ IS A HOAX! and HotPattie™ is a BAD PATTIE! among other slogans.
Plankton sees this civil unrest and is at first unmoved, but then the crowds grow to a mob, then a supermob engulfing HotPattie™ HQ with pitchforks and torches, rattling the building, and Plankton is enraged again. He vows he will “show those bozos” and upgrades Karen to a HotPattie™ superrobot, with which he plans to literally stomp out any opposition to The HotPattie™ Corporation.
Except Karen’s upgrade incinerates the whole oceanic power grid. This puts King Neptune on Plankton’s case, since the King had been taking a royal bubble bath when all the electricity and hot water zonked out.
Irate, the King blasts Plankton with a gigantic lighting bolt. Since Plankton was synced via brain gadget to Karen-turned-HotPattie™-superrobot, both Plankton and Karen end up incinerated into two heaps of sentient ash that need to be carried into board meetings. The Q4 prognosis is dire, but Squilliam is still on his super-yacht partying with his party people. He couldn’t care less about The HotPattie™ Corporation when he phones into the board meeting via Zroom and rolls his eyes, “Oh, then sell the damn thing!” “But, sir, it’s only worth peanuts now!” one of the directors wails. “Who cares, I have enough money now. Right, party people?” Squilliam’s party crowd cheers wildly. Squilliam grins, “See?” and cuts out of the Zroom-meeting, leaving HotPattie™’s befuddled Board of Directors and two sentient heaps of ash to themselves.
Meanwhile, Spongebob is now cured of SuperSuds by Gary’s loving care, but Patrick being Patrick takes all the credit. Spongebob spends some time jellyfish fishing with Patrick as a thank you for taking care of him (Gary sticks to Spongebob’s head to make sure nothing bad happens). While jellyfish fishing, they cross paths with a placard-carrying Sandy Cheeks who is happy to see Spongebob is well again. Realising what this means, Sandy Cheeks calls to the supermob that Spongebob is well again, and they cary him and Patrick to the Krusty Krab, Gary meowing indignantly.
The mob moves past Squidward, who is at home with his black beret, humming to himself and busy trying his hand at bricolage. Over at the Krusty Krab construction site, Mr. Krabs is finally happy everything is going well. He takes a last turn while inspecting the premises and promptly gets sucked into the hole in space-time because Mr. Krabs is Mr. Krabs who’s been “bleeding money” every day since The Blast and hasn’t stopped crying about it. In his impatience to get back to money-making, Mr. Krabs tampers with the safety measures the contractors built around the space-time-hole to keep it contained, since the “infernal contraption” costs eleventy thousand sand dollars. Cursing like a sailor, Mr. Krabs tries to get rid of the containment device, ignoring all the bells, whistles, and air raid sirens, until the containment measures are de-contained. To Mr. Krabs’ vast surprise, he promptly gets swhloop-ping!-ed into another dimension.
After facing several eldritch horrors and a very friendly, deeply misunderstood mega-octopus, Gargantua, Mr. Krabs ends up in a Nether Realm with the Flying Dutchman, who needs a partner in badminton (his latest hobby). The Flying Dutchman’s ghouls are useless, but Mr. Krabs is game, and they play a rousing match with Gargantua as referee.
Mid-match, Gargantua reveals they’re actually midships in an impossible bottle on a French Pirates’ mantelpiece. Shocked, Mr. Krabs rushes to the 4th wall to check if it’s true. He runs so fast, he knocks himself out, and pops back into Bikini Bottom. Turns out, in the time he was gone, the contractors wrapped up construction, and the mob carried Spongebob back to the Krusty Krab where SpongeBob began frying burger patties again.
With Spongebob back, Squidward is once again grumpy at the till. There’s an endless line of customers waiting to order, but everyone’s happy to have their Krusty Krab back again. Meanwhile, Squilliam is still partying on his super-yacht with his party people as well as two sentient heaps of ash sipping cocktails on the upper deck: Karen (ash heap 1) tells Plankton (ash heap 2) happily, “See, I told you it was worth it,” while Plankton is still groaning from the pain of King Neptune’s lightning bolt incineration.
It was a pretty blue and a mountainous green. It had weather and nature and ecosystems, White rhinos, coral reefs, and bees.
And there was this generation. A very numerous generation. So numerous, they were named after their numerosity.
And The Numerous had everything they could wish for, materially; In comparison to everyone else before them, that is.
And this Numerous Generation looked at the blue planet So pretty and healthy and green The planet with the good weather, the ecosystems, And all those necessary bees They looked and probed and satellite and decided:
Nice little planet you have there. Shame if something would happen to it…
And they happened to it. All at once. All the time. Everywhere.
Now, The Numerous (and their 2.0s) will tell you: Everyone uses plastics! Cars are amazing! You’re one to talk! How were we to know? Why are you making this a thing?
Or they will use words like “ungrateful” and “whiny” and “weak”.
Some (many) do love the blue planet dearly. And they try, sincerely, to save it To keep it clean.
But too many of The Numerous (and their 2.0s) couldn’t give two figs About whether the only home we have still exists Once they no longer have use of it.
The skies had held. The night was clear and bright with stars, the moons probably high above the crests Gav had seen on their way to this town, long forest ridges pointing to the High Hills. It was said the Last King was there, rightful heir to the Three Kingdoms. It was rumoured he had delved deep into the Art and spirited himself and his entire court away, right out of the clutches of the Demon Horde. It was said that, once joined, one was granted amnesty and could rightfully return to one’s own. Gav wanted that amnesty. Not for himself, but what might befall him and those of his blood once he took sail to Ghón and searched his own.
He could not return a deserter, he knew that much. The Beast may rage on, but the Law still held, even in the remotest parts, which was a strange surprise, and had often served him well. Yet, after his escape, he knew to take the Law for what it was. To return a deserter would put too many in jeopardy, and now that Imarius II had retreated beyond the passes, there was a possibility for clemency. There was little hope in it, Gav knew. He was certainly not the only one who fled the legions without due leave, but many rumours held true, and that of clemency was whispered all across the Fields, in taverns, and even along the high roads, if one knew what to listen for. It was the one hope Gav still had left. All others had been burnt on too many funeral pyres and entirely sunk in the Bogmarshes of Jirigan.
Now he was here, in an unknown town so far West it knew little of the battles fought at the coasts, for the Demon Horde knew its sails far too well, and once landed, travelled swiftly across the Plains of Inan on horses faster than the wind. They were, last Gav knew, only stalled at Jirigan, where demons from the Nine Hells erupted and laid waste to all mortal flesh. He still did not know if what was unleashed was meant to repulse the Demon Horde, or if the Horde had finally revealed its allegiance to their hellish gods. Either way, what was let loose turned Jirigan into a hellscape no man should have to face.
Gav had seen many a stout heart fail at the sight of something ungodly from the Nether Realms. Many-tailed monstrosities of uncountable teeth, claws the size of half a man, writhed in the marshes, exploding out of murky waters, gorging themselves on friend and foe alike, flinging limbs and blood and entrails everywhere, until it was wise to cover one’s sight for fear of being blinded by a sudden splatter. Gav had seen bodies ripped apart by creatures he still could not name, he had seen the enemy torn apart in ways none of the mortal realms had ever known possible. There was no time to sleep, no sanity to rest, and even now Gav could not say how many days he spent in Jirigan, nor how many days it took him to retreat beyond the marshlands and escape. What was clear in his mind, was the singular demand to leave, to flee, to save himself and be done with whatever Madness allowed such abominations to be let loose on all things living.
That was then. Gav had found a means of escape and now had to see to future things. And part of that was moving further to the High Hills in hopes of reaching the passes before the first snows fell. He had time yet, though with the weather unpredictable, all was yet possible.
*
The innkeeper was generous and allowed them use of his wash house, a simple cavernous room, with a large bathing tub that seated two, and soap and scrubbing stones for use. Since the innkeeper thought them bound, Gav took the girl with him, who surprisingly did not protest. They washed and scrubbed in silence, passing the pails of warm water to each other while standing side by side. The girl rinsed herself with a quick splash of her last water and climbed into the hot tub right after, sinking below the warm wet until all was covered to her neck. Gav followed suit soon after and they sat together in the hot water, the girl curled up against the wood, while Gav leaned back, closed his eyes and allowed the liquid heat to do its work. It maybe was not wise, they could be easily ambushed here, but he had so far seen nothing to worry him.
Thus, they spent at least an hour by the clock, soaking in the clean hot water until it turned lukewarm. It was a melancholy moment when Gav had to leave the easy comfort, the Gods knew when he would have the luxury of a real bath again. There were robes waiting for them, and, surprisingly, simple footwear as well, allowing them an easy return to their room. Once returned, Gav found the fire was still bright and warm, his weapons untouched, and his saddlebags undisturbed, which showed a steady hand ruled the house. The last of Gav’s concerns melted away. He would not have to worry about intrusion here. It was what he needed to ease his mind to rest.
Gav required little encouragement to strip down and climb into the wide bed, spacious enough for two bodies without one disturbing the other. Lying as he was, Gav thought of this unexpected stroke of good fortune. The town so far was quiet. The innkeeper knew his business, the food was of good making, the wine of decent stock. The bath had been deeply pleasant and would allow a kind of rest Gav had not known in a half-sun at least. There was little he would need to worry about here. There was little carousing in the streets, the tavern moderately loud for a place of drink and song, except a few drunkards bellowing through the floorboards. A particularly rowdy group seemed to be rousing each other during a game of cards. The garbled shouts, however, did not disturb the sight Gav was seeing.
The girl had undressed completely before joining him in the bed. Gav had watched her as she removed her robe, thinking she would don her underskirt at least. He had done her the courtesy of donning his second pair of breeches, rumpled but still fairly clean, for sleeping completely unclothed seemed unwise. She remained undressed, however, slid under the covers to him and began as before, her pecking kisses on his neck and chest. She undid the bands of his breeches, quicker this time, and used her mouth again. With the light from the fire Gav could see her clearly. He could not leave her to herself this time, but pulled her up to him, turning her onto her back. Her eyes were so wide they seemed to fill her whole face. He watched her as he parted her legs, waiting for her to fight him, or at least speak, but she remained as she was, her eyes wide as saucers.
He eased himself between her legs and waited for her to stop him. She didn’t, though she was clutching the pillows tightly. He bent down and kissed her carefully. She jumped underneath him.
‘Just a kiss,’ he said, her eyes were as wide as ever.
Her reaction was timid as if she didn’t know what to do with her tongue and lips, but she did not stop him. He made sure she was completely distracted by the kissing before he entered her. She still gasped with fright.
‘I’ll be careful,’ he said, her eyes were as wide as saucers again.
He did as he promised only to see what that did to her. He stopped. Her eyes were filled with tears, sliding down the side of her face. It could not be her first time.
‘I’ll stop,’ he said but she shook her head. ‘What is the matter then?’ She just shook her head again. ‘Should I stop?’ She shook her head again. He let his head fall into the pillows. It was killing him, sheathed within her as he was. It was too much. ‘I’ll be quick,’ he said against her ear. She nodded, her hands clutching the pillows tightly.
She was crying openly by the time he was done. Her sobs were so loud he had to close her mouth with his hand. He knew how it would look if anyone rushed in. She was crying so hard she could hardly breathe. He felt nothing except the release of tension as he gave his seed. Gav did not know if he should feel relief. She did not stop crying for some time. He was still on top of her, if he moved it just got worse. Gav finally found the strength to speak.
‘When?’ She did not answer. He turned her to him. ‘When?’ She swallowed and turned her eyes away.
‘I don’t know,’ she finally said, her voice so quiet he hardly heard.
‘How many?’ She shuddered. ‘How many?’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘How long?’
She did not answer, but he felt her hand on his arm. One finger, two, three, four, five.
‘Days?’ She shook her head. ‘Weeks?’ She shook her head. ‘Moons?’ She nodded.
Gav closed his eyes. Ye Gods. Five. Five hellish moons.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She started crying again, silently, tears filling her eyes and pouring down the side of her face.
Gav left her and pulled her against him, holding her close. Five moons. And yet she let him. No, after a full meal, not to mention an entire bath, she probably saw its as payment still. And there was the room of course, adequately clean, the bed dry, the covers without stains. She would expect it. With nothing else to call her own save her chipped clay cup, many would see it as worthy payment. Gav wanted more than ever to know what happened in Lainhaven. Instead of asking, however, he held the girl close until she fell asleep, watching her in the firelight.
Even in her sleep he could see the marks of her terror. She shuddered and flinched every now and then. He stroked her gently. Five moons. And she still let him. Or rather, paid what she felt needed paying. And the worst was, there were many more like her. Many, far too many. Sanctuaries that were torched, Temples raided, and all within if not cut down, then abducted and enslaved. For it was known the Sanctuaries were only women and their guards, oathed to their protection from a young age. He himself had seen some of the worst. The Sacking of the Alathan Coast, where the High Temple of Asroha, Lady of the Light, stood in all its glory, the blue of the shrine’s fire-tile walls visible for leagues on end.
*
The signal fires were lit too late that day, it was still not known why. There were dark rumours of deep betrayal, but the fact remained: the signal fires were lit too late. Docked in Port Gaisan, they saw the signal fires showing Attack and manned the tré-masts in that hour. They had sailed down the coasts to Alathan’s rescue, rejoicing at the fortunate winds, but it was all for nought. The spell-cast walls had already been blasted by the Demon Horde, and all was already torn down, the baileys broken open liked cracked shells. It was, Gav felt, worse seeing the aftermath. Walking through the streets and seeing the carnage left in the Horde’s blood-drenched wake, understanding what must have happened. Alathan had known over one hundred thousand, living both among its spell-cast walls and along the palm-lined coast. All had been servants to the High Temple, either in mundane duty or sacred sacrifice. After the Sacking of Alathan, only three thousand remained of those who once called the High Temple their home, the Bay of Bethména crimson with blood, lifeless bodies floating on the dark waves.
The funeral pyres burnt for eight days. There had been children, though Gav did not see the very young. One of his captains lost his mind that day, cast down his shield, undid his mantle, and unbuckled his blade, threw all to the ground and walked away, never to be seen again. Gav had stayed for another sun, vowing to avenge Alathan, and he had done his worst, until the Bogmarshes of Jirigan. That was when he knew there was no hope save what he could call his own. Whatever hellbound raksh the Demon Horde worshipped, they had true power against the Gods, for what else could unleash such utter Darkness on everything and all? Gav could not imagine the legions tying themselves to such Terror. There was ruthlessness, necessary in strategy and war, and there was the Maw of Hell opened wide in Jirigan.
Unlike his former captain, however, Gav took what was his with him, for he was not of such standing as to waste what he owned. Not that he didn’t understand his former captain’s refusal to take the tools of his warcraft with him. Gav himself still hated the sight of his spell-cast blade, too aware of what it could do, of what he would do, once he wielded it. He kept it sheathed and hidden in his saddlebags, a mere longish bundle that many confused for a shortbow unwound, which was exactly as Gav intended. He only used his koba now, a good blade to keep both plunderers and greymerchants at bay. All else would be a needless provocation.
*
Holding the girl against him, aware of her fits and starts in her sleep, Gav could not close himself from what he knew. The Beast devoured everything, raging on the Plains of Inan, burning the cities, destroying the ports, reducing the Alathan Coast, a place of peace and beauty, to blood and ashes and utter despair. And there was Jirigan of course, and what unspeakable forces ruled there. What did it matter now, that the Sacking of Alathan cost such outrage, the two great realms, Tísor Pá and Efera, redoubled their efforts to stop the Demon Horde from rampaging from coast to coast, pouring yet more oil into a fire that would not be doused, let alone stamped out, for the Empire was in full understanding with the Demon Horde as it cut a blood-drenched swathe through all the peaceful realms at the imperial borders. And thus, the Beast raged on, feeding on bodies and souls, on cities and realms, and nothing could stop it. There was nothing Gav hated more than the Beast, and what Madness was committed in its name, but he had managed to forget his seething hatred until now.
The war raged for cycles now. So long even, few hardly remembered how it started, a mild dispute about port taxes that dropped a spark into a tinderbox that blazed into a firestorm and raged across all the realms ever since, from the Tiyr in the High North, to the Jewelled Sea in the Diamond South. There were too many powers in play, though the Empire, Tísor Pá, and Efera were greatest and most destructive in their machinations. Or at least most well-known. What was left of the Three Kingdoms was still to be contended with, for the Last King could still stand on his feet in Efera’s High Seat at Abn Nes, which made both Tísor Pá and the Empire listen. And yet, none would concede, and none were powerful enough to enforce a concession. Thus, moon after sun after moon the battles were fought, come heat or frost, drought or storm, turning rivers red, soaking the lands and seas with blood without end, and that was just the dead. The tortured, the maimed, all the enslaved, for the Empire was ever-hungry for more bonded flesh, there were countless numbers.
Gav had seen those who had lost everything and all, their broken minds, the rage in their eyes, the madness that led to more insanity, and that was before Jirigan. After, he knew of the haunted whose faces had lost all comprehension, their souls benighted with Misery and the unmentionable Suffering they had seen. Gav knew he had witnessed more than a man should bear, but he still had all his limbs with his sanity was somewhat intact, and for that he was truly grateful. He put it to the decision he made on that fateful morning after a night of utter Hell. He remembered looking across the marshes, knowing what unspeakable treachery to all things good and right lay hiding between the tall grasses, waiting cunningly under murky waters, more than ready and willing to tear every mortal form to bloody shreds, relishing the destruction. For that was the worst of it, being hunted like animals, herded like sheep, and slaughtered in similar kind. And it did not matter whether legion or Horde, all that mattered was one’s mortal form. That alone made one prey, which made for unexpected alliances. Rather to die standing by the Horde’s hand than be ripped to shreds and eaten alive like a savaged hare. And thus, more than once, Gav ended up fighting with his sworn enemy against hellish monsters, side by side. He had seen one of the Horde mourn one of the legion and witnessed equal mourning in reverse, upending all he had known to be right and true until then. And yet, the monsters persisted and prevailed, for there seemed no subduing them. Where one was destroyed another erupted as if newly created from every man’s darkest imaginings.
It was that morning where Gav knew, he could not face that horror again. He would leave by nightfall latest. He would turn and do as so many others had and find his own peace. Once he made that decision it was hardly a day’s preparation to leave the Fields, slip away once night fell, swallow his pride and hide like an unbred urchin among barrels in a cart meant for supplies, and never return again. If he had any luck, then it was the fact that he actually succeeded.
Jirigan still haunted him, true, but the Bogmarshes would haunt anyone. As for the rest. It took many weeks until Gav managed to no longer think about what he saw every minute of every hour of every day. The nightmares grew less. And by the Midsun following his escape, Gav could sleep through a night without waking more than once. Until now. It was all back now. He remembered everything he left behind, what he knew and saw staining his memory dark with blood, the sight repeating itself over and over before his inner eye. There was no sleep to be had whenever that happened.
He had seen things no man should see and wondered if he would ever be free from this awful knowing. There were no answers, for what could anyone holy tell him, if the Gods had forsaken them, for who of those On High would let Jirigan happen? Who of the those On High would have let Alathan fall? And so completely, with such devastation, Gav began to wonder if there was such a thing as Gods at all. Alathan was, he knew, the first time his faith was broken. For how could They abandon those who worshipped them so? Alathan had stood in complete devotion to the Gods. Not Asroha alone, but the entire High Court that made their truth and existence, their world. And yet, it was crushed, destroyed, and what help was sent for came far too late, almost as if they had been prevented to do their duty unto those who served the Gods.
Alathan haunted all the known realms, Gav knew, but there were no answers, at least none Gav could formulate. What answers could there be, if after Alathan fell Jirigan was made possible? There were probably no answers, and Gav was slowly making peace with that. He could only hold the girl against him while she slept and hope for an end of memories, for a time when what had come to pass was little more than fate and story.
There was water, running water. It was all over her. Bara sat upright, gasping. She was in a brook, a stream, unclothed, and there were stones underneath her. The moons were high, Pheya bright and close, voluptuous in her mystery, protecting all from the Vastness beyond. As’r unknown till sundown, where he stepped forth with every hour and held fast through the night, warning of the true Vastness beyond. It had to be deepest night for both large orbs to be so bright in the sky, turning the stream to moving silver. The water was icy cold.
Bara looked about herself, trying to comprehend. To her left there was a fire, but no one sat at it, nor moved beyond the shadows. She rose to her feet and stumbled, the stones of the stream were slippery. She succeeded, however, and rushed to the fire, the icy water and night air making her shiver. There was nothing to cover herself, nothing to clothe herself with, but the fire was warm, warm. She crouched as close as she dared, huddling her legs to her chest, trying to comprehend. The last thing she remembered was blackness, terrifying blackness that closed in on her senses. Bara touched her throat, she could still feel the merciless hand there. And now she was here at a stream under the double moons with a bright fire before her. What was this? She looked to As’r and Pheya. They shone silently back at her. Why have you cursed me?
There was movement, Bara sensed rather than heard it. The hateful beast appeared out of the shadows, stepped into the light of the fire like a darak. Bara looked away. Like herself, he did not have anything to cover him. From the quick glimpse she saw, he must have come out of the stream as well. The need to run was a demand in her limbs, but she could not unwind her arms from her huddled legs. Rather, she curled closer, wishing to stay unseen. That was for nought, for he took a branch beside her and stoked the fire. Bara huddled closer still, heart racing, willing herself to move, run, scream, do something, anything, but all her limbs stayed stuck as they were, as if frozen together after a sudden frost, for she was trembling still.
Bara did not know what was to happen, did not understand what she was seeing, and felt her mind fray with incomprehension. What was this? Ye Gods, why was she brought here? What was to be done with her now that she was here? For she had never heard of this, and there were many dark tales and much rumour about the Demon Horde. Yet she was here, under As’r and Pheya’s eyes, unclothed, without any strength to move, let alone run, comprehending nothing. Bara tried again, tears filling her sight, but she could not unwind her arms, nor straighten herself to run. So she remained as she was, huddled, watching, trembling, waiting for what was to come.
As before, the speed was beyond her understanding. The hateful creature grabbed her arm, pulled her to her feet, and turned her to him. To her infinite relief, her strength returned, and Bara tried to fight him. There was a struggle, for they were each yet too wet from water to keep a firm hold, but his strength exceeded hers and she was flat on the grass before she knew it, his hand yet again at her throat. He growled something and she saw him raise a stone, large and glistening with flint, clutched in the fist of his hand. He would kill her now, bludgeon her with the stone. Why here and not before she could not tell, but Bara saw the stone in his fist by the firelight and closed her eyes. In a moment he would strike and she would stand before the Lord of the Gate and tell her tale.
He released her instead. Confused, Bara opened her eyes only to see the strangest thing. The hateful creature cut into his arm with the flint, deep enough for blood to show. He dropped the stone and moved his arm over her until the red dripped on her middle, splattering on her skin as he moved his arm this way and that until a trail of red splashes reached from her ankles to her thighs, from her breasts to that place she could not think of, her shoulders and arms, her neck. Once the trail was made, he spread the red across her form with his hands until she was smeared with his blood, touching her mouth with his stained fingers, covering her breasts with the red, covering her shins, reaching between her thighs. She tried to stop him, even now she would fight, she would refuse, absolutely, but he was as quick as a snake, caught her hands in an iron grip, keeping them pinned against the grass beside her, his knee locking one leg down painfully as he parted her thighs and forced his blood stained fingers into her. He did not keep them there as Bara expected but removed them right after, releasing her even, which gave her the chance to kick and make to flee but he caught her, yanked her back to her knees and slapped her. It stung sharply and Bara was for a moment too stunned to move.
‘Stay.’
It was a sharp bark, the command unmistakable, equal to the harsh sound on the white terrace, the one that stopped all his men. Bara did not fight when he pushed her back to the grass. He had sounded too dangerous to try and flee again, the Gods knew what he else he was capable of. Bara lay still, staring at the moons, asking the Gods repeatedly what she had done to deserve this. She could see the streams of blood pouring from the wound on his arm, her body stained by that very red. It was drying on her skin, but he used what flowed freely to draw signs on her thighs and around her navel, around the buds of her chest, her throat and her lips, her forehead. He reached somewhere once he was done. Next, he had removed a burning branch from the fire. Bara stared at it like she stared at that scorpion as a child. She knew, any moment it would sting. He moved the branch over her, close enough to feel the heat, and she followed it transfixed. Voice so low it was above a whisper, the hateful beast made sounds, even sounds, while specks of ash fell onto her as he moved it twice, thrice, four times over her. She counted eight lengths before he began beating himself with the burning branch, quick beats against his arms and chest and thighs, twice against his back, eight times in total before he threw the branch back into the fire.
The creature got to his feet then and picked her up as if she weighed no more than a cup of water. He carried her to the stream, knelt in the water and had the strength to immerse her thrice into it without letting her go, growling sounds as he did this. Then he set her on the stone bed as before, water rushing all about her, and left the stream but returned with a branch from the fire, a burning branch he somehow fixed into the stream’s bed, shedding light on her. He knelt beside her again and removed what he had stained her with, with his bloodstained hands, making those low sounds, equal to a steady murmur that he seemed to repeat, almost like a chant, touching her lips, reaching between her thighs again. His hands were rough on her skin despite the water, his grip too tight, yet he removed the red, removed it until she was clean of it again. And not by any water, but by running water, water straight from its source, water straight from the Gods.
Realization dropped icily into Bara’s mind. Fire and Running Water, Untouched Earth and Living Blood, all these were sacred, for they were straight from the Gods. He had used all these for his strange ritual, for what else was this? And even the blade he used was flint. Nothing mortal made had touched him or her, for they were both unclothed, untouched by anything woven, soldered, or otherwise formed by mortal hand. That a heathen creature such as he would know of these things was beyond Bara’s comprehension. It made her silent and kept her from fighting him when he picked her up out of the stream and set her beside the fire again. He stoked it, bringing more branches from beyond the dark, until the fire was a bright blaze. He did not bring anything to cover either himself nor her. If she guessed rightly, nothing mortal made could touch them till the sun was fully risen again.
Bara lay next to the fire on the grass, her skin prickling from the icy water, every part of herself acutely aware of the rough touch of the hateful creature’s hands. Since she took her Oaths, none other save women’s hands had touched her. Even her own father could never touch her hand once her Oaths had been spoken. And here she was, lying on grass after all her Oaths were shattered, broken, the lainar wholly destroyed. Yet Bara could not close herself from the realization that just befell her. A ritual had been performed, only which one and for what purpose she could not say. It had been performed, however, by exactly those means sacred under Holy Law. That a fhārch would know of them… it was beyond Bara’s understanding.
Draen counted his men. There were two and fifty, enough to hold what was needed. The order was to secure the Flats before Midsun, that way they would have silence until Solstice and could negotiate from then on. Imarius had fled to the White Hills which were far from the coasts and once reached impassable, for the snows closed the passes early. It was clever, Draen had to concede, for Imarius had fled with most of his court, allowing none to be left behind and used as leverage. With the southern treks granted free passage as well as the caravanserais, the negotiations had succeeded. Then Imarius did what they had not deemed possible. He slipped away in the dark of night, and none were left behind to tell how it was done. Their mages were strong after all, nightcloaks were not easily wrought. The tithes would be paid, however, Imarius would want the routes to stay free. This now in the Flats was the last before the heat descended in full, and it was to Draen to see it was done.
The villages they passed were deserted. Some would not believe it and thrashed coops, poking spears through hay and thatch, but nothing living was there. Even the livestock had been taken or fled, they never left anything behind if they could help it. It was just as well, they knew to feed themselves, the days so far had been fat in their pickings.
It seemed there would be nothing but empty villages and farmsteads until a scout shouted and they found him dead in the bushes, an arrow through his eye. There were archers then, skilled archers, and that meant either a fort or a temple, maybe both. When they passed the olive grove, Draen knew it would be a temple and could see the expectation in his men. Temples always meant women and so far, temple women were very forthcoming in this degenerate land. It had taken will and command to make his men leave the coasts, and some, Draen was certain, still would have preferred to stay, their minds too weak to resist their wine and women.
They guards were well-hidden, but not well enough. Either fear or courage made them leave their hiding places. There were twenty, one of them clever enough to unseat him, but that was quickly remedied. The guard was young, more boy than man, but Draen commended him for his excellent aim. He hadn’t been knocked off his saddle in a while. In another life the boy would be a good hunter. Draen mounted his horse and they rode up the incline, past the usual cypress to the white of their shrines. It looked empty but he didn’t trust it. Twenty men at the gates either meant all had fled or there were far more within. He scanned the stone. These ones here knew to keep themselves out of sight.
‘They’re gone,’ Kolgar said but Draen dismounted.
The shrine did not look abandoned. There was a certain sense to deserted shrines, something empty that this one didn’t have. Draen kept his sword unsheathed, still red from the young guard who had shown good courage. Nothing approached him, nothing moved as he climbed the marble. What they wasted on their shrines when simple wood would do. He stopped and looked about. Silence. The hot sun turned the stone to blinding white. He made their presence known, calling for them to come out, but even after three calls nothing changed. Maybe Kolgar was right.
There was movement in the corner of his eye. He looked, readying himself. First he only saw something white, moving. Then he understood what it was. One of their women, shrouded in white and gold. She did not waver like some, nor did she smile like others. Her face was calm, her eyes steady. She stopped at the top steps in full sun. She was young, at least younger than he expected. Her twentieth winter was past, but her thirtieth was yet long to come. There was fear in her eyes and defiance. And like all of her kind she was more than sightly, her shape hinted through the folds. Whatever their gods were, they blessed their women in comeliness and form.
He could hardly believe she was alone. No sane woman would stay behind, not even one of them, but she didn’t look to lie. Unless it was a ploy to distract him. He tried her to it and she surprised him by her defiance. His men unsheathed their swords, but he stopped them. He sensed this one was different and gave commands accordingly. She would be choice leverage come negotiations.
*
Kolgar was furious. The woman had fooled him, tricked him with a need to release her water, and he had believed it like a foal fresh on its hooves. He had caught her of course and she was in his sien. Draen laughed until Kolgar mentioned that the men were asking questions. They expected something to be done. Draen told him this one was not like those at the coasts. Kolgar spoke bluntly, the men would not understand. She had defied him, openly, and he knew what they thought of them. He would have to do something. Draen’s answer was as always, he would not shed their blood. No matter what gods they worshipped, you never knew who was watching. Kolgar shrugged, he was only saying what was being spoken.
As always, Kolgar’s words were seeds in his mind that grew to saplings and finally right trees with deep roots and full foliage. He found him drinking with Ored.
‘Are they still talking?’
Kolgar nodded. Draen sat with them.
‘Speak.’
‘There’s a penalty we all know,’ Fred said coolly.
‘A sage is a sage,’ Draen answered.
Ored sneered, ‘Their gods are not ours, k’rak! Would they care about ours?’
‘They saved Grida.’
‘He’s a Healer.’
That was Kolgar, who liked to drop words like stones into hot oil.
‘Among them, a Healer is a sage, Kol, you know that.’
‘So you spare the bitch for Grida’s sake?’
Ored was in anger and the wine was making him worse.
‘She wears their seal.’
‘Who cares! She could be a goat maid left behind to fool you!’
‘No.’
Both Kolgar and Fred showed their surprise.
‘No goat maid would have that look.’
‘A look?’ Ored was in laughter. ‘You are easily fooled, k’rak.’
Draen remained silent. Kolgar looked into his cup. Ored’s laughter died. He looked undecided, then got to his feet and joined the others.
‘You doubt it,’ Draen said. Kolgar shrugged and drank from his cup. ‘Speak your mind.’
‘She managed to fool me and ran away. Others would have done different.’
Draen filled his cup and drank it. The wine was of good stock. At least in that their temples knew their business.
‘She’s one of them, I know it.’
‘So you will not.’
‘A sage is a sage, you know my mind in this.’
‘Ored does not speak an untruth, k’rak. Their gods are not our gods.’
It was always in these things that he and Kolgar did not see towards the same horizon, yet Draen did not demand allegiance in this. Letting Kolgar speak his mind made him know what the men expected. Draen drank from his wine first before speaking.
‘I know their gods are not our own. Already the stone they waste on their shrines. And they call us thieves. Even so, I have to look further than this. You never know who’s watching.’
‘Do you think there were Eyes today?’
‘You never know.’ By Kolgar’s look, Draen would have to explain in full. ‘If I had agreed to that fire in the Plains as so many wanted, do you think they would have let Grida live?’
Kolgar shook his head, though grudgingly.
‘The men can show their anger, but I can’t waste arrows on sprites.’
Kolgar was silent for so long, there was no escaping the question.
‘How bad is it?’
‘They all saw it. First the archer and then her. And you even let the two runts live.’
‘They were on holy ground, even they must know that.’
‘You let them live, k’rak. That is all they need to know.’
Draen said nothing and drank from his cup. To hold first saddle is to be hated and loved in equal amounts, he had said. All praise its honour, but it is a burden. You will have to see when all are blind. You will have to hear when all are deaf. When none can walk, you will rise up and go. And none will thank you for it.
*
The plan was simple, he would try her to it. The men would stop talking and if any Eyes were watching they would know she lived. If she was anything like those at the coasts there would be no great change anyway. If she really was like those at the coasts, she would find her own end anyway, for once his, stepping to another would mean the knife, and none would question him for it. The matter would be solved and any questions lost with the ashes strewn in the Winds. He still sensed she wasn’t what the men thought she was. Just seeing her on that dining chair was proof enough. She jumped at every sound and whatever she was hiding behind her back was something she did not know how to handle well. Yet Kolgar was drinking with others beyond the sien, and Draen knew the guards had their eyes and ears open.
*
Habrin asked what the matter was, laughing, ‘Is she a drak after all?’ Draenpunched his laughing face, sending the bitches son crashing into three others. Knowing Habrin, he was likely loudest in the demand that something be done. Now it was done and he had brought the Wrath of the Gods on himself. It didn’t look right and she fought too hard. They usually relented soon enough and played along. She fought and scratched and bit but others had done the same before and were suddenly soft as water. She did fall silent, only it was too silent. She hardly moved. Then he left her and there was blood everywhere. He knew then, knew that he had seen correctly the moment she walked out of the shadows. She was not a known woman, but had followed their laws as all others should have.
The Sands of Time could not be re-poured and that alone was too much. The men were shouting his name, though, Kolgar and Tren pulling him back and away before Habrin got it into his head to retaliate and force his hand. Habrin was too good an archer to lose. Draen freed himself and saw their shocked faces. They had not seen his rage in some time, though some seemed satisfied with it. Draen understood they had thought him softened by the coasts as well. He demanded to know where the last of the temple guards were. Some had wanted to run them, but Draen knew they could be useful later on, and it was always well to have leverage, no matter how meagre. Now it was well he let them live for they must know what he needed to know.
Kolgar brought him to the guards, tied up behind the horses. The younger was venomous but alive, the other still in the mists. Kolgar explained while he spoke. Had their mistress ever known a man? It took a moment until the boy understood. Draen knew when comprehension sunk its arrows, for the horror in boy’s eyes was too true to be affected. Draen couldn’t believe it and asked again.
‘Is she a known woman?’
Kolgar repeated his question. The boy shook his head, speaking of oaths and cups and something about a song. Draen needed to know, however, and spoke on.
‘This song, what is it?’
With many words and confusion the boy finally understood what they wanted. Kolgar explained as the boy spoke.
‘She is a song. No, a voice of their gods. She speaks their wisdom to them. She is the highest among their own and sacred to all.’
It was much worse than Draen expected and by Kolgar’s look, he too had not expected this. So far they had only encountered servants and acolytes. Why would their highest stay behind? It made little sense. Draen had to be certain.
‘When were her oaths spoken?’
The boy frowned, confused, eyes darting between them. He spoke however and by Kolgar’s words she had been promised to their gods since birth, wedded to As’ril the day her Oaths were spoken, help-meet to Pheyr the day she wore their sacred cloth.
‘This is bad, k’rak,’ Kolgar said, looking to Draen, who for the first time since Alathan saw real fear in his Second’s eyes. ‘If true, you must appease Them, otherwise we shall all be lost.’
‘They wed them to the High Court?’ Draen asked, disbelieving. That was insanity. The High Court knew no mercy when slighted. To tie a mortal to them in such a way was more than provocation, and by his look, Kolgar understood that all too well.
‘Alathan. Jirigan. The Plains,’ Kolgar said then, looking at Draen with new understanding. ‘That’s why it is always so bad. They have tied themselves to the worst of them all.’
‘You keep that to yourself, understood?’ Draen said, aware of his Second’s shock. ‘We’ll talk about this in council. Kol. Understood?’ Kolgar nodded, reluctantly. ‘Now ask him what happens if she is known,’ Draen made himself say. Kolgar hesitated, but spoke all the same.
The boy understood quickly and completely. He spoke in quick, sharp sounds, his voice rising in fury. Kolgar spoke on. By the boy’s voice and expression, his answer was a curse against their blood and kin unto the seventh generation. Young and slight though he was, the guard struggled to free himself and if he hadn’t been restrained, the boy would have grabbed the next thing and bludgeoned them with it. The look in his eyes was beyond murder. It was a hatred so deep, even the Gods would acknowledge it.
So it was true. One look and Kolgar understood. They were all in peril. Alathan, Jirigan, and the Plains had shown it clearly. He had till sunrise. Beyond that, the Gods would know no mercy.
three good words 