Netherkind

by Greg Chapman

  “It’s me,” she said, checking over her shoulder. After a few moments, a face appeared, a Phagun face even paler from fear. The Phagun male was old, about the age of Stephanie’s own father. When he saw Stephanie he gasped with elation.

  “You’ve come,” he said, stifling a shout before parting the thick curtain that covered the cave entrance to let her inside.

  “I need him,” Stephanie said. “It’s time.”

  The old man nodded and stepped back, suddenly humbled. Stephanie wasn’t even a few feet inside their abode when a woman, also elderly, came out from another room, her own fear out-matching both of theirs.

  “What’s happening?” she said. “We’ve heard there are Skiift outside the walls of the city—is it true?”

  Stephanie rushed to the woman and held her hands. “Where is he? I have to take him right now, Halitha.”

  Halitha frowned, her lips tight with concern. “Why—what do you hope to do?”

  “It’s none of our concern, Halitha,” the old man said. “He’s not our grandson.”

  Halitha wrung her hands. “But he’s just a child Dorum!”

  Stephanie held both their hands, trying to calm them. “Everything will be okay, now please, I must have my son.”

  Halitha nodded reluctantly. “Alright.” She left the room and returned a moment later with a bundle of blankets, small whimpers coming from within. Warmth flooded Stephanie’s chest and she reached out to take the baby from Halitha.

  “I want to thank you both for all you’ve done for him—I’ll never forget it,” Stephanie said.

  Dorum put a gentle hand on Stephanie’s head and watched her peer down at her boy.

  “No, thank you Calea for letting Braegan be a part of your life and for bringing this boy here. I know he isn’t Braegan’s, but it was just like having him here with us all over again.”

  Halitha began to sob and Dorum moved to console her. Stephanie, tears in her own eyes, cradled her son and turned to walk out the entrance.

  “What are you going to do now Calea?” Dorum called to her.

  “I’m going to introduce my son to his father—and stop this war forever.”

  36

  Epilogue

  Every night I have the same dream:

  I am standing in the passage outside the old Phagun city. Three great armies have gathered, waiting for the promise of life or death. Death has the upper hand on this battlefield, with corpses piled upon corpses. Their blood is all over the ground and I can virtually feel it between my toes.

  I cast my eyes over the armies, but quickly I am drawn to three figures in a coven at the centre. One is a prophet, another a Skiift leader and the last is the Great One in Phagun form. The Phagun is the epitome of perfection, Okin’s wisdom flowing through his veins.

  Abruptly, my dream-self soars above the battlefield, providing me a bird’s eye view of what hate has wrought upon our Kingdom—and it sickens me. There are others here too in the shadows: humans, one lurking in dark, plotting and scheming, another is a walking cauldron of rage and greed. The third lies very still, seemingly destroyed by the war he has no place being in.

  With the dreamscape surveyed, my body returns to the ground, peering in upon the conversation between the three men.

  “I refuse to accept your claims!” the one called Re-Kul says, hatred still boiling inside his heart.

  “Your refusal is a moot point,” Shal-Ekh the prophet says and there is no denying his self-belief.

  The three-in-one shows no anger towards Re-Kul, if anything he appears to sympathise with him, but his own purpose, his resolve, is unwavering.

  “Nothing you say will change what happens here Re-Kul,” he says. “Today is your chance to finally make the right choice. Think back to all those times when you fought with your counsel—tried to stop battles before they began. Use that courage now and join with Okin.”

  Shal-Ekh reaches for Re-Kul to urge him to see the light, but the Skiift leader slaps his hand away.

  “My resistance to all those battles was futile, I see that now!” he says. “Each time I refused to attack I was just being weak, like Gavenko! And now look at him—a worm trying to burrow his way out of becoming a victim to his own cowardice!”

  The King looks up at them and they can see the only thing that could release him from his anguish is death.

  “Please, you must forgive me,” Gavenko says. “All I wanted was to keep my people safe—”

  “Liar!” Re-Kul growls, he lunges for Gavenko, but the three-in-one halts his advance with a raised hand.

  “Stop Re-Kul, you must listen to me.”

  “Take your hand off me, impostor! You’re nothing to me! You’re not Okin! He would never stoop so low as to inhabit a Phagun!”

  “Listen to yourself Re-Kul—hear the hate inside you. It’s consuming you.”

  Re-Kul pushes Okin away fiercely. “Then let it consume me! It feels right not to deny it! I know what I am, and I know what we all are, and, unlike you, I am not afraid to acknowledge it!”

  Shal-Ekh bows his head regretfully and Re-Kul senses his disappointment.

  “Don’t you dare judge me Shal-Ekh!” he says. “Why has it taken so long for you to show your true colours, hmm?” He turns to Okin. “And why did you have to wait for us to be on the eve of destruction before you moved to thwart it?”

  “He’s here now,” the three-in-one says.

  “Well, it’s too late!”

  Re-Kul’s eyes seem to flare with an unquenchable fury, pent up for so many years. All his denials rush to the surface, the scales of his skin rising and expanding, eager to release it all in a wave of violence. His skin gives out and feathers, blood-streaked from battle, burst through. The soldiers of all the armies withdraw in a panic, even Re-Kul’s own men. They can see their leader has lost all control. The three-in-one tries to maintain calm as Re-Kul’s shape alters again: spider legs, mangled and limp, piercing out from his sides, the claws at their ends pounding the ground. From the spider’s cephalathorax emerge tentacles and they writhe and reach in Okin’s direction.

  “Stop this Re-Kul!” the three-in-one says. “Listen to me!”

  Re-Kul turns his raven head in Okin’s direction and lets out a piercing cry of defiance.

  “No! The time for listening and talking is over! The only way for this struggle to end is if we wipe the Stygma and Phagus off the face of the Earth!”

  The Phagus draw their swords in retaliation to Re-Kul’s threat, which the Skiift reinforces by stamping his spider legs as a warning. The three-in-one however simply walks towards the beast, his whole being devoid of any fear.

  “I ask you again Re-Kul to stop this,” he says.

  Re-Kul lashes out at him with a tentacle, but the three-in-one shifts his body out of the way, as if it were made of air.

  “This is my choice!” the Skiift leader squawks. “I choose to fight!”

  “So be it.”

  The three-in-one removes his shirt and tosses it aside. His body is honed and hardened, but in the end, it is only flesh. He bows his head and closes his eyes. All stare at him, astounded.

  “What are you waiting for? Fight me!” Re-Kul demands.

  The Skiift beast’s impatience gets the better of him and he begins a pre-emptive attack. A flash of light sparks an aura around the three-in-one, a fleeting burst, but a powerful one—enough to make Re-Kul think twice.

  Then the three-in-one’s body weakens, the edges of it wavering like water disturbed by a skipping pebble. As the soldiers try to understand what they’ve witnessed, the three-in-one’s body pales and fades, hollowing itself out to a translucent shell. Inside, two lights glisten and swirl, soul-like embryos dancing around the heart.

  The soul embryos expand, becoming much too large for the Phagun body to contain, the flesh, thinned out, splits gently to allow the souls their freedom. On contact with air, the twin souls begin to take on shapes of their own—two humanoid shapes, the bodies different, but each with a d
istinctive face. The pair stand side by side with their progenitor to face up to Re-Kul’s monstrous form.

  “The three-in-one,” I hear Shal-Ekh whisper.

  The soldiers drop their weapons, whether in fear or adoration, I cannot tell, but the sound of steel clanging on the ground in unison resembles the clash of cavalry cymbals.

  Three men, three supernatural giants stand before us—Braegan the dead one, Thomas the impostor and the Great One, Okin: together and apart.

  “Impossible!” Re-Kul shrieks. “It’s a trick, you fools! Look away! Look away!”

  The three spread out to flank Re-Kul, they match the Skiift leader in size now, each figure at least ten feet tall.

  “This is your last chance,” the three say.

  Re-Kul’s cry—the call of the death bird—is his final answer. The Skiift beast proceeds to attack, tentacles whipping in every direction at the giants, the claws of its spider legs pinching at them. Braegan drops and tumbles out of their reach effortlessly, manoeuvring himself around behind the beast to take hold of its only two unbroken limbs. Thomas, quick on his feet, lets the tentacles grapple his body and with impossible might, reaches down with his hands to subdue them, squeezing the fight out of them. Okin, now free to front Re-Kul, charges forward, light exuding from his hands, the bursts are relentless, one after the other, blinding the Skiift leader into submission.

  It’s all over in a matter of moments.

  “No!” Re-Kul cries. “Mercy!”

  “You had your choice Re-Kul, and you threw it away. Your sacrifice must now be taken by force.”

  Re-Kul’s resolve collapses in the face of their indomitable power. His dark form crumbles away like ash caught in a firestorm to reveal a Skiift whose pride has been his downfall. Okin, Thomas and Braegan in turn, come down to his size—Flesher to Flesher. Re-Kul lifts his gaze to the Great One, his eyes saturated with defeat.

  “I’ll go, but I will not go willingly,” he says.

  Okin reaches down and with a white-hot hand, tears out Re-Kul’s throat. His death is quick, the Skiift leader falling a second later. As his army looks on in dismay, Okin devours the piece of his flesh whole.

  “It is done,” Okin says, before holding out his hands to accept his brothers. Thomas and Braegan walk into his body to become the three-in-one once more, returning to the familiar shape of Thomas. He looks upon the disheartened faces of the three tribes.

  “This is just the beginning,” he says. “There are still sacrifices to be made.”

  Another cry rises from the crowds—a pitiful one—Gavenko, the broken king, runs through the crowd, desperate for escape. He knocks two of his own Phagun warriors aside trying to flee.

  “You won’t take me!” he shrieks.

  Gavenko only gets a few hundred yards when Shal-Ekh’s soul thread wraps itself around him. The bonds sear his flesh and he flails for his life.

  “No, please no!” the King cries.

  Shal-Ekh carries Gavenko back to Thomas, whose hand is still a blazing knife. The prophet holds the King still.

  “You know this has to happen,” Thomas says. “You made your choice.”

  “But I want to live!”

  “And you will.”

  Thomas plunges his hand into Gavenko’s chest and extracts the King’s heart, the intense heat engulfing it in flame in an instant. The King slumps in Shal-Ekh’s grasp. Quickly, Thomas feeds upon the corruption that had long festered in Gavenko’s body, taking it into himself. Shal-Ekh returns his soul to his body and promptly presents his own flesh to Thomas.

  “I always knew it would come to this,” Shal-Ekh says. “And I am not afraid.”

  Thomas grins at his loyal prophet. “Your sacrifice will not be forgotten.”

  Shal-Ekh closes his eyes in acceptance. Thomas reaches out and gently embraces him, like a brother. Then he leans down to bite into his throat. Foul grey blood gushes over Thomas’ lips and he takes the meal down. Then the prophet is simply another piece of flesh soaking the ground.

  Amidst it all, a Leper shambles forward and prostrates himself before Thomas to offer him a sheath of his own flesh. Thomas accepts it and savours the Leper’s generosity in just a few bites.

  “Nourishment from the malnourished—I thank you,” Thomas says.

  Satisfied, Thomas turns to the armies and already they can see the transformation that is taking place. I can see it. Thomas’ face shifts, the pale flesh of Phagun melding with the scales of the Skiift, grey veins of the Stygma seeping through the surface like snakes, crawling ever closer to eyes tinted green, white and gold. Thomas is no longer Thomas—not Phagus, or Skiift, or Stygma—he is all three. The most beautiful Flesher of all with skin that is red and white and gold—a shell fit to house a king—a god.

  The new Flesher spreads his arms triumphantly and feathers sprout to kiss the air. When he speaks, his words are etched upon his scales by invisible hands. The Skiift warriors, the Phagus and even the monks fall to their knees.

  “This is what you will all become in my dreamscape—embrace it!”

  Gunfire—a great boom that shatters the grandeur of the moment. The tribesmen turn startled to find a human, bearing arms upon them and upon the new Thomas.

  “Sure, I’ll embrace it,” Niles Harper says.

  A Phagun warrior grabs a sword and rushes Niles, but callously and methodically, he shoots the Flesher dead. Others move to retaliate, but Thomas instructs them to stand down.

  “Yeah, listen to your king, you freaks!” Niles says.

  “Who are you?” Thomas asks.

  The human looks genuinely stunned. “What—you don’t know? Fuck, from what I’ve just seen, you’re supposed to be a god. The name’s Harper—Niles Harper and I’m here for my piece of the action!”

  Thomas stands silent, raising Niles’s ire, who obliges it by raising his gun to the Flesher King’s face.

  “Don’t ignore me asshole!” Niles says.

  “What do you want?”

  Niles looks Thomas up and down, licking his lips, admiring the elegance of his skin.

  “I know about your hides, how they rejuvenate you. Your buddy Nero showed us how it can make you look younger, so I want some of your hide.’

  Thomas cocked his head. “Where is Nero?”

  “He’s dead—and you will be too unless you hand over some of your flesh!”

  Thomas blinked. “Greed,” he said.

  “Excuse me?’”

  “Another choice—greed—our choice was hatred, but we are not governed by it anymore.”

  Niles cocked the .44. “Yeah, look, I don’t give a fuck about the revival you guys are having—I just want my pound of flesh, then I’ll be on my merry way.”

  Thomas’ eyes narrowed. “And you think you can just take it from me?”

  Niles sniggered and waved his gun around. “Hell yeah—I’ve got protection and I’m not just talking about the big fella here!”

  Thomas scanned the crowd. “I see no one.”

  “Let’s just say I’ve got back-up okay? Now gimmie—” Niles reaches for Thomas, but he backs away, his reflexes honed beyond normal Flesher capacity. The human rushes him, desperate to get a hold of Thomas’ skin and when he does, tries to bite him. Thomas swats him away like a fly and he comes crashing down in the dust.

  “That’s how you do it isn’t it, you eat flesh?” Niles says, spitting blood. “Let me taste it!”

  “It is not fit for you, but I knew you would come just the same. Now, it is time for you to leave.”

  Thomas turns back to his Fleshers, but again there is gunfire, four successive blasts. Thomas feels the rounds puncture his back, tearing great wounds through and through. He drops to his knees, blood, golden blood spurting all over the ground.

  Phaguns, Skiift and Stygma all cry out in anguish and rush to Thomas’ aid. Others converge on Niles and begin to rip him to shreds. Through his death throes, he curses Vorn’s name to Hell.

  I rise up into the dream air to look down on thi
s tragedy. The “Vorn” in question, ever-smiling, slinks away into shadow, possibly never to be seen again. His other companion, the one who could be Hell’s right hand, hears a voice in his head and it commands him to return to the land of the living.

  But soon I am drawn back to Thomas, who now lies dying, his legacy likely to never live on. All hope seems lost, the doors to Okin’s grand vision closing. As the Fleshers swarm around their king, their hearts wracked with guilt, he whispers to them:

  “Didn’t you hear me before? This is just the beginning.”

  A baby’s cry pierces their sorrow, a sound not heard for centuries. The Fleshers part to let a mother and her child seek counsel with the new king.

  “Stephanie,” Thomas gasps, love in his eyes.

  Stephanie is sobbing and her baby, their child, screams for nourishment. But this is more than a dream—it is a memory that is distinct. I remember it well.

  “He sounds hungry,” Thomas gasps.

  “Yes…” Stephanie leans over Thomas and pulls back the blanket to show him their son. I remember the adoration in his eyes, it is so warm.

  “Then let him feed.” Thomas raises his hand, dripping with his blood - the blood of the new Flesher race—to the child’s lips.

  It tastes like firelight, like star shine, like the lightning and the rain and the sun, washing away all the darkness of the old kingdom. I can still taste it on my tongue to this very day.

  When I look down upon Thomas in the dream, I see he is gone, but always with me.

  This is the dream I have every night—the dream of how a Phagun named Thomas brought an end to the war—and he was my father.

  About the Author

  Greg Chapman is a horror author and artist from Australia. He’s the author of five novellas, Torment, The Noctuary (Damnation Books, 2011), Vaudeville (2012) and The Last Night of October (Bad Moon Books, 2013) and The Followers (Omnium Gatherum 2018). His debut collection, Vaudeville and Other Nightmares, was first published by Black Beacon Books in September 2014. His debut novel Hollow House was short listed for the Bram Stoker Award® for Superior Achievement in a First Novel.