Bound in Stone 3

by K. M. Frontain

  He shrugged out of Ufrid’s grasp and waved his priests forward. While guards pulled the heavy bronze handles with all their might to keeping the raging citizens of Durgven out, the priests chanted the ward to protect themselves from the onslaught. The answering aura of blue was a welcome sight to them all.

  They spent a day and a night in the cold mausoleum with the royal dead of Ulmenir. Ufrid never turned his back on the biers of King Ugoth and his five children. Even now, more than half a year later, a blue glow shone over Ugoth’s casket. Ufrid was secretly afraid his brother would rise out of it to smite him down. He whispered to Petrin to chant a cleansing over it, but when the bishop accomplished the task, the coffin burned all the more brightly, so brightly they no longer needed torches. Ufrid’s soldiers exclaimed that the dead king watched over them from beyond. Ufrid kept silent, but continued to stare balefully.

  Only after Lord General Dals had cleared the streets of rampaging mobs were they rescued. By then, Eshaia was safely ensconced in the convent where Ufrid didn’t dare assail Ugoth’s queen. Herfod, already a saint in the eyes of the populace, was not to be arrested for breaking a royal decree. Ufrid’s subjects would brook no assault on the man, be he demon or otherwise. The new king could do nothing but rage silently and pretend a remorse and piety he did not feel.

  ***

  A week later, Ufrid experienced terror yet again. He awakened abruptly in the night. A dark figure hovered over him. A knife pressed at his throat. He stared up at his assailant in the dimness and could not move for the dread the shadowy outline inspired.

  “It’s time,” a voice whispered. “I will hold it no longer. I give it to you.”

  “You! What are you doing here?” He attempted to move. The knife cut inward. He stilled. “No! Please! No!”

  Hot blood dripped down his throat to the mattress. The knife relented and rose away from his jugular, leaving it unbroken. The blankets over him shifted downward. The whore next to him rolled away, but did not awaken.

  “What are you doing?”

  A hand settled on his intimate parts. He dared not move. He felt anger. He felt fear. He felt an excitement shamefully evident to the man who grasped him.

  “You enjoy fear, Ufrid,” Herfod’s soft voice mocked. “What a surprise. I thought you preferred causing it.”

  He would not give a response to the scorn, but again his body betrayed him. His organ jerked in his assailant’s hand. Ufrid scrunched his fingers in the sheets and waited out the assault. If the monk had come here to rape him, then it wouldn’t entirely be a victory.

  “You think I came here to fuck you,” Herfod said.

  This taunt Ufrid could not resist answering. “Didn’t you? If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead already.”

  “You’re of no use to me dead and of no interest to me as my butt boy.”

  The dry scorn lacerated worse than the knife. “Fuck off! Just fuck off, then! Get your hand off me!”

  The monk laughed. It was but a whisper in the dark. “But you like it there.” His fingers moved and made Ufrid shiver more. The grip was threatening and pleasurable. “I give you it. I give you what I couldn’t bear to part with for these last eight months.”

  Herfod’s shadowy head moved closer. His hand shifted and cupped testicles. Their lips met.

  Blue! Oh! Fire! Exquisite fire!

  No! A beast! A beast tore him! Tore his testicles! Tore his guts!

  Ugoth! No! Get out!

  ***

  Ufrid jerked upright in the darkness. The whore next to him shrieked and pulled the blankets higher over her naked body. One of his guards rushed into the chamber to check on him.

  “Majesty?”

  “Nothing! Just a dream. Go away.”

  “Yes, Majesty,” the guard acknowledged. He shut the door. The whore sat up in the bed and moved closer to the king.

  “Get out,” he snapped. She recoiled. She fled the room quickly, taking her clothing without dressing, well aware that His Majesty preferred whores to leave without a fuss.

  Ufrid pulled black felt off a glow stick on the night table, lifted himself to his feet and approached the fire. He inserted more kindling under the andiron and blew on the banked coals. When the fire was leaping, he set a log on the andiron. He returned to his bed, sat, put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes. He remembered the dream.

  It had seemed so real. Herfod had seemed real: cynical, dangerous and erotic. Just thinking of him tightened Ufrid’s shaft again. The hand on his testicles, the lips on his mouth; he still tasted the phantasm’s lips. He’d wanted more of those lips, but they had receded to let the delusion speak again. Remembered words provoked a shiver of renewed dread.

  You will dance for me! You will dance for Ugoth! Every son you sire will carry the seed of his rebirth. Someday, King Ufrid, a child will be born and he will be your brother. The gryphon king will return, and this throne will be his for the taking!

  And then the blue had assaulted him completely. Ufrid shook his head in wonder, in scathing contempt for his overactive imagination. Stupid dream! As if he would ever father his own brother!

  He rose to cover the glow stick. Just before the felt cloth slid over the bright cylinder, he glanced at his bed. There was blood on the mattress and pillow. He dropped the felt to the side of the glow stick and stared in horror at the telltale marks. His hand crept to his throat. He felt no pain, no injury, not even a crust of dried blood.

  He stared for what felt like a frightened eternity at the red stains. After that, he dressed and visited the church recently appropriated by the priests of Heavenly Light. Shaking visibly, he begged for spiritual cleansing.

  Petrin knew fear and desperation when he saw it. He exacted a price for his services. And a full confession. By the time the cleansing was performed, Petrin had in his possession two small, very powerful mirrors. He had papers proclaiming his right to begin the promised basilica Ufrid had never started, and he had all the power he needed to make the rightful church the only church in Ulmenir.

  ***

  “It was a rather difficult birth, Revered Brother,” the convent mother whispered. “The child was exceptionally large. And he’s very ugly. Certainly the result of an evil spirit. Will you exorcise the creature at once?”

  “No, Holy Mother,” Brother Herfod responded. “The child is Stohar. They’re a great hulking lot, generally speaking, strong and good for not much else but smiting ogres and trolls.” Which they apparently shared some heritage with. Well, it figured, given what massive brutes Stohar men were.

  “Stohar!” the Virginal Sister said. “But …! But I thought it was the result of a dark spell!”

  “It was, Revered Mother, but the child is innocent of the crime of its birth. I assure you, I will see to its proper care.”

  “Yes, Revered Brother,” the old woman said respectfully, if somewhat doubtfully. “Here we are. I shall go in with you. She is somewhat … difficult.”

  “Not this time,” he demurred. “She will want to confess before I take the child.”

  “Yes, but—!”

  “I know of her troubles, Mother,” he said firmly. “You will permit me to enter. I am prepared to withstand her.”

  “Oh, of course. Yes, Revered Brother.”

  She opened the cell door and bowed him in. Herfod entered. The moment the door shut, he sealed the entrance and walls from spying. During the chant, Queen Eshaia observed him without expression from upon her small cot. He turned toward her when he finished.

  “Take me!” she hissed. “I burn! Take me!”

  He pulled the cowl off his head. She gaped at his baldness, but then repeated her words.

  “I’ve come to heal you again,” he informed her flatly.

  She laughed bitter amusement. “There’s a wonderful bitch of a Virginal Sister in here. She’s very experienced with a switch. She knows exactly where to shove it after she’s whipped my backside.”

  He grimaced with distaste. “It’s a wonder you didn�
��t kill the infant.”

  “Take me!” she screamed. She pulled her blanket off and revealed her bared legs. She opened them wide for him and heaved upward. “Give me your cock! Stick it in me! Do it! Do it!”

  She bled from her birth canal. He averted his gaze and began the healing chant. She laughed at him.

  “Let me help you. I’ll put your hand where it hurts most.” She lurched up from the bed and snatched at his folded arms. He sent the healing into her as she touched him. She sank back on the bed, gasping in shock and shame. “Please! Please! Can’t you make it go away forever?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have the grace to heal your mind completely. I would heal my own if so.” He looked at her again. Her bloody gown barely covered her legs. She smelled vile. “This will only see that you recover from the birthing properly. I’ll have them wash you.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “The baby? Is it still alive?”

  He stared at her.

  “Is it?”

  “You think I would kill it?”

  “Haven’t you?”

  “No!”

  She frowned in surprise. “What will you do with it, then?”

  “I have someone in mind to take the boy, someone you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Lord Amrae. I spoke with him during the march to Omera. He’s had trouble fathering boys. I sent him a cautious letter inquiring whether he’d be interested in this child. I don’t think he’ll mind if the little fellow is slightly less than handsome.”

  In response to this, she only stared at him. A hint of the crazed lust returned to her, a slight widening of the eyes, a glance toward his crotch.

  “I must go.”

  “The gods have spared my son, just as I prayed they would,” she said.

  Knowing the madness was about to take her, he kept his gaze impassive. Once again, the hint bled from her eyes, rapid shifts of attention to crotch, to arms, shoulders, crotch again.

  “It’s almost your baby. Do you know that? Yours and Marun’s. I said a prayer while I was completely mad, while I thrust my bastard boy out into this world. Would you like to hear what I begged for?”

  “You’ll tell me in any case. Go on, then.”

  She smiled. She lifted herself onto her knees and touched him on his abdomen. He grabbed her wrist and held her away.

  “Tell me it, woman! I will not stay here much longer!”

  “Don’t you want me even a little?” she asked, her voice now hoarse with lust. “Ugoth had me. Ugoth had me just like he had the whore you shared. Use me! Use me like her!”

  He pushed her away and moved to the door.

  “I prayed that the boy would kill Marun!”

  He rotated to stare at her. She laughed at him and then squirmed suggestively. She hiked her bloody gown up over legs, abdomen, milk-swollen breasts. She touched herself, pressing harshly, hurting tender flesh.

  “Yes,” she said. It was half a groan. “Ufrid told me Marun wasn’t quite dead. Imagine! You let him live. Was he that good? Did you enjoy him more than our beloved Ugoth?”

  Pulling his cowl up over his head, he faced away again. This time he opened the door and walked out without looking back, ignoring her frustrated cries to fill her, fill her with his shaft, his fist, anything he wanted to fill her with. The convent mother reddened in fury. She stepped in to force the insane queen back onto her cot, to silence her with a disciplinary hand.

  “Do not strike her!” Brother Herfod snapped. “She enjoys such abuse.”

  The Virginal Sister whitened with horror. “Oh, dear! I’ve let Sister Sarmene care for her. She beats her constantly. I must have someone else see after her.”

  “No!” Eshaia cried. “Don’t take her away! She’s all I have left!”

  “Oh!” the convent mother gasped in revulsion. “Oh!”

  She slammed the door shut and locked it. Eshaia’s screams of protest sounded all the way down the long, dim hall. The Virginal Sister hurried the revered brother away from the insane cries, guiding him down to the bottom-most floor.

  “She hasn’t been properly care for,” he said as they descended a dim stairwell. “She’s not clean. She should never have been beaten. She’s a queen, Holy Mother, however her mental condition.”

  “I understand, Brother Herfod, but only Sister Sarmene had the fortitude to withstand her behaviour.”

  “Sister Sarmene didn’t withstand her.”

  “I’m sorry. I shall correct it,” the convent mother said stiffly, distaste and embarrassment evident upon her wrinkled features.

  Herfod understood she’d brook no further criticism and nodded acceptance.

  “The infant is this way” she continued, shoving out into a lower floor. “I have a wet nurse for it. She’s doesn’t know whose child she nurses.”

  “Is she prepared to travel?”

  “Oh, she was thrown out of her father’s house for being a slut. She’ll be glad to have food in her stomach. I only kept her for her full breasts.”

  “Indeed,” he said. He had a very distinct impression the convent and the parsimonious new sect would get along fine in the future.

  They approached the end of the hall. The door led into the yard and onto a path to the external kitchen. A thin woman sat on a barrel outside the kitchen door. She held a tightly wrapped bundle in her arms. Despite the chill air, one of her breasts was exposed. Without proper shelter, she nursed the queen’s bastard.

  “There,” the niggardly convent mother pointed. “There’s the ugly creature.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” he said, uncertain which person, the larger or the smaller, the woman meant. It felt like both. “I will deal with the matter from here.”

  He dismissed her with a bow. Politeness demanded she curtsey in return, but she frowned as she walked away. By the time she opened the hall door, she had brushed the unpleasant matter from her mind. In two weeks time, she would brush the matter of the insane queen from her mind as well. In two weeks time, the Virginal Sisters would find Eshaia hanging from her bedpost, strips of her bloody gown wrapped around her neck. Having twisted and twisted on the floor until the straps strangled her, the Sisters would discover her hands between her spread legs and her body printed with the blood of her womb. The matter would be hushed by royal decree.

  By then, Brother Herfod would be absent from Ulmenir, which was just as well. The bizarre tragedy would have been enough to send him beneath the cowl of silence again or back to his bed with another brain fever. Currently he turned to the thin, dirty woman chosen to be the bastard’s wet nurse and eyed her with disapproving consideration. She thought it for herself and tucked her head down.

  “They don’t feed you enough,” he said. She looked at him warily. “Can you walk? Do you have any strength in your legs?” She nodded. He suspected she lied. He loosed an impatient sigh. He would likely have to give her strength halfway there.

  “Give me the child,” he commanded. She clutched the bundle closer. “I will give him back. It’s only so you can walk without a burden. There are five miles between here and the monastery. You will be glad I carry the baby after the first mile.”

  Reluctantly, she removed the child’s lips from her breast and offered him up. Herfod received the bundle and hefted it around until he had a good look at the child’s little face.

  “There’s a familiar sight,” he whispered. The infant would end up like his father. Ugly.

  With shivering hands, the woman tucked her bodice around her breast. Sighing again, Herfod handed the baby back. He removed his weapons from his back and then his cloak and cowl. He handed these last items to her. Once the weapons were back on, he retrieved the baby before she could protest. She stared at the cloak. She gaped at his shaved head. Hints of vivid red glinted over his scalp.

  “Wear the cloak and cowl,” he told her. “You’re cold.”

  “What of you?” she said timidly.

  He dismissed his discomfort with a smile. “I won’t take much hurt fro
m it.”

  He led her through the courtyard. He considered the infant in his arms. He remembered the words of its mother. “So. You want him to smite your tormentor, do you, Eshaia? For the torture. The madness. Seeing into your darkest dreams. I can respect that.”

  He pulled the cloth aside from the little face. The infant sighed and shuddered, but did not awaken. Herfod stared down at the babe, eyes intense. Virginal Sisters in the yard witnessed a momentous change, knelt where they stood and began praying. His eyes had become luminous, portentous, mad.

  Godly.

  “I will give you what you ask for, broken queen,” he whispered. “Let your child want this in his deepest self and let him pass it down to every son. Let lust for Marun’s destruction not wane till the day one of them breaks the curse with a blade to the Shadow Master’s neck. Let one of them do what I could not.”

  Blue snapped out of his hand and into the infant’s cheek. The babe opened small eyes and glared up at him. Staring at the accusatory, infantile countenance, the strange intensity left Herfod. He blinked away shock.

  He’d done something evil, something vile. He was mortified. He knew he would suffer the consequences of his wicked act some day, knew it with as much certainty as he’d known he could curse the child to begin with.

  The baby, wakeful but silent, seemed to refuse his guilt and shame. Herfod nodded understanding. “You’ll do. You’ve a will to you.”

  He looked up. He had stalled before the gate. The sisters on duty had readied the small side door. He inclined his head in farewell and walked out of the convent grounds. He paused outside the entrance. He saw no sign of anyone, but the air had a stink of menace to it.

  “Do you like the forest?” he asked the woman behind him.

  “There are monsters in it. Monsters that can snatch you up into trees and kill you in an instant,” she whispered.

  He laughed. “That would just be me.” She gaped at him. He glowered at the road leading off from the convent. “Come on,” he ordered. “There’s someone watching us. You might see me turn into a monster before long. Just be ready to catch the infant if I toss him to you.”