by B. H. Young
The figure showed of age with chips and gouges of its structure broken off and veined cracks riddling its surface. Large pauldrons sat its shoulders, a crowned helmet adorned its head, and a skull with a tentacled maw served as its faceplate. It took a lot of coin paid to the hands of scathing raiders for her to get the item of ancient times. When a source had sent word of its unearthing in the Ice Sheath Mountains of Vildeheim, she did not waver with her intentions, as she never did when words of such items reached her ears.
Maven looked to the Red King, raining discerning eyes at the sentinel figure. It was a mere few months ago, the visions began to come every so often in sleep. Strengthening her faith and belief, she was their herald, as her mother had said, but the visions had halted. Had the Old Ones no more messages to give?
It had been more than a fortnight since the last dream. Punishment she wondered but for what she did not know. Maven looked down to the silver offering bowl, filled with three sprigs of Bat Orchid, one Calla Lily, a lambs' heart, four feathers of an owl twined together and peppered with silver coins. Was it no longer enough?
She ran her finger along the rim of the bowl. The parting vision still lingered in her mind. The skies were set afire as the great winged serpent's immense form slithered through the clouds while The March trekked the scorched grounds below. It's burnt copper skin shimmered in blaze and its wings toppled trees as it swept over the land. Witnessing of the Leviathan King strengthened her spirit. No, she thought. Offerings of such feebleness would not permit gifts of more revelations, but grander sacrifice would quell their thirst and please them. Rutted stone boots scratched against her fingertips as she bent over and rubbed her hands along the figures surface. She yelled for Theron who was standing outside the chapel door, lurking and never far from her presence.
His Sangvor paleness snapped to her beckoning and stood in front of her nakedness answering her summons with haste. "Yes my lady?" he said while making sure not to stray his eyes.
"Fetch me a servant now," she demanded.
He tilted his head, pursed his lips as if to think before speaking, and then said, "We only brought two my lady."
Cradenmill was not that big that it needed an army of restless souls to tend to it.
"Then pick one."
"Yes, my lady." Theron left and then returned with a servant from the hall just outside the chapel. He had plucked the girl from her duties, presented her to Maven, gave a quick bow, and left pulling the doors shut behind him.
The poor girl was bashful at Maven's curvy bareness and stood with her eyes lowered to the floor, shy and scared, as servants always would be in the steward's freedom. Maven called this a chapel but it looked more like a crypt to the young girl's eyes. Dark, cold, and full of dread, one would need to be insane to find comfort in such a place or just believe that beauty need not be something only eyes can gaze upon while the truth remains hidden.
Maven appraised the girl with taste for a moment. Salma was her name, a small form of elegant beauty pulled years ago from some backwater village whose name Maven could not even remember. A prized dish for rough satisfaction, but there was no need to be selfish, Maven thought. The Gods demanded a feast and a feast they shall have.
Maven's breast dangled with wild sway as she grabbed the girl by her arm and pushed her up in front of the statue of the Red King. Maven basked with exhilaration pressing into the girl's backside while she fondled her breast from behind. It was not something that was foreign to the servant but she whimpered and trembled with uneasy feeling nonetheless.
Maven leaned close to her ear and said, "There is no need to be scared my dear. There are not many who are worthy of such an honor as this, who do not possess a life worthy of quenching the thirst of the Old Ones. It is a rare thing and you should be happy." She whiffed of honeyberries at the girl's neck and was tempted to have one last taste of Salma, but the Gods hunger was more pressing. Unseen to the submissive servant, Maven reached over and pulled the dirk from the stone shelf. The young girl's throat split like warm bread to the sliding of the blade and Maven pushed her body to the Red King, splashing blood at his feet. Such an offering would please them she was certain, and if not then more would be made. She riled at the sight of the dying girl as she bled out. The Gods demand complete satisfaction and so too did she.
Maven slid one hand down and began groping herself while rubbing her breast with the other, under invigoration, to the eyes of stone. "For you my lord's," she said aloud with heavy breath and stuttering tone.
Heralds must make sacrifices to show they are loyal and there were none more loyal than she was. The blunt release curled her over and she gasped as her tickling fingers stopped. She pulled her robe from the shelf, threw it on, tied it off, and let loose a heavy sigh of relief. Salma's squirms lessened, her color had drained, and the boots of stone now glistened in a red sheath. That should be ample enough to warrant another vision Maven thought as she regained her breathing. She stepped into the hallway and Theron jumped to her attention. Always eager with the day's matters, she pushed passed him strolling down the hall but he kept at her heels. He had learned long ago to not interrupt her solace in prayer. She threw a hiss back to him as she pushed through the doors into the small court.
Large curtains of crimson draped the walls and the floor shined of dark marble. It was not very spacious but it did not need to be. Her steel throne sat center of the room. Black twisted metal with corner shaped heads of devils, it was not the most comfortable seat, but it made her feel important and that's all that mattered.
She stepped up the small platform, twirled to face Theron, sat and said, "Have the chapel cleaned immediately I don't want it rotting with the smell of death by morning."
"At once my lady," he obediently replied.
"So much tidying to be done around here", she said and snickered. "And what of the owls?" It was not an odd thing for wildlife to stray close to Cradenmill but the owls came in clusters during their random intervals. She had counted at least thirty all perched around the manor one morning.
"The owls?" Theron asked tapping his fingers along his hand squinting.
She lowered her eyes to him. "Yes, mangy birds fluttered with diseases that like to sit in constellation among my walls and shit all over them... those owls."
"Beg your forgiveness my lady but what was I suppose to do with them?"
"Get rid of them."
Theron gave a grim bow and said, "Yes my lady."
"You are getting very forgetful in your old age, need I even bother asking what news from Captain Lambert, Theron," she said.
The captain of the city guard was more than capable of handling Vinreer Keep in her absence. A duty reserved for Chamberwards but she was selfish with Theron, he was an odd pasty little pet at her feet and she liked keeping him close.
"Captain Lambert has sent word that the King has made another offer for you to send aid of Shadengrell guardsmen to the war effort. He has doubled his previous offer, my lady." His Sangvor eyes widened with a glint of greed.
"Offering more of what he does not have no doubt putting him and the kingdom further into debt," she said. "Maybe if the fool hadn't squandered the kingdoms military funds away all the while ignoring the rising threat from Dhunwhich then Terongard wouldn't be in such a vulnerable state and would still have an army that doesn't need its ranks inflated with province soldiers." She crossed her legs, shifting on her throne and sighed. "Send him response and tell him to draft all those hungry mouths and foreigners he spent so much coin on to gain favor with. My soldiers will take no part in his war, it's his mess let him clean it up."
"At once my lady."
The forces of Shadengrell would not be sacrificed because Terongard had the misfortune of having a freethinking king on its throne. The nerve of the old bastard she thought, to plunge the kingdom into debt, disrespect the other kings guaranteeing they would never come to his aid and then plead with Province Stewards to offer assistance because his army was a mere shadow o
f itself due to his ideology. King Norindale Barret was a child of a man that would no doubt throw a tantrum and seek childish vengeance against those who would not help him. But she would have no part in the war unless it reached her borders, but only then.
Soon the kingdom would be out from under the shadow of such a fool. In his place, Overlord Withlem would ascend the throne to rule over Terongard. The Overlord favored her more so than the others of the Eldafienden did. Her ability to give voice of the Ancient Enemy drew him to her but it was his insatiable desire of her that kept him close she knew. An Honorable man but a man nonetheless and like all men he was a puppet to foolish sexual desires with false hope. Whispering tongue and interpretations of the Old Ones secured her place at the fool's side. Once he was king his power and influence would grow and hers too with it. He had appointed her his priestess, his link to the Leviathan Kings and that carried more power than anyone knew. She played him well but he was no equal, as one who talks with the Old Ones has no equal.
His rise to power would be short lived. For when they return, a cleansing of the Order will happen with her at the helm. No longer would she have to belittle herself in the deceit of men. The Red king will not tolerate those who have lost faith in the true Gods. The wretched likes of the Willem Mathayus's of the world who had turned the Eldafienden from its once great glory into nothing more than a shadowy empire of criminals. In time, they would suffer for it.
She peered at Theron and asked, "Any word from Dame Shiva?"
"No, my lady."
"Very well then," she said and then glared off into a daze of memories.
Dame Shiva had never failed her. Friends since a young age Maven valued her above everyone else and there were none more reliable. A mute since birth, but she could howl something fierce Maven remembered in aberration. Shiva was not always subordinate, though, it was not until Maven's seventeenth day of birth that her appetite of immorality began to hunger for her dear friend. Shiva was very beautiful and garnered much attention from the men of the region. Maven was not jealous of such wooing, as her taste was not for boys. But Shiva reveled in it though and there were days she would sit like a glorious maiden of the Gods as entranced men brought her meager gifts of their affection. It was in those moments Maven was invisible to her friend and to all around. The attraction to her silent friend had grown unbearable until one night Maven advanced on her. It was a wonderful memory in her mind. Not sharing in her feelings, Shiva did not welcome it at first and pushed away with hollowed grunts. Such denial from a dear friend enraged Maven and she beat Shiva relentless before forcing herself onto her with a fury.
That night, Maven discovered that the pain and misery of the forceful act of kink on those who were unwilling was so invigorating to her beyond means. The sounds a mute can make when they were hurting was an odd tantalizing melody that fluttered in her belly as she sat remembering. Like a beaten dog, that refused to bite its master's hand, Shiva became very obedient after a few more lessons. For years, they were inseparable and upon being elevated to the seat of Province Steward, Maven had her trained in the service of Knighthood. It was not a common thing at the time to have a woman knighted and there were many who were vocal in their disagreement with her doing so. The skinvers ate well that night, feasting on those who would dare question her. They were like sister's Maven felt and it was a dear gift for a dear friend. As a province ruler now, she could fill her appetite on many unwilling dishes. But always she would hold a special place in her heart for Shiva, her silent friend.
Such memories of long ago riled her hunger. "Theron!" she hollered. "Fetch my other servant and send her to my chambers at once."
"Yes my lady."
Maven sat grinning, gliding her finger along her jaw as Theron left. The signs of the forthcoming were all there and wonderful times were soon to step out from the darkness. For three months now, life had crawled from the sea killing itself along the shores, the land decomposed as if dying, and the air roused with the scent of decay.
The bitter crisp air kissed at her face and the tingling of inner essence in her fingertips throbbed. The only spell she had ever known in life had grown in power, as of late, something deemed not possible by the scholars of Spire Hall. In thousand page discourses of their science, they talked on magic leaving this world long ago and could never return as it once was, but she knew better. Magic was seeping back into the world and so to would it usher in the ones that feed on it. The Leviathan Kings were stirring from their long slumber. It would be a slow wake but the arrival of kings is never silent.
Chapter 35.
Godzton dreamt of a grand chapel drenched in fog as a shadow stood stagnant under its arched entry and cries of the unseen surrounded him before he had awoken fast to the piercing grumbles echoing the stone thinking the tremor hounds had found their way inside the building. But it was no mangy hound's of hell, but rather an old Iron losing his battle with a sickness in a hacking fit. Godzton doubted there were any who could say they found relief waking under Fogmount's halls, but he welcomed the rank smell and dark stone. Anything was better than standing for what felt like hours with eyes locked to a place he had never seen. The new dream added to his fear of the unknown, he did not like these visions pestering him.
They rode all morning, along uneven roads, through old woods, vast fields, and intertwined gorges. Passing through hillside towns crowded with swordmercs and nomad knights heading to Vyhoven to sell their services in the war. Godzton had heard no idle talk of the effort in Vyhoven as they threaded through the crowds, above spears, swords, bows, and helmets. He doubted the battling had favored the king with as many clusters of men ready to kill for coin he saw streaming along the roads. Either King Norindale was losing ground or the war had lessened, sending a flare for those desperate for a last chance at wealth.
He glimpsed Ginrell from time to time and he did not look very well at all. The old man spent the better part of the morning coughing, hacking and showering Fogmount's entrance with a sour stomach. Atop his horse, he fared no better and looked as a pale sweaty emissary for death itself. Ginrell was pushing through his sickness, but the further the day grew the worse he seemed to get. Old people were a willful lot and Ginrell was their king in that regard, he would ride until it killed him, but he needed rest.
The Pilgrim's Stop of Balsfom had a modest inn and a shabby house of stone brick. Waypoint settlements of the like were scattered all throughout the kingdom for traveling merchants and vagabonds and were not known for clamoring filled streets, but nor did they ever sit empty and cold. But Balsfom did and that was odd. Patches of land surrounding it rotted with mangled dirt and a sea of grubs squirming in a white slosh, some as big as an arm. Grubs that large live deep beneath the surface and it was rare for eyes to lay sight on them. Godzton had never read of things like this nor witnessed them, but did remember the vague reports coming into the compound of rotting land. As others did, he paid no mind to such pleadings from the commonwealth. Irons enforce the law and occasionally handle ill-tempered wildlife, whatever this was it did not fall into either of those categories. If it did he'd haven't a clue as where to even start.
Godzton stopped his horse at the front of the inn. Ginrell trotted up at his side and let loose a sickly howl slumping to the front of his saddle. Godzton reached over quick catching him and leaned him upright then clapped his shoulder. His old friend looked eighty pounds heavier with the sweat and his horse seemed to agree.
Thick with flies, the pitiful cemetery off the side of the inn shone worse with scattered bones and broken caskets pushed up from the soil permeating a sourness there was no escaping. A smell worse than sewage dried out then soaked in vinegar before adding a handful of cloves and a dash of raw garlic Godzton thought. He tightened his gut and tried to control the amount of foul air he took in but was losing that fight. Ginrell looked unconcerned. The poor bastard was so congested he could not whiff of manure had it been smeared on his face.
Godzton stared into the de
cayed grounds as an army of questions razed his mind. "What in the hell does something like this, what kind of foulness could cause such things?" he said.
Ginrell snorted a gurgling mess, spit and then said, "Just the world coughing up something that disagreed with it, lad."
No signs of a raiding party stamped the dirt between the buildings. Not that there would be any need for a Pilgrim's Stop to be plundered even by a desperate band of cutthroats. The birdcages of the meager post sat emptied and no soul lingered except for a horse standing off to the side of the home across from the inn. A fine bred with an elegant saddle, not the kind of horse one just abandons.
Godzton climbed from his horse and stood gazing around perturbed, no ominous sounds rattled from the inn and no smoke rose from the stacks. The lobby was vacant and the innkeeper was absent, but the doors were unlocked. Ginrell shuffled in behind him and then threw himself to the nearest wooden chair he could reach. Godzton peered around sweeping the room, calling out but there was no one to answer back. Indicative smells of lingering sweat, ale, and grilled food were boisterous of hubs, but there were none to hint of in the air. It would have to have sat empty a few days for such common odors to subside he thought.
He pulled a bottle of corn liquor from behind the counter, placed it in Ginrell's hands, and said, "Wrap your lips around this while I try to find the innkeeper or anyone else for that matter." Ginrell gave a violent cough, nodded, and turned the bottle up to his lips.