by Scott Hale
The spellweaver puffed out his cheeks, bulged out his eyes. Talking to others in the common tongue wasn’t something he was used to. “And at the, uh, same time, we were a few years into our work with the Blue Worm on Lacuna. No fertility project, yet. Just, uh, you know, our people trying to make sense of the creature.”
“The Blue Worm had the power to understand and bestow ancient knowledge,” Anguis said. “It knew what was happening in Caldera, and it knew what would happen if Caldera fell. The Worm still wanted to use us, and wanted us to use it. We were not stupid. We knew this. But we were also desperate.”
Verat chanted something; the black liquid flames exploded in their alcoves. As if this was nothing to be alarmed about, he continued. “The Blue Worm’s first gift had been telepathy. It opened up some of our spellweavers’ minds.”
Anguis took over. “Then the Blue Worm told us it could teach us how to calm Kistvaen. So, with its help, in the dead of night, the spellweavers used that ancient knowledge to calm the volcano. But with the mountain silenced, the Calderans were worried Marcus would use the lull to strike a final blow.”
“The Blue Worm told the Night Terrors not to worry,” Verat said. He jumped to his feet, wandered back over to his chanting brethren. “The Blue Worm told the elders at the time to wait until morning to see what their weaving had sewn.”
“Kistvaen was still dormant in the morning,” Anguis said, lowering his voice. “And Marcus Proust and his followers were defeated.”
Aeson blinked the deluge of sweat out of his eyes. “How? What… happened?”
“The spell had not only calmed Kistvaen, but created an illusion around it, making it invisible to those outside Caldera.” Anguis sighed. “But in order to do so, it had drained the life out of most of Marcus’ men and the surrounding land.”
Verat said, “It’s… it’s one thing settling a volcano. But making it d-disappear?” He laughed and rubbed his hands together.
“When news spread that the Calderans had killed Marcus’ men in a single night, that was the end of it,” Anguis said. “Because of the blight the spell left on the forest, the Corrupted thought the Night Terrors were in possession of some powerful pestilence. Afterwards, Corrupted seldom traveled into the south unless it was absolutely necessary.”
Aeson shook his head. “The Den of the Unkindness. Marcus didn’t kill that part of the forest. We did. And it won’t get any better, because you keep having them—” he pointed to Enaar, Gisela, and Verat, “—cast that same spell over and over, every single day, to keep the mountain hidden, to keep it from going off. So what is it now? The Blue Worm is gone, right? Is the spell not working anymore?”
“Spell is fine,” Gisela said, speaking in-between guttural groans. “Better than ever, baby.”
Verat nodded. “A lot of life in the land, nowadays.” He wiggled his hips and then jumped to his feet out of the chair. A black stain had spread outward from where he had been sitting.
“It’s your girlfriend.” Gisela stopped, tugged on her naked, wrinkled flesh, as if testing its elasticity. “She’s doing things only the Worm was supposed to be able to do.”
Aeson’s eyes darted back and forth between Anguis and the spellweavers. He stumbled over his feet. Words of protest lodged in his tightening throat. What was this? What were they saying? He dug his knuckle into the side of his mask. Only in times of stress did he remember how unnaturally large it was. Of course, it had to be to fit on his head, but the Corrupted the skull was taken from had to have some genetic defect or—
He gritted his teeth. Focus, he told himself. Focus. Aeson waved off the elder and the spellweavers. He hopped over a trench of piss-soaked shit and headed toward one of the spherical alcoves where the black flames flared.
They want something from me. He peered into the hot obsidian tongues. The smoke that came off them traveled up the alcove; it smelled of spices, like something a healer might burn to cure the sick. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t let them trick you into saying something you shouldn’t. They’re trying to make Vrana out to be the—
Kistvaen rumbled. A crack split across the lair’s jagged ceiling. Something hissed inside the fissure. Aeson backed away from the black flames. He turned around and found Enaar, Gisela, Verat, and Anguis staring at him.
“Telepathy,” Aeson blurted out, before he had a chance to fully process the revelation. “The Children of Lacuna. They’re telepaths. Vrana is somehow tapping into that.”
“Yes.” Anguis waved his hand; the spellweavers scattered across the lair to their individual haunts. “The Witch has Vrana reaching out to the Children of Lacuna, using the power of the Blue Worm to manipulate them to whatever nefarious goal the Maiden of Pain has in mind. The Children of Lacuna all possess the gift of telepathy; it was a boon given to them by the Blue Worm, and given to us to control them. It need only be unlocked to be made use of.”
Anguis stepped towards him. “I have no doubt in my mind that Vrana has no control over her situation. But if she has access to even a fraction of the Worm’s powers, then we must act. If the creature had the knowledge to make mountains disappear, or for Night Terrors to procreate with Corrupted, can we not agree it surely had access to even more horrible spells?
“We both met the Witch, Aeson. We both know she will use those spells, once she discovers how to do so.”
Aeson mumbled, “I… I… what do you want me to do?”
The Snake strolled forward with a slithery gait. The serpentine tattoos on his taut flesh flickered with life. “I want you to find her, reach out to her. It sounds as if the Witch has done terrible things to Vrana, but if she sees you, you may be able to save her. You have to remind her of who she is, who she was. She may be able to turn the Blue Worm’s power on the Witch and free herself from the Void.”
“How?” That was the only question that mattered; the one it seemed Anguis was about to answer. “How am I going to do this?”
“We keep a registry of all the Children of Lacuna. Until recently, they were our eyes and ears into the affairs of the Corrupted. For those whose telepathic abilities had been unlocked, they would check in with us monthly to update us through an heir. We have lost contact with them, but I doubt they have gone far. I want you to use the registry and track down these Children. I want you to interrogate them. I want you to use everything you have ever learned about psychology and social interactions to break into their minds.
“The few Children we have been able to track down, the few that haven’t killed themselves when captured, always mention the same thing.”
“What?” Aeson asked.
“A pilgrimage.” Anguis went to Aeson and put his hand on his shoulder. “Vrana is reaching out to the Children of Lacuna, and she is calling them somewhere. The Witch is planning to use our people. I do not want it to come to that. I hope that you can save Vrana before then. But if you cannot, then you may be able to find where the Children are going.”
“The Cult of the Worm.” Aeson shook off the elder’s hand. “The Witch is building a cult, a new following. If they’re going somewhere, then… then there may be a chance they could lead me to a way into the Void. The Witch may even step out of it for a moment.”
Anguis nodded. “Enaar keeps the registry. He will conjure it for you. Do you have a companion in mind for your journey?”
I do, Aeson thought but didn’t say. Instead, he said, “But I’m Caldera’s Archivist.”
“We have learned enough, Aeson. All of it will be for naught if we are undone by the choices of our ancestors decades ago. We were foolish to continue using the Blue Worm, but without it, you and I may not be standing here today. Nevertheless, the choice was made, and now we must deal with the consequences.”
Simultaneously, as if called by some internal clockwork, the spellweavers rose from their places of rest and returned to the center of the lair. Enaar and Verat kept their distance from the cannibal Gisela, and then, all together, they started chanting once more.
Aeson
took off his mask. He didn’t need its bulk anymore to hide behind. “When I save Vrana,” he said, “will you let me use the spellweavers to undo what the Witch has done to her?”
“Of course,” Anguis said.
“And what about those that won’t talk? Aren’t they still a threat?”
“Kill them,” Anguis said, “unless you have the means to transport them to one of our villages. They are a liability.”
Telepathy, Aeson thought, the sudden realization overtaking the severity of the elder’s order. The Children of Lacuna are telepaths. He stared at the spellweavers, watching their grotesque gyrations.
“What is it?” Anguis asked.
“The Witch contacted Vrana through her dreams. R’lyeh’s letter said the Witch was using Vrana.” Aeson scratched his face until it went red. “Now, the Witch is using Vrana to control the Children of Lacuna. You say Vrana’s using the Blue Worm’s powers, but if that was the Witch’s goal, then why didn’t she reach out to Mara? Or another Child of Lacuna? Vrana’s just a warrior. She’s not a spellweaver or—”
“We believe Vrana is in possession of the silver necklace that is used to summon the Blue Worm,” Anguis admitted. “It, in combination with the Witch’s power, may allow her to form some sort of connection with the Worm.” He sighed and then said, “But you are right. It was not a coincidence that the Witch let Vrana live as long she did. She saw a potential in her not yet realized. The necklace appears to be amplifying that potential.”
“What?” Aeson cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“How much do you know about Vrana’s parents?”
“Her father, Quentin, died looking into the causes of the Black Hour, and Adelyn is—” Aeson paused. His eyes widened. “Wait a minute. Wait. ‘Amplifying her potential’? You sent her to Lacuna on purpose. It wasn’t just because she knew about the Red Worm.” He grabbed Anguis’ robes and spat, “Where the hell was Vrana born?”
CHAPTER V
Vrana crouched atop the little girl’s headboard, waiting for her to wake. She outstretched her wings and closed them like curtains around the child’s bed. Gripping the frame with her talons, she leaned in closer until her beak was barely touching the little girl’s nose. Vrana breathed her in. She smelled soft and sweet, like the warm cookies her mother had baked a few hours earlier. It was a shame the nine-year-old had to die, but at least she would die with food in her belly and love in her heart.
The floor creaked outside the little girl’s room. Vrana tightened her gaze on the gap beneath the closed door, watching for shadows and shuffling feet. Though some part of Vrana was still a Night Terror, she took no pleasure in killing Corrupted for the Witches, so she tried to keep unnecessary casualties, like the rest of this little girl’s family, to a minimum.
Vrana pulled away and sat upright on her weakening perch. She turned her head and stared at the moonlight coming through the little girl’s bedside window. She preferred it this way, carrying out the Witches’ cruel commands in the dead of night. Most of the time, her victims were asleep at this hour. When they woke, she imagined they told themselves they were still sleeping, and that the winged horror that stood over them was no more than a nightmare. Most people wanted to die in their sleep, but if they were awake and didn’t realize it, wouldn’t that be the next best thing?
The little girl coughed, turned on her side. She fussed over something, rolled onto her back again. A heavy sigh slipped past her puffy lips, and sleep took its hold on her once more.
Vrana had killed thirty men, twenty-two women, and forty-seven children in the last few months. The Witch hated children. Of late, she had Vrana terrorizing the backwoods settlements deep within the Heartland. These unmapped hamlets had more ignorance and children than they knew what to do with, but according to the Witch, she had just the plan to see those precious resources weren’t wasted.
A low wheeze rattled inside the little girl’s chest. She coughed. Whether it was allergies or illness, Vrana couldn’t be sure. But the child looked cold, so she took the blanket in her claw and pulled it up gently to the little girl’s chin.
As for the Children of Lacuna, Vrana wasn’t sure how many she had made contact with. The process was exhausting, and painful. Somehow, it made her brain hurt. It was as if there was a separate organ inside it, and every time she used the Blue Worm’s silver necklace, the organ was stretched beyond its limit. The worst part of it all was the memories. At first, she had thought they were the experiences of the Children she was invading, but the memories were too familiar, too intimate to be anybody else’s but her own. And yet that was impossible, too. How could she remember being a baby, let alone through someone else’s eyes? Why would Mara be standing over her in a field of rust-colored grass? Something was trying to—
The little girl’s eyes were open. Beads of fear glistened on her brow. The color drained out of her face, so that she wasn’t much paler than her pillow. She opened her mouth. A scream welled in her throat, like a bubble a few heartbeats away from popping. As if to wake from this terrible nightmare, she clenched her fists and closed her eyes and started to moan.
The Witch’s will twisted like a hot wire inside Vrana’s skull. With all her strength, she tightened her neck and stabbed downward, driving her beak through the little girl’s chest. Fat tongues of sleep-warmed blood splashed like milk against Vrana’s mouth. She gored the little girl deeper, until the tip of her beak broke through the child’s back and pierced her bed.
Vrana reared back, flinging steamy, stringy entrails across the little girl’s room. Making every effort not to look at the crumpled corpse, Vrana dismounted from the headboard. Her talons clicked as she landed on the floor. Quickly, she went to the scattered intestines and shredded organs she’d flung and gathered them like flowers against her feathered breast. She had to finish quickly, or others would suffer the Witches’ wrath.
She went to the farthest wall. With a bloody palette in her palm, she dipped her finger in the thick red paint and began to write upon the wall. Voices traveled down the hall outside the little girl’s room. There were footsteps, too, most likely from the child’s mother and father. Vrana had studied the house for two hours before breaking into it. She had a minute and a half at best before the parents barged in and put themselves in peril.
Vrana squeezed a section of the little girl’s intestines and smattered the thick digestion onto the wall. The footsteps drew closer. She took the child’s stomach and squeezed it like a sponge. The voices grew louder. Frantically, she dragged her talons over the wall, creating bloody Ws and dripping Ss, while making sure to sop up the pinkish run-off to avoid ruining her morbid message.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” a woman’s voice said with assurance outside the little girl’s room.
Vrana slapped the stomach against the wall, putting a putrid period at the end of her warning, which read:
THE MAIDEN OF PAIN LIVES AGAIN
“Flora, sweetie,” the mother said. The doorknob started to turn.
Vrana lumbered to the window, her oily, black feathers standing on end. “Get me out,” she hissed.
From the Void, the Witch whispered into Vrana’s skull, “No.”
The Witch’s will reached inside Vrana and turned her around to face the opening door. “Kill them both.”
Flora’s father was the first to enter. Shirtless and half-asleep, he plodded into the room and stopped at the foot of his daughter’s bed.
Flora’s mother crept up beside him. Her hair was bunched up on one side, looking like a brunette landslide. She grabbed her husband’s arm, opened her mouth to say something, but a yawn came out instead.
It wasn’t until their eyes adjusted to the dark of the room did the screaming start.
Flora’s father fell forward. His hands latched onto his daughter’s ankles. He pulled her towards him. Flora’s body, now with a gaping hole in the nine-year-old’s gut, twisted unnaturally as he wrenched her into his arms.
Flora’s mother,
with one trembling finger pointing at Vrana, shrieked. She cowered behind her husband and beat her fists against his back, each sweaty, meaty smack drawing only his ire rather than his attention.
“It killed her! It killed her!” Flora’s mother screamed.
Flora’s father looked up from his little girl’s ragged corpse. Vrana’s eyes met his. She fought every spell and incantation the Witch was pumping into her mind, but the Witch was stronger. Even from the Void, an immeasurable distance of death and despair between them, the Witch was stronger.
Vrana’s restraint snapped. She ran forward, her winged arms outstretched. Flora’s father struggled to his feet, and that was all he did. Vrana raked her claws across his face. His flesh peeled away in four seething strips. Then she drove her talons into his left armpit and scrambled the muscle and arteries inside. He gasped, shook, and then slumped to the ground, blood pumping out of his fatal wound.
Flora’s mother spit in Vrana’s face and went sideways out of the room. She crashed into the hallway and slipped into the thick darkness that filled it. Vrana stalked after, her vision unimpeded.
Flora’s mother’s feet, sticky with her husband’s blood, slipped on the hardwood floor. “Please,” she cried, tripping and landing with a crack onto her knees. “Please don’t.”
Vrana wanted to stop. She wanted to stop more than anything else in the world. But what she wanted was not what was willed. Her wants were the Witches’ wants, and her needs non-existent. For as long as Pain and Joy were more powerful than her, she would be enslaved to them and their cruel campaign. She had ideas, but ideas were dangerous when the sisters were awake; ideas could be intercepted and dissected and turned against Vrana. Now was not the time for ideas, or for stopping. Now was the time for killing, and for going home.