Prophecy's Daughter

by Richard Phillips

  “Lorness Carol,” he said, stepping toward her with an outstretched hand. “It’s been some time since you came down to see us.”

  “Too long. I’ve been somewhat preoccupied.” She followed his gaze into the pen. “What’s scaring your pigs?”

  “I don’t know. They only started behaving like this a few minutes ago. I thought I would take my bow and walk around a little. There must be a big cat or wolf nearby.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” she said, although her voice didn’t carry conviction. “This wind has me feeling a little jumpy myself.”

  “There’s nothing worse than a cold wind that’s not packing any moisture.”

  “Does Mary Beth have some extra eggs that I can buy? I know it’s not market day, but I could sure use a dozen.”

  “She does, although the guinea hens weren’t laying well this morning. Walk on around front and knock. She’ll be glad to see you.”

  Letting Henry return to his hunt, she walked around the cabin and rapped on the door. It opened to reveal a buxom, blonde woman with two redheaded twin girls, their hands holding tightly to her apron. Mary Beth smiled when she saw who had come calling.

  “Oh, Lorness. Come inside and warm yourself by the fire,” she said, waving Carol in through the door and shutting it firmly behind her.

  As Carol made her way to the hearth, she sniffed. “Do you smell that?”

  Mary Beth paused, a puzzled look on her face. “Is something burning?”

  Carol cocked her head to one side, almost overcome with a fleeting sense of exhilaration that accompanied the coppery odor of blood. A burst of fear spread through her limbs, and she stumbled, catching her balance against a chair.

  Mary Beth rushed to her side, the large woman’s arms encircling the wielder’s shoulders to steady her. Concern showed in the mother’s eyes.

  “Lorness, are you ill?”

  Carol shook her head. “I’m all right. It was just a passing dizziness.”

  “You’re so pale. Have you been eating well?”

  “Actually, I’ve been so busy these last two days that I’ve been snacking on bread and honey.”

  “No wonder you look sick.” Mary Beth directed Carol toward the kitchen table. “Sit down. I’m going to make some real food for you right here and now.”

  “Please don’t bother yourself,” Carol said, trying to rise.

  Mary Beth’s stout hand pressed her back down into the chair.

  By the time she thanked her hostess and left the house carrying the eggs, Carol felt stuffed to the gills. She had eaten more chicken, potatoes, vegetables, and gravy than she thought she could cram into her body. As she departed, she saw Henry emerge from the woods with the body of a wolf slung over his shoulder. The pigs were still scared, but this was likely because their sharp porcine noses held little liking for the wolven smell.

  As Carol entered her cabin, her sense of unease returned, and she glanced about nervously. What had gotten into her? She reached out with her mind, setting small flames to the wicks of a pair of candles. She tried something more difficult, bending an air elemental to her will, stilling the wind immediately around her home. Satisfied, she released it. No problems there.

  She restoked the hearth, adding its cheery warmth to the interior of the cabin, and sat down to think through last night’s failure. Her substitution of a mental tablet for the filters and blocks had failed miserably and led to the disastrous conclusion. But why had the mental construct become distorted?

  Carol pictured the tablet as she had last seen it, bulging and warped as if crammed to the bursting point. The quantity of mental imagery and sensations in the void had overwhelmed her. Apparently she had chosen the wrong path by retreating from the waves of sensation. She would have been better off allowing those waves to disturb her from her meditative state rather than trying to contain them all.

  A sudden inspiration brought Carol to her feet in excitement. In the midst of the meditation, she had shifted her mental viewpoint outward so that the visualization of her body had become a tiny pinprick of light in a sea of blackness sprinkled with millions of disturbances. She had retreated so far that she had almost lost sight of herself. If she had not fallen from her chair, she doubted that she would have ever managed to find her way back.

  If she had done the wrong thing by retreating from her body, perhaps the answer involved doing the opposite. If she moved her viewpoint closer to her body, the act might limit the number of sensations she would experience. Perhaps this theory wasn’t the correct filter, but it was worth a try.

  The wind whistled sharply through the eaves, and she moved closer to the warm hearth. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she began her preparations. For the rest of the afternoon, she meditated, shutting out the outside world with its cold wind and urgent whisperings, relaxing herself, allowing the restorative power of her mind to work its magic. By nightfall, she was ready.

  With the waning light of day, she began again to implement the steps of the kata. This time, the sensations were as confusing as before, but her filtering trick worked. Carol found that by mentally zooming in and out from her body, she was able to have some degree of control over the sheer quantity of the disturbances that swept across her.

  The problem now was trying to stay inside the meditation. Time and again, some wild emotion sprang up inside as ripples spread across her form in the void.

  She felt alternately angry, scared, erotic, hungry, cold, hot, thirsty, sated . . . And then there were the images and sounds. Strange murmurings, fragments of words, flashes of imagery, all crashed into her mind and, time and again, knocked her out of her centered state.

  Carol cursed and kicked the chair, pulling at her hair in frustration. She paced the cabin like a caged beast. How many times had she tried this tonight? Ten? Twenty? Always with the same result. All that time spent to achieve a deep center of meditation and begin performing the kata, only to lose it in a matter of seconds.

  If elementals could overcome her mind this easily, she would have long since been possessed. Yet here she was, repeatedly frustrated in her attempts to perform the very first exercise in this deep-spawned book.

  She considered giving the kata another try, but the mere thought of the effort made her head ache. Besides, angrily kicking chairs while pulling one’s hair was hardly the indication of a mental state conducive to deep meditation.

  Carol sighed and made her way back to her bedroom. She changed out of her clothes into a nightgown, washed her face, brushed her hair, and slipped under the covers, consumed by self-doubt.

  24

  Mo’Lier

  YOR 414, Early Autumn

  It was market day, and Freemarket Street was crowded with squalid carts selling produce, pots and pans, and assorted odds and ends. This was the day when the city gates were opened wide to all comers, whether you had a city pass or not. The street was the widest and seediest in the city that clung to the hill below the temple. A steady trickle of raw sewage sludge flowed through the open gutters on either side of the avenue, the aromas of which did little to enhance the marketability of the chickens, goats, and vegetables that adorned the carts or the outstretched arms of the merchants hawking their wares. Vorgs elbowed their way through crowds of people, shoving to the front of what could be mistaken for lines outside the taverns. Some paused to curse and kick at the beggars slumped near the doorways.

  Clutching his filthy brown cowl tight about him, one of these unfortunates was unable to move his crippled form fast enough to escape a glancing blow from a studded boot. The beggar rolled over with a moan, then slowly shuffled farther from the door, looking something like a snail in the effort. The vorg turned away and barged inside with the others, eager to deplete some of the stout ale brewed at the monastery on the hilltop above.

  Beneath the fecal-stained robe, Arn’s legs cramped, rebelling at the strange contortions he was requesting of his limbs. Now was the time to sit and wait for the coming.

  For the last wee
k, he had roamed the streets and alleys of Mo’Lier, a task that was far easier than he had hoped. The city, which at one time must have been awe-inspiring in its grandeur, was filled with decay and hopelessness. The people who resided here lived only at the pleasure of the priesthood atop the hill. The society had become a perversion of normal life, a place where orgy, not piety, was the dictate of their priestly fathers. The protectors had needs driven by the desires of their deity, Krylzygool, fueling the baser instincts of man and vorg.

  One of the purveyors of pleasure and pain currently occupied the beggar’s attention. The priest was a brash and abusive young acolyte, high on the magical powers of the protectorate and bent on demonstrating his superiority to anyone in his path. The beggar’s eyes followed the priest like those of a lion deep in the grass, patient, searching, ravenous. The hunger that burned like a hole in his belly was fed by an anger stoked by his revulsion at all he had beheld in the city.

  The air in the narrow confines of the alley hung heavy with the smell of sewage and rotten food, piles of which periodically choked the gutters, routing sludge into the center of the path. The priest sidestepped these unthinkingly, elbowing past two old women who trudged down the hill toward the market below, laden with bundles balanced on their heads. Reaching the upper end of the alley, he continued at a leisurely pace up the steep trail that wound through the tree- and brush-filled park separating the dwellings and shops below from the base of the temple walls.

  The trail twisted and turned, climbing steeply with the aid of stairs carved into the hillside. The trees, unlike any Arn had ever seen, encroached on the trail. The larger of these had trunks a wagon’s width thick, branching widely about five paces above the ground. The roots of the tree sprang from everywhere, starting well above the ground and reaching out for new soil. The branches above dropped thin roots that buried themselves in the ground directly below, as if they were not happy to wait for nourishment that would be passed up through the central trunk. Vines draped these monsters, spreading from one to another, nasty-looking creepers infected with a sickly yellow blight. Thick fern fronds filled the gaps between the root-branched trees, and thus little could be seen beyond a few paces from the trail.

  The beggar moved silently through this thick vegetation, his path cutting its way up the hillside to intercept the trail well ahead of the lone priest. He disappeared into an adjacent fern bed and waited. As the acolyte rounded the nearest bend in the trail, the beggar staggered out of the brush, sat down in the trail drunkenly, and struggled back to his feet.

  The priest stepped back momentarily in surprise. Then, his face red with agitation, he dove upon the drunken tramp, his staff raised to deliver a lesson in piety. The staff somehow failed to land as the beggar ducked inside the blow, driving the blunt end of his dagger against the priest’s left temple. The man’s body went limp, collapsing into a loose pile of black robes. All semblance of drunkenness gone, the beggar tossed the limp form over his shoulder and glided back into the bushes. He made his way swiftly now, moving silently down through the thick brush despite his burden. He soon found himself before a decaying stone wall, the back of a building that had fallen into disrepair.

  The beggar ascended the wall quickly, stepping easily from broken stone to crack, shouldering the priest’s body up onto the roof before swinging himself up. Here the roof was slightly pitched and overhung by one of the large trees that filled the green space behind the building. Rooftops pitched and yawed at odd angles, almost touching each other except where the widest streets cut paths between them.

  The rise and fall of the priest’s chest was shallow and rapid. The beggar bent down and wrenched the priest’s neck forward, a movement that produced an audible crack. The protector’s breathing stopped.

  Arn shrugged his way out of the foul-smelling rags, extracting the bundle that contained the robe of the priest he had killed days before. He donned the robe and the belt with the silver dagger.

  Satisfied with his preparations, he lifted the dead acolyte’s body onto his shoulder and moved along the rooftops. Arn jumped across several narrow gaps until he came to a sloping section where a portion of a building wall had collapsed into the alley below, forming a steep mound from which one could leap to grab a handhold on the roof. Climbing up the rubble pile, he stashed the dead priest’s body on the roof. Drawing his hood up and over his head, Arn vaulted down, adopting a priestly stroll through the narrow alleyway that led down to Freemarket Street.

  Arn bowed his head slightly as he turned onto the bustling avenue. His objective was an open doorway five paces to his right. A group of vorg warriors stood jammed in the entrance of the Red Tavern, a mud-floor dive with no redeeming qualities other than an endless supply of the monastic brew called blood ale. Repugnant to most humans, the drink drove the vorgs mad with desire for more, and thus, the warriors returned the majority of their pay back to its source on the hill above.

  Arn bumped roughly into one of the vorgs, who turned and shoved him before recognizing that he was a priest. A look of surprise spread across the vorg’s face upon recognition of his mistake. The warrior backed into a compatriot, who also turned to face Arn.

  Arn hissed, drew the priestly dagger, and plunged it into the vorg’s arm.

  The vorg roared and charged, followed by several others. Arn turned and ran, dodging into the alley from which he had come. Ducking around the corner, he gained ground as the vorgs jammed into one another trying to make the turn. In a few steps, he reached the rubble pile, raced up it, and swung himself up and onto the roof.

  As he disappeared over the top, he tossed the body of the dead priest down into the alley he’d just left. It landed with a thud atop the rubble. The enraged vorgs, thinking that the priest had slipped in his flight, converged with ferocity, kicking and pummeling the corpse. In their bloodlust, they hacked until the former protector was a torn and bloody mess.

  Arn continued over the rooftops, stripping off the priestly robes. Reaching his point of origin, he retrieved the bundle he had left there.

  Moments later, the drunken beggar stumbled out into the street, his interest momentarily captured by the stream of vorgs making for the gate as cries rang out for the city guard. Losing interest, the besotted tramp sank down in a corner with his bottle.

  25

  Mo’Lier

  YOR 414, Early Autumn

  Storm clouds roiled overhead, lightning arcing out and down, striking repeatedly around the gathered army. Temple Hill was wreathed in a churning fog. The shops and taverns, now deserted, had been left in such haste that the doors swung open in the howling wind. The priests descended from the mount in groups of thirteen, heads bowed, hands clasped beneath their robes.

  The guards cowered on the walls as the first group carried the body of the dead acolyte out through the gates, followed by the others, thirteen groups of thirteen each. Atop the walls, even the commanders slunk within the parapets, cringing at each verse of the dull chant that rose from the hooded figures moving slowly out in their curling procession. A lone guard stood attentive to the proceedings, staring down at the scene below.

  Arn’s eyes peered through a far-glass from beneath the helmet. The change that had come over the encampment beyond the city walls was nothing short of incredible. Vorgs and men alike stood in perfect formations, scared out of their very minds by what they beheld.

  Vorgs and humans hung from thirteen pairs of poles to which their hands and feet were staked, forming a great circle into which the priests carried the corpse of the young acolyte. The men and vorgs, all still very much alive, screamed in agony or begged for death. Lightning continued to arc downward, dancing atop each pole, followed by the tearing crack of thunder.

  The priests entered the circle and moved to assigned spots in a carefully choreographed spectacle. The thirteen groups were soon arrayed in what looked like thirteen tentacles extending from a central core. In unison they knelt, bowing their heads to the ground. The deafening silence that accom
panied the movement spread out like the clanging of a great gong.

  “Krylzygool.”

  The chant, barely audible at first, picked up in volume as the kneeling forms of the priests began to writhe slowly in twitching, jerking movements that cascaded outward from the center. Arn blinked to clear the illusion that some monstrous creature was wriggling its way out of a deep hole.

  A faint sound emerged above the chant, like the sound of thick mud as one is freed from its maw. Revulsion and dread swept outward as a new smell wallowed its way over Arn. He recoiled, his gut tightening into a hard knot.

  On the grounds below, battle-hardened men and vorgs retched violently as, all the while, the chanting and the writhing of the priests increased in its frenzied need. Arn peered out over the wall through watery eyes, tears trickling down his cheeks.

  The central core of the churning clouds overhead descended on the priests in a black sludge, transforming into thirteen thick tentacles that slithered outward and up the poles.

  The agitation of the victims reached such a pitch that several tore a limb or two free of the spikes, leaving great shreds of their own flesh dangling behind. With their newly freed hands, they pried and tore at the fastenings that held them firm. Then with a lurch, the murky tendrils bulged and surged upward, engulfing the scrabbling forms.

  Arn clenched his teeth as a wave of fear surged outward from the spectacle below. The tentacles bulged and bunched, some moving away from their victims, revealing people horrendously injured but still living.

  The tentacles caressed the dying lovingly, and where they touched the bodies, great weeping sores spewed forth grubs that spilled onto adjacent skin, only to begin burrowing inside once more.

  A huge vorg, which Arn recognized as one of those who had chased him, arched his body so violently that he tore himself completely free of the pole, falling to the ground with an audible thud.

  The tentacle descended on the vorg, encompassing its form so that only a squirming bulge in the rubbery mass remained. And still the scene continued to grow in madness. The screaming bodies could not die, try as they might. Clearly, the dark god that held them would not grant them final release.