The World Raven

by A. J. Smith

  She couldn’t smile, though the news was welcome. Behind the mother’s words was a mocking comment on Saara’s inability to stop Utha or kill Voon. She’d sent minions to chase them halfway across the world and gained nothing but dead minions and a dead sister. But Oron Kaa had now claimed them.

  ‘I rejoice,’ she muttered, blinking to remove soreness from her eyes.

  And how fare you?

  The Mistress of Pain took more deep breaths and clenched her fists, calming her mind as best she could. ‘Tor Funweir is all but ours,’ she said. ‘The exemplar of the One has yet to reveal himself, but there is an army to be disposed of.’

  And the Ice Giant?

  ‘Rowanoco’s exemplar lives,’ she replied. ‘But I have swayed Rulag Ursa from his god. He believes himself greater than the Ice Giant. He will stamp out childish notions of honour and freedom. In time, he will realize that Rowanoco no longer sings in his heart.’

  It pleases me that you remain loyal, even after your failures. Our Lord may yet see fit to reward you. He has carved up the lands of men and gifted Tyrannies to those who will serve. A Jekkan has returned to the world and will be the first Tyrant of the Twisted Tree. Perhaps, one day, you will join him.

  Saara’s face twisted into a euphoric smile, even as waves of pain caused her skin to crackle. A power was returning to the world and in its wake was unimaginable pain and hatred. She felt, just for a moment, the eldritch caress of Shub-Nillurath. As faith died, so was faith reborn. All that was dead will rise, all that now lives will fall.

  ***

  Elihas of Du Ban appeared surprised to see her. He sat behind Duke Lyam’s desk like a commander, sending men to do his bidding with stern certitude. Wind claws, whip-masters, watchmen, merchants – they acted as they were told, giving everything to the Lands of the Twisted Tree. Purges had pruned those unwilling to serve and her empire was controlled through pain and pleasure. Men and women from as far away as Kessia and Leith were under their sway, some enchanted, others threatened, many willed to serve with promises of riches and influence.

  When Saara arrived, flanked by wind claws, every man save the Black cleric left the room. They didn’t look at her. Many had never seen her this close up, and she felt their fear as they remembered a hundred stories, each more terrible than the last.

  ‘I would like a report,’ she asked, when the last man had closed the door to the duke’s office.

  The pale man of Ro still wore his black armour. He wore it when he gave orders, when he was at rest and when he burned men alive. She imagined that he slept in it, his body not reacting to the cold metal.

  ‘You have been absent for over a week.’

  ‘I needed rest. I am now rested,’ she replied, perching on the edge of the wide desk. ‘My last remaining sister bears much of my burden.’

  ‘Yes, she has been a most stimulating prisoner,’ replied Elihas. ‘As for a report, well, things have progressed in your absence.’

  ‘The Red Prince?’

  ‘Word from Cozz is that Alexander Tiris lives and has been proclaimed king of Tor Funweir.’

  The world fought her every inch, making her earn her honoured place in the Lands of the Twisted Tree.

  ‘But our advantage of numbers gives us control of the battlefield,’ said the Black cleric. ‘We will be able to outflank them. They advance south from Cozz.’

  ‘A king can command more loyalty than a prince,’ she replied. ‘He is now a banner for the warriors of Ro to rally behind.’ She smiled at him. ‘But, sweet Elihas, your knowledge of military tactics is far superior to mine.’

  ‘He’ll be in the duchy of Weir within three weeks,’ replied the cleric. ‘Plenty of time to assemble packs behind them. Sixty thousand Hounds will cut them off from the rear. They have only barely twenty thousand warriors, plus whatever reinforcements answer the new king’s call.’

  ‘Will we need additional Hounds? Many more are on their way from Kessia.’

  He shook his head. ‘They’ve lost. All they have left is courage and a few swords. The nobles of Ro never know when they’re beaten. They are arrogant enough to think they are... chosen. That somehow they’ll prevail over any odds, no matter how overwhelming. They forget the teachings of the Black – that their duty to the One is to die for him.’

  ‘And your duty to the One?’ she asked.

  He snarled at her, his pale face contorting. ‘I feel the power leave me as my god dies. People have called me insane all my life, but I am infused with death and I will only be complete when all is dead. Killing the One is my purpose, it is all I exist to do.’

  She wanted to grab him in a passionate embrace and angrily remind his flesh that it was not yet dead. But she resisted. She would find a less valuable thrall to consume.

  Elihas grunted. ‘Never question my faith again.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ she replied, biting her lip. ‘But, tell me, who tends to the Young?’

  ‘No-one tends to them. That section of the catacombs has been sealed for the duration of your absence. We do not need your monsters to control Weir.’

  She expected the answer. Her wind claws and subordinates would lose their minds if they looked too long upon the Thousand Young of Shub-Nillurath. But it didn’t matter; they would only have grown in the time she rested. They’d have grown and they’d have become strong. As for the aberration that had been Rham Jas... she didn’t know. It could be her greatest asset or her worst liability. And it would need to feed.

  ‘I wish the catacombs opened. I will tend to them myself.’

  ‘As you say,’ replied Elihas, his usual stoicism replacing his anger.

  ‘I will be back when I have defiled a few men,’ she said, moving towards the door. ‘Ah, yes, that reminds me, would you be so kind as to deliver Kale Glenwood to the catacombs? I believe I have an appropriate end for him.’

  She felt better. A sudden elevated mood made her smile and quicken her pace. A tingle of pained arousal travelled down her spine as she made her way to the catacombs. Her guards surrounded her, needing no instruction to clear the way. They’d not seen her for days and not seen her eyes sparkle for even longer.

  Isabel’s mind had finally imploded and she was now the perfect vault to store Saara’s phantom thralls. It was a feeling of weightless freedom, as if her power was returning in waves of warm air. The future was no longer painful and the possibility of defeat no longer intruded upon her thoughts. She felt younger, and silently wished that Zeldantor or Keisha were present to massage her shoulders and tell her how beautiful she looked. Perhaps, when Kale Glenwood was dealt with, she would even attend to her flock and enjoy their adoration.

  She strode, with her head high, through the levels of the knight marshal’s office, passing rooms of plundered gold, to the lowest level where the whip-masters of her army organized the campaign. Everyone nodded their head in silence as they saw her. Some rich merchants of Karesia, being divested of their wealth, fell to the floor in reverence, trying to reach her feet. She sneered in delight as the men were beaten by her guards. There was a time to have your feet kissed, and there was a time to enjoy the pain of others.

  ***

  When the forger from Leith was thrown at her feet, he cut an unimpressive figure, pale and sweating, wearing stained finery clearly unwashed for weeks. He was still enchanted, and had been locked in a room during Saara’s absence. He would have wondered what he’d done to displease her. He’d pulled out chunks of his hair, and scratched deep lines across his face and arms.

  ‘You’ve served your purpose, Kale,’ said the enchantress. ‘You’ve helped us kill your friend – your only friend. The pain this is causing you would make you a rebellious thrall, and I need an offering.’

  ‘I don’t feel any pain,’ he whimpered. ‘I am happy that the dark-blood is no longer an obstacle to our cause.’

  She caressed his scratched face, smiling. ‘Sweet Kale, you feel no pain because I have my hand round your heart. When I release it, you will
hate me more than your own father.’

  ‘But I want nothing more than to serve you,’ he said, tears appearing in his eyes. ‘Please.’

  ‘But you now have no value to me, except as an offering.’

  ‘But I would serve you gladly... I love you.’

  She looked at him and touched his mind. She flowed over his thoughts, memories, desires... everything, every corner of who he was. From his childhood in Leith, his criminal enterprise in Tiris, his assassination tour with Rham Jas. She knew everything he’d ever done, everything he’d ever thought.

  ‘Relax, my darling, this will cause you great pain.’

  She pulled her mind back, removing every hook she’d buried in his consciousness. It was quick, brutal, and it caused him immense pain. One moment, he would have given himself to her – heart, body and soul; he would have killed or died for her and her cause. Then nothing. No love, no compulsion, just hate. He spluttered and his eyes shot back and forth.

  ‘What the fuck have I done, bitch?’ he roared, leaping at the Mistress of Pain. He stopped in mid-air, unable to attack her as waves of hatred and self-loathing washed over him. ‘You killed Rham Jas – you made me help you.’

  He fell to the dusty catacomb floor, inches away from impenetrable darkness. Behind him, the Dark Young swayed as rippling patterns in the blackness. Glenwood looked around and realized where he was. He tried to get to his feet, but she pressed against his mind and kept him cowed.

  ‘You saw Rham Jas die on this stone,’ she said, relishing the twisted pain in his stomach. ‘It seems only fit that you will provide the first meal for the creature he has become.’

  He looked at the scratch marks on his arms and felt for torn patches of hair. Then a savage growl sounded from the darkness, mere feet from where he sat. ‘What the fuck is that?’ He tried to move again, but was powerless to get past her.

  Saara spread her arms wide and addressed the aberration that had been Rham Jas. She could feel its mind, and the malevolence that festered within. ‘I make you this offering,’ she whispered. ‘That we might work together against the heresies of men.’

  She pushed out with her mind, barrelling Glenwood into the darkness. He howled in fear and tried to claw his way back to the light, but something grabbed his leg and began to eat him. She saw only glimpses of muscular, black limbs and gnashing, glass-like teeth. Glenwood’s face was locked in primal terror and he died as much of fear as of gruesome wounds. He was flung from one stone wall to another, always partly in darkness, as the creature tore his body apart and gulped the chunks into a shimmering black mass, always just out of sight.

  Saara watched, feeling waves of pain and hatred pulse into her head. It was almost too much for her, as if the Forest Giant was showing her the power she could inherit if she remained loyal. She was used to the pain, but not the hatred. The Aberration was as pure a servant of Shub-Nillurath as existed and was comprised of both. Surges of spite and vengeance drove her to her knees, showing her the beautiful malice of her god. The Aberration would lead the Thousand Young into battle and its emergence would signal the age of the Twisted Tree.

  She fell back against the stone, hearing the creature’s desires in her head. It asked for more. It was hungry and wanted to feast. As Glenwood’s head, now a frozen mask of terror, disappeared into darkness, Saara knew the creature was not sated. Getting to her feet, she clung to the wall, needing its help to stay upright, as she backed away from the darkness. It roared again, more savage this time, though tinged with a gurgle, as if the creature was busy swallowing Kale Glenwood. The Aberration needed strength and needed to consume others to get it. It was a primal reflection of Saara’s own needs.

  ‘I will get you more,’ she whispered. ‘You will eat your fill.’

  She turned and edged her way along the wall, creeping towards the stone entrance to the catacombs. The distance stretched and the Aberration growled, showing her flashes of pain and torment with each sound, but she reached the doors and stood unaided. A firm knock and her wind claws opened it from the other side.

  ‘My lady, you are unwell?’

  She stopped the doors from opening fully and squeezed through the gap, almost falling into the arms of the waiting man. Her guards closed the door and surrounded her, but she refused their aid and stood on her own. She needed more offerings and these men were closest.

  ‘My lady...’

  She composed herself and locked eyes with the first of the five wind claws. She was surprised at her own strength as her mind assaulted the man. It was the first time she’d enchanted a man in over a week, and his mind opened before her like a beautiful flower. She didn’t care about his history or his name; she only cared about his flesh. In turn, she enthralled the minds of each of her guards, commanding them to enter the catacombs and be food for the Aberration.

  ‘At once, my lady,’ said the first wind claw. ‘I will offer myself to our lord’s most fearsome servant.’

  With wide eyes and blissful smiles, they opened the door and went swiftly to their deaths. When the door was again closed, Saara fell back against the wall and listened to the thrashing gurgle of the Aberration feasting. Each man was swept up and consumed, their flesh nourishing the creature. Yet still it was hungry and still it called to her.

  ‘I will get you more,’ she said, pulling herself away from the catacombs.

  She couldn’t feel its intentions, only its hunger. It may have shouted to the world, desperate for sustenance, or it may have seen her as an ally who would provide food. Either way, she needed to find more offerings. If she fed it enough, perhaps it would talk to her and convey its feelings and desires. It had been starved in her absence, and she had now awoken a terrible hunger. A hunger that must be filled.

  She walked alone up bare stone steps, back to the lower levels of the knight marshal’s barracks. She shut out the intrusive babble of those above and entered the cloistered ground level. Before her, a hundred pairs of eyes showed fear at her emergence, pausing in their conversations and bowing their heads. She knew none of their names and cared nothing for their adoration. In that moment, she just needed their flesh.

  She glided across the marble floor, from one line of pillars to another, keeping every man’s attention focused on her. At the end of the cavernous room, huge double doors led out into Ro Weir, and hundreds more men were stationed outside. Each wind claw commanded a company of Ro guardsmen, and used the hall to direct their men to any that needed imprisonment or immolation. Of the Hounds, only the whip-masters and mistresses were permitted into the city, while the balance of her enormous army slept on hard ground on the muster fields of Weir.

  She assessed those before her, looking for food that she wouldn’t miss. The dungeons and the hanging cells were filled with dissidents, but Saara wanted a fresh feast for the Aberration, not the rotten limbs of imprisoned, starving men.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she said quietly, her words carrying to each of the hundred people in the hall. ‘Close the doors and all of you step forward.’

  They obeyed without question and a mixed group of warriors, administrators and guardsmen clustered in front of her. She reached out and touched the first mind, an older man of Karesia in a colourful robe of red and purple. His name was Al-Tassin, a rich slave trader from Kessia. ‘Not you,’ she whispered in his mind. ‘Return to your offices and forget this.’

  The merchant nodded and left the hall, a euphoric look on his face. He was too valuable to be food. She assessed the next man, and then the next, releasing a handful of valuable wind claws or influential merchants, but keeping the majority. She enchanted them effortlessly, which reminded her of how easily her power used to flow and how easily it would flow again. She’d not felt so strong in almost a year, nor had she enchanted so many at once since long before she battled the Gorlan mother.

  She walked among them, slicing off any pieces of rebellion or individuality that remained until they stood in ranks, seventy or eighty men, with slack-jawed compliance and flop
py limbs.

  ‘You few have been chosen,’ she purred. ‘You no longer need your flesh, but Shub-Nillurath needs it. I ask you to give it gladly and know that your energy will nourish the roots of the Twisted Tree.’

  They didn’t show any expression. She had dulled their emotions and, though inside they were screaming, on the surface they were as still as a millpond. She closed her eyes and breathed in the exquisite pain. It was a first course to the meal of torment she would receive as the Aberration feasted, but this nourishment she did not need to share.

  She weaved her hand in the air and, like a snake charmer, pulled every set of eyes to the sensuous swaying of her wrist. She backed away towards the catacomb entrance, coaxing the thralls to follow in a dull procession. Down the dark stairs they followed, able to walk only two abreast, until she pulled open the doors and once again felt the ravening hunger of the Aberration. The creature was still eating, though what it ate was uncertain. Glenwood and the wind claws were gone before she left.

  ‘Wait here,’ she commanded the thralls.

  Within the chamber, the sheet of darkness still obscured the creature, but she could see bloody pieces of flesh sprayed across the floor and walls and broken black armour wedged in the flagstones. At the edge of the darkness, the thick tentacle of a Dark Young was thrashing wildly, mixing its black ichor with the human blood. The Aberration was eating one of its brothers, squeezing the trunk into an unseen mouth. Hate and pain assaulted her again. She only hoped her seventy new thralls would be enough to sate the creature and prevent it from consuming more of its kin.

  The Aberration gulped down the last of the Dark Young and bellowed at her. It was so very hungry. With a wave of her hand, she summoned the waiting men, bringing them into the catacombs in groups of four. Blindly, her new thralls walked into the darkness and to their death. It was a gruesome procession. Each group was torn to pieces by the frenzied creature, always staying just out of sight. All she saw were its teeth, glass-like and gnashing; and its skin, black and muscular. The Aberration gorged itself on the blood, with tendrils of shadow gathering up the chunks of fresh meat and shovelling them into the gnashing mouth. Saara stood in the midst of the carnage as more and more hapless men marched to their deaths. Arms, legs and heads were severed and flung across the stone, spraying blood across her dress. But still it was hungry.