by Sever Bronny
“Occulus,” Leera echoed.
“Occulus,” the pair of them chorused again in a louder voice.
The crowd dropped to its knees, including the woman. They bowed low, their heads touching the ground, before sitting up. The woman stood, gliding by them as if she hovered, red robe billowing gently. She turned to them and slowly backed up against the throne.
“All others are pretenders to the throne. There is only one Lord of Death.” She opened her mouth and her tongue began to rattle. Her chocolate skin darkened until it was black, then lightened until it was bone white, finally returning to brown.
Fat white maggots with red snouts began to worm out of the skeleton from nooks and crannies. Two came out of the eyes as the women stared at them.
“Now … fear the master …”
Augum felt a tingling on the back of his skull. The sensation, so familiar because of Mrs. Stone’s training, immediately triggered the correct response. He slammed the door on the Fear spell while the crowd behind them began shrieking and screaming.
Augum and Leera sat unfazed.
When she realized they hadn’t been affected, the woman ceased her rattling, and the maggots oozed back into the skeleton. The terrified crowd stopped, some still whimpering, others crying.
“Impressive …” the woman said.
“Impressive,” some in the crowd whispered.
“Perhaps later we can play more games,” she went on. “I like games …”
“Games …”
Augum was careful to keep his face stony. “Who are you?”
The woman gracefully placed her hands before her. “I am the master’s wife … Nefra …” She gestured at the crowd. “They are his children … from the many wenches he took … We return again and again … We are … eternal …”
A sickly over-sized child waddled past, red robe trailing. He glanced at them, revealing a rotten skull out of which worms crawled. He turned back to Nefra, gurgling, “Mommy!”
“My sweet, beautiful prince …” She picked up the boy, captured a fat maggot, and fed it to him, the white juices slopping all over his robe.
Leera cringed. “I think I’m going to be sick …”
Augum had to look away, feeling bile creep up his throat.
A rhythmic drumming began in the village, tuned to the speed of their rapidly beating hearts. Augum and Leera’s heads swiveled to see a gaunt Henawa man banging on a drum with a hide mallet. His silver wispy hair streamed to his waist, patches of it missing. His eyes were as bloodshot as his crimson robe.
“Peyas…” Nefra whispered, hissing the last syllable. “You disobey me …”
“They are young, Nefra,” Peyas said without a trace of a Henawa accent, crowd parting before him. “Let them go, Nefra …”
Nefra put down her child. The boy continued chewing on the maggot. “The gift shall be given, Peyas … They are warlocks …”
“Warlocks …” the crowd echoed.
Peyas stopped by their side, the drum never ceasing. “When will the gift be given, Nefra?” He spoke her name trance-like, trailing the last letter.
“Tonight, Peyas … after the feast of the bloodfruit …”
“Then they shall stay with me until then, Nefra …”
Nefra’s eyes narrowed and turned black. Her skin rippled with waves of color before returning to normal. “You are naughty, Peyas …”
“Naughty …” the crowd murmured.
“Do not make me punish you, Peyas …”
“They shall come with me for now, Nefra … You can give them the gift after …”
“If you disobey me, Peyas …”
The crowd hissed, leaving the threat unsaid.
Peyas spoke out of the corner of his mouth as he drummed on. “Stand and follow me.”
Augum and Leera didn’t need telling twice. Nefra’s tongue rattled as Peyas led them to a hut separated from the village, beating his drum until stepping through its beaded bone curtain.
The hut was lit by a single torch and stank of rot. Shelves overflowed with stoppered jars of bones, pale pus, and maggots floating in murky fluid. The furniture was crude and made of sticks, as were the walls.
Peyas put down his drum and mallet. “You are childling fools. Do you know where you are?”
“We’re in the Occi village,” Leera said.
“Our harpies watched you for a time in the forest. Why would you ever come to this cursed place?”
“To save our friends.” Augum decided it was best to be honest with this man. He lowered his voice and took a risk. “We need an Occi horn to trade for their lives.”
“Then it is their fate to die.”
“No, we won’t let that happen—”
Peyas only observed him. His bloodshot eyes eventually wandered to Augum’s bandaged hand, where he had slashed himself to save Bridget. “Do you need ointment?”
Augum glanced at a jar of pus. “Uh, I’m fine, thanks.”
“Why did you stand up for us?” Leera asked.
“The flame of curiosity, although dimmed greatly over the years, nonetheless still burns.”
She peeked through the curtain. “And what about that woman, who is she?”
“Nefra is our queen mother. We are the Occi, the undying children of Occulus.”
“But you don’t mean you’re Occulus’ actual children,” Augum said.
“I do. Every cursed soul here is his real child, every single one but Nefra. The master took many women, but she is the only one who still unlives among us, having entombed the others long ago.”
“Alive?” Leera asked. “How ghastly—”
“I prefer the term ‘unalive’. And yes, those poor women are certainly beyond mad after all these centuries.”
“Why would Nefra do such a horrible thing to them?”
“So that she would be the only queen when the master returns. She loved him greatly, and still does.” He leaned closer, whispering, “Though he did not return that love. She is not his beloved, and never will be.” He straightened, glancing at the beaded bone curtain. “She would have entombed me along with the others if she did not fear my father’s wrath, for I am his firstborn. Time has made her crueler over the centuries. She plays … games … to keep herself occupied.”
“I guess they’re not fun games, are they?” Leera asked.
“I wish for you to never partake in them.”
Augum shook his head. “His beloved? Firstborn? I don’t understand …”
“Let me tell you a story. Over fifteen hundred years ago, a young Tiberran man met a young Henawa woman. They fell in love. The man’s Tiberran family disapproved of the match, as did the woman’s Henawa tribe. Yet their love was so strong that no one could deny it to them. A son was soon born, and the Henawa, their hearts warmed by their love, adopted the man and the boy into the tribe. The love blossomed, becoming so strong that it was said the sun brightened when they walked hand in hand; birds chirped in unison when they spoke; flowers bloomed as they passed.
“Then one day, the woman fell gravely ill. The man tried everything to save her, but could only hold her hand as she gasped her last, and he held it long after she went, even long after the tribe had moved along with the snow, taking his son with them lest he starved. Through an entire phase of the moon, he held his beloved, so stricken with grief was he.
“Or so the legends say.
“At long last, when the light was dark around him; when the birds were silent and the flowers wilted with frost, he rose and swore to the Unnameables that he would find a way to bring her back. A fever of his own making gripped him. He began a great search, spending endless nights studying old books. These books told of ancient forgotten places that harbored old arcanery, arcanery damned and sealed off from the world. And so he hid his beloved in a secret place, taking great precautions to keep her preserved, and began travelling.
“As the man aged, the path he tread darkened his soul. He slew scores of men, and took many women, all in an
effort to forget her. He fathered many sons and daughters, though none out of love. He even built himself a great castle on one of those ancient forgotten sites, where he continued studying arcanery and necromancy. The dead rose around him in ghastly forms as he tried various ways to resurrect his beloved. Yet as gifted and determined as he was, all attempts resulted in failure, his creations grotesque shadows of their former selves.
“Then one day, frustrated and angry with the world, he came across an old legend about a mythic rock. This rock was said to grant audience with a witch—”
The hair on Augum’s arms rose.
“—he travelled to this rock armed with an ancient but simple poem. Upon arriving, he performed a ritual hidden within its words. When the witch appeared before him, he begged her to resurrect his beloved. The witch told him she would do him one better—if he did her bidding, she would cast a powerful spell on every son and daughter he had ever sired, and every woman he had ever taken, and they would all live forever. Finally, if he completed a certain task, she would resurrect his beloved. When he asked her what that task was, she told him he was to conquer Ley for her father.
“To help him with this most difficult quest, he was to raise an army of the undead equipped with Dreadnought steel. She mentored him on the finer points of necromancy until he became a master and lord of many thousands of undead soldiers. He used this army to destroy the Lord of Dreadnoughts, taking his place as their ruler.
“The last ingredient to victory was a portal to Ley. The witch furnished Occulus with a recipe to build one. Yet the Leyans, who still commanded great respect in the world, threw up a call to arms, bestowing seven artifacts upon the seven most powerful warlocks of the age.”
“I know this part,” Augum said slowly. “He was vanquished by Atrius Arinthian in the War of the Scions before he could finish the portal.” Now his father was after that same recipe, trying to achieve the same ends …
“I see history has not been forgotten by the young.” Peyas’ chin rose slightly. “Occulus slew six of the seven, but the last, the most powerful and gifted of the lot, indeed vanquished him in an epic battle.”
There was a thoughtful silence. Augum wondered what Peyas would say if he knew Augum was a direct descendant of the man that slew Occulus, and the son of the current Lord of Death.
“A witch’s pact is a terrible thing, a terrible thing,” Peyas said quietly, shaking his head. “We should have died long ago …”
Augum remembered his own pact with a witch—it had cost him his arcane powers just to send a message to Mrs. Stone. He wondered if she was the same witch Occulus once spoke with.
“Bridget would say it’s all so tragically romantic,” Leera whispered. “I mean, about the lengths Occulus went to in trying to raise his beloved.”
Augum absently nodded along. Would he ever love someone so much as to go to those lengths to bring them back? Then he recalled once secretly thinking he’d find a way to raise Mya. He pictured standing before Hangman’s Rock and calling upon the witch, begging her to bring her back.
No, that would be damnation. Look what it had done to Occulus …
He turned to Peyas, feeling a cold sweat. “You mentioned the witch had a father …”
“Her father is the Father of Demons, whose true name is unnameable, for He is an Unnameable.” Peyas stared into the torch. “It is said all that is dark in the world originates from Him. All suffering, betrayal and death; every ill thought, every disease, every unkind word. It is said they are all his doing, and it will continue on this way until He lays claim to His old kingdom.”
“But … why is Ley his old kingdom?” Leera asked.
“Now we speak of ancient things. Legend says that, in the beginning of time, two brothers were charged with the task of keeping knowledge for mortals. This they did, until one brother wanted all the knowledge to himself. The other brother forbade this. He wanted to stay true to their task and keep sharing the knowledge with mortals. There was a great battle. In the end, the selfish brother was damned to another plane, a plane of demons and fire. Some call it ‘Hell’, though it is known by many names. There this brother became the Father of Demons, forever questing to regain the Leyan plane.”
“So this Unnameable, the Father of Demons, uses people,” Augum said quietly, “to get Ley back …” He wondered if the other brother happened to be Krakatos the Ancient, that strange pink-spectacled Leyan man some thought immortal. If that was the case, and the witch was his brother’s daughter, then she was also Krakatos’ niece …
“I’ve always wondered though,” Leera began, “do the Unnameables really exist, or is it just a bunch of old stories morphed into legend?”
“I have thought on this much. Who are the Unnameables? Are they real? If so, do they concern themselves in mortal affairs? I know nothing for certain, nor have I ever seen any sign or proof of their existence. Yet allow me to share a thought—an ordinary man appears powerful to an insect, but a 1st degree warlock appears powerful to an ordinary man. A 10th degree warlock appears invulnerable to a 1st degree warlock, yet a master appears mythic in proportion. But then, sometimes, a master learns new arts in a new plane.”
Something clicked for Augum. “You mean if they get invited to Ley and study on?” Nana had once been invited to Ley, hadn’t she?
“Precisely. Perhaps a master keeps learning and learning, until in the eyes of the insect they are a god. And so who is to say there are Unnameables? What if they are merely old powerful warlocks that never died?”
“This is surreal …” Augum whispered.
“I just thought of something,” Leera said. “We’re now pretty certain that your fa—I mean the Lord of the Legion—made a pact with that witch, Magua, right?”
Augum nodded.
“Well, in his case, he’d ask for all the scions, wouldn’t he?”
“Yeah, and so Magua granted him that divining rod to find them.”
“Yes, but it also means she wants something in return—”
“You mean Ley? But then he had to have made the pact a while ago because he’s been after Ley for some time now …”
“Right. Now suppose he did make it a while ago and the witch promised eternal life for him and his subjects as part of the reward. She’s probably been mentoring him in necromancy so that he can build his own army. Maybe she’s even the one who told him how to regain power over Dreadnoughts. I mean, I don’t know, but, history seems to be repeating itself—”
“It kind of does make sense that way, doesn’t it? But I think there’s more …” A thought danced on the tip of his tongue. “What if … I don’t know, I mean … what if the Lord of the Legion also wants to bring back his own wife—”
“The one he murdered?”
“Yeah, but—” He glanced at Peyas, who watched him keenly. He had to be careful here not to say too much. “What if he regrets murdering her? What if part of this whole thing with necromancy is Sparkstone trying to bring her back too, just like Occulus wanted to bring his beloved back?”
“It’s possible I guess, except that I think the Lord of the Legion is just too … evil to want to do it all for a wife he murdered.” Her eyes flicked to Peyas briefly as her voice dropped. “Remember what Mrs. S said about his past—that he was an evil little brat and cared about nothing.”
“Except her, he cared about her.”
“He murdered her because she wanted to leave him, and I’m sure she had plenty of really good reasons to leave an evil crazy man.” Leera shook her head. “No, I think he wants the scions, all of them—and eternal life and being an emperor and stuff too.”
“Yeah, maybe …” Yet Augum wasn’t entirely convinced. He recalled seeing pain, although momentary, in his father’s eyes when he mentioned his mother. Nana was right, there was something there, but how to discover exactly what?
“You younglings seem to know quite a lot about the pretender,” Peyas said.
“Oh, it’s common knowledge,” Leera lied.
>
“So you’ve been here all this time?” Augum asked quickly lest the old Occi became too suspicious.
The gaunt Henawa fixed his bloody gaze upon him. “In the fifteen hundred years since the slaying of our father, the Occi have rarely left this place. Only I sometimes travel beyond the confines of these walls.”
“Wait, you’re the one …!” Leera said. “You’re the one that travels to Milham for supplies, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am the one. Once a year, I visit an old Henawa man to buy medicine and trade. He helps me remember, for I have forgotten almost everything about my people.” He gazed past them, eyes reflecting the torch. “We come with the snows from the north. We come from Ohm. We are hunters, gatherers and singers and warriors.” He paused a moment, lost in thought. “He is my only friend, left behind because he was too old to take along. I was once left behind too … Every year the old Henawa teaches me one Henawa word. I have been coming for ten years. I know ten words.”
Leera smiled. “Chunchuha.”
Peyas made an awkward effort to smile back, revealing a rotten mouth of missing teeth. It was as if he had forgotten the gesture across the centuries. “Chunchuha. It means welcome.”
“So you don’t ever dream of … of running away or something?”
“Mortals look upon my flesh and see an abomination. They burn me, and fire hurts, as does the sun’s touch, forcing me to travel by night. I am weaker than most mortals are in fact; I lack arcanery or the strength of the freshly risen. Yet I can command the dead. Among us, only Nefra is truly strong. She was a warlock in her day and continues to be one still. Besides, the further and longer we Occi stray from Bahbell, the weaker we become, until we wither and die. Yet regardless of the manner of our death, when the moon next becomes full, we wake here in the sands of this unholy mountain. No, one such as I cannot dream of better things, for this existence is nothing but damnation.”
Augum scooped some of the fine sand from the ground and watched as it filtered through his fingers like an hourglass. “But … why here? What’s so special about this mountain?”
“I know why,” Leera whispered, eyes dropping to the ground. “The castle … it’s below us, isn’t it?”