by Mark Eller
“Make the transfer,” Van Wess ordered Jolson.
“Everything?” Jolson asked.
“Yes,” Izza Van Wess ordered, and then he screamed.
Mira didn’t scream because she felt no pain. Soft sensations of warmth entered her. Scents she didn’t remember tantalized, and the almost imperceptible sensation of air moving against her skin made her want to swoon. A further tugging pulled at her mind. She felt a slight slithering as something shifted out of her, flowed through the hook, and entered Van Wess. Her knees weakened, and then she fell. The pulsing hook pulled right through her hand. Where before there had been a bleeding hole, there now remained no wound. Mira hit the floor and lay there, shivering. Her heart thumped heavily, once, and then again, and then it thudded to a steady pace.
“Gods,” she heard Van Wess whisper. “I was wrong. Evil is real. It’s solid. I felt it come into me, but she had so little, and it felt so— grand.” His voice firmed as he held up a lightly bleeding hand. “It’s time for you to die, Jolson.”
“I can make it grander,” Jolson whispered. “I can give you much of my own evil.”
Van Wess watched him with suspicious eyes. “And why would you make an offer like that?”
“Because I am almost pure evil,” Jolson answered, “and evil always wants to live.”
Van Wess laughed. “You’ll live until I’m satisfied. I want more, Jolson. I want all the evil you have.”
Through half-closed eyes, Mira watched Jolson shake his head.
“I can’t. Some part of you is infused with good, and I hold more evil than any human body can contain.”
“Then give me everything you can,” Van Wess ordered. “Take my good in return. Fill me.”
Jolson shook his head. “Only a little,” he insisted. “Even a little will weaken me.”
“Fill me,” Van Wess insisted again.
“Your will,” Jolson answered. His voice sounded sad.
The hook buried itself in Van Wess’s hand, once again cutting a bleeding wound. After a moment it pulsed with a flickering jade light. To Mira, the interval between Jolson starting the transfer and the hook’s light finally fading away seemed to last forever, but it was over in only a moment. When the hook’s glow faded and failed, Jolson pulled it free of the other man’s flesh and stepped back.
Van Wess’s face was transfused as he wrapped a bandage about his damaged hand.. His expression glowed, radiating joy, power, and a strength of evil intent beyond anything Mira had ever before seen.
“That,” he said emphatically, “felt really grand.” He looked to Jolson, and then down at her. “Are you sure she is dying?”
“Yes,” Jolson replied simply.
“But I see her breathing. She must be alive.”
“She holds your life,” Jolson said, “and so she ages and will one day die. You are now dead, as proved by your injuries for my hook cannot harm living flesh. You have taken her death upon you.”
“I have? I am?” Van Wess’s voice sounded faintly surprised. “That explains why I feel so cold, and why the world has gone flat, but gods, the power, and I’ve spells that will set things right. I’ll never age. It’s enough. Kill her and then kill yourself.”
Mira closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer to Trelsar, the god she had abandoned too many years before.
“No,” Jolson said. Reaching down, he grasped her hand, and helped her to her feet. “You’ll feel tired for a time,” he said, broken voiced, “but you are stronger than you know.” Tears ran down his cheeks.
“I’m alive,” Mira whispered wonderingly. Blood ran through her veins. Her heart pounded, and she saw colors she had forgotten existed. Yellow sun. Blue sky. She knew the words but their meaning had long ago slipped from her mind.
“But not for long,” Van Wess snapped. “Kill her Jolson. I command it. I control you.”
“Control is an illusion,” Jolson whispered. “None of us are who we were. Your spells no longer have the strength to compel.”
“I’ve new spells!” Van Wess shouted. Bundled string flew from his hand, failed to open, and fell to the ground. His blistered hand struck the ground beside the string. Van Wess stood, stunned, staring at his empty wrist. Mira laughed while boils formed and ruptured upon his face.
“Didn’t you listen,” she taunted. “Human flesh, even dead flesh, always holds elements of good and evil. Our bodies are too weak to withstand evil’s pure force.”
Van Wess held out his handless arm. “Save me,” he begged. “Take it back.”
Jolson shook his head. “I cannot. Selnac’s trap compounds. The burl is broken. Conscience and the small good I now possess will not allow me to take this from you.” His silent tears flowed faster. “I shall never again be what I once was. I keep changing.”
When Jolson leaned his weight against her. Mira felt him shudder.
“Please,” Van Wess begged once more. “What can I do?”
“Close your eyes,” Jolson whispered while the weeping man‘s flesh fell from his bones, “and think of philosophy.”
Chapter 15-- Queen’s Fall
Two days after giving birth, Queen Elise took a seat at the dining table set directly beneath her husband’s. She lifted a small cup of dry sherry, took a delicate sip, and waited for her husband to drive one more nail into her coffin.
King Vere, she noted, looked gay in his royal purple robes and light, everyday gold crown. Like always when eating, his cheeks, flushed from drink, were grease smeared from the chunk of fat laden meat he held in his hand. Once well known for his athleticism on the hunting field, the king’s body had turned to fat. It had been five years since he last rode a horse, and a year longer since he hunted game. His public excuse was a badly broken knee that never completely healed. Elise knew the excuse for a lie.
No. The real reasons for Vere’s downfall sat to either side of the king. To his right was Helace, the king’s inhuman mistress. Owning long red hair, penetrating green eyes, and alabaster skin, she had enraptured and entrapped the king within her bestiality. After meeting Helace, Vere quickly replaced his joy of hunting for the whore’s open thighs. As a rule, the pair retired early each night and rose late in the mornings. The woman, gossip said, was insatiable, and so the king relied on drugs to maintain her pace. The efficacy of those drugs was evinced by the fact that Vere had broken away from his mistress long enough to get Elise pregnant— again. The drawback of those drugs was evidenced by the size of his body.
The drugs were given to him by Belsac, his second downfall. Belsac sat to the king’s left, his arm wrapped around the waist of a newly arrived and nearly naked feline changer named Rebel who stood beside his chair. Belsac’s free hand idly stroked her fur covered breast and tore at her left nipple while the changer, set in her half-were form, purred.
Elise frowned at the sight. Part chameleon, part devil, Belsac was the head priest on earth for Zorce, father of all evil, the most wicked god the world had ever known. Even Athos, the under god of Hell, was a saint when compared with Zorce, his father. To Elise’s way of thinking, Athos was even a saint when compared to Belsac. Though Belsac had only been the king’s chief advisor for less than two years, he had already razzed every temple of the virtuous gods inside Grace’s limits. Temple priests either hung on gibbets or had their heads shoved onto one of the spikes lining the King’s Lane. Because of Belsac, Hell’s minions openly walked among men, and fully a quarter of the castle’s staff were hellspawn. Some of those spawn served at Vere’s tables.
“The king’s mistress look’s beautiful, and the new changer seems exotic as well? Do you think Vere will want a taste of our Rebel. Will he want to fuck a pussy cat’s pussy.” A dusty-blue skinned woman slid into the chair beside Elise, and with an open look of distaste, shoved the salt bowl away. Elise spared the woman a look, barely restraining a sudden gasp. Compared to the creature beside her, Helace’s exotic appearance was no more than a clay pellet dropped into a bucket of gold. This woman exuded an allure s
o great that Elise, only two days past childbirth, ached to take her to bed. She found this doubly alarming since she had never before been attracted to women.
The woman held out a black nailed hand as if she expected Elise to bow her head low to kiss those blue knuckles. Waves of desire washed through Elise. Her breath caught. Trembling, she hurriedly touched those fingers with a hesitant hand. A shocking tingle ran through her body and into her heart. The woman’s allure enfolded her, encompassed her, and grew so great that every person, every sound in the room, ceased to exist.
Gasping, Elise pulled her hand away and gathered her imperial will. “Don’t,” she ordered, but a part of her wanted to press her mouth to blue tinged lips.
“I am Belthethsia,” the thing said. “I thought we should have a discussion about your divorce.”
“You are a succubus,” Elise corrected, “and I will have you killed if you don’t turn off your charm. Furthermore, there will be no divorce because I have finally given the king an heir.”
The corner of Belthethsia’s mouth quirked upward. Her allure abruptly ceased, making her nothing more than an incredibly stunning woman.
“Pity.” Belthethsia reached out to trickle her dusty blue fingers down Elise‘s arm. “I did so hope I could control you. Matters would have been so much simpler.” Her eyes narrowed and became predatory. “Temples have fallen. Hundreds have been murdered, and the religious leanings of all Yernden are being adjusted. All this because Vere changed his allegiance to Zorce in order to divorce you. Don’t you think it a tad selfish to insist on staying married?” She gestured toward the king’s mistress. “Besides, my mother wants you gone.”
“I have given the King an heir,” Elise insisted. “Human law says I remain his wife unless I leave by my own choosing. Not even the king is above this law.”
Elise swallowed. The child was all she had left of her right to the kingdom of Yernden. She had no supporters left. Even her knight, her protector, was rumored dead…though she never did see his remains, not even on one of the pikes. Surely if he were truly dead they would have paraded his body around or put it on display. Knowing Belsac’s hatred of the priest, she would not have put it past him to have had Calto’s head nailed to the wall above Vere’s throne.
A wisp of smoke issued from between Belthethsia’s lips. The smoke solidified to become a small soul-sucking imp. The imp looked at Elise with malevolent eyes before changing back into smoke. Belthethsia breathed it back into her mouth.
“Sometimes,” the succubus said pointedly, “accidents happen. Even to queens.”
Elise gave a brief nod. “Accidents happen,” she agreed, “and so do wars. My father will accept my death no more than he would accept a forced divorce. He would raise armies in protest and place my brother, Reed, at their head. You know as well as I do the Altude Empire could absorb Yernden in less than a year.”
“Maybe,” Belthethsia smiled, “but I think not. It’s true that Yernden’s soldiers will fall like wheat before your father‘s troops, but I promise you, once they have fallen Hell’s minions will be waiting to make them rise again, and this time they will be fighting for us.” She smiled. “Besides, emperors have accidents, too. Look to your husband, dear. I think he is about to make an announcement.”
Elise returned her attention back to the head table to see her husband set down a haunch of greasy roast. Leaning close, Helace calmly licked grease from his lips and chin. Rebel now stood beside Vere instead of Belsac. Slick blood marred her fur from where Belsac had torn her nipple.
“Bitches,” Elise muttered angrily.
“At least one is,” Belthethsia said. “In Hell, my mother prefers the shape of a hound.”
Laughing, Vere rose from his seat, displaying that his trousers were unfastened and his manhood exposed. Horns blew to signal the diners to silence. Vere‘s laughter stilled and his lips twisted into a false frown. “It is my sad duty,” said King Vere, “to inform you the kingdom is once again without a legal heir. I have just been told my newborn son passed away.”
“No,” Elise gasped, and her heart shattered. She had seen Olnac less than forty minutes earlier. He had been lively then and strong with greed as he demanded milk from his wet nurse.
Frowning, King Vere looked over the silent gathering for a moment, and then waved a careless hand. His frown became a sardonic smile as he set his heavy hand on Rebel’s head and shoved her open mouth onto his erect cock. “There’s no need for you to worry about the kingdom’s future. Helace and I will make a new heir once we are married. For now, you might as well finish eating.”
And then he smiled as Rebel’s head began to bob.
* * * *
With her pain encapsulated inside a steel-hard burl, Elise neared her chambers only to discover a bleeding spawn kneeling on the tiles outside her door. Naked, the misshapen thing cringed and whimpered each time a lash landed on her back. A grinning soulwright giggled when he struck. The hell creature was tall, scaled, and somewhat human in appearance.
“Stop!” Elise ordered.
Scowling, the soulwright lowered its whip. It turned hard, yellowed eyes on her. “Why?”
Elise knew better than to appeal to decency or compassion. “The spawn’s blood has stained the tiles outside my door.”
The soulwright gave her an open mouthed grin, allowing Elise to see a double row of pointed teeth. Raising a hand to its mouth, it picked between its teeth with a muddy-brown talon. The hand drew back, and with it came a small tangle of thread.
Elise repressed a shudder, wondering which of the castle’s few remaining servants was dead.
“So?” the thing asked.
“I am the queen,” she answered. “I won’t have blood spilled where I might slip in it.”
“Is that all?” the soulwright asked. “Aren’t you going to whimper about cruelty and the blessings of mercy?”
“I’m concerned about stains on my shoes and on the tiles,” Elise coldly replied. “The spawn can look for mercy elsewhere.”
The soulwright laughed. “You are harder than they led me to believe. No matter. I’m done lessoning this slave. She is yours to deal with now. Your husband assigned her to you as your new maid.”
It laughed again, turned, and walked away.
Bending its head, the spawn cringed deeper within itself. “M-Mistress. I-I’ll clean the blood up. Please-please don’t—”
“Grow a fucking backbone,” Elise snapped. Her newborn son was murdered. Her position was in shambles, and she had, at best, a few hours before her own life was forfeit. She had little patience to deal with the pathetic thing kneeling before her.
The creature made a soft noise. It rose to face her, and Elise barely suppressed a horrified gasp. The thing looked worse than any spawn she had ever seen, and of late, she had seen far too many of the poor abused beings. The one before her had no ears, no nose, and one eye socket was a black hole. Its arms were different lengths. The shorter arm was twisted around so it worked backwards from the other. One bare foot seemed normal. The other ended in a deer’s hoof.
And there were scars. The spawn was covered with them. White scars and angry red welts marred almost all of its face and body. One weeping section of her belly had been recently flayed.
“My god,” Elise whispered.
“No,” the spawn replied. “My god. Athos punishes me.”
“But what could you have done to deserve this?” Elise demanded.
“When I was only a dead spirit existing in Athos’s realm,” it said, “I helped a spawn escape. As punishment, Athos placed me in this body and made me slave to all of Hell’s creatures, even to other spawn.” It gave Elise something that almost resembled a smile. “I haven’t always been afraid. I had courage and magic before I was made into this.” Sniffling, it hung its head. “Most spawn own faulty brains. They barely know they suffer. Athos left me intelligence so my punishment would be even worse.
Raising its head, it opened the chamber door and stepped back so
Elise could enter. Small red drops trailed down its legs, leaving new stains on the floor. Grimacing, Elise forced herself to walk through the blood. Staining her shoes did not matter. She would never wear them again.
Ignoring the spawn, Elise entered her bedchamber, opened her wardrobe doors, and began tossing clothes to the floor. Gowns of silk and elaborate brocade landed in an uncaring heap. Elise cursed as her pile of discards grew larger and her closets emptier, and then she grimly smiled when she found what she wanted in a far back corner. Her old campaign clothes were still there, reminding her she had not always been the pampered wife of a faithless king. She had once been a princess of the Altude Empire, the next to youngest daughter of Emperor Dade. No child of her father reached adulthood without at least three years of army service, a tradition continued when Mari, her younger sister, began serving two years before under their brother Reed’s watchful eye.
“M-Mistress,” the spawn quivered. “I don’t know what to do with your clothing. I still bleed. Your dresses will be ruined if I try to straighten them.”
“Ignore them,” Elise snapped. Her knife, with its eight-inch blade, still rested in her old belt sheath. Impatient, she pulled the knife free and used it to cut away her clothing.”
“Mistress!” the spawn protested.
Elise slipped on her old campaign clothes, winced because she was tender from giving birth, but felt grim satisfaction upon discovering they still fit. She stamped her feet into worn boots and smiled thinly when she saw the pouch containing her emergency funds still hung on a hook. It was a wonder some sharp-eyed and larcenous servant had not emptied it long before.
“I’m leaving,” she said and fought back a sob. “My child is murdered, and I soon will be if I don’t escape my husband. You are welcome to join me.”
“Seek the spawn named Jolson,” the spawn said with a firm voice. Surprised, Elise jerked her gaze around to see squared shoulders and a firmly uplifted chin. “Athos hates Jolson more than he hates any other being.”