Sisters of the Blade

by Shawn E. Crapo

  “I can see them,” Randar said, pointing off to the south.

  There was a dark line along the horizon; a hundred men, at least, with one taller man in the lead. T’kar had heard the legends of the Firbolga; how they were a beloved race of Gaia’s, created by Kronos himself, and blessed with the foul powers of the Earth. How refreshing that they decided to worship darker things. They betrayed their own creator.

  Perhaps he would like this Arbotach, too.

  The pain in Lilit’s belly had grown to an intolerable level—even for her. She writhed in agony on the hard stone floor of her chamber as Sirl held her hand and desperately tried to comfort her. She was glad for his presence, but it did nothing to ease her pain. There was a fire that burned inside her that wanted to get out—now.

  “Mistress,” Sirl whispered. “Tell me what I can do to help you. What do you need me to do?”

  Lilit groaned, knowing there was only one way to ease the pain. “It won’t come out the usual way,” she groaned. “You’ll have to cut me open.”

  “What?” Sirl said, his eyes and jaw dropping open. “I… I can’t…”

  “Do it!” Lilit growled. “Please, do it.”

  Sirl dropped her hand and stood, turning to fetch his dagger—the dagger that Lilit had given him as a gift. She knew that was what he was going to use. It was the sharpest dagger in the whole fortress. She had made it herself.

  When he returned, he crouched over her, looking into her eyes. Lilit groaned and squinted, the pain clouding and blurring her vision. She could barely see him as he moved in front of her. Lilit parted her legs, lifting up her gown to expose her belly. Even through her haze she could see the flesh roiling and moving with the thrashing of something inside.

  “It’s coming,” she whispered. “Do it. Do it now.”

  Sirl drew in breath, holding it as he put the point of the blade against her skin. It felt cold and hard, as it should, but she could almost feel Sirl’s fear in its touch. There was a sudden jolt of pain as the point pierced her flesh, and the feel of it drawn across her skin was agonizing. She cried out, howling through her gritted teeth.

  This was more pain than she had ever experienced.

  “Cut through,” she stammered. “Get it out. Get it…”

  She began to feel faint. Her vision swirled and darkened with twisting clouds of nothingness that passed before her eyes. Her heart raced and pounded, like a terrified horse’s. Only the feel of the blade slicing through her flesh kept her focused.

  “Oh my…” she heard Sirl gasp. “It’s…”

  “Get it out,” Lilit whispered. “Don’t stop.”

  The pain continued as her servant sliced into her organs, and then into her womb. There was a splash of fluids, and the smell of brimstone, as the fleshy pouch was opened. Then, to her disgust, the sound of teeth gnashing, and the ragged gasping of a first breath.

  She looked down, seeing only the crumpled mass of her gown, and the point of what looked like a horn protruding from her gut. She dropped her head back to the floor, imagine the thing looking like its father; horned, demonic, and frightening.

  “Kathorgo,” she whispered. “You have come.”

  “My lady,” Sirl began. “It’s growing. It’s growing even now as it’s coming out.”

  “Help it,” Lilit said, reaching down to try and grasp the horn that she could see.

  “I’ll try,” Sirl replied.

  But then, as he reached down, he suddenly screamed. Lilit’s head popped back up just in time to see him pulled down into her open belly, and to hear the ripping of his flesh. Lilit kicked her legs, trying to slide back toward the wall. She could feel her spawn thrashing and struggling to get out, all the while wrapping its spindly arms and legs around her screaming servant’s torso.

  Her heart ached for him. She loved Sirl; not as a human would another, but as a master would love his or her pet. He was faithful, beautiful, and very skilled in giving her pleasure. She would miss him.

  The strange creature continued to constrict around Sirl’s torso, its giant, fanged jaws clamping onto the poor man’s face. It was horrifying, but she could not tear her eyes away. The sight of the spider-like limbs glistening with the slime of hellish birth was mesmerizing. It seemed to be growing as it fed upon Sirl.

  She could still hear him moaning in his last breaths, gurgling as his throat was torn open. The blood that poured from him mixed with the creature’s slime, forming pools of strange, swirling liquid that steamed like boiling mud. She could now see the thing completely. It was roughly the height—or length—of a man, incredibly gaunt and emaciated, grayish with red and green veins, and scaled like a newborn snake.

  But it was its face that was disturbing. As it raised its head to take a breath, she saw that it did indeed resemble its father, but there were strange elements of a bat—the nose, the long fangs, and the strangely pointed ears. All of them continued forming as the creature consumed Sirl’s body, and the front limbs began to sprout long and spindly fingers tipped with razor sharp claws.

  Lilit gasped as the creature met her gaze. Her heart, immortal as it was, raced like that of a horrified human. She pressed back into the cold stone wall, subconsciously trying to get away, but knowing there was no escape.

  The creature let out a low growl as it beheld her, its brow pressing downward in a sinister expression that sent chills up Lilit’s spine. But then, as it realized who she was, its gaze softened, and the strangely iridescent eyes began to fade into a calm blue. It took a few hesitant steps forward on its hands and feet, cocking its head as it looked over its mother. Lilit attempted to smile, to reach out a comforting hand, all the while stifling the urge to vomit.

  “Come to me, my child,” she whispered.

  The creature burst into a run, darting at her with blinding speed and stopping just inches from her face. Lilit could smell the creature’s essence; brimstone and rot. She held its gaze as it sniffed her, its bat-like nose crinkling and relaxing, her heart pounding with both fear and revulsion.

  “That’s it,” Lilit stammered. “I gave birth to you. I’m your mother.”

  The creature’s face took on an innocent expression, though Lilit knew it was nothing but pure evil. She accepted it however, and allowed the wretched thing to lay its head against her bosom. With a hesitant and shaking hand, she stroked its sickeningly slimy skin, humming softly as she rocked it to sleep.

  Her eyes were locked on what was left of Sirl’s body. The creature would need to finish consuming it to gain strength, she knew—and maybe some others. For now, she would do what a mother did.

  She would love her child.

  “He’s very tall,” T’kar said as he stared at Arbotach in the distance.

  “That’s the Firbolga blood, Sire,” Randar explained. “Though he lacks the raw power of his race, he is still much more statuesque and powerful than a mere human.”

  “And likely not as easy to get along with,” Malthor added.

  “He’ll be respectful, or I’ll cut him down where he stands,” T’kar growled.

  Malthor smiled crookedly at Randar, who shook his head with a slight grin.

  “Come on,” T’kar said, turning around to look at Lorcan, who rode in front of the army. “Be ready. If there is any sign of trouble, charge.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Lorcan replied, drawing his blade.

  “Randar, Malthor, with me.”

  T’kar rode forward with the two men slightly behind him. He stared ahead, and Malthor knew that the strong and fearless king seemed a bit less strong and fearless than usual. He was truly uncertain of this warlord, and whether or not he could actually kill him if need be. That much was obvious to the necromancer. However, Malthor had a few tricks up his sleeves.

  Two nights before, he had bade his servants to scatter and bury a dozen or so corpses in this very field. They would be a surprise to the warlord, to be sure, and they would rise up at the necromancer’s command and attack anyone nearby.

  It was
a splendid plan.

  “What are you babbling about?” T’kar asked, glaring at him.

  It was then that Malthor realized he was talking to himself. He shook his head, slightly embarrassed.

  “Nothing, Sire,” he said. “Simply going over alternative strategies in my head.”

  T’kar grunted. “Well, if you can think of any way to avoid this whole mess, don’t keep it a secret.”

  As the two groups neared each other, Malthor’s heart began to race. Arbotach’s appearance was frightening. Not only was he incredibly tall, but his skin was deathly pale, his eyes were narrow and pure veiny white with no irises to speak of. His armor, made of some unknown black material, was spiked, bladed, and layered in plates of engraved metal. The skirt that draped to the ground was made of some blackened silk or leather mixture. It was odd, Malthor thought. He truly looked like the undead, though he was a living, breathing humanoid. The necromancer wondered how old he was.

  “Dag T’kar,” Arbotach spoke, his voice a harsh and deep growl. “This meeting has been long awaited.”

  “It has,” T’kar said, turning his horse to the side.

  Arbotach was as tall as T’kar was on his horse, though he was on foot. His two guards, normal sized men, were equally fearsome, and glared at Malthor as their master spoke. He slowly moved his horse closer to Randar’s hiding his own bulk behind the king.

  “What is your offer, Arbotach?” T’kar asked.

  “I only offer this,” Arbotach said. “I will respect and honor your rule of the north. But the south is mine. You will not wage your campaign in my lands, and I will not interfere in yours.”

  T’kar laughed. “You expect me to share rule of this island?” he said, amused. “Have you forgotten that this is one kingdom? I killed King Daegoth, not you. I am king of this land.”

  Arbotach’s eyes narrowed, and he issued a low hissing laugh. Malthor could see that his teeth were sharpened; chiseled into points.

  “You are foolish, T’kar,” the Firbolga said. “I have walked this land for centuries, and have killed thousands. I have lived through the rise and fall of countless kingdoms, even those that came before King Daegoth. It is you who forget.”

  “I am not interested in your life story, Firbolga,” T’kar growled. “I am only interested in your loyalty.”

  Arbotach cocked his fearsome head, his eyes peering from underneath the fanged maw that formed his helmet. A smile spread across his withered lips, and he began to chuckle.

  “Very well, T’kar,” he said, finally. “We will work together to capture the whole of the island. We will crush all opposition and then we will discuss who shall sit upon the throne.”

  “That is a deal I can live with,” T’kar said. “And I am pleased that this meeting was so short. I have people to kill.”

  Arbotach’s head suddenly turned to the north, and his lips began to tremble. They curled over his teeth in some strange, ecstatic rictus grin.

  “What is it?” T’kar asked.

  “Our master has come,” Arbotach whispered. “Kingu walks the Earth once more.”

  Malthor shot Randar a glance, knowing full well what the Firbolga meant. Lilit had given birth—and they had missed it.

  Arbotach stepped to the side, glaring at Malthor. “This meeting has come to an end,” he said. “You may dispense with your undead. I will expect Kingu’s arrival soon. T’kar, do not hesitate to heed our master’s call. We shall conquer in his name. And you, necromancer, I do not like your type. I have no desire to walk among the dead, as my ancestors did. The Draugr offend me, and I am glad to sense that they are no more. My brother has fallen to a blade of Gaia.”

  He stepped back, looking over to T’kar again. “A new enemy has appeared,” he said. “Even with the arrival of Kingu, there are new dangers. Gaia has completed her wishes, and her daughters now stand against us.”

  T’kar growled, looking at Randar. The man rode forward a ways, glaring at Arbotach. He seemed fearless.

  “The king destroyed Gaia’s handful of pitiful warriors,” he said. “They are no more, and their temple is lost to the ages.”

  Arbotach laughed again. “No, buggerer of boys,” he said. “The temple is hidden, not lost. It has been reawakened, and those undead that guard it have been destroyed. The Sisters of Gaia are anew.”

  “Then I leave it up to you to destroy them,” T’kar said. “They are in… your territory, after all.”

  Arbotach grinned. “Yes… yes. Goodbye, T’kar. Fare thee well. We shall speak again when I have the heads of these upstarts upon spears.”

  “I would very much like to see that,” T’kar growled. “That would be even more amusing than watching them ripped apart by wargs.”

  “I will have them delivered to you for your amusement,” Arbotach replied, grinning with his pointed teeth.

  Malthor cringed, feeling a sense of revulsion looking at the creature. He had heard stories of the Firbolga since he was a child, and they had always been described as statuesque and noble, even more so than the Alvar in some cases. But this thing, this Arbotach, was a monstrosity. He was no beauty, not a noble of any sort. He was nothing but a monster, seemingly fashioned of parts from the ugliest men and Alvar his maker could find.

  That was it! Arbotach was a golem!

  Though possessing the mind of his original form, his body was nothing but a husk put together by some mad wizard; parts likely scavenged from a Firbolga tomb or two. Malthor grinned when he realized it.

  “What are you smiling at?” T’kar asked as the trio turned.

  “I’ve figured him out, Sire,” Malthor replied. “There was something about him I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He wasn’t undead, dead, or truly alive in any sense of the wor—“

  “Spill it!”

  “He’s a golem,” Malthor said. “A flesh golem, made up of parts from other Firbolga and men. Dead ones.”

  T’kar scowled, scrunching up his nose. “But he spoke of a brother…”

  “Ah yes,” Randar said, smiling and nodding his head. “His brain is that of the actual Arbotach; long dead but reanimated for some odd purpose.”

  T’kar grunted. “And what purpose would that be?”

  Malthor and Randar both shrugged. “Who knows?” Randar said.

  “Perhaps to stand against Gaia,” Malthor suggested. “But who knows?”

  “Right,” T’kar mumbled. “Who knows?”

  Weakened but determined, Lilit led the newborn spawn to Kathorgo’s chamber. The strange creature followed closely, still struggling to maintain its balance as it became accustomed to its body. Lilit had to stop occasionally to rest, as the pain from her wound was still great, but her spawn gave her strength, stroking her hair until the pain subsided.

  Now as the two entered the dark chamber, Lilit willed the orbs into life, and the dim reddish light bathed them in its crimson glow. The statue looked as it always did, the horned demon kneeling on one knee with its arms out to its side, palms up. Its eyes flared into life as they came closer, and the witch could feel the demon’s presence growing. Her spawn, silent and quivering, knelt in front of the statue, bowing its own horned head.

  “It is here,” Lilit spoke. “I have brought forth your spawn as you wished.”

  Very good, my child. I see him. He is perfect. He shall be my sword and my hand on this world. I thank you, my child. You have done well.

  “He is yours to command,” Lilit said. “I want nothing to do with your plans. But I will be his mother when he needs me.”

  Good. He is but a whelp as of yet. A mere fledgling to be groomed and fed until his strength grows. He will need to feed on the flesh of men.

  “That is another thing,” Lilit hissed angrily. “He killed my servant, Sirl. He was faithful and… well, loving to me. I want him back.”

  That I cannot do. Perhaps the necromancer can assist you in that matter. It is nothing to me.

  Lilit scowled, her skin growing hot with rage. She wanted to lash out, t
o destroy the child-thing in front of its father, but she held her tongue and her magic.

  He shall be known as Kathorgo, as he is my avatar upon this world. You may now call me by my true name, Kingu. I insist.

  “Very well, Kingu,” Lilit said. “That is all I will ever call you. Don’t expect me to call you master or father. You are neither to me.”

  Leave. You are no longer welcome in this chamber. Only my son shall be welcome.

  “And what of T’kar?” she asked. “How is he to worship you if not in your presence?”

  T’kar is useless to me now. He no longer has faith in my powers. I have chosen a new heir, and my son will deliver his crown when he destroys the Sisters of Gaia.

  “The Sisters… they have returned?”

  Yes.

  Lilit nodded, knowing full well that they had been reawakened. She felt it recently, as if a dark veil had been lifted from the land. The dark veil that T’kar had draped over it when he murdered King Daegoth. It was a veil that would soon be destroyed, she knew; destroyed and replaced with Kingu’s own.

  That was not a world she wanted to live in. It would not be.

  Not if she could help it.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  There were shadows in Dearg’s vision; dark shapes of unfamiliar form that danced before his eyes. He was in a strange universe it seemed. It was one that was different from his own, yet somehow oddly familiar, comfortable even. He had no idea what the shapes were, nor their purpose, but they seemed to coalesce and form new shapes before his eyes. All of this happened in front of a swirling background of light and darkness.

  There was one familiar form, however, that stepped into his line of sight. It was a beautiful woman, red-haired and statuesque, whose smile was warm and inviting. He knew her, but he could not place her name. There was something odd about this strange land that made it difficult to concentrate on reality. But as she stepped closer, he began to recall this woman’s nature, and her name.

  Igraina.

  “Hello, Daegoth,” she said.

  Daegoth, Dearg thought. My name… is Dearg.