Raising Evil

by Liam Reese

  The king paused for his words to sink in. “To that end, I have arranged for another convoy of food, tents and workers to arrive within a few days.” He lowered his eyes and voice as he added, “Now, where is my daughter?”

  As Xaurin led them through the camp, Merdon saw the desperate state of the Ninse who had escaped the flood. They had virtually nothing, all possessions lost to the sucking wash of death that had claimed hundreds. He tried not to stare as his eyes gazed over the inside of Gazluthian military tents, each one housing at least one family, if not more. Dirty and mud splattered, weary-looking Ninse sat within each one, glazed expressions a telling sign of what they had been through.

  At the center, Xaurin led them to a pavilion, much larger and better appointed than any other tent here, and Merdon looked up to see his grandfather’s jaw tighten in anger as soon as his eyes lit on it.

  “I would like to thank you, Chancellor, for showing me to my daughter,” Besmir said. “Once I have had a brief word with her, I will come to the dig site and offer any aid I can.” He bowed to the leader of the Ninse, who returned his gesture and left.

  Merdon followed his grandfather into the tent, where his aunt Emmerlin sat with one leg cocked over the arm of a fairly comfortable chair, reading a book. An iron brazier warmed the air from the center of the room, and a curtained off-section had a large bed inside. A table with chairs had been placed in the middle of the pavilion, all of it newly made.

  “Hello, father,” Emmerlin said. “Nice of you to drop by.”

  6

  “It seems as though it will be a little more difficult to trace this liquor than I first thought,” Branisi told Arteera.

  The housecarl had scoured the royal ledgers pertaining to any purchases made, including any and all made by Besmir himself. Finding nothing, she had looked into anything he might have bought with the small amount of currency he carried but, again, nothing had surfaced. Branisi had then sent men and women out into Morantine, looking for anything resembling the brew, while she visited one of the most successful vintners the city had to offer.

  “Even the man who is responsible for importing gallons of wine from six countries doesn’t know exactly what it is,” Branisi said. “He did offer something disturbing, however.”

  Arteera stared at the woman she had known for more than three decades, her heart in her mouth. “Disturbing?” she asked in a worried tone.

  “Yes. He thinks this is tainted with narcotics,” Branisi said, turning the bottle in her hands.

  “Narcotics?” Arteera asked, her voice just a whisper.

  The queen sat heavily in a high-backed chair in her sitting room. Sunlight flooded the space, dust motes floating like miniature stars swirling in spirals with the slightest breath of air. She rubbed at her forehead, trying to ease the stabbing pain that had begun there, without success.

  Branisi nodded sadly.

  “He also told me that in higher doses, it could be fatal to the user, and I should dispose of it as soon as possible,”

  Arteera pinched her lips to contain her worry, holding back the outburst that threatened to explode from her. This was no time for histrionics; Besmir was in trouble and needed her.

  “Did he tell you anything else?”

  “Only that many different narcotics originate on the border between Corbondrasi and Waraval,” Branisi added.

  “Then I will see Ru Tarn and the new Waravalian ambassador,” Arteera said. “Separately, to begin with; let me see the Waravalian first,” she added.

  Branisi stood and crossed to the door, pausing before she left.

  “We will find out where this stuff comes from, Arteera,” she said, warmth in her voice. “And when we do, I’m going to put torch to the place.”

  Arteera cast a glance over her shoulder at her friend, smiling despite the anguish that rolled through her, grateful she was here.

  “Thank you, Branisi,” Arteera said. “It means a lot to have your support.”

  “After all you and Besmir have done for me, it’s the least I can offer,” Branisi said, before slipping from the room.

  Arteera watched dust motes play in the wake of her leaving, despairing over Besmir’s predicament.

  Oh Besmir, what have you got yourself into?

  Besmir felt his anger threaten to burst from him in a violent explosion of pure rage. Emmerlin’s attitude grated on his nerves, and the smug expression that her guard wore irritated him even more. He was about to give his daughter a piece of his mind when the ache began deep in his abdomen.

  Like some kind of creeping darkness making its way through his body, the need gripped him. Before he had had time to turn away, a low trembling had started in his deepest organs. It felt as if his teeth were itching, and something was trying to drill into the base of his skull.

  “Merdon, keep them here. I’m going to see if there’s anyone alive in that mountain,” he ordered.

  “Grandfather...” Merdon began as Besmir made to leave the pavilion, but the king ignored him, the incessant pull of his need growing by the second.

  Besmir stalked from his daughter’s large tent, his anger all but replaced by his need to take some of the drink. He ducked between some tents that had been a little more tightly pitched than the rest, his hand questing for the flask that would take the incessant nag away.

  His fingers wrapped around the cool silver, trembling even harder as soon as they touched it. Some deep part of his mind had said he’d lost it, and a momentary panic gripped his chest in a cold fist of fear. Yet here it was, in his hand, and he fumbled to unscrew the cap, desperate to get inside the flask, dropping the lid into the mud at his feet.

  Gods, I need this!

  Thick, warm and bitter, the liquid crawled to the back of his throat with almost deliberate slowness, drawing out his need and making him suffer longer. He gulped at the bitter brew, gagging as it clung to his teeth and tongue, as if unwilling to be swallowed. With a little effort, he managed to get it down his throat and dropped to his knees, searching in the mud for the cap.

  He found it as the drink started to take hold, the warmth and lights signaling that it was taking effect. The king stood, putting the dirty cap back on without caring that filth was getting into his flask, and stumbled onward toward where the Ninse were toiling, now alongside his Gazluthians.

  “Your majesty,” Chancellor Xaurin greeted him as he approached the dark tunnel, eyeing it warily.

  He looked down at Xaurin, smiling at the small woman as vines appeared to sprout from her head, curling down and around her shoulders until pink and cerise blooms budded at the tips, opening to release small creatures that drifted away on the breeze.

  “I came to see the digging,” Besmir managed to mumble.

  Something at the back of his mind, a tiny voice, was screaming at him that this was all wrong, that something in the drink was making him see all these strange visions. Yet he was powerless to heed it.

  “Ah, yes,” Xaurin said, staring at him oddly. “We haven’t found any survivors as yet, but hopes are high that some of our people managed to remain alive in the deepest chambers.”

  “Here’s hoping,” Besmir said.

  “Shall I have someone escort you inside?”

  “Inside … there?” Besmir asked, his voice a querulous tremble.

  “Well, yes,” Xaurin said, frowning at his strange tone. “You can’t see the rescue work from out here.”

  Besmir’s attention, however, was solely focused on the dark maw leading into the belly of the mountain. He watched in horror as Ninsians and Gazluthians alike entered the cave of mud and soil, their bodies crushed by the immense teeth that had appeared, framing the mouth that devoured them whole.

  “Gods!” he cried in horror, turning to Xaurin. “What have you done?”

  The short Ninse woman gave him a puzzled look, as her Gazluthian counterpart appeared terrified by something.

  “We’re searching for survivors we think are trapped within,” she replied hesitantl
y. “I can show you inside if you wish.”

  “We have to save them!” Besmir shouted, heading for the tunnel. “Before any more die!”

  Xaurin smiled at the king’s apparent eagerness to help her people in their hour of need, nodding and trotting along behind him as he stumbled and skidded across the mud towards where his people were being swallowed by the mountain.

  “Stop!” he screamed as he entered Asholt’s vast shadow, the temperature dropping to a deep chill. “Stop, I say!”

  Ninsian and Gazluthian alike turned to look at the insane-looking king as he ran at them, waving his arms and shouting.

  Besmir reached one of his subjects, panting, with a sheen of greasy sweat covering his skin. The teamster looked at his king with frightened eyes, not knowing whether he should bow or offer a supporting hand to the man who looked about to collapse.

  “Get them out!” Besmir shouted into his face. “Save them!”

  “Who, majesty?” the Gazluthian asked in a trembling voice.

  “Them!” Besmir screamed, pointing at the immense mouth.

  The king looked again, turning from the teamster’s puzzled face to the tunnel they had been digging into the mud. His brows knitted as he looked at the motionless soil.

  There was no sign of the teeth and mouth that had been crushing people before, no sign anyone was in danger. All he saw was mud-covered men and women toiling in the tunnel they had been digging, bringing out barrows and buckets of mud while building the supports that would hold the mud at bay.

  “King Besmir,” Xaurin managed when she finally managed to catch up with him. “What is the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Besmir said, trying to hide his embarrassment at what he had thought he had seen. “I thought the hill was collapsing, that’s all. Carry on,” he added, clapping the worried teamster on the shoulder. “Good work.”

  “Maybe your days of hard travel have taken more of a toll than you knew,” Xaurin said gently. “We can postpone any visits within the mountain for now.”

  Gratitude flooded Besmir’s chest as he looked down at the Ninse leader. “Thank you, Chancellor,” he said. “It might benefit me to get some rest.”

  Am I losing my mind?

  Besmir felt the gnaw of worry in the back of his brain as he walked away, ignorant of the strange looks and whispered comments people gave him as he passed.

  Merdon looked from his aunt to Senechul. The large bodyguard seemed more protective of Emmerlin than usual, standing so he faced her, and with his eyes never far from her face. The prince knew the pair were close, but a suspicion began in his mind when he caught the furtive looks she was giving the man as well.

  “Did you have this built?” Merdon asked, pointing at the table and chairs she had graced her pavilion with.

  “Do you like it?” Emmerlin asked with a grin. “I can have the same built for you, if you like.” She arched one eyebrow inquisitively.

  “You realize people are dying, right?” Merdon asked. “Suffocating in mud, and you wasted time and resources having a dining room built?”

  Senechul glared at the prince with hate in his expression.

  “Ninse people, Merdon,” Emmerlin said, as if speaking to a child. “Who should have to face the consequences of digging into the heart of a mountain.”

  Merdon knew he would have to goad them into admitting what he suspected them of doing. “That’s an interesting phrase,” he said, perching on the edge of the table. “’Face the consequences.’ What do you think the consequences of bedding your ox are likely to be?” Merdon nodded at Senechul.

  Senechul leaped at him, bringing his face so close Merdon could feel his breath. To his credit, the young prince did not flinch, did not even turn his attention from Emmerlin, whose composure slipped for a second, a look of fear crossing her features for the shortest time.

  So you have been rolling with him.

  “Prince or not, I’ll beat you into the soil if you breathe a word of this to anyone,” Senechul growled, confirming Merdon’s suspicions completely.

  While physically intimidating, Senechul had not had the training and brutal regimes Merdon had volunteered for in the Corbondrasi capital. The Gazluthian guard relied on his physique, and Merdon knew all that bulk would make him slow to react.

  The prince turned his head slowly, staring unflinchingly into Senechul’s dark brown eyes, the tips of their noses half an inch apart.

  “It’s known as a Corbondrasi kiss,” Merdon said calmly.

  “What is?” Senechul asked, his eyebrows pulling down into a V of puzzlement.

  Merdon cannoned his head forward, smashing Senechul’s nose flat and snapping it with a loud, wet, popping sound. The guard fell back, grabbing at his face as blood dripped from his shattered nose.

  The prince followed him as he staggered back, trying to find his balance. Merdon knew his ears would be ringing, eyes watering, and he would be utterly unaware of what the prince was about to do next. He reached back for his right-hand sword, drawing the short blade and laying the cold steel against Senechul’s throat.

  “Don’t threaten me,” he said in the same, calm tone he’d been using.

  Senechul swallowed, his wide eyes flicking from Merdon’s face to the short sword at his throat, and became extremely still. Merdon held his gaze for a few seconds before standing back up and sheathing his sword.

  Emmerlin looked on, no emotions showing on her face as she stared at Merdon. “We used to be friends,” she said, attempting to use his emotions against him. “What happened?”

  You turned into a monster.

  “When I realized you enjoyed hurting people, I started to distance myself from you,” Merdon said truthfully.

  Emmerlin sneered, the expression changing her entire demeanor to one of cruelty and evil. “You’re as weak as him,” she spat. “He’s got powers he doesn’t use to get what he wants. What’s the point of having power if you don’t use it?”

  The princess cupped her hand before her, bright orange and yellow flame leaping to life in her palm. Merdon swallowed as she stared at him, her intent clear. A smirk crossed her face as she shifted her weight.

  “Stop!” his grandfather bellowed from behind him. “Douse that flame.”

  Merdon watched in surprise as Emmerlin did as she was told, lowering her arm and letting the flame putter out.

  “Father...” Emmerlin started, but Besmir was already making his way across to her, his movements deliberate, fueled by the obvious anger that pulled his lips into a snarl.

  Just as Merdon thought his grandfather was about to hit his own daughter, the king gripped the sides of Emmerlin’s head tightly. Her curls exploded from between his fingers, and Merdon could clearly see the outline of the king’s fingers in her skin. Her eyes locked onto her father’s, widening in utter fear as he bore into her with his own stare.

  “Father...” Emmerlin whimpered, her tiny voice a mixture of pain and fright.

  Merdon felt nausea tug at him as Emmerlin’s hands opened, her arms straightening and fingers rigid with whatever her father was doing to her. Tears sprang from her eyes and her mouth opened in a silent scream, yet only a cracked whisper came forth.

  What’s he doing to her?

  Pink-peach feathers oiled until they shone, ambassador Ru Tarn crossed Arteera’s room as gracefully as she always moved. She was as immaculate as usual, not a feather out of place, not a wrinkle in her robes, and not a muscle wrong as she lowered herself in a curtsy, her eyes dipping to the floor. Arteera nodded her head in response before smiling at the feathered Corbondrasi woman she had known for years.

  “Ru Tarn, how are you?” the queen asked warmly.

  “Ru Tarn is being well,” the other woman said. “And you?”

  “In truth I’ve been better,” Arteera said. “How’s your son?”

  The Corbondrasi beamed at mention of her son. “Dun Tarn is being very successful at his new posting,” she said with a mother’s pride. “He is being in command of whole squa
dron now,” she added. “But what is being wrong?” she asked in her birdlike voice.

  “My foolish husband’s gone and got himself into some trouble,” Arteera stated.

  “Nothing too bad, I am hoping,” the ambassador said. “What can Ru Tarn be doing?”

  “I’m not sure,” Arteera said. “But have you ever seen anything like this before?” She handed one of Besmir’s bottles to the woman.

  Ru Tarn took the bottle, stroking her feathered fingers over the bottle’s surface almost reverently. Her lavender eyes searched the queen’s face for a few seconds before she uncorked the bottle and sniffed the contents.

  “Where is Arteera getting this?” she asked.

  “You know what it is?”

  The Corbondrasi nodded, her feathers hissing as they rubbed against each other.

  “What? Please, tell me everything,” Arteera begged.

  Ru Tarn looked at the bottle again before screwing the cork back in and setting it gently on the table that sat between them. She sighed.

  “Ru Tarn was thinking this was over,” she muttered. “Done and gone.” Her head came up as she explained. “Most of Bornash is desert, things only be growing along banks of River Shull and coastline.”

  Arteera nodded, recalling the heat and oppressive atmosphere in the Corbondrasi homeland.

  “But in deep south, there is being another place where things can grow. It is being thought that water comes from underneath somehow, because there is being nothing on the surface.”

  The Corbondrasi made a face. “There is being something wrong with the soil or water or … something,” she continued. “Plants growing there are being strange and poisonous, but also growing there are plants that can change what people are seeing and hearing.”

  Arteera leaned forward, as if a few inches closer would mean she could understand her friend. The ambassador was struggling to find the words to explain what she was trying to say, slipping into the clucks and whistles of her native language every so often.