Raising Evil

by Liam Reese

  Things writhed in his guts, his intestines alive and jumping as if trying to escape through his skin. Heat cloaked his body like a shroud, yet he shivered and shook as if blasted by an arctic wind. Nausea pulled at his stomach, making him vomit until he was dry heaving endlessly, the pressure in his head and stomach intolerable.

  Yet even though the physical symptoms were bad, it was his mind that tortured him more. Squatting against one cold, stone wall, the king was visited by hundreds of dead men with melted faces, their bodies aflame with his fire. They moaned and writhed before him, begging to know why he had killed them so horribly.

  One man, the skin dripping from his face, even the droplets of fat aflame as they hit the floor, dragged himself across the cell to confront Besmir. “I had a wife,” he moaned as his eyeballs burst in their sockets. “Children.”

  Besmir gagged as the stranger’s tongue swelled in his mouth, his face crackling and turning black, the stench of burning flesh filling the king’s nostrils. Someone else approached next, a familiar face, but one he had not seen for years.

  “Keluse,” he groaned, throat hoarse from screaming and sickness.

  “Besmir,” she said, crouching before him. “You betrayed me.”

  His eyes rolled up to meet hers, and he felt his guts turn to water. Keluse had been gentle and kind when she had been his apprentice, his friend. Now her eyes were red orbs, dripping black tears down her face as she sneered at him cruelly.

  Besmir shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Porantillia took you.”

  “She did, but you let me die. I trusted you, Besmir, followed you to another country, and died so you could save your son.”

  “It wasn’t like that!” the king screamed, his words echoing around the empty room.

  Keluse leaned in close. The stench of death and putrefaction crept up his nose like a sweet wind. He recoiled sharply, smashing his head against the granite wall behind him.

  His vision swam with the blow, and Keluse began to rot before his very eyes. Dark patches appeared in her sagging cheeks. Her inhuman eyeballs shriveled and sank back into her skull. Rents appeared in her skin, sections of it ripping and raining down on Besmir, slapping wetly against his own skin.

  His screams rent the air as he tried to free himself from the chilly gobbets of his best friend’s skin.

  “No!” he bellowed. “I’m sorry!”

  When Keluse had completely disintegrated, her bones becoming a fine powder that coated his nose and throat, like a thick paste he could not swallow, Besmir was visited by another.

  Gratallach appeared before him. Not Gratallach in his human form, as Sir Eloren, but as an unfettered, raw, God-spirit. As he had at the conclusion of the battle at Urlsey, the God towered over him, a dark vortex of constantly shifting matter. Eyes and hands formed, peering and grasping for Besmir, before being sucked back into his main body.

  Fear grabbed Besmir’s chest in a vice-tight grip when he saw his greatest foe reborn. “I am eternal,” Gratallach said, his voice a million throats speaking in unison. “Your life is as nothing to me, and now I come for your very soul.”

  A scaled, clawed hand, double the size of anything human, grew from the vortex and snaked across toward Besmir. Its flexing, questing fingers dipped into his chest, stopping his lungs as the God rummaged around his innards. Without warning, the hand jerked backwards, and Besmir screamed again, expecting to see his soul being sucked out and taken into the God’s body.

  “You have no soul,” Gratallach moaned. “A fitting fate for one as cruel as I am.”

  Besmir curled up in a fetal ball of his own waste as he sobbed and screamed for hours on end.

  Prince Merdon listened to the soul-wrenching screams his grandfather was making in the cell. Gods! Have I done the right thing?

  It had been days since he had put his grandfather in a cell, incarcerating the King of Gazluth. Since then, he had been screaming incoherently, as if in torment and agony. He begged and pleaded with people who were not there, people long dead, telling them he was sorry.

  In the quiet periods, when Besmir was unconscious or delirious, Merdon had entered the cell, cleaning the filth and human waste from his grandfather’s skin with tenderness and warm water.

  Only once had his grandfather spoken to him as if aware he was present. He had washed and dried the king, helping him to the cot and putting a cup of fresh water to his lips. Besmir had been shaking, his body covered in greasy sweat despite Merdon’s ministrations.

  The king had sipped some of the water, gagging and choking on the liquid that was the only thing he could sometimes keep down. His grandfather had turned slowly, his eyes bloodshot and haunted by the horrific memories that had plagued him for days, to stare at Merdon, as if only just realizing it was him that was there.

  “You’re killing me,” he had whispered. “Gods, Merdon, you’re killing me.”

  The prince felt as if a knife had been slammed into his guts and twisted. “I’m doing this for your own good,” he said in a hurt tone.

  “Let me die,” Besmir had muttered as he slumped down on the bed, his consciousness fleeing.

  The other time they had interacted had been on the day after Merdon had locked Besmir in the cell, standing by the door as the king raged and railed against his treatment. He was in obvious pain, hunched over and holding his belly with one arm, suffering occasional muscle spasms that made his whole body clench and him moan.

  His grandfather, one of the men Merdon had looked up to, his hero and incredible influence on his life, had looked at him with pure hate in his glare. Without warning, the king had lashed out at Merdon, fire washing over and around him as he stood impassively by the door. Once the flame had subsided and Besmir stared at him in utter surprise, Merdon had spoken, his voice filled with a sadness he could never voice.

  “You can’t burn me, grandfather. You can’t shock me, stab me, or hit me, either, so you might as well give up. You’re going to have to stay in here until that poison is out of your body.”

  The prince had turned and left the room, barring the door from the outside and walking up the corridor to the small guard’s room there, his grandfather’s shouts and screams of hate and rage following him.

  Now he stood outside that same door again, days later. He was unwashed and had not eaten much in the time he had been there. In order to protect his grandfather’s reputation, he had left strict orders not to be approached, as the king was suffering with an illness he had already suffered himself. The only person Merdon had seen for days was his delirious, screaming grandfather.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  Doubts had plagued the young prince from the moment he had dragged his grandfather into this cell, sealing him inside to suffer. Was this the right thing to do? Should he send for some healers, who could give the old man something to ease the pain and chase away the nightmares?

  Or would that just be swapping one problem for a different one? He had no idea.

  From inside the cell, a low moan became a shriek as his grandfather began another day of screaming and moaning. Merdon rested his hand on the door, unable to enter, unable to watch the great king reduced to a sniveling wreck, sobbing at his feet again. He leaned his head against the thick wood and listened to the king mutter and whine within.

  “I can’t do this,” he said aloud.

  “You don’t need to do it alone.”

  The voice was close and familiar. Merdon peered into the darkness of the guard’s room, whence the voice had come.

  Did I imagine it? Am I losing my mind too?

  Lyeeta stepped into the weak glow of his lantern, her eyes sparkling in the light it cast. She was dressed in dark clothing, her curves covered by a thick, heavy cloak, and not a sign of her uniform could be seen.

  Panic and relief dribbled through Merdon in equal measure as soon as he realized she was actually here. Panic at the thought she might have either been followed, or brought other guards with her, and relief that he was no lon
ger alone.

  “Lyeeta...” Merdon said, his voice breaking.

  “Hush,” the young woman said, taking him in her arms. “Hush now, my prince.”

  The young guard stroked the back of his head and neck as he sobbed into her shoulder. Infusing her person, her hair and clothing, was a smell. Pleasant and fresh, reminiscent of home, it calmed Merdon’s thoughts and soothed him.

  “When did you eat last?” she asked when he stood up again.

  Merdon shrugged. “No idea,” he admitted. “It’s difficult to eat with him screaming in there.”

  Besmir’s cries had subsided into a whimpering, and so Lyeeta took Merdon’s hand, leading him back to the guard’s room, where a satchel lay on the small table in the middle. She had already rekindled the fire that burned in the hearth, and a warm glow suffused the room, sapping his will.

  I’m so tired.

  He sat on one of the tiny chairs, barely big enough for him as it had been built for Ninse bottoms, his eyes drooping as she opened the satchel and laid out bread, fruit and meat on the table.

  “You have to eat,” she said. “If you don’t look after yourself, you can’t care for him,” she added, handing him an apple.

  Merdon saw her fingers were long and slim. He imagined them intertwined with his as they walked somewhere in the sun. Within minutes, he was asleep.

  Merdon woke with a start. From the door to his right sunlight flooded down the stone steps and into the guard’s room. He yawned and stretched, the heavy cloak falling off as he moved. The prince frowned, looking at the cloak.

  That’s not mine. She was really here!

  Jumping up, Merdon caught the edge of the table, knocking the food to the floor, but not caring as he looked for the young guard.

  “Lyeeta?” he called gently.

  If she went to see to Grandfather, he might have burned her to a crisp.

  He bolted down the short corridor to where his grandfather was, expecting to see the cell open and him gone, with her remains a smoking mess on the floor. Rather, the door remained firmly shut, his grandfather inside and apparently sleeping peacefully.

  He drew back the heavy bolts and entered, crossing to the cot. His grandfather was asleep, his chest rising and falling easily. His skin was dry and looked a little more pink than it had before.

  Hope welled in his chest as he realized there was no filth in the cell.

  Is it over? Finally over?

  He toyed with the idea of waking the old king, but reasoned if he was sleeping this peacefully, he must need it, and backed from the cell after covering him with fresh blankets. Merdon bolted the door again, not wanting to, but not able to trust the old man fully yet, and padded back to look for Lyeeta.

  A warm breeze kissed his cheek, ruffling his hair as he opened the door to the outside world for the first time in more than a week. A small flock of birds flew overhead, chattering and tweeting as they passed, and Merdon watched them land in a small grove of trees to the north.

  He scanned the area, seeing nothing but grass and shrubs stretching off into the distance. At his back, the broken form of Ashorn loomed like a dying giant, her head sagging on rocky shoulders. Lyeeta was nowhere to be found.

  Disappointed, Merdon returned to the guard’s room, righting the table and picking up the food he had spilled. He brushed off the worst of the dust and dirt, his stomach growling. Many people, on seeing dirty food on the floor, might have balked at eating it, but Merdon had spent time with the Corbondrasi, training in the harsh deserts of Boranash.

  A little dust made no difference to him, and he started to stuff his face with as much food as he could, chewing without tasting much of what he ate, but needing the sustenance.

  Save some for grandfather.

  As his thoughts turned to the king incarcerated in the far cell, the door opened to the outside world, and Lyeeta stepped down the stairs with a large container of water.

  “Morning, Highness,” she said formally. “I took the opportunity to get some fresh water to heat so you might freshen yourself and the king.”

  The guard stirred the ashes of the fire with a piece of kindling, blowing gently on the few embers that came to life. Within seconds, a curl of smoke arose, flames soon following, and she added thin sticks as the blaze grew steadily. She filled the kettle hanging from a pot hook and swung it into the fire.

  Standing, she turned to see him staring at her, and a shy smile crossed her face. Merdon felt heat creep up his face at being caught watching her, and turned away quickly.

  “How’s your grandfather?” Lyeeta asked.

  Merdon felt a rush of gratitude that she had used that form of address, rather than referring to him as the king or King Besmir.

  “He’s sleeping at the moment,” he said. “I’m hoping the worst of whatever it was is over.”

  “Thank the Gods!” she said. “Oh! I have a letter from the queen for you.” She rummaged about in a pouch at her side. “A rider brought several missives last night.”

  She handed him a folded and sealed parchment, looking up into his eyes as her fingers caressed his.

  Dear Merdon,

  Horrid news, my grandson; that which the king has become fond of turns out to be a deathly narcotic poisonous to life. Please, my love, do all you can to ease his time in this world, and try to make his final transition as comfortable as possible.

  Know you have my support and love in this matter, and send my love to your grandfather, whatever condition he may be in.

  All my love, your grandmother,

  Queen Arteera

  Drugs, grandfather? What were you were thinking?

  Merdon crumpled the parchment, throwing it in the fire to destroy any trace of Besmir’s addiction to narcotics. Worry gripped him, now he knew the substance was deadly, especially as his grandfather lay asleep in the cell.

  He turned and ran along the short corridor, wrenching the bolts back and throwing open the door as Lyeeta trotted along behind him. The prince turned and shook his head at the woman, who stopped and backed off a few steps before returning along the corridor.

  The King of Gazluth sat up, staring at him with a puzzled expression on his face, appearing lucid and normal.

  “Merdon,” he said, with more authority in his voice than the prince had heard for days. “What in the name of all the Gods is going on?”

  10

  Emmerlin looked down at the town of Port Vartula, where Besmir had taken his first steps in the land he would eventually become king of. It was a sprawling mess of buildings and streets comprised mainly of stone, the only material hardy enough to stand against the sea and salt winds.

  Her eyes grazed over the citadel that loomed over the town. Built into the side of a hill that led up and out of the port, Vartula citadel was a brooding, gray hulk filled with soldiers all carrying her insignia.

  Garrison to the Princess of Gazluth regiment, and comprising up to five thousand active personnel, the citadel was one of the first lines of defense from any sea invasion. Soldiers from the citadel also policed the town, keeping the peace and running the local watch.

  The princess also cast her gaze at the forest of masts in the harbor, a confusing maze of uprights and crossbeams connected by ropes. Men scurried about in the rigging as some ships prepared to leave the port and others prepared to take their place, ready to load and unload cargoes from all over the world.

  She turned to see Senechul sleeping soundly, and smiled as she recalled their first night after fleeing her father. Her guard had piled up a small fire in a pit he had dug and sat staring into the flames and grunting.

  “What is wrong with you?” Emmerlin had finally asked, annoyed by his constant griping.

  “My nose is broken, remember?” he had answered, sarcastically.

  She had looked at him in the firelight and noticed the guard’s nose had been sitting at an unusual angle. Reaching out, she had tugged at his nose, pulling it down and out as he squirmed and puffed hot breath against her hand
. With a deep crunch of cartilage and bone, his nose had seated back into place, and she let go as Senechul wiped the tears from his face.

  He sat in silence for a while, his hands cupped protectively about his nose while letting the pain subside. When he finally let his hands drop, he had a smile on his lips.

  “By the Gods, that feels better!” he said.

  “Maybe you’ll be silent now and let me think,” Emmerlin replied.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “How to overthrow the king and take the throne without having to kill my whole family,” she said bluntly.

  Senechul gaped at her, and she wondered just how good she had been at keeping secrets, if her closest companion had no idea this was her plan.

  “Emmerlin...” he started in a worried voice.

  The princess had held her hand up, silencing him effectively. “You’ve got a choice to make, Senechul,” she said. “Swear obedience to me, here and now, promising to obey any and every order I give you, or return to my father and throw yourself at his mercy.”

  “I have been your servant from the first moment we met,” he said without hesitation. “I’m yours to command, and always will be.”

  “Good,” she had said with a little smirk. “Then get over here and please me.”

  Their journey had been almost like a holiday. Careless days spent in the saddle, chatting and joking, with nights spent entwined beneath the stars.

  She trotted back to the camp they had made the night before and kicked Senechul’s backside as he slept.

  “Hey!” Senechul cried, rolling over.

  “Rouse yourself, man!” she growled. “Today we’re going to take command of Port Vartula. Get up!”

  Senechul sprang to his feet in a fluid move that was surprising for a man of his size. He stood before her, naked in the morning sun, to let her gaze rake over his body. One aspect of his physique was more than pleased to see her, and hot lust burned through her belly.

  “It’d be a shame to waste that, however,” she said. “Maybe Vartula can wait for a little while.”