Don't read late at night.
Healing Wounds in Arabarb
By Charles Matthias
April 11, 708 CR
Fjellvidden castle was built on a declivity on
the southern bank of the Arabas River, with its
northern extent perched over the river itself,
massive stone pylons sinking deep into the bed of
the river. This provided an efficient sewage
system for the castle, as well as a convenient
means of torturing and killing prisoners. As
such, the dungeons were at the lowest level of
the northern wing, interspersed with several
false floors that could open out and drop the
prisoners into the water where they'd struggle
and drown if the guards didn't pull them up again.
Even with entrances accessible from the swiftly
flowing river they would not be used by
Fjellvidden's enemies. The entire dungeons could
be sealed and flooded with the turning of a few
gears in the guardhouse chamber just above. No
army could hope to reach that chamber even if
they were able to beach the river-doors. The
staircase leading up from the prison was twisted
and narrow, allowing enough space only for a single man to walk.
On the contrary, the dungeon itself was wide open
with columns providing architectural support.
Over a hundred men could be chained to the floor
and languishing in the cold, dark space lit only
by a few scattered torches, and in a hazy stink
of human refuse relieved only when the river
gates were opened and the cold mountain river
water would scour everything clean and drown a few of the weaker prisoners.
But Calephas didn't keep prisoners long anymore.
Ever since Gmork's arrival there had not been a
need. Those captured in acts of treason were
either killed or pressed for information in
Gmork's unique ways. Some of these were sent back
out into Arabarb to act as spies. The rest gladly
gave their bodies as food for Gmork and his
children, or even to the few bands of Lutins left
in Arabarb. After Nasoj's defeat most of the
Lutins retreated back to the Giantdowns, but
there were a few who enjoyed the comparative
bounty to be had in the forests of Arabarb.
It was these creatures that were given the task
of guarding the two prisoners currently in the
dungeons. Both prisoners were grown men and kept
perhaps two dozen yards apart in the gloom. Just
enough that if they did decide to speak they
would have to speak loudly; loud enough that
Gmork's spells would overhear them.
Of the two prisoners, one was a red-bearded man
showing signs of gray, of the typical physical
stature and features of a man of Arabarb. The
other was a stout man with broad shoulders,
lighter colored hair, long scars gouging the side
of his face, and an odd foreign set to his
features. Of course, the more distinguishing
features were the ears, pointed and coated in
light gray fur, his nose which had broadened and
flattened, lips that were cleft, and oddly swollen fingers and nails.
It was to the deformed man that Gmork turned when
he entered the dungeons followed at a discrete
distance by one of the Lutin hunters assigned to
the castle. The prisoner, dressed in drab, black
rags that clung loosely to his chest and legs,
turned his ears as Gmork approached, but did not look up to meet his gaze.
And how is my newest pup feeling today? Gmork
asked with a playful growl dancing on his tongue.
He could feel the magical skill this man had
winding ever tighter inside of him, seeking to
escape Gmork's inevitable grip. The chains about
his ankles were mere formalities; Gmork's mere
will kept him prisoner more than any chains could.
Lowering on his twisted legs, Gmork leaned just
over his latest acquisition. A month ago he'd
been a simple traveler passing through the cleft
in the mountains from the Giantdowns. He'd come
straight for Fjellvidden, watched by Gmork's
spies. With a frightening degree of intrepidity
he'd gained entrance to the castle without
alerting any of the Lutin or human guards, making
his way to Calephas's chambers.
Gmork had been there instead.
And now this would-be assassin belonged to him.
Gmork smiled, long fangs revealed behind thin,
dark lips. You do not answer your father?
The stocky man's ears twitched and a little whine
escaped his throat. The eyes, dark with flecks of
golden light spreading through the iris, lifted
to meet Gmork. They were at once full of hate and
fear. Gmork reached out a hand and gently stroked
his cheek, noting the strange scars on his cheeks
and neck, and then ran one finger across the
pointed and fur-covered ears. The fur was thicker than it had been a day ago.
In a sterner voice, Gmork again asked, How do you feel, pup?
His lips, once full but now thin and darkening,
quivered for a moment before a dull red tongue
slipped between the teeth to mutter, Fine.
Fine?
His pup tried to stare at him defiantly, but
Gmork's own gaze bored into him, touching that
swirl of magical energy inside of him. The man's
irises swelled larger, more beastly, before
subsiding back to their normal size. He whined
again, even more like a little dog, and murmured, Fine, Father.
Gmork smiled and gently pet him across the head.
The hair was unkempt and dirty, but felt smoother and fuller.
Very good, my pup. I am your Father. Your will
belongs to me and is mine to dispose of. Do you
not feel the hunger I have? Do you not share it? Can you not smell it?
At the very suggestion, the man's twisted nose
flared and drank in the tapestry of odors that
clung to Gmork. From the many animal skins he
cloaked his misshaped body with, to the lingering
stink of the Lutin who'd accompanied him, all of
it would be soon known to his pup. He lingered
for a moment on the sweet scent of trees and
fresh breeze that Gmork had lately passed through
in his twilight lope. And then, his tongue
pressed itself anew between his teeth and began
to glisten with saliva as his breathing
intensified. His hands and hardened nails dug at
the stone beneath him as he pushed himself
forward an inch or two toward the small leather
knapsack that Gmork had brought with him.
Oh, you do. Gmork smiled again, and taking the
knapsack, opened it and drew out a skin-wrapped
hank of freshly killed thigh. Even in the feeble
light from the torches, the deep red of the
bloody shank was clear and vibrant. His pup
craned forward a little bit more, panting even
more visibly now. Gmork could see his teeth, once
even and only mildly discolored, now straining at
his gums and thoroughly yellowed.
With a succulent growl, Gmork whispered to his
pup, Do you want this? Ask for it.
The man's eyes lifted from the meat and he whined
again, quivering, May I have it... Father? May I eat it?
Gmork's smile widened as he hunched closer. The
other prisoner, if he were watching, would have
been able to see Gmork's tail sweeping back and
forth across the stone floor from beneath his
cloaks. It's human. You may have it.
His pup sucked his tongue back into his mouth and
tried to inch away from the hank of flesh. Hunger
now begat horror. He whimpered and shook his head
back and forth. Had he a tail it would have
tucked itself between his legs. Through the rags
Gmork couldn't see if he'd gained such a beastly
appendage but it shouldn't be long now. Still,
his continued refusal to eat what he believed to
be the flesh of a man for he had long since
believed whatever Gmork told him, except when it
came to things about himself frustrated Gmork.
Until he could eat human flesh ravenously and
without compunction, the transformation could
never be complete. It wouldn't suffice to make
him appear like himself; he had to think and behave that way too.
The hank of flesh was really from a deer, but
there was no use in telling him that just yet. In
sultry words, Gmork leaned over, letting his face
press out into a narrow snout as he growled, his
words now guttural but still plain. You are
hungry, my pup. You have asked my permission to
eat. I have given it. You are hungry. This is
food. All things, but your father and siblings,
are food for you, my pup. All things. This too.
You are hungry. So very hungry. It has been days
since you last tasted blood. You yearn for blood.
As Gmork spoke of the new pup's hunger and taste
for blood, his eyes flicked furtively down at the
tender, red flesh. The hank was torn at either
end where Gmork's jaws had severed the leg from
hip and knee, but the ends of the bone were
visible and glistened a golden hue in the
torchlight. The tongue pressed against the back of his teeth.
That's right, my pup. You are very, so very,
very hungry. But you are in no position to eat it
like that. No pup of mine would eat sitting. Turn over; crouch as do I.
The pup trembled and closed his eyes, ears
turning down as if to shut out the words. Gmork
felt across the swirling madness of his magical
core with his carnal instinct, chiding him for
every man-like ideal he encountered in his pup's
scattered thoughts. Justice? Only those willing
to eat would be filled. Mercy? An invitation to
ruin and starvation. Truth? The only truth that
mattered was his hunger, the food before him, and
his father's beckoning command.
Slowly, with every ounce of resistance struggling
the whole way, the man pulled his legs underneath
him and rolled over until he was on his hands and
knees. With an unsteady push, he eased himself
onto his unshod feet, the tops of which were
flecked with the same gray fur on his ears, and
leaned forward on toes swollen and crooked. The
sheer exertion of fighting Gmork's will left him panting from exhaustion.
Oh, my pup. You are hungry. You need to eat to
live. I have been a good father to you. I have
brought you food to sate yourself. Eat it. Eat it like the beast you are.
Gmork picked up the meat in one hand and lifted
it so that the scent of it was plain to his pup's
nose. The man shuddered as his nose drank in the
tantalizing aroma of a fresh kill. His hands
lifted to snatch the meat from Gmork but paused
halfway. Instead he drove his fists into the
stone and Gmork's grip on his magical core
faltered. No! He snapped with indignation and
force unbecoming the whining pup he'd been a
second before. I will not eat the flesh of man... Father.
Gmork lowered the meat, knowing that it would do
no good to press any further today. His mind and
will were already twisted enough that even in
defiance he still knew he was but a pup. It was
progress. Not as much as Gmork had hoped for, but progress nevertheless.
He betrayed none of his disappointment, growling
his words and lifting furred ears high over his
sloped brow. Not today, no. But you needn't
fear. This is not the flesh of man.
His pup's tongue immediately pressed back between
his teeth and saliva dripped across his lips. The
defiance, like a wick extinguished, was gone. He
held out his hands, stubby fingers twitching
eagerly. May I have it to eat, Father?
Gmork set the hank of flesh on the stone before
his pup and nodded. But not with your hands.
The pup put his hands palm down on the stone and
bent over the hank, tearing at it ravenously with
his teeth, smearing his face in the blood. Gmork
felt a surge of delight at the sight. Another
week or two, a month at the most, and his newest
pup would be ready to leave the dungeons and take
his place in Gmork's family. And on that day,
he'd tear a child of Arabarb to pieces merely
because Gmork willed it; and he'd enjoy it too.
While his pup fed, he turned his gaze to the
other prisoner in the dungeons. The red-bearded
man watched him with dull but sombre eyes. His
sallow cheeks belied an iron will and dangerous
blood. Gmork let his snout retract back into a
more human visage as he loped on all fours a
little nearer this other prisoner. The Lutin
guard watching them kept far back, refusing to approach this other prisoner.
Gmork wasted no time here. He didn't even like
being in his presence. Have you anything you wish to tell us?
The man's laconic gaze irritated Gmork. If not
for Calephas's interest in the man, he would have
been drowned in the river two months ago when
they'd captured him. A faint smile appeared through his beard. Nothing today.
So be it. Gmork loped back to his pup, noted
that he was still chewing madly and gorging
himself on the fresh kill, and then straightened
as much as he was able, and walked back to the
stairs leaving the dungeon. The Lutin guard
followed him up, closing the heavy iron door and locking it behind them.
He was only halfway up the twisted stairs when he
met one of his other children, this one draped in
clothes that had at one time been fine but were
now stained and dirty mockeries of their former
elegance. Fur poked through several holes along
his arms and upper back, and a naked whip-like
tail dangled through a gash rent in the seat of
his trousers. His eyes, arctic blue from eyelid
to nose except for the coal black pupil, gazed at
Gmork with fawning adoration. Father! One of
your pets has news you need to hear.
Gmork smiled and stroked his eldest pup between
the ears. They grew pointed and fur-coated in
appreciation. Very good. Let us go to the
Listening Room and see what the little pet has to say.
The listening room was three floors above the
dungeons in the northern wing of the castle. This
wing Calephas had essentially ceded to Gmork for
his purposes so long as he did not interfere when
Calephas wished to see the prisoners himself.
In the center of the structure, well hidden from
any windows, was a room that had once served as
some servant's bedroom. Gmork had fitted shelving
along the walls, and in each of the many nooks
had placed one of the baubles he'd collected, and
into which he'd taken the will of his puppets.
There were no lights in the small room as there
was no need. The glowing baubles cast shadows in
every direction and filled the room with bronze twilight.
Gmork and his eldest pup entered and crouched
before the western wall filled with over a
hundred little baubles. Only six of them remained
dark. When they were filled he would have to kill
some of his puppets before he could make more. It
took over a year to fashion a single bauble.
Until he had at least a dozen pups who could tend
to the pets and to each other, Gmork could not
spare the time. He growled and salivated at the
thought of ripping out Nasoj's throat; that
betrayer had slayed his other pups a year past.
At least he had been able to save his baubles when he escaped from Nasojassa.
Which one was it? Gmork asked. The pup loped to
the shelves, not daring to stand higher than his
father, and tapped two separate baubles with his
shrunken hands. Bring them to me.
The pup obeyed, carefully depositing the glowing
spheres at Gmork's feet. He crouched lower, his
cloak of furs crumpling across the ground around
him. He rolled the baubles in his hands, licking
each of them once and then listening to the
voices within. They didn't want to talk to him,
but they had no choice. They never did. He spoke
softly to them, asking them what they knew. And
then he knew everything that they knew. It took
several minutes, but soon all that he wanted was his.
He offered both baubles back to his pup who was
quick to return them to their reliquary. Gmork
pondered what he'd learned for only a moment
before rising and declaring, I must tell the
Baron what I have learned. Stay and listen to my little pets.
I will, Father! his pup bayed eagerly, naked
tail sprouting fur in patches as it wagged. Gmork
gently stroked a hand down his head and neck
before leaving the room behind and venturing south through the castle.
The portion of Fjellvidden castle situated on the
southern bank of the Arabas was more conventional
and patrolled by Calephas's human and Lutin
soldiers. Still, it held its dark secrets and
after asking one of Calephas's senior soldiers
where the Baron was entertaining himself, he
headed down toward the cellars near where the
river doors were and where one of those dark secrets continued.
He found Calephas behind an iron door in an
almost immaculately kept room. A tiger Keeper who
bore nothing but a collar and harness was rubbing
the floor with towels to clean up something that
smelled acrid and made Gmork's nose cringe.
Calephas was bent over a broad oaken table with
beakers and bottles arrayed in a deliberately
confusing profusion. A small censer kept one of
the bottles heated, and the yellowish fluid inside bubbled with brisk abandon.
Chained to the far wall opposite the table was a
young boy of perhaps ten years of age. He had no
clothes on, though whatever comeliness he'd once
possessed was now marred by unnatural deformities
in his skull, chest, arms, and legs that warped
and twisted his bones. Gmork was disappointed to
see that the child had passed out from whatever
pain he'd endured, and a long, thick tongue
dangled from his twisted and narrow jaws. The
skin along his sides and back had hardened like a
thousand scabs and pressed together and blossomed
a rich purple like a fresh bruise.
The boy's arms were forced back so that they
jutted out of his shoulder blades and dangled
uselessly at his sides. And his legs were splayed
on either side of his hips, the toes curled so
tightly that even in his unconsciousness it
looked as if they were causing him pain. Gmork
sneered in distaste at the pungent dry scent that
emerged from the spent child's flesh. In another
day he was sure to be a carcass cast into the river and devoured by fish.
What is it, Gmork? Calephas asked as he set a
pair of bottles down with a sigh. I asked you
not to interrupt me while I'm here.
Gmork straightened for a moment, smiling with
confidence as he clenched his nostrils tight to
keep from taking in anymore vile odors. Unless
the news was of Metamor, which it is.
The tall aristocrat turned and gazed at him with
baby blue eyes that betrayed anything but
innocence. Have they sent more spies?
An assassin, Gmork replied. One who is native
to Arabarb and who knows the land very well. He
is coming to Fjellvidden now and should be here in a day or so.
Calephas grunted. Metamorians are easy to spot.
Even if he did once live here, I have no doubt
you'll find him before he is within a mile of the castle.
The beastly Gmork shook his head ever so slowly.
I have not sensed the telltale signature of the
Metamor Curse anywhere in your lands, oh my
Baron. He may not have suffered the Curse. The
horse rules lands that have been spared it.
True, Calephas admitted and began to stroke his
clean-shaven chin with one hand. That would be a
clever move on their part. It's about time they
finally had a clever idea. Nevertheless, I expect
you to identify this assassin and capture him. My
men are at your disposal of course.
What orders may I give? He hated being
subservient to the Baron, but it was necessary
for a time until he had replenished his children.
Then Arabarb would be his hunting grounds and its
people his flock and food. On that day,
Calephas's head would decorate a pike until the
scent of his fouled blood was too much to bear.
But until then, he was a dutiful servant and
sometimes partner to the disciple of Lilith and Suspira.
Nothing new. Let him think he has caught us
unawares. The safer he feels, the more easy he will be to spot.
Just what I thought as well, Gmork admitted
with begrudging respect. At least Calephas did think like a beast.
Good. Now, see to it. I have a few more
experiments that I wish to perform then I fear
I'm going to need a new boy. Calephas glanced at
the unconscious monstrosity and shook his head as
if disappointed in his victim. Make that a new
order. You know which ones I like best.
Gmork knew very well. I will do as you ask, my
Baron. With that he backed out and left Calephas to his grotesque fleshcraft.
----------
May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
!DSPAM:4dad4e98257355839567377!
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