7 - Dark Prophecy

 

He still considered himself a man of science in many respects; it was simply how his mind worked, and he did not see it practical for the host body to be his own, as it would impede his ability to study the process. To explain to the public, even to the few members of the Cult of Earth, that the old man had been infected with a magical parasite- and through Byron’s deception, no less- was far too ugly a truth for one interested in cultivating a following. He spent his time waiting for Varnabas to rise from his sleep thinking up a suitable tale to tell them, one that would paint him in a better light.

The two of them lay there in the weeds for what seemed like hours, with Byron periodically checking the old man’s pulse. Finally he’d regained a sort of consciousness, his senses dulled just as Cossack had written they would be, and he followed Byron’s simple commands well enough. Byron was able to guide Varnabas the rest of the way through the woods, and eventually they came stumbling into the clearing where the cult gathered in a pale morning light.  

The filth-covered cultists met the now clean and well-dressed Byron in the clearing. Though he was disheveled and slightly scuffed from his long night, they met him with reverence, awe, and, he sensed, a considerable amount of fear. He could not blame them. Two nights prior they had seen him erupt into unnatural fire on the pedestal in Altar Cave. They’d witnessed his incineration, yet there he now stood again, untouched- smiling, even- with his arms outraised.

They laid themselves prostrate at his feet and swore to follow him. Most of them did. All of them but the man Xander, who stayed at the far end of the clearing as he tended to drying animal skins and leaned on his spear, occasionally glancing up at the others as they wailed and carried on.

Finally, with only a touch of embarrassment, Byron told his new flock to stand, and affirmed to them that they needn’t treat him any differently. He told them that they were equals, brothers and sisters, but a curious smile had come to his face that would not leave. They worship me already, he realized. Just like that.

He’d been slightly ashamed at how it made him feel, but still would not discourage it. He knew that their subservience could only make his soon-to-be notoriety easier to manage. It was perhaps integral, he thought, if he were to realize any further plans for Yartha while remaining independent of the Towers’ influence and authority. He would need them.

In a copse of trees at the edge of the clearing was their camp. The tale he told the small collection of dirty men and women around the ashes of their campfire that morning was a far more adventurous one than his true experience had been. As the slack-jawed old man at his side gazed vacantly at the sky, he told them of a difficult and perilous quest, largely fabricated. 

In his version of events, Varnabas, who he simply called the wizard, had been a willing participant- a wise sorcerer who Byron had set off on his journey to find. Byron related to them the spiraled moss and the many-eyed bullfrog of the Lowlands, but in his telling he had not been afraid. He told them of the abandoned village, but left out the well full of human bones. He hadn’t needed to embellish his description of Mt. Omni, but did not tell them about the moon people he’d brought back with him to the city, or even mention them at all. In his tale, he’d found the wizard at the top of the tower- a nameless being with whom only Byron could telepathically communicate. Byron told the wizard of their plight in Yartha, and he’d agreed to return with him, to undergo a magical transformation that would bring rain to the land. That part, Byron hoped, was true. 

Once the story was told, he explained to them the specifics of the spell. No one questioned him, though they were somewhat perplexed by his insistence that they shave their heads. They had already witnessed his magic once, and needed no further confirmation. 

They gathered together in the clearing with shears and a straight razor that Byron had taken from the academy upon his return from Magaia. He gave them soap to make a lather, and they filled buckets of water from their tiny creek. In the fast-forming heat they proceeded to cut and shave the filthy, matted hair from one another’s heads until each of their visages were completely hairless, browless, cuts and nicks adorning their clean scalps their faces transformed into strange, off-putting masks sheening with sweat as the sun beat down and they trundled off to bathe in the stream, Byron having told them the truth of the Earth God’s lack of concern over the old ways they followed. 

When they were clean he lined them up and anointed them each with a smudge of mud from his thumb beneath their left eye- a mixture he’d retrieved from his boots- from Magaia. Afterward they had experienced cases of mild nausea, which he’d found fascinating. It was the same effect that occurred from exposure to the forbidden relics. Byron thought about the moon people out there somewhere in the woods, and wondered if their entire bodies would radiate the same illness to the unchosen, or was it something more severe than even that?

He observed the old man with mild disgust, wondering what the hideous “youngling” could possibly be doing inside of him, and remembered Cossack’s words. You will know when it is time. Your body will tell you.  

Flies, plentiful in the clearing, hovered around Varnabas’ form as he slumped backward and stared straight up into the sun. Byron grabbed a thin arm and pulled him back up to wobble there in the grass with the sun beating down on his bald head and his lank gray hair masking his face in the light breeze. A string of saliva descended from his chin and flew away with it.

***

Byron told them that he should not be disturbed, that he needed to be alone to commune with the wizard, but still he’d ordered the man Trenton to keep guard at the base of the hill at Altar Cave that night. He was the sturdiest of all of them, even more so than Xander, who had in any case suspiciously disappeared during their afternoon collection. The others had stayed at the clearing as he and Varnabas, who seemed to be drawn back to the place, had hiked to Altar Cave. 

His mind ran in circles with thoughts of other mages hopping back and forth. How many were there? Was he the only one? He thought that if the Tower’s knew about it the realm like Cossack had said, that it had been an incredibly well-kept secret. That night the anticipation of events to come- what they would mean for both him and the city- would not allow him rest.

Varnabas lay quietly on the pedestal in the cave, his ear to it, eyes wide open as if listening for or concentrating on something. Byron was nervous about leaving the old man alone, but also was accustomed to frequent solitary walks to collect his thoughts, and he had much to think about. He left the old man there, occupied with his ghosts or whatever it was that fascinated him, and hiked down to the creekbed to where Trenton had built a fire and sat whittling something in its light. Byron informed him of his plans, and alone he walked along the dry creek bed that hugged the base of the hill, his lantern in hand, consumed with his thoughts. 

After a long and fruitful meditation he found himself far into the woods, the banks of the creekbed there were canyon-like there, the trees stretching up at the sky and creating a canopy of their branches. He stopped at the entrance to the natural tunnel and a shiver ran up his spine as he heard, or thought he heard, the baritone sounds of the moon people.

Curiosity and a grudging sense of responsibility won out over his fear, and he followed their mournful, rumbling sighs and moans into the valley of the creek, high banks on all sides to where it ended in what during the rains would have been a wide shallow pool. Scarce moonlight fell on the place. As he crept further the sounds became louder, and he realized that there were two in the call; a monotone, ceaseless humming, and above that low grunting and a sort of barking noise, also guttural. 

Byron emerged from behind a large rock and saw the roots of a mighty old oak where they clung to the embankment. In between the roots was a pitch-black hole. A burrow, Byron thought. In front of the roots were two huge, ghostly white figures- those he’d brought. They were wrestling with one another, or at least that was what he thought before, to his horror, he saw that they were mating. 

His lantern illuminated their act for only a moment- the female hunched over, pale breasts against the rocks of the creek. She was the one making the humming noise. He saw the male's penis, unnaturally long and red like a dog’s, glistening as it had gone flaccid and quickly retracted into the thing’s pale body somewhere within its groin. The pair turned to him with their terrible blank stares. 

Byron went scrambling through the trees, whimpering, heart beating uncontrollably. Breathless, running the entire way, he made his way back to the cave and ducked into its opening, sliding haphazardly down the incline. Lantern light danced across Varnabas as the old man lifted his sickly head from the pedestal. Byron shushed him, though of course he’d said nothing, and sat down next to him and hawkishly watched the cave’s opening. He was afraid that he may have done something terrible with upholding his end of the bargain with Cossack. 

***

For the next three days he and Varnabas lived in the cave while Byron awaited the old man’s transformation. Gone was any semblance of the happy drunkard who’d sang his songs along Drift Street, and in many respects, gone too was the mathematics professor who had taught at the prestigious Academy of Yartha. In the scholar’s place was a fanatical disciple of Hyne- a figure resembling more a wilderness mystic of a thousand years past than the educated, modern man he had once been.

Lantern light flickered on the cave walls as Byron- completely hairless, face painted red with mud from the Lowlands- leaned forward from his perch on the edge of the pedestal. He observed Varnabas slouched naked in the dirt with his back to the cave wall, body shining with sweat, dried feces on his legs as his head bobbed to his chest and he gazed idiotically forward. 

Byron had finally disrobed him and thrown his old tunic and breeches into the woods outside the cave, after Varnabas had continued to defecate and urinate in them. On the third day the bodily functions stopped. Byron wasn’t sure how visible the mutation of the host body would be, but he wanted to note everything, to leave nothing to chance, and it made more sense that the man be nude to accommodate that, he reasoned. 

In the three days since the drunkard had consumed the parasite, he’d fallen into a near-catatonic state. Byron believed him now to be blind. He’d developed large white sores on his tongue and lips, and a red, angry rash around his near-toothless mouth, which had stopped running with drool and was now coated with a sticky, unknown substance. His eyes were unfocused, bloodshot, and he rarely blinked.

Thus far he’d not thirsted or hungered for anything- food, water, and certainly not dead human flesh or hair. He’d arrived having a potbelly, despite being skin and bones everywhere else, but Byron saw that his stomach had distended further since that morning. It was a reassuring sign to him. He placed his hand there and thought he sensed movement inside, though it could have been his nerves. He hadn’t slept well at all since happening upon the moon people. He simply hadn’t slept well in a long time.

Byron spoke to Varnabas, as he’d taken to doing. “Don’t worry, my friend,” he said to the struggling man. “I tell you again, if you can hear me, that this is only temporary.” He knelt and damped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “You will be re-born,” he said, smiling. “Isn’t that marvelous? The moon man Cossack says that you will become rain before returning to your body, unharmed. He says that it is a wonderful experience, so…”

Next to him was one of their reed baskets filled with their collected hair like some silken black and gray animal. He reached his hand into it and came out with a handful, held it close to Varnabas' raw mouth for a long time, but the old man remained uninterested. Byron returned it to the wicker basket and brushed his hands together as the strands tangled and fell in the light. 

He absently wondered if the amount they had procured would be enough for when the time came. Cossack had burned the notes he’d written before sending him from the tower, but Byron didn’t recall the creature mentioning amounts. Measures will need to be taken to procure more. Just to be safe. 

He got up from the pedestal and bent over to observe the man. A sighing groan passed Varnabas’ red and white swollen lips. Byron patted him on his balding head as he spoke. “You are the true savior of the city,” he said. “Rest easy, my friend. This will all be over soon.”

Byron stood, and when a shadow fell over the cave’s opening he froze. Without turning he shouted, “I demand solitude! Go back to the clearing, and I will tell you when things have progressed!”

Whoever it was didn’t wait for him to finish and ducked into the opening. “Forgive us,” a voice came, a cultist by the name of Nadia. “A matter requires your attention, brother Byron,” she said. The cave opening was then completely swallowed in shadow, and he saw their forms as they made their way down the earthen incline- the cultist named Xander between them, face bruised, mouth bloody.

“He is a blasphemer,” said Brother Trenton. He was a thin, middle-aged man with deep shadows under his eyes. He had likely been the attacker, Byron thought. He sensed an unstableness in his devotion.

Trenton had hold of one of Xander’s arms and Sister Nadia the left one. Nadia was a serious woman, slightly older than Byron, and he’d found her impressively well-versed in the mythologies. He thought that had she not been lowborn, that she would have made a fine student at the academy. In her other hand was the wooden spear which Byron had so far not seen Xander without. 

Byron approached the beaten man, glad that the others were there to defend him. “You have decided to aid us, at long last?” Byron asked him. He turned and picked up the large wicker basket behind him, filled with their dark locks of hair. “You have fine hair, and so much,” Byron tittered.

“No,” Xander said. He was dressed in a ragged toga, the left half of his chest exposed. He looked quickly to Varnabas laying there and his eyes widened for a moment, then returned to Byron and hardened again. “What is happening to him?”

“Shut your mouth,” Trenton said from his side. “Do you want to tell him about your blasphemy, or should I?”

“Don’t talk to me like a child, brother,” Xander said, then turned his head to Byron. “I came here to give you a warning,” he said.

Byron returned his hard stare. “What could you possibly think that you need to warn me about, woodsman?”

“I was a follower of Slybbon, before Hyne,” Xander said.

Byron put the first two fingers of his right hand to the crease in his brow. “Please get to the point, sir,” he said, and swept to the side to gesture at Varnabas laying there. “As you can see, this brave man needs my complete attention.”

“Unhand me,” Xander growled at the two still holding him. Byron nodded and they did so. Sister Lydia took up his spear and Trenton walked up and grabbed it from her, turned and pointed it at Xander. Neither he or Lydia paid any attention.

“I have come to warn you,” Xander said evenly. “To make you aware that you are in the process of fulfilling a dark prophecy from the myths of the Water Goddess. The Book of the River tells of the days when the Earth God goes mad, sick with all the evil acts of men committed on his grounds, turning them haunted and sour. He lashes out at his siblings, Water, Wind, and Fire, all of them able to cleanse themselves of man’s wickedness, and aligns himself with the God of Time.”

“I see you have stumbled on some obscure tale stretched by fanciful imaginations, no doubt,” Byron muttered.

“The heart of Earth becomes poisoned with evil over time, and Hyne plots to put an end to all mankind, an end to his madness. He lays waste to the realms of man and the paradises the gods have made for man.”

“Blasphemy,” Byron said shortly, and began to shush him.

Xander continued. “The God of Earth uses a dark sorcerer, a human, to bring death to these realms. A human. Are you a dark sorcerer, Byron Levant? Are you a betrayer?”

“Watch your tongue, simpleton,” Byron hissed. “That is a dangerous accusation.” He frowned and shook his head. “Dark sorcerer, black magic. Nonsense. The Towers would hang me if this were true. Is that your intent?” Though the laws were antiquated, they were still in place. Practitioners of black magic were hung to death. “I will not be threatened by you,” Byron told him. “If that was an attempt at a threat.”

“I hear things at night,” Xander stated. “Not animal, and not human. So have the others.”

Byron laughed, but sweat broke out on his brow. "The forest is filled with creatures of all manners,” he said. “Not to mention the wandering drunkards making noises for their own amusement, or… or of any other possible source, and your mind went directly to invaders from a myth? An assumption that this shit-heap of a city is Slybbon's paradise? This is the problem with the thinking of commoners. You have no deductive reasoning."

“Shall I kill him, Byron?” Trenton asked nonchalantly. “There are spots in Hundred Trees where the gangs get rid of bodies. Thieves guilds do it, too. Just say the word.”

“Hold on, now,” the woman said, and Byron shushed her. 

Xander turned his head to them. “All of you forget the teachings of Hyne so quickly. A blessing that I will not have to bear witness to this, one way or another...”

“The gods have spoken,” Trenton said simply, “and you cannot hear them. You believe a story from a false goddess before you believe what you see in front of you.”

“It’s not all white magic, fool,” Xander said with naked urgency. He turned his head and began to plead to Byron. “This is black magic,” he said. “I have followed the wrong god, and in turn I have aided the devils. The only thing left for me to do is to return to the river, to the embrace of Slybbon, who I should have never left, and seek her redemption.” He lowered his head. “I will leave this mortal coil. This place the gods forsake long ago. I will meet her at the Riverlands and beg for forgiveness, and pray that she spares your souls, as well. Do not kill me here. Let me return to the river. To absolve myself. The Yarthanguard are no friends of mine. I will not uncover your plot. I know that it would do no good, anyway.”

Byron touched the dagger at his side. His hand trembled. Xander saw it, his eyes wandered back up to him and he said in a gentle voice, “You can still try to walk the path of light.”

Suddenly indignant, Byron crossed his arms and tilted his head back. His tone changed. "What kind of imbecile… or, or ingrate, experiences a miracle first-hand, and refuses what his senses report? I am in the process of saving countless lives. Yes, I think it is best that you return to the river and leave us to our business.”

“Thank you,” Xander said, head lowered.

They turned to climb up toward the opening and Byron touched Nadia's shoulder and said into her ear. “Follow him. Make sure he does as he intends.”

Before he left, Xander turned back and looked at Byron. “You’re the only one who can usher back this madness,” he said, “but you won’t, will you? Prophecy is prophecy.”

Byron paid him no mind, though part of him wanted Trenton to kill him, just to see if he would. Then they were gone, and Byron was left with the old man who he turned to. “Hurry up, you damn fool,” he barked, and kicked him in the naked thigh and began to pace in the cave.

His thoughts turned to the creatures in the woods. Each night he’d heard the low moans and barks of their mating. It is only a matter of time before those beasts are discovered, he thought. The Yarthanguard will likely kill them on sight, hopefully before the bitch of them becomes pregnant, and I will be free of that worry. Dark prophecy. Nonsense. There is no fate, and concepts of black and white magic are arbitrary. There is only magic.

He had come to believe that the Towers were well aware of Magaia, and that he had done the wise thing by keeping his secret, lest he become their pawn in a losing game. The city was tilting toward revolution. Their political experiment was at an end, he believed, as talk of uprising became more common in the slums with each passing month. It was not hard for him to see. He who had spent time among them. The highborn were still oblivious. With the common man as his shield he would transform the city and usher in a new age of magic, starting with a miracle, he had decided.

Varnabas’ eyes rolled in his head. He turned his head in a dry heave and followed it with flatulence, then lay back down in the dirt next to the pedestal. Byron closed his eyes and prayed to whatever would listen. One more day, please, he thought. Just one more day without complications, and I will announce myself for the entire city to hear.

 

* End of Part One*