Gathering of the Gods

By JR Mitchell

Now complete the journey...

This final volume of The Immortals trilogy reveals the secret behind the Keys to 'The Game', a mystery as old as time itself.

The depravity and debauchery of the Demon Lord, Zadus, is pitted against the cunning sexuality of Ore'arn, gifted enchantress of the gods, as she and Sirus orchestrate the final battle on the world of Sansinus.

Those wielding ancient and powerful magic are drawn together to aid Ore'arn and Sirus, but will their combined forces be enough to help defeat Zadus and his hordes of un-dead?

This gripping conclusion to The Immortals trilogy will leave you with your heart racing, wondering: "could I ever have predicted the end-play of 'The Game'?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: JR Mitchell
• Release date: Jul 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780980401868

JR Mitchell

Joanne R. Mitchell was born in Murwillumbah, New South Wales, Australia and spent a number of years overseas. She completed a degree in Business Management/Marketing in 2002. She worked in management before owning her own marketing business. She now lives on the Sunshine Coast with her husband Grant and Shitzu Roxanne.She became a full-time writer after her first novel Pathway of the Gods was released in 2008. Jo is also an avid follower of the genre she loves, and finds a close affinity with the writers of fantasy fiction.

Book preview

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Ommran

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Azrah

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Theron

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Ore’arn and Sirus

Prologue

The Pathway

‘The Great One.’

‘Humbug.’

The sound echoed through the corridors of the Pathway’s cavernous veins as a shadow cast strange and wondrous images along its depths.

The mite Bea retreated to the ceiling, hiding in the crevices, fearing not only for herself, but also for her friends. There the mites huddled together terrified, hoping their master would soon calm down.

Throughout the cool lengths of the labyrinth, the vibrations continued gathering force. It was so powerful it shook the inner sanctum of Graton’s secret chamber.

Gigantic stalactites tore loose from the ceiling, sending crystals crashing onto the cavern’s floor, the pieces shattering into tiny shards, ending years of nature’s quiet art.

‘Disastrous!’ The ancient one’s voice bellowed yet again.

Moving swiftly, the mites wedged themselves deeper as the vibrations grew more tumultuous, the noise now deafening. The tiny creatures remained silent, waiting for the latest shock waves to dissipate. Watching their master, they could see the God trying in vain to compose himself.

Patience was never one of Graton’s virtues, and this was not the first time the mites had seen their master’s temper raise its ugly head. When this happened they knew things were serious.

Bea recalled all too well the time when Graton first sensed the presence of the Immortals as the twins Ommran and Theron were born. His volatility then had almost proven destructive, his anger had threatened to jeopardise their fragile world, endangering all those who relied on the labyrinth for their existence.

Now the mites quivered with fear again.

Watching, Bea suddenly saw Graton’s form grow still, the vibrations he caused now ceased.

When silence once more descended, the mites came and settled on the roof above their master’s head, the ceiling’s phosphorescent glow helping to camouflage their tiny bodies.

Heaving a heavy sigh, the Great One began to move his massive shape forward once again. His lair lay ahead. Even though his form was awkward and cumbersome he seemed to move with grace; his shape expanding and contracting as he oozed his way along the path toward his subterranean chamber. This was the place the Ancient One called home.

The mites sat watching Graton. Bea could not help but wonder at her master’s sudden display of anxiety. She accepted that Graton was a God, whose history was as ancient as the Craft he wielded, and this place, known to all as The Pathway, was his creation. To others he was known by more wholesome names; the Great One, or the Ancient One. Bea knew his world was interwoven between the worlds of the gods, and the worlds of mortals.

Bea recognised that this labyrinth was both mysterious and deceptive, a place that changed with the needs of those who come in search of the Ancient One. It is a coil, which feeds those who seek shelter and sustenance within its walls. Like the veins or arteries of mortal men, the Pathway gives life to the elements, which supports a network of worlds. Bea acknowledged that the life blood of the labyrinth gave sustenance and warmth to those sheltering within its portals including her and her friends. Without it the god’s and mortal men would perish.

Seeing that her master had moved ahead, Bea and the other mites scurried forward, the Mites moving around their master’s gaseous form, their plum shaped bodies scampering ahead in order to stay well out of his way. Even they were eager for him to reach his destination.

Watching with a large degree of affection, Graton spotted the creatures as they glided overhead. He wasn’t oblivious to the damage his anger had caused to those he cared about, or the distress of the tiny creatures he lovingly called the Mites. Yet he found himself disregarding the impulse to cease his tirade. He was overridden by a more primeval need, the need to safeguard himself.

He had a perilous decision to make. Darkness now threatened the worlds, an evil that was putrid and vile.

The dark forces of Zadus were spreading their tangled web across the universe and the gradual massing of this dark power was giving rise to Graton’s worst nightmares.

‘Humbug!’

Somehow the word didn’t seem appropriate, but it was better than some of the choicer sayings he might have used. This time as the word resonated he found himself trying to keep the noise a little more discreet.

As he made his way along the final conduit toward his cave, he was forced to admit to himself the one thing he had been trying to deny . . . he would need to intervene if the worlds were to be saved. The darkness which was threatening would destroy the delicate balance he had created. Graton acknowledged he had worked too hard and planned too long to allow that to happen.

At first he thought the malevolent force was nothing but a festering sore, evil yes, but still nothing more than a nuisance. He expected this force to heal itself, or disappear given time. But this evil lived and breathed. It was evolving . . . its hosts migrating wherever there was life flowing. Zadus’s appearance now served to remind Graton that life held dangers far greater than this game he played. And for the first time he conceded that the Pathway and all those within its protection lay in perilous danger.

This dark-force had to be destroyed. The question was how?

Who can I entrust with such a momentous task? Who can stand in the face of such a threat? Only one person was capable of such a feat. Only one had the intellectual cunning and power to destroy the enemy.

Ave’arn.

Thought of his brother gave further rise to his anger. It was fact. And Graton now had to confess to himself that even though he himself possessed incredible intellect and power, it was not sufficient to combat the darkness now growing. Ave’arn was the only one who might be capable of destroying Zadus.

Slowing, the Ancient One gave thought to his predicament.

Ahead lay his lair. Gathering the gas around him Graton continued sweeping a trail toward his chamber. As he moved the foundations shook in his wake, reflecting well the turmoil within the Great One’s phosphorescent turbulent body.

It simply never occurred to Graton that the Craft might draw an adversary as dark and ominous as this, the Craft being the ultimate power through which the Gods plied their skills. And now Zadus’s followers sat waiting for their master on the edge of the Great Abyss.

A resolution was urgently needed.

Wedging slowly through the opening of his chamber, the Ancient One stopped to take a deep breath. In the gloom of his sanctuary, Graton moved like a storm in the gathering dusk. His massive and amorphous form slid across the rock-strewn floor of his cave, like clouds slowly moving across a darkening horizon, his stomach now shimmered like distant sheets of lightning. His brooding body-mass was solid and grey, lit by occasional bursts of light like a bank of storm clouds in a tropical twilight.

Graton allowed the thin air in the room to envelop him concealing his form. Breathing deeper, he sucked in the poisonous fumes now lying in a thick cloud about the chamber, the gas helping him clear his mind of his troubles.

Remaining outside the chamber, the mites sat waiting until their master freed the room of the toxic fumes, before they darted in to rejoin him.

Trying to seek out those responsible for the dilemma he now faced, Graton thought of the Furie. These creatures were irritating to say the least, but he didn’t believe them capable of this type of treachery. Could it have been the Immortals who gave Zadus substance? No! He couldn’t conceive that they would be that malevolent either.

What else, or who else had helped to orchestrate this depravity? It was a question now perplexing Graton.

Moving with care to his corner, the Ancient One settled in his hollow with ease. The area he called home was small, yet at any time it could alter its appearance to be as large as the widest canyon or as a turbulent as a raging sea. The walls of the chamber were polished smooth, the surface glistening with yellow glowing light. Large stalactites hung like inverted ghostly statues across the ceiling, some having fallen with the Ancient One’s tempestuous rage, the shattered pieces of crystal now lay broken and scattered like shells upon a rocky coastline.

Above, the mites began stirring in the crevices, their familiar round shape a comfort to their master. Signalling with his body, Graton radiated a brilliant white sheen as he summoned Bea.

Bea, the only one among the mites that could be called gifted, began hovering with incredible dexterity above her master, her wings constantly vibrating, the sound of their movement creating a delicate humming tune about the chamber. Bea’s body was aglow; her tiny wings a blur of motion. She was aware that with one breath of vapour from her master she would be annihilated. Bea knew she had no need to fear.

‘Bea, I have a task for you my dear.’ Graton’s voice held genuine affection. He had always been fond of this most intelligent of his mites.

‘Within the world of Romanie two mortals abide, one female, the other male. Seek them out and guide them to a secret lair, one which I have created especially for their use.’ Graton’s voice had hardened as he charged Bea with her task, and she sensed that failure to obey would bring the Ancient One’s wrath down upon her.

‘I will do as you ask Great One.’ Bea’s tone was respectful. ‘Do these children have names? . . . How will I recognise them?’ Bea’s tiny voice was barely audible over the rasping sound of her master, as his form slithered further into the hollow. The yellow light now surrounding him withdrew slightly as he settled into place.

Graton had barely begun his trance, and Bea’s questions disrupted his train of thought. He didn’t wish to expand too much about his reasons for having the children observed.

Finally Graton replied, his voice sounding sleepy and disinterested.

‘The female’s name is Ore’arn the male is known as Sirus. You will recognise them by their smell, for they reek of Immortality.’ How odd, thought Bea, Master said they were mortal?

As Bea began to depart from the chamber Graton cautioned her with a firm warning, ‘Bea, none can know about the sanctuary to which you lead the children. Keep watch and keep them safe at all times.’ Graton’s voice trailed off as he slid into a restful pose.

Calling to her companions, Bea gathered her tiny friends and vanished into the crevices of the ceiling as the light in the chamber ebbed low.

With the mites gone, Graton decided to indulge himself. He entered a solitary incubus giving himself time to rest his weary mind from his torment.

Within the confines of sleep, Graton’s mind reminisced about the past. He had forgone his own bodily essence to live this life as a toxic cloud, a form which allowed him the capacity to be a benefactor; his reward was control. Had his decision been one of sacrifice? Or had it purely been one of selfishness? Was it simply greed? He posed these questions to himself as he came out of his trance-like state. He knew he couldn’t answer them with any form of honesty.

The air in his chamber had once more become rancid, the fumes he expelled during the trance adding to the claustrophobic effect within the room. The vapours which now shrouded his chamber caused the light to swirl and mist. As he breathed in the gas he began to struggle with his thoughts as he contemplated the extraordinary predicament in which he now found himself.

Now that he was rested, he could think a little more clearly and rather than dwell on unpleasantness he once again let his thoughts wander. His mind being as vast as the caverns in which he lived. He recalled the infinite faces, names and fantastical creatures he had encountered throughout time. He had known many, but none quite like Neon or Talon. Graton began to chuckle, his gaseous form wobbling with the effort as he gave thought to these creatures.

‘What a strange and bemusing pair they are!’ Graton whispered to himself as he sucked in the last of the fumes.

He had become rather fond of them.

Neon had been lured into his service with the sole purpose of having him keep an eye on Theron, an Immortal who was in possession of one of the keys. And Talon, the eagle, too had been seconded into his service for a similar purpose, to locate Azrah, Goddess Immortal, who possessed a second key, the most powerful key of all.

Graton’s smile left his face as he gave thought to Azrah. It was still a mystery as to how she had been secreted within the womb of Thea, Queen of Asserian. Who out of all those he knew would have placed her soul there? It was a mystery, one that Graton still had to unravel. But for now it mattered not, for he had gleaned the goddess’s whereabouts regardless.

He recalled having sent Talon to draw Asserian’s Queen away to safety before the vileness of the dark force infected Thea’s world. Graton gave thanks to both creatures, for both were crucial to his plan.

Smiling inwardly to himself, Graton knew it would never do to become too complacent. He suspected that if others, like Ave’arn, knew of his plans, they would prevent him from acquiring the keys; both keys crucial to finishing the game. But for now Ave’arn posed no threat, for his rival was trapped in a guise, one that made it impossible for him to be more than a nuisance to anyone. Graton gave a hearty laugh, that accomplishment had been one of his better ploys.

Recalling the spell he cast over Ave’arn thousands of years before, Graton felt a moments regret. As he thought of his rival he had to admit he had given no thought to the long term ramifications of what he had done. Now the long term effect of that move sat uneasily on his mind. Compared to the evil of the dark force which now seemed intent on invading his worlds, Ave’arn really was the lesser of his worries.

Graton thought back to the beginning when he and Ave’arn rose from the elements of life. Both of them were enigmatic forces. There was only room for one of them to be in control of the game and therefore they had battled for supremacy. The violence which had followed was unprecedented and volatile, posing danger to them both. They had fought with unrestrained emotion and power. Graton knew that he and Ave’arn came close to forfeiting their substance. He recalled the moment when both their energies had begun to fail. Graton persuaded Ave’arn that he was about to surrender. Graton knew his remorse had seemed genuine to Ave’arn. Now as Graton thought about his deceit he felt a small portion of guilt knowing he had played his part with finesse. In a moment of compassion, Ave’arn let down his guard. That fleeting second in time had given Graton the opportunity he had been seeking. With deftness, wrought through cunning, he disarmed Ave’arn’s mind and cast his soul into that of a bird.

Focusing his thoughts on the present, Graton acknowledged that his actions might now prove to be fatal, for it would require someone as powerful as Ave’arn to confront Zadus and win.

‘Life is simply a game!’ Graton expressed to himself, his voice echoing through the eerie stillness of his chamber, the vibrating tones resounding off the walls like the melody of a violin.

Graton chuckled once again, his mind finding amusement in his own peril. To this Ancient being life was in fact a game, for he toyed with the elements like actors upon a universal stage, using humanity as players in his version of the game of life.

Yet as Graton pondered on the predicament he faced, he felt the weight and enormity of his action which had taken place so long ago. It seemed like eons past.

Looking about the chamber in which he now sat, Graton saw the limits of his own existence. He had in fact trapped himself in a world from where he could never escape, a place he could not defend. If the darkness which threatened the worlds and the game was to be overpowered than there was only one being capable of destroying it. That was Ave’arn.

However to bring him back posed a problem.

It would require strength and endurance for Ave’arn to once more undergo a rebirth. It would also require enormous willpower and courage.

Graton knew he would need allies if he was to ever achieve his goal.

Who, amongst all those he had manipulated over time would be willing to assist him.

That in itself posed another problem.

If he brought Ave’arn back, Graton recognised he chanced forfeiting the keys he had risked everything for. Keys now held by Azrah and Theron. Graton acknowledged he may lose everything he had worked so hard to accomplish.

But Graton had a plan, he always had a plan.

•

Gathering on the edge of the Great Abyss dark clouds massed waiting for their master to summon them, the lightning and thunder now heralding his coming. The elements were waiting impatiently for Zadus to appear, joyous that their master would soon come to claim victory over the worlds.

Lingering below the deck of the ship Dragon Wing, Zadus massed as he gained strength. As soon as he gathered substance and re-learnt how to master the powers of the Craft he would move upon the worlds. This was the time of his re-birth, a time when he would claim back that which should have been his from the beginning. He would break loose from the chains which had bound him to Ommran. Now he would find the means to claim the keys for himself.

1

Asserian

‘Bethsada, Black Witch’

‘Seventeen years of terror lust and depravation have corrupted the heart of the Black Witch.’

Stretching her torso, Bethsada shifted so that the softness of her pink underbelly caught the morning sun’s fleeting warmth. She lay on a smoky grey rug, which was covering plush cushions; the bedding giving the cat comfort after a long gruelling night. With emotionless eyes, Bethsada stared at the city below.

The sun’s intermittent rays were reflecting off the roof tops, like golden shards of copper; the filament twirling about the shabby crests of the shacks and silos, as if it sought to strangle the last remaining virtue from the land.

Studying the scenery, Bethsada lay silent, her vision unimpaired. From her vantage point she could see the silos dotting the city skyline. The structures were oval shaped and made of brick with thick thatched roofs. From midway up the storehouses, small windows had been built into the sides at regular intervals, and today like other days they had been opened to catch the breeze and warmth to prevent the precious contents they housed from spoiling. The silos were packed with wheat, barley, rice and oats, grain she had forced her human labourers to grow, harvest and store. Smiling to herself with satisfaction, Bethsada acknowledged that she had accomplished a daunting task by subduing this world and bending its people to her will.

Looking beyond the silos and other dwellings she could see the docks edging the harbour. They lay in the gloominess of the sun’s shadow as it ebbed behind threatening clouds. The harbour was now home to several sturdy galleons, their storage holds full after returning from their latest exploits, treasures plundered and pillaged from distant shores.

Sighing with wonton pleasure, Bethsada thought of what lay beneath the deck of one of the ships. One vessel held a long awaited prize, a prize destined for her.

Shifting focus, her gaze caught the dark shape of Ommran’s oppressive galleon sitting like a cobra ready to strike at the southern end of the docks. The ship’s blackened hull was a reminder of how much she despised the ship’s master. Each time she passed by the vessel, fear gripped her soul. The ship seemed to radiate an aura, one which sent death’s chill along her spine.

However, she didn’t allow her vision to linger on the galleon’s gloominess for long. Glancing to the far end of the harbour she spotted Sea Biscuit anchored, with its mizzen mast spiralling high, flying the flag of its captain. Captain Bane had arrived in port the previous day. Aboard his ship he held a sleek black carnivorous companion that he had acquired at her request.

With lustful anticipation of the impending rendezvous with her prize, Bethsada swept her tongue around the corners of her mouth, the rough surface gathering the residue of dried blood, which was still present from her previous nights kill. The kill however had done little to alleviate her boredom. She hoped the presence of the male cat currently interned aboard Sea Biscuit would help to remedy her growing apathy.

Suddenly the sun’s warmth dissipated as dark oppressive clouds began to drift once more across its face, their ominous presence a constant reminder that Asserian now suffered under the oppressiveness of evil.

Turning slowly, the Black Witch faced the body of her latest victim. On the far side of the room lay the body of a man, his eyes now staring blindly toward the ceiling, his blood spilt like red wine across the rug beneath him. His clothes lay scattered about the room, shredded like yarn upon the marble floor that ran beneath the rug.

Looking about her chamber, Bethsada saw how sparsely furnished her rooms were. Two couches, upholstered in deep russet velvet sat in one corner. Between them sat a small wooden table, its surface highly polished. On the wall directly behind the couches hung a portrait of a young lioness, the profile on the canvas a strange mix of her mother’s beauty and her father’s magnificence. On the opposite wall stood a large stone hearth, its façade worked with curious ornate figurines. Warm embers still flickered at its heart, the heat insufficient to reach across to caress the cat’s dark form.

Heavily embroidered curtains framed the windows within the room. The curtains toward the back of the room had been drawn closed. They obscured the light and view from the rear of the tower. Bethsada always kept these curtains drawn; she needed no reminders of the Fortress, which stood on the summit on the Hill of Ammon.

The Fortress was now home to Ommran.

Continuing with the fascination of her latest kill, Bethsada eyed her victim with morbid curiosity. Deep lacerations were covering the man’s torso and his throat had been gouged. Blood lay in large black pools beneath him, congealing. His body had been torn open from the chest down and his internal organs were missing, eaten by her. This bloodied sacrifice was a testament to the power now wielded by the Black Witch, her reign of terror sufficient to suppress the people of Ammon.

Watching the aftermath of her handiwork, Bethsada flexed her claws, their fine needle point tips sharp and bloodied like quills caked in claret. A look of contentment began to cross her face as the sun once more peeked from behind its curtain of dark clouded obscurity. Rolling back toward its warmth, her attention was momentarily taken away from her kill. It seemed more important to bask in the sun’s rays.

Yawning, she gave retrospective thought to her life and the Tower that was now her home.

The Tower sat on the hillside where the temple of the Goddess had once stood. The dark grey of the tower’s rough stone façade with its large rounded glass stained window sat like the eye of a Cyclops, watching and waiting as the city below cried out with humiliating shame.

There were no reminders left of the temple or the goddess, not even one particle of brick from its foundations was left buried in the earth. The only thing which still stood was the old elm tree in the rear courtyard.

Beneath the tower’s grim and dark foundations sat the dungeons, a prison reeking of filth, corruption and death.

Smiling, Bethsada refocused her thoughts as the sun finally disappeared. This time the blanket of oppressive cloud claimed the bounty. Sensing she would gain no more pleasure from its warmth, Bethsada sat up on her haunches concentrating once more on her quarry. The body of her victim was now well and truly in the grip of rigor mortis.

Humans, what pathetic creatures they are, she thought.

Bethsada thought back to her beginnings on Asserian. It had been seventeen years since she had arrived on Asserian. That day had been fortuitous for her. After Ommran had sent men to capture her, he had imprisoned her hoping to bend her to his will. Fortunately Ommran had discovered that the cat was no ordinary feline predator. Bethsada held the power of speech. Only animals touched by the gods could speak with the tongue of man. Bethsada acknowledged that he had used her, his objective to seek her aid in finding Thea, Asserian’s Queen, but that was never part of Bethsada’s plans.

Gazing out over the city, Bethsada acknowledged that Ammon had once been a prosperous city, well maintained and nurtured under the guidance and care of the women and priestesses who protected it. Evil had never shed its ghostly aura over the land or its people until Ommran came. This land and its inhabitants had been protected by the mists, a gift the cat knew came as part of a legacy from the Goddess Azrah.

Bethsada smiled knowing she had heard the story many times, and now as she sat contemplating her future Bethsada gave thanks. If it hadn’t been for Ommran she wouldn’t have all this bounty. It had been a fortuitous night when Ommran descended in his ship Dragon Wing and with him he brought men; men who had once been subservient to the women of Asserian under a law known as The Keep. The women of Asserian had been dominant and had lived their lives in harmony with both the land and the gods, but not anymore.

The cat smiled knowing the men had once been kept solely as procreators, or as work mules on the farms or in the mines. She knew the men had no say in how this land was governed. It was a strange system of governance, one which had infuriated Ommran. He gave the men their freedom and turned them loose on the world of Asserian and the women who had given them birth.

The consequences of that fateful night still infested the land.

Looking over the city, Bethsada could still see remnants of buildings, their burnt shells an ever present reminder of that devastating night. Very few women survived that ordeal. Not one priestess remained alive, and many women and children perished in the ensuing violence. Men tore apart the city. Rape and murder, brutal and bloodied ripped at the hearts of the women.

Smiling to herself, Bethsada thought of those women unlucky enough to have survived the ordeal. Those women now live in squalor in the gutters and whore houses of Ammon or the unfortunate find themselves in the dungeons of her Tower.

Bethsada recognised Ommran had walked away from the consequences of his folly and the cat had taken advantage of his inability to care about anyone other than himself. She knew the Immortal didn’t want the responsibility of the people, or the land. Ommran preferred his own company and more often than not he now locked himself away in the Fortress, once home to Thea, Queen and High Priestess of Asserian. Within the hallowed walls of his home Ommran now sits and wallows in self pity, coveting the two things he knows may never be his. Azrah, Goddess Immortal, and the child Thea carried in her womb; a child of his loins.

Rolling over, Bethsada dismissed memories of times past and focused once more on the corpse lying in her chamber. Licking her thin lips with ghoulish delight, she thought of the souls now housed in her dungeons. This world had offered up its human inhabitants as sacrifices on her altar and now that her patience was wearing thin she gave consideration to even more bizarre ways to purge herself of their presence.

A smirk of satisfaction surfaced as she deliberated the possibilities, the movement crinkling the lines around her dark smouldering eyes. Her yellow irises were barely visible within their frames, as her eye lashes sat curved above like archers bows.

Bethsada’s intentions were nothing if not deadly.

‘Tore! Where is that man?’ Her voice rang along the corridor; the intonations cascading down the stairwell.

The noise was heard in the kitchen below.

Far down in the dim light of the scullery Tore heard the pitch in his mistress’s voice and his heart rate accelerated.

•

Tore sat thinking about how discontented he was with his life. He was enslaved to Bethsada. His life was unbearable and he knew there was no likely means of escape.

Each night it was Tore’s task to bring a new victim to his mistress’s rooms, human dregs, dragged from the dungeons imbedded deep below the Tower.

In her apartment, Bethsada played with the prey Tore delivered. It was a sport. She toyed with her victims until she tired of their antics then she ripped open their throat, severing their carotid artery. She took great pleasure in watching fear take hold as the wretched soul bled to death. Then she would sate her appetite and feed off their flesh.

Each morning Tore was summonsed to drag away the remains and dispose of the body in the bay. There the sharks would finish off Bethsada’s grisly work. Once he was rid of the corpse he would return and clean up the residue. By afternoon there was never a trace of what had taken place the evening before.

Each day he repeated the process.

Tore knew his mistress’s liking for human flesh was frenetic, her hunger difficult to sate. It seemed that no-one, not even Ommran, paid heed to the pitiful pleas of the souls Bethsada kept secured in the cells. The victims in the dungeons wished for death, but when it came none were prepared for the horror of their demise.

Bethsada resented weakness. Tore knew it inflamed her; it gave rise to her unquenchable taste for human flesh.

•

‘Tore!’

He heard the sound of her growl ringing louder, her anger growing fevered.

Holding his hands over his head, Tore remained on the floor within the kitchen, his raggedy clothes soiled and blood stained.

Tore had once been a proud man, athletic and handsome. Now, his body was misshapen; the handiwork of years of abuse from Bethsada’s cruel blows. His auburn hair, once thick and lustrous had thinned. The fine strands now lay in a delicate band over his crown and his scalp lay covered in lice. His sallow complexion was pitted with scars.

Listening to the beat of his own heart racing rapidly in his chest, Tore knew he would have to hearken to her call soon.

Propping his head back against the wall, he looked about the scullery realising how low he had sunk. Wiping his hand across the floor, he shuddered. The floor appeared clean, but Tore knew it held the blood of many of Bethsada’s victims.

Staring at the wood fired oven in the far corner, he knew he would never feel its warmth. He had tried to build a fire once, hoping to gain heat against the bitter chills now encircling the land. Tore remembered how when he had tried once to light the oven, his mistress had punished him. She used the sharpness of her claws as a deterrent, their razor sharp points cutting deep across his chest. He still bore the scars. Bethsada had warned him that the only fire she would permit was the flame in the hearth in her chamber and the furnace she used to heat the water used in her bathing chamber.

Rarely did Tore feel any kind of warmth these days.

As his eyes swept over the wooden table standing near the rear of the kitchen, he spotted a slab of cheese and some dried biscuits on its roughly textured surface. The morsels were all he had left, both the cheese and the biscuits stolen from the larder of one of the merchants near the wharf the previous day.

Glancing toward the rear door of the scullery, Tore acknowledged it would do no good to escape. He had tried once. Bethsada had dragged him back, and her punishment had been severe.

The rear door of the parlour led to the courtyard. The door was standing slightly ajar, its hinges now rusted, its timbers worn. Tore could just make out the neatly laid cobble stoned yard beyond.

There had been a time when Tore kept the door closed against the bitter winds which spiralled up constantly from the sea. Now as he sat contemplating his next move he felt their icy chill whip around his neck like a serpent’s tail.

Looking down his body, Tore could not help but see his deformities. He wondered how long it would be before he could no longer carry his mistress’s victims away. When that time came he knew he would become a victim himself.

While staring at the door with its frame wedged open by a piece of wood, Tore knew someday soon it would be him being dragged down to the cliff face, his body bearing the cruel and vicious wounds inflicted by his mistress.

Slowly rising he sighed, knowing this was his lot. What other alternative did he have?

The weariness of his body and the shame and disgust he now held for himself was almost unbearable. Acknowledging his weaknesses, Tore conceded that if he wasn’t such a coward he would end it, for on days like this it seemed death was a preferable option to the depravity of his menial day to day existence.

However, despite his circumstances, Tore managed to hold onto a thin thread of hope, its fine filament spinning a web of support about him when all seemed dismal.

Shivering he steadied himself, his mind and body preparing itself for the atrocities the morning would reveal.

•

Stretching her neck, Bethsada accepted she would gain no more rest this day.

‘Tore, Tore!’ Her commanding voice became louder, the walls amplifying the sound.

‘Where is that lazy good for nothing man?’

Giving a dismissive glance toward the figure lying on the floor, Bethsada rose from her cushions. Moving with fluid grace she stalked across the room. She approached the door leading to the passageway beyond, her hips swaying provocatively. In the dim light of day, her velvety coat shone with a glossy sheen, like midnight’s splendour.

Giving a deep throated growl she summoned Tore yet again, the sound reverberating along the plastered walls within the corridor. Finally she saw him staggering toward her. Turning she swept a trail back inside.

Shuffling into the room, Tore’s face was a mask. Perspiration now threaded its way down his cheeks, his soiled shirt clinging to the moisture running down his back.

Watching the deformed figure of her servant as he entered the room brought a sense of nausea to the cat. Bethsada accepted that the man’s twisted spine, and badly knitted limbs were a product of the abuse he had suffered because of her. But the sight of him still made her sick, for he epitomised weakness, the one trait she loathed above all others.

‘Well Tore, I see you finally made it.’ The sardonic tone of her powerful voice rang loud in Tore’s ears as he kept his eyes averted.

The eyes, never look her in the eyes, he knew the consequences.

‘Tell me, why is it that I have to summon you more than once?’ Her tone made the hairs on Tore’s body stand to attention.

‘Well don’t just stand there, come closer you pathetic excuse of a life form.’

Moving slowly, Tore edged his way toward his Mistress, his legs advancing with an awkwardness born out of fear and painful memories.

As he stood within reach of his mistress, Tore recollected the suffering he had endured over the years. Both his legs had suffered fractures, and his left shoulder had been dislocated. His injuries had healed poorly. His shoulder now jutted out like a boulder under the surface of his skin. The pain in his legs never ceased. Apart from the suffering which had been inflicted by his mistress was the fact his back ached from the constant lifting of bodies, but he knew better than to make mention of any of his ailments.

After the destruction of the city, there had been no one left with qualifications to set bones. The priestess’s had been the only ones blessed with such skills. Tore had done the best he could with his limited skills, but when his injuries healed, it had left him strangely disfigured. However, as Tore reflected back on his life, he felt he was better off than those being held in the dungeons below, he still had some freedom, time to reflect, time to hope.

Whenever his services were not required Tore would slip away to an alcove hidden beneath the cliff face. There he would pretend that things were the way they used to be, before Ommran came, before Bethsada took control.

In those rare moments Tore would huddle in the peace and quiet of his cave and think back to the days of his youth and the lazy days he spent within the fortress on the Isle of Crid, days when he had been pampered and cared for by the priestesses.

That had been a time when his manhood had been a mark of respect, and his prowess for procreation looked upon as a gift. Even now those times sent shudders of shame through his body.

He recalled the night he and his male companions stormed the Isle of Crid and slaughtered the priestesses as they lay asleep. He would never forget the carnage. Each time he thought about that night, it turned his stomach, his bile rising to choke him. At that time his heart had been filled with revenge, lust and anger. Now his only wish was to return to the days of his youth.

Gripping the sudden pain now present in his upper arm, Tore grimaced. Suddenly he was startled back into reality. Blood, as red as the roses which once grew in abundance throughout the land, now ran in rivulets down his arm. Bethsada’s claw had bitten deep into his flesh.

‘Tore!’ The sound of her rising voice was terrifying.

The sharp intake of his own breath rang loud in his ears as Bethsada struck him again, her aim true. Her claw sliced open his face with startling effect. Blood, warm and salty trickled into the corner of his mouth. Allowing the liquid to linger on his tongue, Tore tasted its salty sweetness. It was a statement of his profound guilt.

‘Tore, you imbecile! . . . Take that thing away,’ indicating toward the body, Bethsada shouted once more at Tore. This time there was no mistaking the repercussions should he disobey, ‘Dispose of it, and next time I call, come without delay or you will suffer more than the sting of my claws.’

‘Yes mistress.’ Tore replied, stepping toward the corpse. Dragging the body with unsettling slowness, he departed the room. He heaved a sigh of relief that all she had done was strike him.

Never once did he hesitate or give a backward glance at the snarling face of his mistress.

Maybe, this poor wretched soul is better off, Tore thought.

Making his way along the hall, Tore considered which of them was better off, the man whose soul had been released or himself. If Tore thought for one moment he was lucky to be alive, he realised it had come at a very high price.

As he dragged the body down the corridor, the blood from his own wound dripped onto the marble at his feet. He would have to clean it up later along with the blood still congealed on the rug in Bethsada’s room.

With his right foot, Tore shoved the body down the first flight of stairs. He watched it as it rolled head over feet, coming to rest on the landing below. Clambering slowly after it, Tore steadied himself against the wall. Upon reaching the body he could see its eyes staring accusingly at him. Giving the remains a hearty kick he watched as the figure rolled down the next flight of stairs. This time the body thumped down the steps hitting the wall as it doubled over and over. The corpse finally came to rest on the ground level. Easing himself down the steps, Tore gave a heavy sigh as he reached the bottom. Now came the difficult part. Gathering the cadaver over his right shoulder he proceeded to the scullery. His left shoulder could no longer bear such a weight. Swaying unsteadily on his feet, he pushed the wooden stopper from the door. He eased it open with his foot before heading across the courtyard.

As he stumbled with his heavy load, he felt his feet scraping over the cobblestones. The courtyard he trod was rectangular in shape, and nothing grew there except an old tree.

Hesitating, Tore stopped near the old elm tree; its branches and trunk gnarled and twisted with age. Its roots rose out of the ground, like huge tentacles of an octopus. Gazing upon the familiar sight, he sensed the tree had always been there. That thought gave him comfort.

Tore couldn’t remember a time when the old elm tree had ever appeared any different than it did now.

Long ago the tree had taken root. It had been a part of the courtyard of the Temple of the Goddess. Now as he stood staring at the tree, Tore recollected the events surrounding that fateful night; the night when Ommran took the men from Asserian.

That night the tree had stood as a witness to those events. Tore still remembered how its branches had swayed in the evening’s gentle breeze. Even now as he stood admiring the tree, he felt a draft rise up from the waters of the harbour, stirring the leaves into life.

The tree had also witnessed another time, the night of the Virgin Ritual.

Tore wanted to believe that the tree had blessed his union with the young maiden that night. As he stood reflecting on his last night of real freedom, a deep sense of loneliness spread through him, Tore knew he would never know such happiness again.

He had been one of the men chosen that night to take part in the virgin ceremony. Each male who participated was expected to copulate with a young maiden and subsequently produce a healthy child. As his memories drifted back, Tore recalled the pleasure he experienced as his loins erupted and his seed was injected into the secret hollow between the young woman’s thighs.

It all seemed like a lifetime ago.

He recalled the feelings he had, as he saw the young woman with corn coloured hair and fair skin for the first time. Her body had been lithe and graceful. Her face had lit up as she crossed the lawn, her body swaying in the moonlight. The sight of her was mesmerising, intoxicating, it had filled his senses. The girl had held out a hand and Tore remembered reaching for her. Her flesh had been warm, her skin soft. They had embraced, their naked bodies coming together as one.

Closing his eyes, Tore allowed his imagination to linger once more on the way she had felt and the smell of her perfume.

Her name was Ened.

With his memories aroused, Tore recollected how his manhood had stood erect that night. He recalled the eagerness in which Ened had allowed him to deprive her of her virginity. In the few moments of indulging his thoughts under the old elm tree he relived those moments of passion he had felt, the thrill of her body as he entered hers.

The petals of her femininity had opened that night and he had been enticed in, like a bee to sweet nectar. No sensation since had ever rallied his senses or given him so much pleasure. Tore knew he would never forget the gentle contours of Ened’s face in the moon’s glow that highlighted her features, her smile begging him to take her again and again.

Tears, wet and salty, suddenly began to run down Tore’s face, biting at the fresh graze on his cheek. He shook off his melancholy. He knew no good would come from dwelling on the past.

Continuing his trek to the cliff face, Tore felt the weight of the corpse as it became more burdensome. Steadying himself, he breathed deeply. He knew he would not be able to lift the corpse again if he dropped it. Moving cautiously he wound his way down the roughly cobbled path toward the cliff face.

Tore didn’t notice the raven perched on the branch of the old elm tree in the courtyard watching his every move.

As he kept watch, Craven eyed the crippled man as Tore lugged the corpse toward the edge of the precipice. Wincing, Craven found it very difficult to control his anger. With his own shame building, he continued to watch as Tore heaved the body onto the edge of the cliff, before the man pushed it over the rim with his foot, the corpse falling into the darkness of the swirling ocean below.

Craven realised there would be no one to mourn the man’s demise, and certainly no one would come searching. The man, whoever he was, would not be missed. Continuing his vigilance, Craven admitted that Asserian had sunk into a new level of repugnancy. He also acknowledged that he could do little but keep a watchful eye on things in the hope that somehow circumstances might change.

Suppressing his anger, Craven turned his thoughts to those few fortunate souls who had left the city and fled below ground to the Fortress of Antamea. Those people would never know the depths of despair orchestrated upon the ones who had remained behind.

•

Stretching, Bethsada gave a stifled yawn. Now that the corpse had been removed she could concentrate with the rest of her day. It never welded any good to dwell on the unpleasant. That was Tore’s job. And Tore would continue to do her bidding and do it well. The man knew the price of disobedience.

Moving to the balcony, Bethsada resumed her survey of the city. From here she also could observe the Fortress, which stood above as a stark reminder to both the people and the land.

Bethsada had built her tower for two purposes. The first was to keep an eye on those she ruled and secondly to remind Ommran how much he was indebted to her. The tower had been built to her exacting specifications and the authoritarian control she enforced allowed her a privileged lifestyle. It now gave her hundreds of labourers to do her bidding.

•

The Tower was constructed from quarried sandstone fashioned in a meticulous manner. It consisted of three levels above ground, and two below. The ground floor held the scullery, parlour and a large heated bathing room. Once a day Bethsada would make her way to the ornate bathing area and would plunge herself into the heated waters. There she washed the smell of human sweat and blood from her fur.

The entrance was decorated with marble steps leading to a vaulted hallway, which ran the length of the ground floor. Near the entryway stood the door to the dungeons; these horror chambers were secured with a solid iron door, which was bolted shut from both sides. Bethsada kept the key on a chain about her neck.

The second floor housed several apartments, some larger than others. They lay empty. Bethsada was hoping that one day, when she finally disposed of the remaining humans, she would bring others here, guests who shared similar pursuits of interest, others like herself.

The top level housed her apartment, which consisted of a large living area, and boudoir. She hoped someday to share her rooms with a mate. She smiled knowing that day might have arrived with her prize now aboard Sea Biscuit.

Below ground, dug out of the solid rock lay the cells, dungeons especially designed to house the human garbage. Most of the cells were dank and dreary. No light entered and the air was stale. Mildew and lichen grew over the moisture soaked walls. Only two cells had windows where filtered light gave an obscured view to the outside world. These cells she reserved for special guests, guests similar to the male cat, now held aboard Captain Bane’s ship.

Beneath the dungeons sit the torture chambers. These chambers are kept well secured and hidden. It is here she wreaks her ultimate revenge against the women of Asserian. It is a place she hopes Ommran will never discover.

•

Breathing in the late morning air, she smiled at her own ingenuity. Although she realised the majority of people held her with the greatest degree of contempt, she continued to promote herself as a paragon of virtue, whose altruism had saved the people of Ammon from certain starvation and prolonged suffering. In return she had acquired for herself a kingdom. It may not have been the kingdom she had in mind, but as thought provoking ideas surfaced she knew that someday that would change, once Ommran left.

With subtle grace she moved away from the balcony, and back into her room. She swept past the blood stained rug, where only a short time earlier the body of her victim had lain, and exited her apartment. Meandering along the hallway, she could feel the draft as it rushed up the stairs to greet her. It merely served to heighten her sense of awareness. Tore must have left the back door ajar; smiling at the thought she snarled again, for that fact merely showed the man’s weakness.

Quickening her pace she swept down the steps, her gait light. Moving along the corridor she bounded down the marble steps, surfacing into the light of day. She noticed the sun still hung in shadow, in a grey sky cast long ago with the destruction of this world. Looking about the scene, Bethsada could not help but feel the city and its climate suited her disposition.

Darting from beneath the cover of the portico, Bethsada trotted down the cobbled path which led to the harbour. Two women, both of them scrawny and dishevelled shuffled along slowly blocking her path. Growling deeply, she gave them a subtle warning.

Both women stopped as Bethsada approached. The women were immediately filled with fear and the thought of self-preservation. Looking about, the younger of the two, her eyes dancing back and forth in their sockets, searched the path. No door or alley way lay close. There was no easy means of escape. They both knew if they tried to run the Black Witch would strike. Death would be the result. As they stood their ground, fear surrounded them like an unwelcome companion.

Slowing her approach, Bethsada stalked the two women, a sneering grin creasing her feline features.

‘Now where might you two be going on such a pleasant day?’ Baring her teeth, the Black Witch showed the pink of her gums, the meaning to the women all too clear.

The women, frozen by fear gave no reply.

Until today both women had managed to stay well out of Bethsada’s way. They had been warned not to roam the streets, especially during the morning hours. For that was when the black cat stalked the alleyways seeking new victims for her dungeons. However, starvation makes for a deadly ally, and hunger had driven the women out to seek food for their empty yet swollen bellies.

‘Well, it seems the cat has got your tongue?’ Bethsada half snarled as she rounded on her prey. Moving closer she struck one of the women with the pad of her paw. Falling backwards against the heavy brick wall, the older woman bounced from its surface like jelly off a plate. The younger woman raced to her side, squatting, waiting for the inevitable.

Growling fiercely at both women, Bethsada’s intentions became very clear. Drawing back her paw and with claws extended, the cat slapped the younger woman away. The girl began to cry as blood formed from a deep wound on her arm. Suddenly she let out a scream as Bethsada sprang, the cat’s full force landing on the chest of the older woman.

The woman should have counted herself lucky, for Bethsada had already eaten.

Dragging the woman by the front of her shabby bodice, Bethsada pulled her across the cobble stones before dropping the woman in a heap on the stony path. Placing a paw on her victims’ chest, Bethsada called for Tore.

‘Tore!’ She knew he would be close, she could smell him.

‘Yes mistress?’ Tore had not missed the confrontation. He learnt long ago to stay within call of the cat when she went hunting.

‘You know what to do with these two. And don’t let them get away or you will suffer their punishment . . . Tore!’

‘Yes mistress?’

‘Place them both in the lower chamber.’

Moving slowly, Tore crossed in front of his mistress.

Wrapping iron manacles about the two women’s wrists, he quickly threw a rope about their necks, before placing a bit between their teeth and dragging them away. He never looked at either woman as he secured them together.

Watching with unfeigned delight, Bethsada saw the two women struggling to stay upright. They both had a look of pure terror in their eyes.

Tonight would be an interesting night after all, she thought, before turning to continue her trek to the harbour foreshore, her keys jangling at her throat.

Dragging the women along the cobbled path, Tore headed for the Tower.

The stairwell leading to the dungeons had two entrances; one situated inside the Tower, the other concealed securely on the outside with a wrought iron gate. Tore held the key to that gate attached to a leather strap around his neck. Quickly unlocking the door, Tore pulled the women through the opening before shoving them down the stairs ahead of him. He never gave either woman a second look.

Both women were filled with terror. They had both heard tales of the torture which was inflicted on victims by the Black Witch. They knew their fate would be no less severe.

The inhabitants of Ammon had named Bethsada the Black Witch, after many in the city began disappearing. Everyone knew the cat was responsible. They also knew that no-one returned once they had become ensnared in her dungeons.

Craven sat watching from the balcony of the Tower as the two women disappeared from view. He had seen their futile struggles against their restraints. He could do nothing but watch helplessly.

•

Admiring the work she had initiated throughout the city, Bethsada sauntered toward the harbour. She had ordered the shipping lanes widened years earlier, and new docks constructed. Old taverns and homes had been replaced with new ones along the foreshore. As she drew close, the wharf area near the ship stood silent under the gloom of the shadow cast by Dragon Wing. The ship was an eternal reminder of the destruction its master had wrought.

Turning her gaze away from the vessel, Bethsada shifted focus to the new wharves, which had been rebuilt in the old style. Here and there reminders of the old city still stood; burnt timber framework and damaged walls not yet demolished. Bethsada realised that rebuilding the docks, homes and silos had been necessary for her own survival. Humans needed shelter and sustenance and the silos were now brimming with grain. Her aim! To keep her labourers well fed.

Moving further along the docks, Bethsada managed to avoid the shadow cast by Dragon Wing; she sensed something abominable lay within the darkness of the framework of the vessel. Bethsada could feel her fear rising as she stalked past its gloomy facade. She continued with quickening strides, hiding beneath the eaves of the buildings, until she cleared the ship’s stern.

At the far end of the dock several seamen were busy unloading the galleons now resting lazily in the lagoon. The ship’s hull was knocking gently against the pylons of the wharf as the tide ebbed and flowed.

The cry of seagulls harkened her arrival.

The mens’ eyes were intent on watching the cat as she slowly made her way toward them. There was a warning in the way she moved. A quickening of their heartbeat signalled it was time for them to leave. Something about the darkness of her coat and menacing glare, warned of the danger she represented.

Working her way toward Sea Biscuit, Bethsada saw the frightened looks on the men’s faces. Smiling with satisfaction she couldn’t help but notice the perspiration breaking out on their foreheads. She broadened her smile, knowing the beads of moisture were not from the heat of the day nor the toil of their labour.

Passing them without paying them attention, Bethsada made her way to the ship.

The heavily laden vessel was secured to pylons with thick knotted rope. Sea Biscuit was a sturdy vessel with a caravel hull. It had a long beak at the bow and a square galley at the stern. The ship’s hull was deep and wide, built to carry heavy cargo.

The gangplank was down.

Quickening her stride she sauntered up the plank and boarded the ship. She spied Captain Bane speaking with two of his men at the far end of the ship’s main deck.

With a clear voice, Bethsada called, ‘Captain Bane, may I have a word with you . . . Now!’

The captain didn’t appear to hear her.

Captain Bane was over two meters tall. His barrel chest and protruding stomach spoke volumes about the man. He wore his dark, grey streaked hair cut short, with a beard that framed a round homely face. His complexion was ruddy. Years of salt air and sun had weathered him.

Approaching, Bethsada observed that the Captain appeared not to have changed clothes since his return. Beneath his arm pits, large stains were visible. As she came close she also noticed he stank of stale fish and seaweed.

Captain Bane held a pipe in his hand, and as Bethsada came to where he stood in conversation with the men, the pipe fell from his fingers; the pipe’s fragile shell shattering as it struck the decking. The two seamen quickly moved out of Bethsada’s way. Slowly, Captain Bane turned to face her, his face now pale as if something ailed him.

‘Mistress Bethsada, good afternoon.’

‘It will be good, if you have returned with my cargo.’ Her voice held contempt.

Captain Bane coughed, clearing his throat. ‘I have him secured below . . . I was merely awaiting your instructions for his delivery,’ the captain replied, his voice showing signs of stress.

Bane, as he was known to many, had manned several vessels over the years he had been working for Bethsada. During that time he had grown to know her idiosyncrasies well. The years had seen him try to ingratiate himself by satisfying her ever-increasing demands. He figured he knew how her mind worked. He also appreciated her contribution to the city, especially the wealth she had brought his way.

He acknowledged it had not been an easy job to rebuild Ammon. Bane remembered when Asserian had lain destitute; famine and sickness spreading across the land. At the time, he had been a young man, not quite thirty. As the fires raged in and around the city, the only things left of worth were the small Dows in the harbour. Bane had boarded one of these small craft and sailed out to sea.

When he returned some months later Bane found his world almost completely destroyed. What the fires and men had not laid to waste, the cold weather had.

He recalled his first confrontation with Bethsada. It was almost his last. He knew if it had not