The celebrations went on well into the heart of night. Almost all of the Brennai gradually let themselves be swept up by the cheerful spirits of the Behemoth riders, even the elders. Brother Marten was baffled. He could not understand them. It was as if they had forgotten of the darkness waiting to devour them.
Fools, any and all. Small-minded, little better than cattle.
Even the old hag Hallara seemed to have let her guard down a bit. He’d been feeling her watchful gaze burn holes in his back for days. If she knew what was preying on her people, how easily it came and went unseen among them, she’d soil her pristine white garb piss-yellow. Marten would like to see that. He’d like to see her taken down a notch or two. He allowed himself a secret smile. He was a patient man.
His otherworldly guest, however, wasn’t. Even now, it was testing boundaries. He could always feel its presence somewhere above, behind his back, as if looking over its shoulder. It pulsed with malignant eagerness, urging him towards chaos and bloodshed.
Brother Marten was powerful in the ways of the spirit. Terrifying his dark guest as it was, he’d managed to keep it in check, only letting it take over for a few short bouts of Brennai-murdering ritualistic slaughter. Back in the Vale, Sister Finch hadn’t been as strong a host. She’d always been his lesser. Her own guest had all but devoured her, body and spirit, and where had that gotten her? Marten would end his life with his own hands before he suffered such a fate.
As if to challenge that resolve, the presence tightened its grip over his shoulder. It pushed, demanded, commanded attention. Marten would have to give in, even for a moment. And for that, he’d have to get out of sight - and fast.
He rose to his feet and walked away from the crowd of celebrants. He didn’t bother to excuse himself. Even the elders that would eventually support him, wouldn’t do so because he was cordial and well-mannered. Some Behemoth Nation idiot cracked a joke as he passed by. A couple others exploded into laughter. He tried to pay them no heed. They were enough of a thorn in his side as it was. Going around picking fights and drawing unneeded attention would do Marten no good.
His dark guest became more impatient. He could feel it sneer. Writhing darkness ate at the edges of his vision. He needed a little bit of privacy. His tent was too far, he wouldn’t make it.
“Wait, damn you,” he muttered. “I’m going.”
He rushed towards a small copse at the edge of the village. He’d duck in the undergrowth for a bit. Nobody would find him there.
Was he getting too paranoid?
No.
Vanchik was a moron. Vanchik, he didn’t fear. But the old white-clad hag had her eye on him, and so did one of the Behemoth elders. The shrewd one, Rook. Wroth was powerful, but also a buffoon too caught up in his own boasts and tall tales. Rook had eyes that cut deep, eyes harder than flint. Dangerous eyes.
And then, of course, there was the matter of the foreigners, the old swordstress and her Transient companion. Someone had put an end to Sister Finch and her dark guest’s eldritch whispers, deep in the bowels of the Halls. Marten was convinced it was them. He’d hoped they’d go away. The Brennai had scarcely given them reason to stay - or so he’d thought. But now word was the swordstress would stay to help the Behemoth elder train a handful of Aspirants, and the Transient would be among them.
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Why?
Marten couldn’t fathom.
All the more reason to be wary.
He found a spot among the bushes as dark as the moon in the cloudless sky would allow. He could feel the entity’s impatience brewing beneath his skin, a storm threatening to burst forth. He sat down in a meditation pose, shut his eyes, and allowed himself to be pulled into the void were his dark guest resided.
The space-which-was-not-a-space resembled a vast, dark cavern, walls shimmering with an eerie, pulsating light. Shadows flickered across the jagged rocks, casting twisted shapes that seemed to watch him with a thousand eyes. In the center stood an immense, ethereal cage, bars of pure willpower containing the swirling mass of malevolence and chaos that was the entity. Its form shifted and writhed, tendrils of darkness stretching out, testing the confines of its prison. It oozed ancient power, a primordial hunger that sought to unravel the very fabric of existence.
“I am here,” Marten said, trying his best to sound commanding and dismissing at once. “What do you want?”
The entity’s voice echoed, a drawling chorus of discordant whispers and deep, rumbling growls.
“BLOOD. ESSENCE. RIPE FOR THE TAKING. WHY TARRY?”
“I told you before!” Marten said. “Mindlessly slaughtering them is not the way!”
“WHY?”
“We must be smart, drive a splint between them, get them on our side. Have them on our beck and call. Then we’ll cull the herd, and you’ll have all the blood and essence you want!”
“WHY?” the entity insisted.
“Because we must be careful,” Marten started to explain for what felt like the thousandth time. “The elders are watching. Sister Finch drew their attention, and they had the swordstress put her to the blade, along with the… the whispering one. Now the Behemoth riders and warriors are all around, too, already looking for us. We must be patient. It is not safe to reveal ourselves.”
The shadows within the cage seethed, and the shape of the entity started to settle into something more solid, something big and gaunt and antlered. It drew closer to the bars of its cage, grasped them with long-fingered, razor-clawed hands. Sickly yellow eyes burned in the dark. An overpowering stench of fresh blood and old death filled his nostrils, and Marten felt his willpower almost buckle.
Almost.
“I COULD FIND ANOTHER VESSEL,” the entity reminded him in a thousand voices, each more sinister than the other. “A MORE WILLING ONE.”
“And do what? Sow wanton slaughter? You do not want that. The Weald is ancient. There are powers slumbering here, spirits, godlings, Raequir-”
“I SPIT ON YOUR SPIRITS.”
The entity reached somewhere into the darkness that surrounded it, grasped something, and flung it onto the bars of its cage. It was the spiritual equivalent of the half-eaten corpse of something weasel-like, broken and putrefying. Ishitraiy, the animal spirit that was Brother Marten’s namesake. Her throat had been crushed, her flanks had been torn, her light undercoat stained with red so dark it looked black. He turned his eyes away from her. She hadn’t been very powerful, but she had been his constant companion for years. He was barely a man when he’d bonded to her, as it was the Cor way. They'd served each other well.
It had taken his dark guest all of a few minutes to unravel her.
“I have a plan!” Brother Marten raised his voice, mustering every last bit of courage he could find. “I’ll find the Skaarn. Offer her a deal. She’ll help me with the Brennai, and then you’ll have rivers of blood shed in your name. No risk to us.”
The entity stared at him with burning eyes the color of old pus, but said nothing. Good. That was a good sign.
“But we’ll have to be patient,” Brother Marten went on, now placating. “We’ll have to be smart.”
“SEEK THE SKAARN,” the entity finally said, slowly retreating from the cage bars and back into the dark nothingness it laired in. “MAKE HASTE. MY PATIENCE RUNS OUT.”
Marten opened his mouth to say something, but his consciousness was flung out of the space-which-is-not-a-space and back into the waking world. He found himself hidden in the bushes outside the village, drenched in cold sweat, panting. Nobody had discovered him. The Brennai were still busy with their festivities. Good.
He’d bought himself some time before his dark guest became too impatient and did something unfortunate. But that temporary respite was just that - temporary. The encounter had left him drained, body and mind. It always did. He ached for rest, but he didn’t have a single moment to spare.
By the time morning came, he was well onto his way to the fleshwarper’s lair.