The Vile Ones - Part One

Long ago, when I was careless and less wise, I was approached by a man on the road through the Old Woods. He was tall, but frail looking. His horse, which was of superior breeding, well fed and finely groomed, wore a beautiful saddle and bridle. On the rear of the horse was a small chest. The man's clothing was of the finest craftsmanship and ornamented in gold and silver. He said he was a king and a great sorcerer.

"What brings a 'king and a great sorcerer' to such a place, on such a night, to address one such as me?"

He looked on me with disdain and disgust and almost began to wretch.

"Do I so disgust you, King?", I asked.

The exhaustion in his face was only matched by his look of fear. For a moment, he seemed to be questioning his choice, or perhaps his resolve. In the next, he was down in the mud and muck, kneeling before me.

The man lowered his head, "I humble myself before you and seek your assistance."

As I said, I was careless, less wise, and full of pride. I placed my hand on his shoulder, which made him tremble even more, "What is it that you wish of me?"

He told me of his enemies and how they conspire and unite against him. He could trust no one in his court and every night was sleepless with the fear of assassination.

He told me how he had used forbidden sorcery to attack his enemies and reveal those who plotted against him. But every sorcerer knows, or soon learns, that all magicks, especially the darkest ones; the vile ones, come at a price.

I used one spindly finger, placed it under his chin, and forced his gaze upon my face. My eyes. "Do you know the cost?"

"I do.", he said, his eyes large with fear.

"And you are willing to pay it?", I asked.

He hesitated. His voice was pained, "I am."

"Show me.", I said, and flicked his chin with my nail, drawing a sliver of blood.

The king rose to his feet and unstrapped the pitch-black chest from his horse. It was ornate in ornamentation and carvings. The hinges and key-lock was gold. It appeared to be carved from one whole piece of wood, rather than constructed. He lifted the lid. The inside was lined with wine-red cloth, pillowed, to keep its contents safe.

He stared deeply into the chest.

"Go on.", I whispered.

"Yes.", he said, quite resolutely, finally convincing himself.

He reached into the chest and gently retrieved a new-born child, still covered in its mother's blood and afterbirth. The cold drizzle of the night startled it awake and it began to wail. Its cries echoed through the forest, surely gaining the attention of all the dark and unseen things in the woods.

I could hardly contain my anticipation, though, when he saw my face, my hands grasping at the air and reaching out, he was taken back and began to withdraw the child.

I whispered the Whisper again, "Give her to me..."

And he did.

I grabbed the child by the leg, and before he could withdraw his grip from her, I had already taken my first bite.

Even now, I'm always amazed at how mortified these men are of the outcome of their actions. The reality of it never sinks in until they witness it with their own eyes.

He turned and threw up.

The wailing of the child turned to screaming. It filled every corner the forest, and the forest trembled with joy.

I took more bites and then all at once the screaming stopped.

I remember the taste to this day. So delectable. Mmmmmm..... But I digress.

I finished my meal and wiped the bile and blood from my lips.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

And what do you know? Something started growing inside of me. A mass, clawing it's way outward as it grew. The exquisite pain; it felt as though I was being eaten from the inside. I stumbled as I reached for the man, my legs unable to hold my own weight. I collapsed in front of him, screaming. Fear had now gripped his heart completely and he tripped the ground as he tried to distance himself from me.

My stomach began to swell. My body contorted in the ecstasy of the pain. Something writhed and twisted deep within, clawing and tearing ...and then it burst from my stomach in a fountain of black bile.

It took a moment for the fear to release him enough that he could comprehend what had happened. His breathing slowed and his expression softened. He looked down to the creature that was gently moving and cooing in his lap.

His daughter.

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Seventeen years had come and gone and Good King Ikir had enjoyed unyielding prosperity, glory, profit, and now, peace. His enemies had all died of disease, famine, or been outright exterminated by his unstoppable military prowess.

Of course, it was I who was behind it all.

There was...some... heartache. The loss of his wife the night she gave birth to their daughter. The handmaidens gossip that he rushed the girl out the second she was born. Her mother cried for her for two hours. When he finally returned, he seemed indifferent to find she had died of blood loss while he was gone. He said nothing and rushed the child off to his chambers.

Three months and three days later, he was married again to a young princess, Mildvaka of Mridth, one of the few countries not actively engaged in war with him. He fell in love the moment he laid eyes on her. And she... She had no choice.

His daughter, Vildka, was now her daughter. They never had a child together. She never seemed saddened when people would ask if there would be a male heir. She would simply reply, "No.", smile, and then carry on.

I was there the whole time.

Immediately after the marriage, the first spy in the court of the King was discovered and brought to charges. He was a young apprentice to an advisor. Vigbar, was his name. His mother had taken up liaisons with a freed slave from Kredovjen, a country with a tenuous relationship with King Ikir. The man insisted his former master, a visor in the court there, would pay handsomely for any information the young man could liberate from his master. Vigbar had been disclosing some of the King's most secret discussions, as well as his whereabouts within the castle walls at all times of the day. His records had proven incredibly detailed.

It was Mildvaka who discovered him. She happened to note the way he said "good afternoon" was said with an accent similar to those from Kredovjen. She was aware of his privy to much information around the castle and the King's doings. She went to her husband and expressed her concern.

Her husband immediately ordered two of his most trusted men to follow the young man. After a few days, the men witnessed the Vigbar leave the castle in the cover of darkness. His satchel stuffed with parchments. They followed him to a small home in town, and listened outside while he conversed with those within. Upon having heard his conversations, they knew he was a true spy. They quickly returned with the guard and took him, his mother, her lover, and his two young brothers. They were all put to death on a pike that very same night.

The next morning the town arose to see the town square blossoming with the corpses of traitors. A proclamation by the King set forth that anyone caught aiding an enemy of the King would see the same fate. As would their families.

Two more times it happened. Spies discovered. Impaled. And each time it was Mildvaka who discovered it.

Each time, I was behind it.

At first, the citizens were terrified of their King's actions. Many were warned that every tree would need to be felled to make the pikes needed for each citizen of his Kingdom.

But there was Mildvaka, again. Easing the King's ire. Easing the citizen's fears. She address the citizens and charmed them. She mingled with them and celebrated with them. She mourned with them. They accepted her as one their own.

And then she convinced them to let the King take their sons and husbands. To say goodbye to their father's and children...for the King. And they did. They did with pride and zealotry, and the whole Kingdom had united behind her with one mind and goal.

The King's love for his new wife grew with every passing day. But the love for his daughter did not. He had none for her. And she never seemed to want it. Those in the castle were fearful of her, even when she was a small child. She had a dark nature which they could not help but be afraid of.

When she was six, she was found by the gardener while he was tending the King's roses. Vildka was sitting on a bench. Her summer dress fluttering in the calm breeze as she played with dolls. The gardener would glance to the child as words from her soft and playful song would occasionally surface to him.

"All of your innards...chewed and mangled..."

The gardener assured himself he was mishearing, but then noted something on the girl's dress. It looked like blood. Concerned the girl had injured herself, he approached. She seemed unhurt and unconcerned as she continued to play with her dolls.

She turned to look at the gardener, win a thin and illegitimate grin. He was mortified to realize that she was not playing with dolls. In her hands were two small kittens. They were lifeless and limp and their fur was crusted with dried blood. Her hands covered in the same crimson shade.

Vildka cocked her head and looked at the gardener, "Would you like to play with us? I have another that you may play with. Her name is Lisheldka."

"That's...that's my daughter's name", he said stunned.

From her pocket, she pulled another kitten and gestured to the gardener to take it. It had been gutted and its entrails were spilling from it.

The King forbade anyone from discussing it. It was said the gardener was given a new position and a small parcel of land. Of course, we know the truth of it.

As the fear in the court festered, it turned to hatred. Hatred for the dark young girl that brought death and misfortune. And the hatred fed her.

Mildvaka, however, loved Vildka. In her eyes, Vildka was her blood daughter. And Vildka loved her, equally.

And when Vildka was murdered, assassinated before her, her wrath was boundless.