The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Eyna sat in the cell with her hands in her lap.

Had she made a mistake somewhere?

Perhaps she should have slain the Ybella priestess when she had come to the Red Sail—but her disappearance might have made the guards suspicious even sooner. Perhaps she should have fought the guards when they came to arrest them, had the withermen kill them and barricaded the doors, waited until nightfall. Or fled into the woods with the other women.

But... no. When Khuluub had instructed her, she had obeyed, and when Khuluub had not she’d made the choices she had thought best for Khuluub. If she died now, in this cell (or burned in a hanging cage outside it), then she would die knowing she had served as best she was able.

Witchcraft. Eyna had foreseen dying in a number of ways, but being executed for witchcraft was never one of them. She had to admit that it was appropriate—there was no question that serving an ancient Ghuuli goddess was as forbidden as possible, and Eyna would never deny her allegiance to Khuluub.

It was just that... witchcraft. It seemed so archaic, a penalty used in stories or when subduing barbarian nations. Not something invoked in the Uttermark, even in Lord Feyne’s Trasdemere colony. The law in Uttermark was ruthless, and corrupt, but Eyna had never thought of it as archaic.

Then again... she couldn’t deny that the charge was accurate.

She lifted her wrists and jingled the heavy manacle chains. Not a surprise that even in metal-poor Trasdemere, slave-lord Feyne had a surfeit of chains. More arrived with every human shipment.

Eyna looked up at the wall and wondered what time it was. Late morning? Mid-day? She felt that she would know, somehow, when the sun set. Her flesh was sufficiently of Khuluub now that it would resonate with her goddess’ power.

But the room was windowless, just thick boards and a locked door with a slot in it.

The slot was closed.

They had been marched up the hill in the pre-dawn light, a silent column of chained women. Eyna had never seen Lord Feyne’s palace before; whores were not allowed in the central, hilltop area of Torr Gyn, unless brought there by a resident. The palace was impressive for a wooden building, ringed with its own palisade wall, the main building rising four stories from the gravel courtyard.

There was room enough between the palace’s wall and the nearest buildings outside for clear bowshots, not quite a plaza but wider than a simple street. The large double gates stood open; beyond them a number of sturdy buildings ringed the courtyard and abutted the walls.

One of them was the prison. Eyna had been escorted in directly by the guard captain—whose name she never learned—while the other women were placed in open-air slave pens, of which there were a number. Eyna was marched through a heavy door, down a short corridor, the thick door of the cell was opened, Eyna thrust inside, and the door shut behind her.

Eyna scuffed at the wooden floor with a heel. She wondered if Lord Feyne would even bother to see her before sentencing her to death. She wondered what “evidence” they might consider sufficient to condemn her as a heretic. If any was even needed.

She could overcome a few of them, of course, with her venomous breath, but then they’d cut her down with a halberd or fill her with crossbow bolts, and that would be that. No. Eyna knew in her soul that she was still important to Khuluub, and to serve her, Eyna must live. And living, for now, required that she do nothing and seem as meek and helpless as possible.

There were sounds outside the door, and then the metallic clicking of bolts being drawn. Eyna watched the door swing open.

The priestess.

She wore a dour expression, and was clothed in formal robes, Ybella’s crook emblazoned in gold on the front. In one hand she held a book; in the other, a silver aspergillium.

Her frown deepened as she considered Eyna.

“Who do you serve?” she asked. “What demon has bewitched you onto this evil path?”

The priestess took a step into the cell. Behind her the door remained open, a burly guard in a sleeveless vest watching the two women, his arms folded.

No answer seemed good, so Eyna said nothing.

“I could feel the corruption,” Jalanea said, coming closer. “The stink of evil in that house. You are wreathed in it. I did not believe it, at first. I thought... perhaps... that it was the place, or that whoremistress.

“But,” she said, pointing at Eyna with the aspergillium, “it is you.”

“No more comfort for the afflicted, then?” Eyna asked. “Ybella’s love is no longer on offer?”

Jalanea’s lip curled. “Blasphemer. Do not speak her name. Those who give themselves to evil are hardly fit to ask for a succor they themselves offer no-one.”

Better not to let her work herself up. She might have Eyna executed early.

“What do you want, Jalanea?” Eyna asked tiredly.

The priestess smiled bitterly. “Not to convert you. Ybella can see that you are too far gone. You have taken the demon inside yourself and now its essence pervades your tainted flesh. No, I just want to know which demon you belong to, now, so that I can better ward this place against it.”

“Assuming I do serve this demon, why would I tell you?”

The priestess shrugged. “If you don’t, you will be put to the question. The guards already have the irons in the forge.”

Despite herself, Eyna shivered.

Then frowned. “Ybella now works through torture?” she asked. “How things have changed. I had thought that simple slavery was a step too far, but you will serve the goddess of kindness by torturing me?”

“I won’t—” Jalanea snapped, then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Tell me who you serve, Eyna, and I can promise you a quick death.”

Eyna looked at the wall. The priestess had come with a book. Let her use it. “What do you know of the gods of Kaz Ghuul anyway,” Eyna said.

Jalanea drew herself up and snapped the book open. “I thought so,” she hissed. “You found some ancient artifact and opened yourself to its curse. Who, then, do you serve? Which demon traded you its lies in exchange for your soul?”

Eyna looked at her fingernails. “You mean, Ybella hasn’t told you?”

The priestess looked for a moment as though she would strike Eyna, but the moment quickly passed.

“And what good would knowing do you, anyway,” Eyna added. She adopted a thoughtful expression, as though an idea had just come to her. “Are some of the demons fireproof? Could you tell me which ones?”

“You jest,” Jalanea said, “and yet you know you are damned.”

“I was damned when Yvend’s raiders butchered my family and turned me into a whore,” Eyna spat. “And your precious Ybella did nothing—nothing!—to intervene.”

“Who do you serve?”

Eyna looked away.

“What demon have you given yourself to, Eyna?”

“Kiss a dick.”

Jalanea looked down at the pages of her book. “Xochikala? Ghuuli lord of mysteries? That one might appeal to a whore.”

With a frown, Eyna turned her head back to glare at the priestess.

“Or maybe Zakavuul Ghori? I understand that the Ghuuli once rendered human fat to make candles for him, their demon lord of armies. Or was it Vhorrega, bat-headed god of night? Whose altars must ever drip with blood?” Jalanea looked up. “Wonderful beings here, Eyna. True friends of humanity.”

Eyna just looked at her.

“Perhaps Quarakh Vuul? Demon-goddess of the river and the rain, whose altar pool held the drowned bodies of ten thousand men? Perhaps Ichuluun, queen of the harvest, whose plow was made of human bones? Or Xhor himself, who—”

Jalanea paused, because Eyna had started to chuckle. She looked away, then back at the priestess, and her chuckle grew into outright laughter.

“You think it funny, then? The deaths of countless thousands? Giving yourself to evil? You think that your new master is something other than evil itself? Are you so gone?”

Eyna waved her hand, unable to stop her laughter. “No,” she gasped, “no.” With an effort, she inhaled, controlled herself. “That’s not it. No, it- you’re right, evil, yes. Fine fine. The Ghuuli gods were real goat fuckers. I admit it. But your pronunciation,” Eyna said, wiping her eyes, “is terrible!”

Jalanea stared at her “What?”

“It’s ‘Khuluub’, you twit. Not ‘Ickooloon’ or whatever you have in that book. ‘Khuluub’.”

Eyna chucked some more. “’Ickooloon’.”

Jalanea looked at her coldly. “So. That’s your new master, then. Gooloob.”

Eyna inhaled, and rose to her feet. She fixed her interrogator with a wide stare. “’Khuluub’. Even her name is beautiful.”

“As I thought,” Jalanea said. “You have succumbed to a Ghuuli demon. Well, then—” she stepped forward, raising the aspergillium.

Eyna watched as Jalanea flicked it at her, and flinched as droplets spattered her face.

“I abjure thee,” the priestess said. “In the name of Ybella, the pure, the kind, I—”

“NO,” Eyna said in a voice that caused the cell walls to tremble. Her head cocked, and although it was her mouth that spoke, the words were not her own. “Your gestures are empty, little priest of a foreign god.”

Jalanea froze, eyes wide. Eyna smiled at her.

“Now you shall listen, little cleric, and I shall speak.”

Eyna’s arm reached to point a finger at Jalanea. As she did so, the shackles went taut and snapped in one smooth motion, as though they were no more substantial than straw. Jalanea jumped, and turned around—and the heavy wooden door slammed shut.

“You are alone,” Eyna said slowly, her voice deep and inhuman. “Your kin have turned their backs on your god. They have walked out of her light, for gold and for power, and because she has failed them. And now they, and you, have come here, into this land which is mine, which has been mine for a hundred hundreds of years, and they mine to dispose of.”

Jalanea’s eyes were wide with fear as Eyna stepped towards her.

“Your god’s hand does not reach here, Jalanea Neredill vash Rhunn. Not even the shadow of it, not the echo. If I wish to claim you, then you are mine.”

Eyna’s hand stroked down Jalanea’s cheek.

“The Ghuuli gods are gone,” Eyna hissed as she stepped behind the paralyzed woman, “their temples buried, their rites lost, their people butchered and flung to the winds. They reached too far, grasped too hard, and sowed their own destruction.”

“But I,” she breathed into Jalanea’s ear, “I could see beyond. Into the age to come. I could see... possibilities.”

Abruptly, with a single motion, Eyna took hold of Jalanea’s collar with both hands—and tore her robe violently in half, the underclothes as well, and suddenly Jalanea stood naked before her.

Eyna’s voice rose. “A new age,” she said, tossing Jalanea’s robe to the floor.

“My age.”

Putting her hands on Jalanea’s shoulders, she turned the dark-haired woman around. Jalanea was shivering, looking down, afraid to meet her eyes.

“You are pleasing to look upon, Jalanea Neredill vash Rhunn. Perhaps you wish to rethink your allegiance? I can offer you pleasures your cold northern god does not know.”

Jalanea looked the side, and gave a tiny shake of her head.

“Hm.” Eyna ran her hands along Jalanea’s nude sides, down over her hips. “A pity.”

Her fingertips brushed Jalanea’s mons, eliciting a shudder.

“Look at me,” Eyna commanded.

Unwillingly, Jalanea looked up. As her eyes alit on Eyna’s face she went pale.

“I shall spare you,” Eyna told her, staring at her with green, slitted eyes. “You shall return to your mistress, Jalanea vash Rhunn, return to your cold northern lands. She may keep what is hers—although she may find that, in the age aborning, what is hers is no longer what was before. Yes, Jalanea Neredill vash Rhunn, you—and you alone—may leave this place, by your own will. You will tell Ybella that her sister seeks peace.”

Eyna looked down at Jalanea’s bare chest. Her hands rose to cup, and squeeze, and she leaned forward and lightly kissed the trembling priestess’ lips.

Behind her, with a loud slam, the door flew open.

Eyna was sitting on the floor of her cell, legs crossed, arms out, palms up. They had not bothered to put another set of manacles on her.

Her eyes were closed. In her mind, she was picturing Khuluub, Khuluub’s crimson-fleshed perfection, the face which Eyna loved more than all things.

Eyna’s face wore a small smile.

She heard the cell door open. A guard started to shout at her, but was cut off.

Eyna opened her eyes.

The man standing in the cell doorway was of average height. He was good-looking, with a strong nose and sandy brown hair—and his appearance was enhanced by his clothes, which were rich, gold-and-blue brocade, black velvet, shining black boots.

His expression was neutral, vaguely interested, unworried.

“Lord Perrer Feyne, I presume?” Eyna asked.

He stepped into the cell, looking her over. “You’re not bad looking, for a witch. You certainly sent that comfort monger packing,” he said. “She tells me that you’re evil, in league with some ancient Ghuuli god. My Captain of the Guard backs her up. Is it true?”

Eyna nodded. “It is.”

His eyebrows rose a fraction. “Really. Well. Perhaps I should let you go, maybe set up a temple for your pagan god? Would that be sufficient for you?”

She gave a small laugh. “A kind offer, were it genuine, but it doesn’t truly matter. My goddess is coming, Lord Feyne, and though I am not privy to her plans I can tell you that her plans—our destiny—will not change, regardless of your generosity—or your opposition.”

He pursed his lips. “Hm. Well. I appreciate your honesty. I assume her plans will also not change despite your being burned in the cage?”

Eyna’s gaze fell. “No. No, they won’t.”

“Very well. Can’t have slaves rising above their station, you know,” he said, turning away. “Or daring to look outside of the approved pantheon. But I’ll have a crossbowman finish you quick, once the flames are high. For your honesty.”

Feyne walked out of the cell and immediately two burly guards replaced him, advancing on Eyna. She offered no resistance as they picked her up and marched her out.

Eyna blinked in the sunlight as the guards pulled her across the courtyard. Feyne had disappeared; the guards kept a grip on her as they hurried across to the palace gate, still standing wide.

Standing in a chained line next to the gate were the other women from the Red Sail; they watched stone-faced as Eyna was half-walked, half-dragged past them. She had no reassurance to give, so she said nothing.

Just beyond the palace gates was a space too small to be a square, but too large to be a crossing of roads. In the center of it a scaffolding had been hurriedly thrown together; and in front of the scaffolding, a great pile of firewood.

Above the scaffolding was a great iron wheel, like the wheel of a wagon laid upon its side; as an axle, the wheel had a metal post driven into the ground, which it could rotate around. Hanging from the wheel were cages, four of them, into which a person could be placed while standing on the scaffolding, and then the wheel rotated around until that same person dangled directly over the giant pile of firewood.

The guards marched Eyna up onto the scaffolding.

The scaffolding was not high, perhaps a hand taller than the height of a tall man, but given its situation it afforded a generous view. Lord Feyne’s palace was on the top of a hill, and so from the intersection at the gate Eyna could see down the road in three directions, over the palisade wall, and out across the measureless green of the jungle canopy. Somewhere directly in front of her was Khuluub’s sanctum, leagues away, hidden beneath the earth.

There were already a handful of men standing on the scaffolding. One of them opened the hanging cage.

Eyna was thrust into it.

She heard the clank of the bolt being thrown; the bottom of the cage was just a grid of bars and she had to concentrate to keep her feet from slipping through. The metal was rusty and burnt black; although she hadn’t heard of anyone being put to death by burning, she hadn’t actually been in Torr Gyn all that long...

She gave a short laugh. So this was to be the end. Her family murdered, herself sold to Tremona, whored out, brought to the jungle, transformed by an ancient Ghuuli goddess, and now burned alive. What a life fate has bestowed upon you, Eyna of Almer. Almost impossible to believe.

But—she had gotten to meet Khuluub. To serve her.

It didn’t make the rest of it less bitter—but it made it worth it.

Eyna had taken hold of the bars, and managed to keep her footing as the cage suddenly began to swing. Two slaves pushed on the great wheel with hooked metal staves, rotating Eyna away from the platform and out over the piled wood.

Blinking, she realized that there was a crowd. A large crowd—hundreds of people, men and women, free and slave. When she had stared off at the distant jungle she had looked over their heads and not even realized that they were there. Now their noise washed over her, catcalls and shouts, laughter and raucous conversation. It was late afternoon and apparently the word of the arrest and impending spectacle had spread to all corners of the settlement.

An evening execution, of course. No sense disrupting valuable working time—and the fire would be more much more impressive in the long shadows of the late day.

She looked back at the scaffolding. Feyne himself had arrived and now stood there, looking away, slightly bored. There were several well-dressed men with him, his advisors. Among them stood the guard captain who had made the arrest.

Jalanea was nowhere to be seen.

Eyna saw that the guards were stuffing a second woman into the next cage. Tremona. She didn’t resist at all; it seemed she could barely stand. As they threw the bolt on the cage, the former whoremistress—and former human—slumped limply to the bottom of her cage, feet and calves dangling through the bars. Her hands were loose at her sides, her flesh blotched with purple bruises.

Eyna suddenly swung again, as the slaves pushed on the wheel, and now she was the furthest distance from the scaffolding, and directly over the center of the future pyre. She looked at Tremona, slumped in her cage, and then at the third cage, hanging above the scaffold.

Past the cages, at the top of the stairs, stood Jerreth, looking at Eyna. Behind her was Yliss, and then Linor... all of them, chained single-file.

After Eyna burned, they would all have their turn. No sense wasting a good bonfire.

Eyna looked around below her. At the edges of the wood pile were men with torches; one directly opposite her, one on either side. All three of them wore brown, hooded cloaks; although they wore the cloaks to conceal the identity of the executioners, none of them seemed overly concerned that Eyna know who they were. One of them looked at her and winked.

Behind them, the crowd milled and laughed and shouted.

Trumpets blew.

The yammering of the crowd died down.

Everyone looked at Lord Feyne.

A man next to him, tall and lean, stepped forward. His shadow spilled across the scaffold and out over the woodpile.

“People of Torr Gyn,” he shouted. “People of Torr Gyn, and all the Trasdemere demesne.” He gestured in a wide circle. “We are here today to witness justice.”

The herald pointed at Eyna. “This slave has been found guilty, by his Highness’ court, of conducting witchcraft and demon worship.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the audience. Eyna couldn’t tell if it was genuine surprise or simply because it was expected of them.

The herald pointed at Tremona’s limp form. “The whore monger has also been found guilty, by his Highness’ court, of conducting witchcraft, demon worship, and dereliction of duty regarding human property.”

Eyna snorted.

“All of the whores,” the herald continued, “have... have...”

Perplexed, Eyna looked at the herald’s face. He was staring upward, into the sky.

She realized that his face was growing... dimmer...

The crowd began to murmur in dismay. The herald turned, looking past Feyne’s palace at the late afternoon sun. Eyna followed his gaze.

A shadow was pushing across the face of the sun.

The noises from the crowd began to rise, as people saw the shadow and cried out, or cursed, or called to each other for reassurance. Eyna watched the sun for a long moment, then, blinking, turned her attention to Lord Feyne.

“Torg’s mercy, it’s just an eclipse,” he was saying to the men next to him.

“No, my lord,” replied a rotund and well-dressed man from among his entourage. “Too fast, my lord, it’s too fast. And the charts—there’s no eclipse on the charts! Not for years! This shouldn’t be happening!”

The noise of the crowd suddenly abated, and the final two sentences rung out above them all like the peals of a bell. As the light waned, the mob drew breath.

“It’s the witch! She’s doing it!”

“Burn her!”

“No! Release her! Drive her away!”

“Bring back the sun!”

“Burn her!”

Eyna wanted to look at the torchmen, to see what they would do, but instead she watched Perrer Feyne. Irritation and indecision warred on his face as he looked out over the shouting crowd. He spoke with his counselors again, but now the noise was too great for Eyna to make out what he said.

“Burn her! Quickly!”

“Before she curses us all!”

Feyne was gesturing angrily. He pointed at Eyna, but she was still unable to hear his voice over the increasingly restive crowd. His counselors appeared to be disagreeing with him.

A motion from Tremona caught Eyna’s eye. Her head had come up, and although her feet still dangled listlessly from her cage, she stared at Eyna with wide eyes.

Mother, she mouthed.

Eyna stared at her, but Tremona said nothing more, simply looked at her.

The blot continued to creep across the sun. It was now dark enough that stars were appearing in the sky. Already the jungle beyond the palisade was just shadows, and the building walls were beginning to lose their texture and become simple dark shapes.

The brightest source of light were the torches of the men set to light the bonfire.

On the scaffold, men were moving. Feyne gestured, his minions gestured, and suddenly guards were running, some back into the palace compound, some down the streets. As the mob continued to argue whether it would be better to bring back the sun by destroying Eyna, or by appealing to her, torches and lamps were being lit, and guards were coming out of their barracks onto the streets.

They came up onto the scaffolding and quickly nailed torches to the uprights, illuminating (if dimly) the platform.

The appearance of the lights seemed to calm the mob; still they argued in loud voices over what should be done.

Then the trumpets blew again; the crowd stilled.

Feyne himself stepped forward. “My people,” he shouted, “be calm. This hedge witchery should not scare the bold citizens of Uttermark. A darkness during the day. It means nothing. Witch,” he snapped, turning to address Eyna. “This trickery will not save you.”

“It is not my doing,” Eyna replied.

Feyne raised an eyebrow and frowned. Then he addressed the crowd once more. “You see? The witch—”

He paused.

Someone was screaming.

Away from the torches and the lamps, it was full dark. The sun was barely a ring of light around a sphere of darkness, mere wisps of glow at the edges. The sky was now a night sky, the uncountable stars in their full glory, the long sweep of the milky river visible from horizon to horizon.

Eyna stared. There was one star—one red star—that glowed even brighter than the others, as bright as an ember in a otherwise dead fire. It burned overhead.

Astraoth.

Eyna looked around. The screaming had not stopped—and now it was coming from several directions, down both pitch-dark streets. And with the screaming, the crowd’s mood had turned instantly from anger and confusion to fear. A witch-burning was suddenly no longer appealing—the crowd wanted to disperse, to flee... somewhere.

But the guards were here. Lord Feyne was here. Where else would they go, to be safe?

Rather than dwindling, the crowd grew. More people were arriving, running to the lights of the hanging lanterns and the torches of the guards—people with white faces, gaunt with fear. They spoke to the guards, to the people at the edges of the crowds, spoke of what they ran from—and fear swirled through the mass of people like blood poured into water.

The screams from the rest of Torr Gyn—for it truly seemed now that the screams and the cries were coming from all directions- continued to grow, new ones rising as those from before were choked off. Something was moving through the streets, through the houses, had come in over the palisade and was closing on in the palace from all sides. It drove the people before it; more and more people were crowding into the crossroads, pushing up against the piled cordwood.

The torchmen swayed but held their torches. In the darkness, their hooded robes took on a fearful mien.

The guard captain was on the scaffold, speaking frantically to Lord Feyne. Feyne’s face whitened as he listened.

He pointed at the crowd, said something in return.

The captain ran down the scaffold’s rear; the counselors and well-dressed men followed. With a look of disgust, Feyne walked after them—then turned. He spoke to the man who had put Eyna into the cage.

“Burn her,” Feyne snapped.

For a moment, Eyna had not realized that she’d heard the words.

The torchbearers had apparently also not heard, for they had not moved.

“Burn her!” Feyne shouted at the closest one.

The torchbearer looked up. His hood fell back.

It was Noebe.

Feyne and Eyna stared, for a moment equally shocked.

Noebe reached up and threw off the cloak entirely.

With her other pair of hands, she discarded the torch.

She was utterly nude, and remade in Khuluub’s image.

The crowd which had pushed around her recoiled, clawing at each other to get away.

“Perrer Feyne,” she said, and her voice was inhuman, high-pitched, the voice of a bird-spirit or an ancient ghost. She raised all four of her arms and seemed almost to glow, her skin no longer a calfskin brown but now almost white; her four breasts rose higher on her chest as her hands lifted to the sky. “You have forsaken your gods.”

“You have come to my mistress’ realm,” came another high voice, musical yet alien, from another four-armed, four-breasted woman: Khirla, who now cast off the robe of another of the torch-bearers. Eyna could see the man’s form crumpled at her feet.

“And now she accepts your sacrifice, to refound her divinity,” Wylla finished, standing at the third corner of the woodpile, reaching her arms high.

The crowd was screaming, fighting each other—the ones in front, to get away from the four-armed avatars which had appeared among them, the ones in the rear to get away from the nebulous horrors which still advanced from the palisade walls.

The avatars began to chant.

“Xu khalak zhu mok’tla khol!”

Mother

“Xu khalak zhu qik’thla khol!”

Eyna looked at Tremona, who was smiling at her with a strange, intent expression.

“Xu kholak thol dal thol...”

Mother, this is what we are for

“Stop them!” Feyne was screaming. “Someone fucking stop them!”

“Xu dhorak thol mok’tla dol thol!”

Mother, and Tremona’s face grew serious. Will you die for Khuluub?

The crowd, screaming, stood well back from the three inhuman avatars; their arms were weaving as they chanted, dancing in complex, perfectly mirrored patterns. The sun was still only a faint ring at the edge of the sky, but the light from the Blood Star grew and grew and now even in the torchlight, their pallid skin turned ruddy.

A man rushed forward—the guard captain. He struck at Noebe with his sword.

And lopped her arm off.

Yes, Eyna replied. She is my goddess, my queen. My life is hers and I give it to her to do with what she will.

Without changing a beat of her intonation, Noebe bent smoothly at the waist and picked up her fallen arm. She pressed it to the stump—and instantly it was whole again.

The guard captain stumbled backward, face horrified. Noebe returned to her supplications.

“Dhorak thol, dhorak ghuul! Dhorak thol, dhorak KHULUUB”

The invocation of her name fell like a thunderclap and the crowd—huddling as far from the chanting figures as possible, not daring to flee down the darkened streets into the terrors that drew ever closer to the palace—cried out almost as one.

The guard captain screwed up his face, took three quick steps forward, and drove his sword clear through Noebe’s chest.

Then, faster than the eye could follow, he in turn was speared. He looked down at his torso to find a branch piercing clean through his body just below the sternum.

It had come from Tremona.

Eyna stared at her.

She was... sprouting.

From her mouth, her arms, her feet, all parts of her body, Tremona was erupting with roots and wooden vines. Her human flesh was quickly hidden by the mass of slithering, expanding, reaching vegetation.

The branch that had speared the guard captain curled around behind him and lifted him from the ground.

He began to scream.

The avatars were bending at the waist, bowing and rising, their chanting growing ever louder. “Dhorak Khuluub! Mor vhak xhuul Khuluub! Kor qin’dhal Khuluub!”

The vines which had been Tremona expanded at a ferocious rate—they reached down to the ground and up into the sky, and now they took hold of the cage which Eyna was in and lifted it up, detaching it from the metal wheel, raising it even higher into the air.

Below her, Eyna could see thick tangles of vines forming into two pillars.

Then, somehow, the screaming grew louder.

A man was lifted from the crowd—a vine had tunneled through the ground and taken hold of his leg, and now curled up and back to “deliver” him to the main body of the form which was taking shape. As his struggling shape was pushed against the tangled mass, dozens of smaller vines shot out to snare him and pull his body taut.

The same was happening on the other side of the woodpile, another man seized by a hidden vine, lifted quickly back to the form that was rising above the wood pile, pushed against its side and instantly tied.

The guard captain had stopped screaming and was now merely moaning in pain; his body too had been lashed to the leg of the giant shape which Tremona was becoming.

For now Eyna could see that was what was happening. Two giant trunks, composed of thousands of woody vines, had taken the shape of legs beneath her; above the legs was the thickness of a torso, with Eyna in her cage in its center; and above her and to either side vines stretched out to form the shape of arms.

“Khuluub! Khuluub! Khuluub!”

Finally, the crowd began to run, even as more of them were grabbed and hoisted into the air. But it was too late—for the vines which had overrun the palisade wall, which had come questing through the streets, which had first inspired the terror that sent the humans of Torr Gyn screaming towards the palace, which Eyna had Esmerill had planted only last night; those vines had now reached the crossroads.

There was nowhere to run.

Eyna allowed herself a small smile at her handiwork.

Now dozens of bodies were rising, up into the air, screaming—and finding themselves lashed to the giant shape the vines had formed. Their bodies were drawn tightly against the legs, the torso, and now even the arms; dozens, and then a hundred, and then two hundred. Around her cage Eyna began to be surrounded by screaming people, some of them bloodied, some unharmed, all tightly bound and helpless. The vines whipped, and lashed, and squirmed—and collected all the milling humans below.

They were pressed against her cage, now—for the giant human shape was now more flesh than vine, so many people had it pulled in. They moaned, and screamed, as they were crushed together.

Below her—and Eyna was truly high, now, three stories or more, in her cage in the center of the effigy—below her Eyna thought she caught a glimpse of Feyne’s royal blue brocade, somewhere near the effigy’s groin. She peered downward and suddenly caught sight of her sisters, the whores from the Red Sail; they alone were not bound, but freed, and had formed a half-circle behind Noebe, and Wylla, and Khirla. Eyna could not hear them over the screams that surrounded her, but she knew they were chanting.

And then her attention fell from them, for Eyna saw Khuluub.

Despite the darkness, Eyna could see her clearly. She was coming up the street, the vines moving aside as she and her retinue passed, just as they had effortlessly torn asunder the palisade wall that had been in her way.

She was nude, reclining on her divan, the divan itself riding upon a platform borne by thirty nude women.

She was perfect, in shape and in essence, and Eyna fell in love all over again.

The women, faces blank, carried the divan platform on poles across their shoulders. Eyna saw Linor, and Yliss—but weren’t they here below?—and then she saw:

Herself.

It was herself, Eyna, nude, face expressionless, walking in perfect syncopation with the other bearers.

Together, they bore Khuluub forward towards the palace.

The screaming continued, so many people pressed close around Eyna’s cage that hands and feet and flesh pressed hard against and through the bars. All of the people in the square—all of the people in the town—were now pressed together—bound together—in this giant human effigy. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

Eyna had eyes only for Khuluub.

But how was Eyna down there, if she was here?

This is but a copy of you, my faithful servant.

Khuluub!

I. The body is ready. The sacrifices are prepared. Will you be my heart, faithful one?

Yes! Yes, yes, I will be your heart!

The divan stopped at the entrance to the crossroads, at the foot of the giant, screaming, bleeding effigy. There were no humans left to run.

Noebe, Wylla, and Khirla approached the divan, knelt, and prostrated themselves, all four arms pressing forward against the ground. Behind them, the other women did the same.

Khuluub rose from her divan. She looked upward.

And began to rise.

The age turns, she said, and Eyna knew that all could hear her. Even the screaming stilled somewhat.

Long have I waited for this day.

Khuluub rose through the air, floating upward, past the legs, past the waist.

Long have I sat in idleness, forgotten.

She rose past the chest, and Eyna, still caged, thrilled at her nearness. In the darkness, Khuluub’s eyes glowed, burned with green fire.

But now, with the power of your souls, I once more ascend.

She rose up and out of sight, and Eyna knew that she was taking her place at the top of the great effigy.

ARE THERE ANY TO SLIGHT MY CLAIM?

For a moment, the world was completely still.

No reply was forthcoming.

The bodies around Eyna began to melt.

The screams briefly redoubled, then faded into gargles as flesh reformed, running together, fingers closing into mitts, arms binding to sides, mouths sealing, bodies melting and blending, all of it running like a candle tossed into a fire.

And within their melting bodies, Eyna could see the humans’ souls. Spectral, bluish images, still holding the shapes that their bodies once had, faces twisted in panic—and then those, too, began to melt, as Khuluub consumed them.

Eyna’s hands were still clutching the edges of the cage, and now the molten flesh ran over them, and began to run along her arms. It engulfed her feet, and swiftly rose up her legs. It spread across all sides of the cage, blocking her view of the darkness beyond.

She wondered if anyone could see her soul.

My heart, came a voice that was infinitely more powerful than just moments ago.

Yours, Eyna replied.

Then she knew no more.