Self Inflicted Abomination Read online

elsewhere, Kasus darted into the kitchens and down the cellar stair.

  The turnip cellar was mostly empty. This year’s harvest had been poor. It smelt musty and of course very strongly of aging turnip. Kasus had arranged himself a little corner behind a stack of turnip sacks. This was his private place, by making sure there were always a few sacks of turnips up in the kitchens, he could be sure no one would enter this room. It was here he had chosen to fulfil his plan; this was where he would conduct the process.

  My path to power begins in a turnip cellar!

  He chuckled to himself in the dim light, and began to spread the contents of his precious sack on the floor. The sack had carried a vial of stolen black rage fungus, taken from the alchemical stores during one of his errands for Master Goro. Wrapped in a formaldehyde soaked rag, was the foot of a starlight hawk, a common breed of owl. A small bottle contained a simple alchemical formula he had mixed himself, with fluids purloined from Goro’s personal supplies. He set these out in a semi-circle before him. From their hiding spot behind the turnip sacks, he took a bountiful bag of sea salt, some hand carved turnips, a mangy rat in a small cage and a rusted cleaver.

  Humming nervously to himself, he poured out a circle of salt large enough to sit in; inside it, he made a smaller circle, touching the larger at one edge. Pinning the rat down with a stick, he drew it from the cage and carefully removed its head with his cleaver. He dripped rat blood into the smaller circle, and painted it into runes with the end of his stick. He had seen the pattern of runes written down in many texts on the practices of the druids, he was confidant he had them correctly marked out. Last of all, he placed the severed claw of the starlight hawk in the centre of the smaller circle and sat cross-legged in the larger. He drew a steadying breath.

  The third scroll, the one he had not re-read the night before, detailed the nature of the mind ward brand. A magical glyph burned into the skin with an acidic and poisonous alchemical brew. Used centuries ago by the seekers of light sect to defend against demonic possession, it caused a sickness that reduces the life span by decades. Its formula is simple enough, but volunteers for its use are now scarce. Few have the commitment to match the seekers of light in their zeal to fight demon spirits. Especially in the free cities where corporeal demons empower the military, and provide the strength required to remain separate from their enemies the old empire, who now call themselves the Trade Sea Alliance.

  Opening his bottle of formula, he looked at the murky liquid in the dim light. It had an acrid nasty smell, hardly surprising since it was acidic and reasonably poisonous. Selecting the best of his hand carved turnips; he dipped the glyph shaped end into the formula. Placing the stick between his teeth, he braced himself.

  Best not to think too much, just do it and be quick!

  Shaking the drips off the turnip, he inverted it and pressed it firmly into his left calf. He jerked it away in pain, and threw it across the cellar. Spittle hissed past his teeth as he bit down hard on the stick. His calf throbbed. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to breathe normally.

  Oh, drit that hurts! Hellpits, bowshot and whores tears, why did I do that?

  Blinking away tears, he examined his calf, an ugly blistered burn in the shape of a glyph marked his skin. It smelt a little like scorched skin and lemons. It seemed to have worked, but he couldn’t be certain, yet. He blew gently on the burn, wishing he had thought to bring a rag and some water to sooth it. He spat on the side of a turnip piece, and dabbed at it a little, but this was more painful than soothing and he gave up.

  Was that a fluttering noise?

  He had been awaiting signs of the starlight hawk spirit. Had he heard the flutter of spirit wings, or was the toxic brew he had just inflicted on himself making him delirious already? He sat silent and focused on the claw in the little circle of salt before him. There were more odd sounds, the faint echo of a screech, the whisper of soft wings, and perhaps the snap of a beak.

  It’s here. It must have worked. As the scrolls suggested, I can hear it. I have it trapped in the circle now. I can hear it. Ignore the pain and complete the plan.

  With both hands, he gently parted the border of the small circle, opening it to the space within the larger ring of salt. Something light and tenuous struck him in the face, and he teetered, almost falling. An indescribable sensation filled him. Nervous energy flickered through him, he felt hungry and confused. He felt invigorated; the pain in his calf seemed distant. He wanted to run, and to leap from a tree and soar.

  The air would be so much fresher out there, and I should head out. I should climb some trees, what am doing down here? I should go find a meal.

  There was some reason to be down in the cellar however, he had a process. He had to finish the process or he would likely die. He sobered his thoughts. Somehow, he could feel the spirit of the starlight hawk bouncing around his insides. It urged him to eat; it filled him with wild energy and odd ideas. He would not let it rule him however. He would take the final step, and complete the process. He picked up the vial of black rage fungus. He sighed.

  Strange day I’m having. Well at least this part is simple enough.

  Unstopping the vial, he swallowed the mass of white strings within.

  Done.

  He felt very odd indeed, the urge to run, soar, and hunt food had faded a little, and he was a little tired. He felt cool, but he was sweating a great deal, he suspected he was feverish.

  Think I’ll have a little nap now, I’ll either die in my sleep, awake a mindless monster and ruin the festival for everyone or... step forth from my turnip cellar as strong as a demon, and rip Jakot’s nose off his smug face...

  Time would tell if his plan had worked. His theory was that the spirit would counter the curse of the fungus. The fungus would heal the sickness of the glyph, and the glyph would protect his mind from the spirit.

  Potentially elegant and circular, if it works, humiliating and lethal if it doesn’t.

  Stretching out on the cellar floor, Kasus slipped into a delirious dream about serpents, demons, dancing girls, and a festival table laden with exotic foods that were all somehow made of turnip.

  He awoke very hungry. He felt good despite the unyielding lack of comfort his packed earth bed had provided. He stretched.

  Well I don’t feel like going berserk or eating rats, I am famished however.

  He considered cutting himself a little to see if the black rage fungus would heal him, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do this. Examining his calf, he noted that the glyph, which had been red and raw, now looked pink, like an old scar from floggings months past. The pain from his back had disappeared, but he could not see his back scars or judge their condition.

  That seems a very promising sign!

  Unsure how long he had slept, he hid away his left over apparatus, and stuffed his sack of precious possessions into his ragged belt. Once he had scuffed out his salt circle, he headed quietly up the stairs toward the kitchens. Nearing the door, he smelt the tempting odour of black-tail caiman soup. Goro had once given him a few spoonfuls of this in a bowl, leftovers from a grand dinner with the lords and ladies. He hadn’t forgotten the taste, his mouth watered. Servants and slaves ate simpler fare, but perhaps tonight he would eat like a lord for a change. No servants or slaves occupied the kitchens; most of it was stacked with dirty dishes.

  Must have slept well into the evening, the fellching festival must be over!

  Only the high kitchen where the lord’s meals were prepared was clean, and on one small stove a tiny pot of soup sat. This was insurance, a hungry lordling may demand feeding at any time of night, and it paid to have something tasty and ready to serve. Stealing food from the high kitchen was rewarded with a good flogging, of course. Kasus found a spoon and wolfed down the delicious soup anyway. It was very satisfying; something inside him he felt must be the spirit, wanted live food and raw, but the desire seemed far from overwhelming and he was pleased. Footsteps and the clinking of cutlery made him turn. A fat
faced and bleary-eyed kitchen slave stood gawping at him, a silver tray in his hands. It was Lorus, the most obnoxious and belligerent house slave Kasus knew. Recovering from his surprise, Lorus snickered with satisfaction, and put his tray on the table. The tray held an empty ornate soup bowl.

  “Whore’s tears, you’ll be flogged into strips this time,” chuckled Lorus.

  Kasus stood frozen, the spoon at his lips.

  “Arsen won’t stop till he hits bone!” Lorus added, amazed at his good fortune. “But first it’s my turn, ya little fellcher.”

  Balling a fist, Lorus stomped forward.

  My whole plan was to be stronger, powerful like a lord or a unifier. The plan was to take my revenge, and if I can’t defeat a drit brain like Lorus, then my plan was for nothing.

  Spreading his meagre weight, Kasus boldly thrust a skinny arm forward, punching Lorus in his chubby gut with all the force he could gather.

  “Whoof,” wheezed Lorus, taking a backward step and looked at Kasus in surprise.

  “You little...” he croaked, trying to charge forward again, but unexpectedly finding breathing difficult. Kasus threw the soup bowl at him. It deflected off an upraised arm with a dull cracking sound. Lorus nursed his arm, eyes looking fearful for the first time. Kasus danced forth and whipped his open palm into the left ear of