In the sickly black, I crawl now, though my limbs are atrophied. My form demands sustenance. My throat aches with the burn of thirst. I am delirious now. I fear that rot has taken my wounds, and I can smell their stench.

I wretch in the darkness, purging myself of the draught of fetid. I have wasted the wet in my bones and blood on this, and I crawl closer to the wall again, abandoning all that I’ve dragged with me here. More words whisper to me, and I see a glimmer in the dark. It hurts my eyes

A slow shape approaches, and now I can see it is incorporeal. A spectre, come to whisk me, or perhaps the dhampir, desperate for my life and marrow. I cannot resist even now, as the ribbons of light and insubstantial silhouette of dread draws near.

It is a woman, that I am sure. The slope of shoulder, swell of breast, delicate in outline. A woman, but a woman of what manner? She turns her face to mine, and I can see her, eyeless, her dried viscera clinging to the pale translucence of her cheeks and I have no choice but to draw away. Her face stays in my mind, however, haunting my closed lids and I cannot bear its inescapable image.

I wretch again, afraid to open my eyes, and afraid to keep them closed, as the image of her, drawing ever near continues despite either path.

I open them, and her face is torn back in a malevolent, soundless scream. My heart is battered in the cage of bone it rests, and I try to escape, but her long hands stretch far, and she grasps my leg and pulls me close.

Her mouth agape, twisting backward in an unnatural way, she is a true horror to behold and I weep.

Then, I hear her voice. It is a rasp. It is quiet. It fills my blood with fear to listen.

“Hear my Hymn, boy of the corridor.”

“What?” I ask.

“Hear my Hymn, and know, fledgling. What happened before.”

She pressed her long fingers to my face, and I contemplate tearing them away, but my body is weak, and without any fight, and I succumb to her damp touch.

Her voice and foreign images fill my mind, and I drift.

--

“Lo,” began Ura, Marm of our nest, “she who would become Queen of the Tangled Ones, surrounded by her subjects, people once but beasts later, chained The Sacrifice to the altar.”

Ura cleared her throat and picked up her smoking pipe from the dirt. This was a tale we had heard before, and often. Ura’s eyes danced with the light from our cook fire as she recounted.

“The Sacrifice pleaded, thrashing, wailing, begging to be released from her confinement, but she who would be Queen held up the skull of a monster and heralded,

‘Look upon her and see yourselves.’

The Marm’s voice dropped low as she mimicked the Queen’s timbre, frighteningly commanding and sickly sweet.

“I was there,” said Ura, shaking her head, “and we did not know the true purpose of this as it transpired, but I regret standing among the crowd of queens that day and holding my tongue.”

Her chin dropped and a few other Swallows listening around the fire reached out their little wings to comfort her but she waved them off.

“For his blade is knowledge and all whose blood it drinks will know eternal life through me,” Ura began again, though her eyes were now far away.

“These were her words as the Executioner came forward. Grim as death was its face, devoid of any thought but obedience.”

Ura took a moment to pack the long-stemmed pipe in her hands, filling the bowl with the sweet-smelling magic that only the Marms were blessed to inhale. She rested the shank of the bowl at the edge of the fire and after a moment the contents had begun to heat enough for the work to be done. She pulled the stem to her lips and took a long pull, the mist from the bowl traveling up and into Ura’s lungs and out again through her nostrils. Her eyes cooled over and the tension in her face released.

“She who would become Queen of the Tangled Ones pulled the Stagmother into the light, shackled as she was by the neck. She fell and was commanded to perform her magic or else all would be killed. The Stagmother felt no other options left and so she lifted herself from the ground and began to whirl.”

“Graceful and lithe,” Ura said, taking another pull from the pipe, “the movements of true magic, none like have been seen since. A beautiful and delicate performance, but sad. She danced for some time, her motions bringing forth a dark and terrific thunderstorm. Skyfire struck the earth and the wind’s howling felled trees, such was the power of her spell.”

“Even the mindless Executioner seemed afraid as they made their careful path towards the altar. A dark, swirling void of pure black hate and darkness formed like an orb above the chained and sobbing form of the Sacrifice, reaching a fever pitch as the Executioner raised their jagged sword and plunged it into the heart of the captive.”

This part always drew a gasp from the listeners. Some were young and did not fully understand the story, only that it was frightening. Ura had the ability to make you believe you were there with her stories, such was her gift, and truly, when she said those lines, my heart as well felt lanced like the Sacrifice’s.

“Black bolts of fire screamed out from the orb as the Sacrifice faded to ash, her body dissipating with the powerful winds of the storm. The black fire struck the Queen of the Tangled One’s subjects, and their bodies twisted, stretching and contorting into the horrific monstrosities you know now. With howls they leaped to the ground below the altar, teeth bared and mouths slavering.”

“The--the… Queen,” Ura stumbled. She did not normally ruin her tales so easily. The hand holding the pipe quivered.

“The Queen raised the now glowing skull to her lips and drank. She could feel the power coursing through her veins and her body was changed as well. Not as the wolves at her feet but something else, young and beautiful and infinitely more terrible than the creatures that had once been her subjects.”

“But the Stagmother, seeing her nightmarish results, spoke simply to…” Ura faltered, the blacks of her eyes dilating as she stared off in a trance and she began to slide.

I caught her quickly as she fell, before the others could perhaps notice and as she rested her head against my bosom, I continued the tale she had begun.

“The Stagmother spoke simply to She saying ‘The Truth cannot be contained forever, death can’t be thwarted no matter how much life you feed it!’”

“But She who would become the Queen of the Tangled Ones just laughed, and turned to her monsters.”

I leaned forward slightly, the fire catching my eyes and drawing my lips into a cruel sneer.

“DEVOUR THEM ALL!” I screamed, and several Swallows jumped and cried out. Ura roused at this and seemed to blink back her reverie, looking around the fire as if returning from a long journey. Then she caught my eye and nodded, sitting up, spittle touching her cheek where she had been resting. My chest was slick with her saliva. Her spells were getting worse it seemed.

Ura took over once more.

“ ‘But you PROMISED!’ The Stagmother declared, sick with what her magic had wrought. But She who would become Queen shook her head.”

“Didn’t you just see? The Truth is dead. What value are promises?”

“That was when I fled, as the children began to tear apart the leaders, the other Queens, the Mothers. Everyone was eviscerated.”

Far off in the distance, I could hear the rumble of thunder. So very strange.

As Ura made to stand, one of the younger Swallows piped up suddenly.

“Marm, what about the Keeper of the Inn? Was she there?”

Ura cocked her head to the side, perhaps considering asking how the little one had heard of such a thing, but instead responded truthfully. Her eyes caught mine very seriously as she spoke.

“If the Keeper of the Inn had been there, none of that would have happened.”

A visible shiver went through the assembly around the warm fire. Ura left them then, without saying anything else. Ura’s sickness was worsening, and it was a sign. I looked around at the faces as I heard another far-off rumble.

Things were changing. Something was happening.

War.