Witch of the Defiled

The Donkey

Ragged and battered, holding a dead man’s sword in one hand and a flimsy wooden shield with a metal boss in the other, Buro Durkierna came to the edge of the world. He was drowning in guilt, and felt the weight of his decisions crashing against his conscience like waves against rocks in a violent storm. He sought death as a form of redemption. Before him was the rapidly expanding Possessed Realm, where the recently dead and dying became hosts to sinister spirits, which brought them back as grotesque hybrids, giving them visages that were a mockery of life. Behind him was the equally rapidly retreating Mortal World, with its own ghost and demons. Buro tugged at his chin and sighed deeply as an unknown fear crept into him. Like slimy worms, a chill oozed down his spine. He raised his head. The contrasting skies brought the horror of what he had done sharply into focus: one sky was blue, with gentle clouds drifting through it like regal frigates and a majestic bright yellow Sun above it; the other was a starless void, adorned only by sick, glowing red clouds beneath it.

Buro’s face was a masterpiece of scars, and in it was written the story of his life, a mostly bitter tale. His dark hair was as dirty as an abandoned pelt on a wet road and upon it was an old, cheap helm; his eyes were brown like murky water, and in them was the fading light of despair.

Checking his paltry armor (boiled leather over flimsy chain mail) Buro gripped his shield (thick leather wrapped around cheap wood) and drew his sword (a beautiful piece with a 30 inch blade that he found on a dead Knight). Crouching low, shield covering half of his face, sword pointed forward like a spear, Buro stepped into the Possessed Realm, realizing that if he died here something worse than death awaited him.

The Possessed Realm was a vast, slimy, completely flat land stretching out without curvature. The land’s surface was covered with boils or hills or huts—it was impossible to tell which. Out of these boils the Possessed oozed out (strange deformed creatures that had at one time been human but now sported the visage of whatever the demons inside them happened to fancy). Some had the heads of birds, others of fish; some resembled creatures that no human eyes had ever beheld. One of the latter (a twisted, emaciated, deformed creature that could have been either male or female, with a gelatinous, transparent, bulbous head stuffed with a plethora of floating eyes) approached Buro. 

He felt a combination of fear and revulsion, realizing that when he died he would become something like the abomination approaching him. A stream of urine snaked down his thigh. He took a step back, raised his shield, and cocked his sword arm back.

The thing that approached Buro did so cautiously, glaring malevolently at him with its floating eyes.

The fear Buro felt now was akin to the one he had felt thirty years ago when he had first been pressed into military service at the age of thirteen by the forces of King Urijah, the killer of men. He still remembered the helplessness and desperation he had felt as he was taken from his father’s house. He remembered his mother’s pleas to the soldiers as they dragged him to fight in the King’s endless wars of empire. He never saw his parents or his little sister again.

Emitting a reverberating subhuman cry, the scrawny thing came at Buro, swinging its arm like a club.

Buro caught the blow with his shield, which snapped in two but absorbed enough of the blow to protect him and allowed him to thrust his sword forward, burying it in the creature’s chest.

When he pulled his sword out, thick globs of gelatinous muck fell to the ground. The stench that followed was so overwhelming, like corpses boiled in used oil, that Buro dropped what was left of his shield and immediately covered his mouth and nose with his free hand.

The scrawny, bulbous headed creature dropped to one knee, uttered a grating cry, and waived its arms frantically over its head. Then it stood back up, gaping open wound still oozing viscous material. It charged at Buro again, spikes growing out of its forearms as it attempted to capture him in a murderous embrace.

Buro quickly sidestepped the attack, swinging his sword wildly. As he repositioned himself for another attack, the old feeling of helplessness crawled back into his heart. Gasping for breath while at the same time trying not to breathe the foul air, Buro cautiously circled the Possessed. He had sunk his sword into the things chest (half the blade was covered in gore) and the thing had stood back up, which left him wondering how he could kill something that was already dead. He felt his bowels loosening.

Buro waited for the Possessed to attack although he did feel it would be better if he attacked first. However, he could not get his legs to obey him, and was doing everything in his power just to remain steady. Suddenly something surprising occurred: the Possessed began to emit a high pitched stuttering sound. It took him a few moments to realize that the thing was laughing at him.

Nasty, mocking laughter assaulted his ears. The realization that the Possessed did not consider him a threat, and that that was the only reason just one of them was attacking him, struck him like a spiked mace to the face. They were all just watching him. Soon a chorus of mocking laughter surrounded him. This, however, had the unexpected effect of chasing Buro’s fear away. His pride flared up, anger coursed into his limbs, and, shouting a defiant curse, he attacked the bulbous headed creature.

The attack caught the Possessed completely off-guard, driving it backwards and ending its merriment. It raised both of its arms to fend off the attack, and had them both chopped off.

Buro ran towards the Possessed, driven by rage. He thrust his sword forward like a spear. When the Possessed raised its arms to protect itself, Buro swung his sword in an arc. The sword bit into the creature’s right arm, the blade melding with the flesh, becoming one and then exiting clean; the severed arm flopped to the ground. Buro then reversed the move and severed the other arm.

The Possessed howled its mouthless rage.

Just as a glimmer of hope entered into Buro’s breast, he saw scaly red arms growing out of the stumps of the Possessed’s arms. Like a drop of water on red steel, his anger fizzled away. Fool, he thought. You’re not a Knight. Whatever gave you the impression that a lowly born foot soldier could oppose evil? His heart tearing in two, despair seeping into him, robbing him of his hope and vigor, realizing now that there was to be no redemption for the likes of him, Buro raised his sword over his head and threw himself at what he thought would be certain death. However, the Possessed’s new arms had not yet fully formed, and thus it failed to protect itself from Buro’s thrust.

Buro’s sword penetrated the bulbous sack that was the Possessed’s head, puncturing it, spilling out all its contents. His boots were splashed by foul smelling afterbirth and dead eyes. He stepped back as the Possessed collapsed to its knees and then fell forward. A toxic looking grey mist escaped the ruined corpse and, momentarily forming a face, growled at Buro and then vanished.

Buro just stood there, too stunned to notice the other Possessed were coming towards him. He had expected to die, and now that he had been reprieved and his enemy laid in ruin before him, he did not know what to feel. He would have remained standing there, frozen like a statue, had he not heard the terrible hissing behind him. He turned quickly and saw three deformed abominations coming towards him.

They were more revolting than anything he had ever dreamt of even in his most feverish imaginings: male and female squashed together to form a grotesque mockery that was neither. And they were armed. The two flanking the middle one carried long scimitars made out of sharpened bone, and the middle one carried an impossibly heavy battle axe made out of black metal, its haft covered in spikes.

The three monsters danced towards him. They attempted to encircle him. Buro, however, did not stand like a fool waiting for them to get into position. Remembering General Yugo’s instruction to always face an enemy even while retreating, he backpedalled, always keeping his sword at the ready and never taking his eyes off them. They followed him but did not try to overtake him.

It felt to Buro as if they were toying with him, trying to gauge what he would do next. He wondered if he was just entertainment for them. A sudden fury filled him, and he almost hurled himself at them, abandoning all hope and caution. Something held him back, however. Perhaps it was the instinct all men have to survive or perhaps he was merely tired of being duped, but Buro held himself back and kept retreating.

Although he had crossed into the Possessed Realm seeking death as a form of redemption, he now regretted that decision, for a new thought had crept into his head. If he did die in the Possessed Realm, he would become host to a demon. He knew this and had known it before entering. However, what would happen to his soul? He had not thought of that. Now as these three horrors shadowed him, he did think. He knew this day was his day of reckoning and that he would die in it, but had to wonder if it would make a difference for his soul if he died outside of the Possessed Realm. Of course, if he died outside of the Realm, the monsters would just drag his body back in. He could not escape being possessed, but maybe in the time it took for them to drag his body back in his soul would be able to escape. It was all he had to hold onto, and he did.

The monster holding the axe spoke. Why do you flee if you came seeking death? it asked in a voice like the wind blowing through mutilated flesh.

Buro was startled for he had not expected speech from creatures so foul, nor had he expected them to know anything about him.

Oh, yes, said the monster as if reading his mind. We know you, Buro Durkierna, son of Fergus, donkey of the armies of King Urijah, destroyer of the world, consort of witches, fool. You seek death for you cannot embrace the beauty of what you have done, weakling.

Now Buro was so stunned that he stopped moving. Streams of sweat poured down his face, getting into his eyes. He blinked rapidly and passed a hand over his face, wiping his face with them. The monsters had not moved. They knew everything about him. Of course, he thought, they’re demons. Buro glanced quickly behind him and wondered if he should make a dash for the Mortal World. Only a few yards and he would be out of the Possessed Realm. Only then, he thought, would he stop and give battle. 

There is no soul to save, said the scimitar wielding monster to his right in a voice that sounded like wet meat slapping concrete. Whether you die here or there makes no difference. You, everything you are and have been, will simply fade off into oblivion.

It does not have to end this way, said the monster to his left in a voice as gentle and sweet as poison. The dead become vessels to the children of the Great God, Tialith, but the living who willingly embrace her shall never taste of death. Come willingly with us to the citadel of the Defiled, bow down to Jazael, Mistress of the Possessed Realm, and receive her blessing and be forever.

It was the most horrible thing that Buro had ever heard--eternal life as a curse of regret and sorrow. These things would rob him of his death, and thus of his redemption. He turned and ran.

As he ran he expected a blade to sink into his back or a heavy axe to cleave his head in two. Nothing of the sort occurred; instead, mocking laughter chased him out of the Possessed Realm.

When Buro entered into the human world, he stopped running and turned to face the monsters, which he expected to be right behind him. They were causally walking towards him, still a ways off. If he kept running, he thought, he could get away. He could go and hide somewhere, waiting for the world to end, but perhaps still having enough time to finish his days. He did not wish to get away, however. He suspected the monsters wanted him to flee, wanted him to be a coward atop all his other sins, wanted him to break. But he was already shattered and would break no more. He stood his ground and did not run, waiting for the monsters to catch up. Inside of him, the two entities of fear and rage waged their own war. 

Foolish Donkey, said all three monsters together, speaking in one voice. There is no redemption. What has been done can never be undone. What has bled cannot unbleed. The only thing, the only right thing, is to accept and embrace what you have done. To live without regret and remorse is paradise.

Why do you keep calling me donkey? Buro asked stupidly. They had called him donkey now several times, and even though he knew more important things were at stake, it bothered him.

You are a beast of burden for other men’s will, said the monster with the sweet voice. You were taken from your father’s house, against both his and your will, and made to fight for King Urijah’s benefit and vanity. How many years have you served the king, Donkey?

Since I was thirteen, answered Buro while the entirety of his violent life flashed before his eyes. Thirty years have I given.

You have given nothing; it was taken. What have you gained from all of this?

I had a wife, once; and a daughter.

What happened to them? the monster’s voice was sweet and reeked of compassion.

A Lord fancied my wife and took her. He did not fancy my daughter. She disappeared before they were wed. Although I searched for her for years, I could not find her. I think they killed her.

Did you revenge yourself upon this Lord?

I destroyed the world, didn’t I? Buro laughed.

We can see this deeply disturbs you, chimed in the axe wielding monster with the flapping voice. Why does it disturb you so?

To avenge myself against an unjust man and an unfaithful woman, I set in motion the destruction of the world.

Did you? Is it not conceivable that you just replaced a rotten, unjust world with a much better one?

A better world! Buro blurted out. This…this…this is not a better world. This is a perverted nightmare. This, this is the land of the dead and of demons. Look at yourself! You are…what the hell are you?

Tialith is a good God, said the sweet voiced monster, and she does not fall upon those who willingly embrace her. Only your Lords and Ladies oppose us; the serfs, the slaves, the commoners have all received the blessings of the Great God.

You turn them into monsters.

We give them power they have never had. The type of power we offer you.

Look at the life you have been forced to live, said the axe wielding monster. How many have you slaughtered to feed the rapacious, insatiable appetites of Lords and Ladies? How many years of your life have you surrendered so the feet of dainty Ladies could be clad in silk slippers? How many scars have you borne for the vanity of kings? Look at your face. It is as monstrous as mine. I, however, know what I have received in return. What did you get?

Buro touched his face, felt the myriad of scars crisscrossing it, and did wonder what he had to show for it. It was true; his face was almost as revolting as the monster’s. But he was human, and that had to mean something.

Humans are their own demons, said the scimitar wielding monster to his right. Look at the world you have created, and then complain about ours.

Go, said the axe wielding monster. We grant you your life this day, Buro Durkierna, so that you may see your world clearly. Walk about your towns and cities, and then return to us and tell us you have not seen hell.

Buro backed away slowly, baffled, suspecting some sort of treachery, but suspecting something worst, also. The monsters could be speaking truth. He knew the world. The world was ugly in the inside.

***

The monsters watched Buro disappear down the old High Road.

Jazael will not be pleased we allowed him to leave, said the monster to the right. She wants him dead.

Come, Yadid, we have only owned these bodies for a handful of days. Our power is not complete. We are no match for him yet, said the axe wielding monster.

He is just a man, Ur-lama.

A man, Ku-aya, who has spent most of his life in war, said Ur-lama.  We are new to these bodies and have yet to bring forth our full strength.

The Witch of the Defiled will not forgive us his escape, said Yadid, caressing her scimitar. While he lives, there is a danger we will lose our hold on this reality and be hurled back to the Demon World.

Ah, the Stone, said Ur-lama. She had placed her axe behind her back, where sticky appendages protruded, grabbed it, and held it in place. The mortal who placed the Stone is the only one who can remove it. I know this, Yadid. But do not fret; where the High Road turns, I have positioned thirty goblins. Buro Durkierna will not live through this day. The Witch will have his head.

Pity there will not be enough of him left to possess, said Ku-aya as his bone scimitar melted into his flesh.

Chapter 2

The Witch and the Defiled

She was beautiful and hideous at the same time, shifting visage with every step, forcing those who looked upon her into a desperate inner struggle between desire and revulsion. She was tall, majestic and slender, with an elegant rigidity to her back. Her hair was long and silver colored, silver so deep it gave it a metallic sheen. Her face, when it was beautiful, was an oval-shaped, smooth, poreless pearl, with gentle black eyes, a small, slightly hooked nose, and a small mouth with full lips. When it was hideous, it was a coarse, broken mess, resembling something only vaguely alive, a torn leather mask with mucous oozing sores. When she stood still, her face could be either completely beautiful or completely hideous, depending on who looked upon her. In her anger, her face was both, and unbearable to behold. She was Jazael, servant of the revolting Tialith, enslaver of the Defiled, and the most powerful witch ever spawned in the Demon World.

She stood on the balcony of the tower of Decadence within the citadel, Eruttro, which in the forsaken tongue means misery, and the Defiled stood next to her. 

The Defiled was an abomination even to other abominations. He was three feet tall, with red and grey skin, and a round bald head adorned with thin pointy ears. His eyes were green slits, like open wounds, and his nose was a small knot of rotting flesh. Yet what stood out the most for those who had the misfortune of laying eyes upon him was his mouth. It was an obscene mouth, covering half of his face, and was stuffed full of tiny serrated tentacles that acted as teeth and could easily strip the flesh off whatever he bit into. 

His body, on the other hand, was a striking contrast to his face. If anything, it could be said that he resembled a human infant, save for the fact he walked upright and did not crawl. There were some who actually believed him to be an infant and referred to Jazael as the Witch of the Defiled Infant. Jazael, however, knew him for what he truly was: the Defiled was something from beyond reality. He was an obscene manifestation of the Before Gods, created by the forbidden language even demons feared to speak. 

The forbidden language was the language of the Before Gods; it was the language of utter destruction and creation of destruction. Each syllable was an apotheosis of agony; each word pronounced seared the flesh brutally; the uttering of an entire sentence was beyond endurance. Even the three terrible Gods of the Demon World would not speak it. Tialith, the Deceiver, would not speak it; nor would Marduel, the Destroyer; and even the awful Nameless One, the Corrupter, refused to pronounce his own name. Jazael, however, did dare. She dared the agony, bore the searing, and endured what could not be endured. Awesome Tialith saw this and was well pleased. In Jazael she saw an opportunity not only to become the supreme God of the Demon World but the God of all the realities. She summoned Jazael before her and filled her mind with dreams of power, decadence and splendor. Using arcane spells cast in the forbidden language, Jazael had reached beyond the Nether where the Before Gods had devoured themselves into. She had awakened them, showing them new worlds full of life and violence. How they had hungered! Tialith, the Deceiver, had then promised to free them from beyond the Nether. 

Although their power seemed boundless, the Before Gods could not free themselves from the nothingness they now inhabited. And as daring as Jazael was, she could not open but a sliver between the real and the unreal. But through that sliver the Before Gods had been able to send a tiny fraction of themselves: the Defiled and the Feeder Stone. If enough deaths were fed to the Stone, the Defiled would be able to open a large enough door for the Before Gods to enter and claim this new reality. The Before Gods, however, never counted on the calumny of Tialith, nor did they ever dream she would have designs of her own. Tialith had had Jazael bind the Defiled with powerful spells and taken the Stone and fed it suffering instead of death. Suffering fed Tialith but did nothing for the Before Gods. The Before Gods had raged, as had the Defiled, but it meant nothing. They were powerless beyond the Nether, and the Defiled was bound.

The Feeder Stone was decagon shaped and colored a perverted obsidian. It sat atop a channeling rod buried deep in the ground. The Stone was a drop of blood of one of the Before Gods, they who had lost their hold on reality and drifted beyond the Nether. As such it had the power to amplify anything that was put through it: death, which fed the Before Gods; suffering, which fed the new ones. Jazael had used powerful spells to summon it and endured the untold torture of the incantations. The Before Gods had heard her, had awoken to her chanting, and had become aware of the new worlds brimming with life. Oh, they had hungered! Through their nearly unfathomable power, and through the will of Jazael, they had managed to reach from beyond the Nether and had sent to her the Stone and the Defiled. These had greatly increased her powers and allowed her to create the vast Possessed Realm, which created the agony and misery that fed dreadful Tialith.

Jazael abandoned the balcony and entered a vast hexagonal room whose walls were adorned with the writhing bodies of naked people who weren’t allowed to die. In the center of the room was the Feeder Stone. It emitted black tendrils of dark light that stretched out from it to the writhing bodies. In this room Jazael always felt stronger, and she could well imagine how Tialith must feel.

The three have failed you, said the Defiled in a hollow, empty voice. You should kill them.

Jazael laughed, a surprisingly melodic sound. Demons cannot be killed, she said. They can only be banished back into the Demon World.

The Defiled hissed and wobbled over to the writhing bodies, poking them with his sharp nails. Then, in a rapid movement, he turned and walked back towards Jazael. He pointed a blood covered finger at her and said, The Before Gods could kill anything, even existence itself.

Oh, yes, I know, said Jazael in a mocking, regal tone. They did, in fact, kill everything. They even killed their grasp on their own reality. And they kept on killing and killing and killing until they were left with nothing.

The Defiled gave her a vicious look. It’s so dangerous, thought Jazael, to bind a creature such as this. She feared that with every death the Defiled grew stronger.

Jazael laughed again. She was no fool. She well knew the Defiled was a part of the Before Gods and shared with them the desire to consume all of existence. He would bring them back and devour reality, draping it with a shroud of oblivion. She, however, would not allow this. And Tialith would never allow it. Unlike the Before Gods who consumed the very essence of existence, demons fed off the misery of life. Witches, though not demons but beings who had willingly embraced the demon power, also fed off misery and suffering. 

I will not banish the three, said Jazael, for they have not failed me. You see, we share the same dream: a perfect world of agony. They are quite intelligent and do not wish for this, our perfect world, to vanish. The mortal’s head will be mine before too long. If they do, however, fail me, I’ll feed them to the Stone.

Where you to send me, Dread Mistress, the mortal’s head would be yours before the closing of the day.

Alas, sweet darling, we do not share the same dream, said Jazael, ordering the resentful Defiled back into his cage.

Although the Defiled did not understand this, was too alien to understand it, his resentment, his bitterness, his dark godlike hatred, fed the power of Tialith.

As the diminutive abomination crawled back into his mystical cage, which sent him into a void, Jazael smiled, amused and frightened at the same time by the game she was playing. She well knew that her spells could not bind the Defiled for long, and that when he became free he would try to bring the Before Gods back. If they return, thought Jazael, they will devour everything. The only hope, Jazael knew, was to make, through the Possessed Realm, Tialith so powerful that she would be able to vanish the Defiled back to the regions beyond the Nether. For that to occur, the misery of the living would have to reach proportions undreamt of. 

When night had overtaken the Mortal World and the Possessed Realm remained unchanged save for an increase in agony, Jazael ascended the highest tower in the citadel of Eruttro, the Tower of Rot. There, in a secret chamber only a few knew about, in a room shaped like a crescent with a floating pool of black water in its center, Jazael invoked the terrible God, Tialith. She dropped to her knees and bowed her head as the black pool assumed a countenance too awful to contemplate.

Tialith’s face was death, bitterness and hatred combined within a mask of rotting flesh, torn and mutilated, with flapping bits of skin wiggling as if independently alive. Her face was the perfection of putrefaction. But Tialith was the Deceiver, and soon her countenance changed to that of an angelic being. Her face was now soft and smooth like jade, ageless, and her skin was like milk; her hair, black as the Death Night, cascaded down her shoulders. Her eyes betray her, though. They are red pits that contain and reveal the totality of what she truly is. No mortal can lay eyes on Tialith and live.

The Before Gods cannot be allowed to return, said Tialith in a majestic voice that was sweet with menace.

Only the Defiled can free them, dread Mistress, said Jazael, awe and fear unsteadying her voice. While I control the Defiled, there is no danger. Her voice became even more unsteady as she continued. I cannot, however, hold on to the filthy little thing indefinitely; with every death he grows stronger. Even with my most powerful magics, I will lose him before too long.

The entire room shuddered though Tialith barely moved. Her displeasure was not evident in her expression, but Jazael knew it was there. They had planned on holding the Defiled until the entirety of the world was covered by the Possessed Realm, but she now doubted it was possible. Thoughtlessly and outside of her awareness, she rubbed her wrist, not because it hurt her in any way—pain was a fact of life for her—but because it comforted her. It was a strange feeling to be comforted by physical contact. She immediately chased the feeling away before the revolting Tialith could notice her weakness.

We must gamble, uttered Tialith in a voice like breaking glass. We must trust to human cowardice and pettiness, and concentrate all of our forces on one front.

Mistress, that would leave us vulnerable in three fronts.

Tialith laughed, an awful cackling sound as of seagulls drowning. Mortals will not brave the Possessed Realm; all of their nightmares dwell here.

One has already dared, said Jazael, fighting to