Mestlven: Chapter 1

FESTIVAL OF THE PALE

The Year of The Escape

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The Pale, the goddess of death, fixed her rotting eyes squarely on the city of Mestlven where grew a darkness, patient and terrible. Her murder lifted from the battlefields of Corlene to swoop and brood on Mestlven’s roofs and scream at her citizens. Enormous crows, two feet tall with four-foot wingspans, terrorized the city and ate her trash, her vermin, her dead. When those sources of rotting meat and bloated flesh ran out, the crows began hunting her young. The coming of the crows marked the goddess’s intent for the city to host her annual festival. The clergy of The Pale arrived in force while her citizens cringed and waited with dread.

Mort arrived in Mestlven on the eve of the festival, her garrote stashed in the cuff of her robe, her dagger hanging from her hip. She murmured the prayers of The Pale and witnessed the spectacle of the massive city. Built by a long-dead race of giants, the scale of the buildings reached beyond her understanding.

Her wagon lurched ahead, rumbling along the cobblestones. The idols it carried trembled. Navigating the hills and winding alleys of the city proved difficult. Citizens pressed in tight to see The Pale’s cloth march through their streets like the slow and steady onset of some plague. Hunched over the reins of the wagon, Mort was used to the way they stared, fear branded on every face. Her brown wool cloak, befitting a priestess of her rank, gave no hint of the trim body she hid within its folds. They could not hope to guess her size. With the grinning skull she had painted on her face, and the scowl their pie-eyed looks teased up from her, she knew their fear nearly crippled them. No city wished to host the Festival of The Pale, but for some reason the goddess’s considerable murder had chosen this town. Mort found her anticipation growing.

For long years she had been a brown robed priestess of The Pale. She longed for advancement within her order, for a better understanding of her goddess and a closeness to The Pale that had been lacking these past months. She thought again of her bishop’s groping hands and the rage they had inspired in her, and she felt at odds with her church’s leadership and its goals. She had never been chosen to attend the Festival of The Pale before, but she knew something grand was about to happen.

The Grim stalked ahead, the personification of The Pale in the world of man. She rode the great albino horse that never died, and a black fog issued from the hem of her rotting robes to crawl the ground in all directions, seeking out the corners and recesses of the city. She carried the staff that claimed everything before it. Mort had never been so close to The Grim, and her excitement for the festival brought her near to panting.

The procession stopped at the center of town. The Grim dropped heavy to the street beside her mount, and with a clawed hand, stroked the beast’s muscled flank. She shuffled forward, dragging her feet and leaning heavily on the staff until she reached the very center of the courtyard. There, she slowly lifted the staff a few inches from the ground and held it aloft.

“Wretched mother of death, we come to this place at this time to make tribute and receive tribute in your honor.” The Grim’s prayer broke across the air, dry like the rattling of bones. “I claim this city for the duration of the festival for you and your enjoyment.”

She slammed the staff into the ground. The street trembled as a circle of power exploded in all directions and embraced the entire city. The crows lifted into the air, screaming as they stained the Mestlven sky as black as a cloud of noxious gas issuing from a ruptured corpse.

Mort closed her eyes, raising her arms as if to embrace the heavens. The cold gaze of her mistress landed upon her, and she shuddered in its sight. She felt the swell of souls lift into the air as those within the city clinging to life were released into the arms of The Pale. Her own power flexed and throbbed with their fearful, despairing cries.

Wagons from their convoy entered the square, and Mort went about the motions of blessing the ground and directing the citizens to her goddess’s device. She formed work teams that unloaded carts and raised the tents and altars. But foremost of her duties, she organized the idols and their arrangement.

Three days, her order worked to grasp tight the citizens of Mestlven and bend them to her goddess’s will, and on the third, the festivities began. Mort walked the narrow lanes of the festival’s booths, delighting in the trinkets for sale and the meats that would be freely given to the people. She tried to purchase a small stone skull carved from jade, but the merchant was having none of it.

“Please, mighty priestess, have this as a gift. I feel as though it was made particularly for you and would sell it to no one else.”

“I am not who is mighty, salesman. All true power comes from death—those who fear it, those who control it, and those who deal it.” She looked at the skull and fought back her smile. She wanted it so badly. She picked it up and nodded to the merchant. “Thank you for your generosity. I will think of you in my prayers.”

“You’re too generous,” he said.

As Mort walked from the booth, she prayed for his death to come soon and be painful. Nothing purified more than pain.

This, like all other festivals, was a time of feasting and games, a time of celebration. In the opening hours of its delights, the citizens forgot it was being forced on them and began to enjoy themselves. The young and vibrant danced for the grieving, followed by feats of strength and contests of eating. Singers performed in honor of those fallen in battle or overpowered by disease. The first night of the festival thrummed with the beat of jovial people carousing under the pall of death.

On the breaking of the next day, servants of The Pale doled out mercy to the aged and infirmed. Beatings took the souls of those deemed unworthy of mercy. Blades stole the life of those The Pale did not know. Death kisses were planted upon the lips of her most devout followers. The bodies were carried to the center of the city where the goddess’s murder glutted itself on the freshly dead.

On the third day, the statues were unveiled and the citizens marched before their grandeur.

In honor of the five great diseases of man, the statues were shown to the people for their amazement and their prayers. The avatar of Leprosy stood rotting before the people, its face a mask of dead flesh, its naked granite body ravaged by decay. In places, white marble bone appeared where the skin and muscle had fallen away to nothing. The lepers of the city closed in around the avatar to wail and plea for their lives. They begged The Pale for deliverance, and four of them fell over dead, blessed with the end of torments. The rest shuffled away, dejected and mourning their lot.

Mort looked upon the statue and thought of when she had bestowed this disease. She reminded herself that she had blessed them with their affliction. The granting of a disease brought the goddess’s focus upon those who suffered it. Mort prayed she would one day gain a wasting disease so that The Pale might set her eye upon her.

The avatar of the Weeps stood as a vicious reminder to parents of the plague, both of what they had lost and how cruel death could be. The stricken image of the boy had been cast in white marble, but clever rendering leant itself to black, ruby-encrusted sores riddling the body. The lesions took on the inevitable shape of a teardrop, a sign, Mort believed, of the goddess’s incredible sorrow at taking such a young life. The priestess watched as mothers and fathers screamed the names of their sons or daughters cut away from them by the relentless disease. A palpable being, loss shambled the streets, seeking the dead children Weeps had culled away.

The gruesome avatar of Dysentery stood emaciated and haunted, leaning against a craven pillar. Obsidian and rubies set into the thighs, crotch, and ass of the statue depicted the ravaging affliction. The masses had reeled in disgust at it when unveiled, cursing and turning their gazes. But all this day, they would lay their gifts at its feet. They would touch its toes and kiss its pedestal in prayer as they begged The Pale to pass them by and leave them vital.

The avatar of Consumption lay atop a pedestal, back bent and staring up at the skies. Blood rubies crusted the lips, the eyes frantic. A weakened hand clutched at the air as it fought for breath and received none.

The Surge was, to Mort, the most grisly of diseases. She had witnessed a man die of the Surge when she was but a child, and the sight of his swollen body would never leave her. His body had blown up in size until walking was impossible, until his lips could not be parted, until his bloated body was beyond all movement and he could naught but moan. Then the swelling reached its summit with the splitting of his flesh.

The moans still rolling in her mind, Mort remembered slicing his throat, and the first attention she had received from The Pale. At the age of six, she had sawed into his flesh with a dull serrated blade until he bled out, and in his eyes, she saw gratitude. The Pale had embraced her, led her to the church, and used her to dispatch mercy. From that day, Mort had become intimate with death and, staring now at the Surge, she saw it as the instrument of her destiny. She gently pressed herself forward and, with a prayer, kissed the bursting foot of the statue.

Night came, and the clergy collected the offerings left behind. Mort found toys and candy sitting on the ground around the Weeps, and her heart deflated a bit. She prayed for wisdom and deliverance. Soon, an appreciation of the disease smothered and replaced her pity. The Weeps brought doubt to many of her order. Mort had remained strong in the face of their mercy, but still it tore at her in quiet moments.

When the collecting was done, the last set of statues was unveiled, and the crowd screamed in fear and horror. Mort walked from killer to killer, assassin to assassin, as terrified citizens left offerings to ward off the wrath of The Pale’s children. Known to be the patron goddess of murderers, her affection for her children was well documented.

The five chosen killers this year included Julius Kriss, murderer of the followers of Isyal. From the streets of Dragonsbane, nations away, the likeness of the proficient assassin, Blade Silvertooth, had been rendered. He snarled with his tiger-like face and fur-covered bulk, clutching two great curved daggers that spoke of his boundless wrath.

When Mort looked upon his countenance, she remembered the pain of his bed and the raging of his sex. She remembered her fear. She remembered her joy. Mort had left her church in pilgrimage, with no supplies, to walk to Dragonsbane so that she might lay eye to Blade. When she had come before him, he had seen her for what she was, and blessed her womb with seed that had quickened to a child. She had been only eleven, and the child had not survived the birth. She had taken this as a good sign and knew her child was with The Pale.

Thomas Claymore of Nardoc, Sister Death of Drine, great killers all, but when Mort found herself at the last statue, she lacked the knowledge to place the murderess. 

A staggering crowd gathered around this likeness. The streets swelled with onlookers who dropped priceless jewels and gems at the feet of this killer, carved to possess a heart-stopping beauty. Cruel eyes stared forward, unafraid. In her hand, she grasped a jeweled hairpin. An emerald dripped from its tip to signify a poison.

She wore a breathtaking dress and possessed a predisposition of a regal nature. Mort thought her a noble lady of some kind, and fought to win the side of the statue to no avail. The citizens simply would not move out of the way. They sang a dirge to her, then cried as they beheld her, holding up their young to let little hands touch the hem of her stone dress. All whispered reverently the name Meredith.

Some local legend, known and adored by the citizens of Mestlven, was on display here. Clearly, she was the reason this city had been chosen for the festival.

She grabbed a passerby, glaring and using her skull-painted face to full effect. “Tell me of this woman now,” she demanded, and the man she held shuddered in naked panic. He blubbered, unable to find words.

Then a well-dressed boy, perhaps seventeen, stepped before her with a smug look. Arrogance, bold and blinding, rolled off him. “Leave that drunken sot be, priestess. I will answer your questions, should you ask them. I am versed in the local history, and this is a tale I love to tell.

“Her name is Meredith Mestlven, known around this place as the killer of her husband, our lord, and their baby girl. She was never brought to justice. She slipped away, and for two decades, the peasants of this city have seen her around every darkened corner. She is a bit of a celebrity around here, a ghost haunting our streets. Despite her crimes, she is heralded as a heroine.”

Mort looked again at the statue and grinned. Killers at large always filled her with a sense of fancy as she tried to imagine their next victim. If she stayed within this city, she might even get a glimpse of the famous murderess. Her hands trembled at the thought of it.

She gave the man before her an appraising eye. “You are a bit of a killer yourself. Are you not, citizen?”

An aura of death encircled him. This man knew The Pale well. “I will refrain from answering, if you don’t mind.” He smiled a warning that showed his perfect teeth, then clicked them together harshly as if to devour the world.

 “What is your name?”

“I am Donnie, Donnie the Ego, to both friend and foe, known throughout the city as a man of note.”

Mort nodded and turned away. He kept speaking, but she had stopped paying attention. Killers were an arrogant sort, and she hated arrogance almost as much as life.

The next day she awoke to collect the offerings for the killers. Mounds of gifts and coin had been laid out to bribe the murderers into leaving the peasants be. Mort wondered if it would work. Would The Pale protect the devoted from the embrace of the killers?

Mort sighed. She would not bother herself with the question. Instead, she made her way to the likeness that piqued her curiosity the most, and found herself dumbstruck before the statue of Meredith Mestlven.

The offering was gone. Mort’s peers stood around the statue, agape at the missing wealth. Not a copper had been left behind, no sign of the massive fortune. Mort swayed on her feet. As she rose, she remembered a needle in her neck and a myriad of colors. As the world went dark, she had seen a beautiful face with a quick apology.

Mort’s fear rolled up around her and she fought to control her panic. She dropped to her knees in the middle of the street and began her prayer.

“Please forgive me, mighty mother. If it be death or vengeance you desire, please claim it. I have failed you. If you would not strike me in anger, please use me and allow me to return what was taken from you. I am your steadfast servant. I beg for purpose.”

She walked to the head of her order, fighting to keep her fear in check. Failure crawled out in front of her like smog. Citizens hurried from her path, and she nearly wept as she neared the high priestess. Many of The Pale’s followers thronged round, but none spoke. There was a muttering of prayers as The Grim lifted her gnarled hand, and a sensation of falling as she pointed to Mort.

Mort’s heart stopped. She lowered herself to the ground. Strong vise-like hands grabbed her arms and jerked her to her feet. She went willingly, letting herself be led as she watched the street below her. Tossed to the ground at the hem of the rotted black cloak, she shuddered in fright.

Slowly, she pushed herself from the stone, which seemed to hold a bit of frost. Her eyes climbed the seething cloak, taking in the tears and threadbare sections. She stared up and beheld the utter darkness within the cowl, and her heart stopped. When it beat again, it felt frantic and off pace, stumbling in her breast as she braced herself for judgment.

The gnarled, claw-like hand of The Grim extended from the cuff. Black nails, sharp and strong, gripped Mort’s chin and jerked her close. The cowl bent low, issuing the calming stench of decay as it spoke. “You will stay,” The Grim said.

Like a sentence handed down from some damning judge, the words filled Mort to bursting with terror and grief.

When she spoke, the frigid cold that emanated from The Grim frosted her breath. Tears flowed and cooled upon her cheeks. “I am a loyal servant of The Pale. She is my everything. Please, Mistress of Death, do not banish me from your embrace.”

A ragged breath drew in slow and loud from The Grim’s cowl. “No, my deadly child, The Pale would not think of banishing one such as yourself. More likely is she to bite off her own finger than to push away one so loyal. She commands you stay for her sake. One of her favorite daughters is in Mestlven. Sob, the Jeweled Lady, has come home to wreak her vengeance. Her mind is bent on murder and mayhem, dear servant, and she will need your help.” The stuttering, rasping laugh of The Grim rattled from within her hood. “The city must bleed, child. You will be one of the blades to cut it.”

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