The Ravenous Army

Swelling the Ranks

Hot coals were laid out in a twenty foot rectangle centered in the reception hall of Rotterfeld Keep. The fire was made entirely of the stronghold's heirlooms, priceless furniture, and historied memorabilia that no longer would be passed down. The Slake sat before the inferno, back rigid with curled, gnarled fingers gripping the polished steel arms of the throne that days before sat King Gerwain Rotterfeld.

Gerwain was now bound midway to a pole twelve feet in length that overlooked the coals. Thick chains held the pole vertically and fed into the rafters of the vaulted ceiling, pulled taut for the time being. At two ends of the hall The Slake's worshippers awaited his command. Gerwain, the child king, struggled against his bindings.

"You have one more chance," The Slake called out, his gravelly voice cracking like the flames. "I offer succor to all and I have the means to fulfill my promises, as well as my threats."

Gerwain wasn't but fifteen. His father, Fergus the Unchanged, looked uncannily like Gerwain. The Slake saw near identical features in the young boy's face. Gerwain could be mistaken for his father's twin. And that's why The Unchanged had put his only son in his place, knowing The Slake was after him. Clever, but The Slake was more so. The ruse did not fool him, but it had bought Fergus some time. It was a move well played, however heinous.

"You'll get nothing from me," Gerwain screamed. He spat into the flames. A sharp sizzle responded.

"You are a foolish child," The Slake stood and crossed the room, stopping at the other end of the fire pit. He looked up amusedly at the boy and smiled. "Your father left you in power to die in his place. If you tell me where he went, I'll free you. If you tell me of his imbibements, I'll reward you. If you do not cooperate, you burn." The Slake's voice, though harsh and somewhat rasping, also had a saccharine smoothness about it.

"I burn then," Gerwain stopped struggling and stared, unblinking, at The Slake. His full, rosy cheeks glowed bright red in the light. The boy would not succumb to The Slake's will. Gerwain was too loyal to his father.

The Slake shrugged. "You burn then." The sweetness abandoned his voice. He turned and did not watch as the chains were lowered, only heard the shrieks of the boy as they echoed throughout the chamber behind him, the clanking chains rattling in time with the wailing. It would not take long for the child's rosy cheeks to turn ashen.

The Slake left the room, finished with all the disappointment that The Unchanged's keep offered. He wanted to see no more of it. It had been a waste of time and The Slake knew he had precious little left. He needed to hunt his prey while the tracks were still fresh.

The tall, broad-shouldered man was beginning to bend at the spine, the years catching up to him. His hands were wrinkled and warped from using his gifts too often, the lines in his face ever-deepening into a yellowed map of valleys and crevasses. His stringy, jet black hair was greying at the roots and starting to fall out, thinned most at his hairline, which had retreated to the crown of his head. The rate at which his body deteriorated only increased the more he used his power, but he needed to use his power to achieve his goal. It was inevitable. None were as willful and stubborn as he.

As The Slake entered into a vast hallway connected to a triangular, open greenhouse, he examined the bodies that lay scattered about randomly, left where they'd fallen. They'd been slain just moments ago, but most were cold and dead already. His worshippers had been thorough with their execution.

The Slake passed the dead and stopped near a young soldier, curled on his left side and gasping for air. He clutched a large seeping wound on his abdomen, just below his ribs. A blow had struck his temple and blood was steadily pooling beneath his head.