Blood Moon: Law of the Cupbearer

Read Part One here: https://www.creepypasta.com/blood-moon-bound-in-blood-and-magic/

Read Part Two here: https://www.creepypasta.com/blood-moon-law-of-the-fish/

AS THE WATER WITCH HAD DECREED, a plague soon struck Milham’s Ford. One borne by the river, as she’d foretold before drowning in it, but also by the fields. The very same fruits and vegetables that had refreshed the people during the Festival of Summer now tore through their guts. Two days after Summerday, the onset of cramps and loose bowels put most people in a state of high alert and deep exhaustion. No one could drink enough water to prevent extreme thirst. As soon as they went to the fountain in the town square, they had to drop everything and rush to relieve themselves. After cleaning up and filling their jugs and waterskins, the cycle began again.

No one knew what caused this ailment, but everyone feared the witch’s curse. They called on the Inquisitors to lift it, but the masked priests either could not or would not. Some of the common people turned to the path of the penitent, hoping to whip the disease from their bodies and the sin from their souls. Others relied on prayer. The Law itself said that those who obeyed its tenets would receive health, wealth, and happiness. Unfortunately, the faithful and unfaithful alike were stricken down by the gut sickness. Even the mayor and his servants, except for one, were not safe.

In the early light of dawn, that servant fled the mayor’s mansion for the edge of town. She had someone to see. Someone to teach. Someone who would learn the Law of the Cupbearer.

No five-tapped knock was necessary at the entrance to Lord Ponisc’s abandoned barn. Brialla, snuggled into a pile of straw, jerked awake at the sight of a shadow in what would have been the doorway. Her mind told her to run, but her body remained rigid as a board. “Who’s there?”

“One of our coven. I’m Quara, the Fifth Blood Witch and Keeper of the Cupbearer’s Dagger. May I approach? I have bread and a fresh ‘bota de venna’ to share with you.”

Brialla climbed out of the straw, brushed it off, and bowed. “Sister. You say you have wine?”

“Indeed. Drink freely, but not too much. A drunk blood mage is dangerous.”

Quara watched as Brialla tipped the leather wineskin to her mouth and drank like a fish anyway. She pulled her lips from its spout with a loud sucking sound and a murmur of refreshment. “My utmost thanks. I’ve been so thirsty I’ve been thinking of drinking my own blood, but that’s salty.”

“Also dangerous, but nowhere near as much as the river. There’s a vile plague about.”

“Plague? Here in Milham’s Ford, like that witch cursed us with? What kind? How bad is it?”

“‘Tis a sickness of the belly and bowels. Your slop turns to liquid, and that can kill you.”

“Dear Law.” Brialla took a deep breath. “Is that why you brought me wine instead of water?”

“Aye. I dared not even bring you some from the fountain. Some desperate people might – well.” Quara sighed. “All the clean water in town will soon be dirtied. That means it’s wine from here on out until the gut-rot passes. Expensive, yes, but I know where and how to get it. By day I’m a blood witch. By night I’m a cupbearer for the mayor and his household. If I can get you past their gates and into a servant’s position, perhaps alongside me, then we’ll be safer than most people.”

“What if they discover we’re blood mages and killers to boot?”

“They haven’t found me out yet. Nor will they discover you. What did Scepi teach you?”

“To hide. I can also seal my lips shut, speak mind to mind, and enter the realm of dreams if I carve the Fishes’ Sign into my palm. I’ve learned quite a bit.” Brialla paused. “Have you seen Scepi?”

“Nay. Unless absolutely necessary, I don’t want to know his whereabouts. The less we learn about each other in the daytime world, the better. That way, we won’t be able to betray ourselves and our colleagues to the Inquisitors if we’re caught. Still, I’m worried. I haven’t even caught wind of Scepi’s thoughts lately, though I’ve called out to him.” Quara shook her head. “That boy. He’s stuck in the dream world most of the time, but reality comes calling every time our stomachs heave.”

“So what can we do, with or without him?”

“For starters, we can get out of this rotten barn and go to the forum. The mayor’s called a meeting of every well person in Milham’s Ford. Witches, murderers or not, that means us.”

“Will we need to conceal ourselves?”

“Not this time. It’d be tempting to do so, but if we show our faces, it would mean we could volunteer for any task. Make haste. I’d also suggest a bath, but not in the river. Perhaps if we pass a courtyard fountain not yet soiled…” Quara motioned for Brialla to follow her, then raised her hand. “Hold. I need to teach you the Cupbearer’s Sigil, which grants you resistance to any plague for a single day if carved with my dagger. Carved with yours, the spell lasts half a day. Resistance is not immunity, however. We still need to take great care.”

Quara gently took Brialla’s palm and etched the symbol of two lightning bolts upon it. Due to Scepi’s teaching, Brialla wasn’t caught off guard by the pain. In fact, she welcomed it as a price paid. After signing her own palm with the bolts, Quara stitched her wounds shut and led Brialla out of the barn, to the center of town.

“I still think we ought to hide,” the young witch grumbled. “So the Inquisitors won’t spot us.”

“The more signs you etch into your palm, the more risk you take of cutting your hand clean open. Slicing through flesh, then bone. We can’t have that. A shredded canvas is no good to anyone, not even the greatest artists among us. Arisa, Apricus, and Recnac can only handle three at once.”

“No carving all twelve signs, then? One after the other for greatest effect and protection?”

Quara glanced at Brialla from beneath lowered eyelids. “Even if you were the highest blood mage, you’d die at four sigils. Still, I admire your ambition. You truly desire power. Be not discouraged that you’re not prepared for it. You’ll learn as you have already, sign by sign and lesson by lesson.”

Several days ago, in the light of the Blood Moon, Brialla had barely seen anyone’s face. Now she saw that Quara’s was magnificent. No scars. No pockmarks or other blemishes. Smooth olive skin, hazel eyes, and dark copper hair wrapped around her head in a braid similar to Inga Torsten’s on Summerday. Her smile shone as a beacon. She had all her teeth, and they were fairly straight.

Brialla could not say the same. When she was a bit younger, she’d suffered from several bouts of reddish-white pustules that she’d popped in frustration and sadness. This had left several scars upon her forehead and cheeks. Besides that, she bore a pronounced overbite, marring what would have been a good face. Not a pretty one, but one that a man might have noticed. No more. “As plain as an old tin pail, you are,” her late masters Cheever and Maude had said. “At least you can carry two full ones, Rose.” Roses were beautiful. Brialla knew she would never be.

No matter. The business in the town square was so urgent that it required everyone. The people of Milham’s Ford that had not yet caught the gut-rot had gathered, expressions drawn tight and hands wringing with worry. What would the mayor say was to be done?

“Good day,” he announced. “I suppose you know why I sent out the call for you to gather here. A pestilence has arrived. It’s killed people already. I need men to haul bodies, man the corpse carts, and burn their loads in the pits on the edge of town. I need women to scrub and sweep the streets where many have soiled out of desperation. I need children to call, ‘Bring your dead,’ and to spread ashes where too much slop has been piling up. Come and receive your work assignments. We haven’t a moment to lose. Death is breathing down our necks.”

“All because of that witch,” someone cried. “The woman that we drowned on Summerday.”

“Hear, hear!” yelled another onlooker. “She cursed us, and there’s nothing we can do.”

“Except redouble your efforts to follow the Law.” The crowd parted as an Inquisitor, a replacement for the one who had abducted Scepi, approached the mayor’s dais. Their steed let loose a stream of hot manure that sprayed some unfortunates. “You have turned away from the truth time and again,” the Inquisitor said, “and are now paying the price with your lives.”

“But I’ve been faithful,” bellowed one woman. “I’ve followed the Law to the letter, yet my family’s ill! My husband and children have caught the runs, and they’ve obeyed every rule. Why is it that you high priests on your high horses never seem to catch any sort of sickness, but we do?”

“Our faith protects us. Yours will not protect you from a well-deserved beating. Guards, bring this impudent woman forward to the flogging post. I’ll write ten lines on her back. One must obey the spirit of the Law, not only the letter. So saith the Law.” As the Inquisitor dismounted, the guards in the crowd found their mark. They did not have to drag her kicking and screaming to the post, however. She kept her back straight and her head high. As Brialla saw her pass, her heart soared.

“‘Tis bravery of the highest sort,” she murmured in Quara’s ear.

“Aye. ‘Tis foolishness as well. Once the Inquisitors have punished you, you are theirs whether you know it or not. This poor matron will never be able to escape their attention again.”

Brialla sighed. “I feared as much. Now what is the spirit of the Law, and how can you obey it?”

“By being humble and grateful for its guidance. Obedience is a matter of will, not just action.”

“Horseshit. I say a grave injustice is being done here.”

“Shh! Do you want to be overheard? If you must speak further, speak to my mind.”

As the woman who had railed against the Inquisitor was chained to the post, Brialla took her Balanced Dagger and pressed it to her lips, sealing them shut. Although she was surrounded, no one else took notice of her. Their eyes were fixed on the prisoner, who remained silent.

“Do you have aught else to say?” the Inquisitor asked. “Do you wish to apologize and have your penalty lessened by two strokes? Your back doesn’t look like it’s ever met the lash before.”

“Never,” snapped the woman. “Get on with it and let me return to my sick kin.”

“Very well.” The Inquisitor removed a braided whip from the same belt that held their greatsword. As they counted off three lashes, then up to five, the woman’s back began to bend. At seven, she knelt. At ten, she let out a dreadful, howling screech that set Brialla’s crooked teeth on edge.

She had been punished this way by her masters and had seen others endure the same, but those had been ordinary floggings administered by ordinary guards. Inquisitors had a dark and dreadful touch with the lash that no others could match. Even soldiers shrank at this prospect. That was why they always steered clear of the masked priests and their armored horses.

When the woman was unshackled, two guards had to help her stand. Blood streamed down her back, not in rivulets but in rivers, and they glowed with an odd intensity.

*Magic,* thought Quara. *Not blood magic, but an art. One based on piety, prayer, and pain.*

*Why is it not against the Law? All magic is forbidden on pain of death.*

*Except for the Inquisitors’ miracles. As far as I know, those haven’t been declared illegal.*

*So miracles make them immune to this plague and all plagues? How? What’s their secret?*

*If I knew, I would tell you and teach you. We must make do with my sigil in the meantime.*

*Could you please seal your lips shut? I can’t quite hear you.*

*It’s just as well. This crowd’s too large to be heard in, although Inquisitors can overhear us. That poor woman has inadvertently saved our hides by sacrificing hers. She’s a saint. One of a different sort than the Law recognizes. She dared to speak out against our oppressors, and that is holy.*

Brialla pondered this. Whether saint or fool, the lady had earned the admiration of two blood witches. She returned to her place in the crowd with the help of the guards.

“Go home,” they said. “Tend to your family. Keep the Law.”

Standing nearby and overhearing this, Brialla glanced at Quara, her lips curled in a sneer. *Hypocrites.*

*What could they say or do, except not only lose their positions, but be flogged themselves? We all must do what we can within the limits of our sphere of influence. ‘Tis a hard lesson to learn.*

Before Brialla could rebut Quara, the mayor called out, “All right, now. The punishment’s over. We need to get to work. Come and receive your details. The plague and I haven’t got all day.”

The crowd surged forward, with Quara and Brialla sticking to the back half. They both unsealed their lips by imagining them coming apart, slowly and gently. With daggers sheathed, they waited their turn in line. When they got to the front, the mayor scratched his head and asked, “Venna?”

“Aye. I’m one of your cupbearers, sir, and I have a wineskin on my back. I serve you in the evenings.”

“I was wondering where you were. Did you have to keep going to the river? Wine. Now.”

Quara unstrapped the wineskin and handed it to the mayor. He gulped from it with more ferocity than Brialla. His fish lips then unclenched from the spout with wet and slurping reluctance. “Ah. Not a good vintage, but not a bad one either. Strictly so-so, like your attendance at court lately. Who is this ugly creature with you?” He leaned in close. Brialla recoiled at his rancid breath.

“My name is Rose, sir mayor,” she said when she caught hers again.

“Well, Rose, you can help Venna. Not in cupbearing. I have another task for you both.” He signaled for some of his own guards to come forward. “Lead these two off to my mansion, side courtyard. The one we don’t use, except for…” He grinned a false-toothed grin. “Never mind. You’ll find out.”

“This isn’t good,” whispered Quara, not daring to use her magic. “That’s our latrine courtyard.”

“Law. You must be joking,” Brialla said. “Why does he call you Venna? That just means ‘wine.’”

“That’s all anyone wants from me.”

Brialla’s spirits sank. *I’m sorry. At least my masters named me after a flower,* she thought.

*Take heart,* Quara answered, risking some quick musings. *We both know our true names.*

*How will that save us from going to a latrine courtyard? To do what, besides the obvious?*

*What else? To clean up.*

*What? We’ll catch the plague for sure! Besides, I have a better idea of what we can do to help.*

Quara quirked a delicate eyebrow. *Oh? Let’s hear it. I’m all ears – I mean, all thoughts.*

*We’re blood witches, right? Through our art, we can touch minds and control them. ‘Tis not the only purpose of what we do, but it’s the main one. Now, then. Are you familiar with The Pit?*

*The worst, most disgusting tavern in Milham’s Ford and possibly the world? Of course.*

*Old Mullins, the tavernkeeper, keeps The Pit open come rain or shine. Plague as well. He doesn’t care how many of his customers fall ill, as long as more come and pay. I want us to touch his mind, convince him to close The Pit until the gut-rot goes away, and dig a new privy while he’s at it.*

*Is it really so rank that it has to be filled in immediately?*

*Aye. People do anything and everything in that pit from where the tavern gets its name. A low and filthy shithole, it is, filled with vomit and men’s scum as well. Although it’s outside, you can smell it even if you’re inside. We have to get that tavern closed before more folk get the sickness. The pit might even be a source of it. Will you help me? I doubt I can control Mullins’ mind for as long as it’ll take to get the work done.”

*Excellent point. Still, why not do the task we were assigned? One, then the other?*

*We only have so much time. If I know Mullins, it’ll take him forever to grab a shovel, fill in the pit, and dig a new one. Making my masters kill each other was easy. This will be extremely hard.*

*Promise me you’ll let me take the lead. We have to be careful not to press him too much.*

*Truly? I’d press him until he fell IN the pit. All right. You have my word, Quara.*

*Let’s be off to the mayor’s, first, so as not to arouse suspicion. How bad can the courtyard be?*

It turned out to be worse than either one of them imagined. Flies, piss, and shit were everywhere, especially on the steps, where maids had dumped chamber pots for the nobles and buckets for everyone else. The stench was almost unbearable. The only redeeming feature of the courtyard was a well that had reasonably clean water. No one had soiled it yet, which was a huge relief.

Still, all this made Quara hold her breath and form a bloody line on her nose with her dagger.

*Do the same,* she thought. *It’ll keep you from being able to smell anything for an hour.*

Following Quara’s instructions, Brialla did so and stitched the wound shut. She let her breath out.

*Good. Now we can draw water from this well, ask for two bars of soap, and finish quickly.*

*Finish? Let’s not even start! Who knows how many poor saps are at The Pit right now?*

*Wouldn’t going there be leaping from the frying pan into the fire, my dear?*

*No,* thought Brialla, blushing a little. *Mullins will do all the dirty work for us.*

*If I abandon this post, I’ll be in trouble with the mayor when it comes time to serve wine.*

*Blame it on me. Say I forced you to come. Say I dragged you by the hair, but let’s be off.*

*Why do this? What are you trying to prove, Brialla?*

*My ambition. Initiative. Power. Let’s help more people than the mayor and his noble cronies.*

Quara shook her head, then smirked. *To the Pit.*

Even though the most infamous watering hole in Milham’s Ford was at the very rear, one could smell it more than four zigzagging streets away. Its combined odor was that of sweat, ale, smoke, ashes, and the privy. Everyone covered their mouths and noses when first approaching The Pit. Depending on their thirst, they either passed on by or entered, quickly becoming used to the reek. Quara and Brialla considered themselves lucky that they had a spell to numb it outright.

Inside, they found plenty of people leaning over tin mugs of ale and wooden cups of wine. Tavern wenches and whores mingled among them. It didn’t take the blood witches long to find Mullins, plying his trade and belly-laughing over some joke. His jollity seemed forced, his grin a little too wide. When the two came up to the bar, it stretched nearly ear to ear, making Brialla shudder.

“Good day, ladies!” Mullins cried. “What’ll it be? Ale? Wine? Hard spirits? Aught to eat?”

“Nothing for us,” Quara said, “but we have something to ask of you. Two things, in fact.”

“Anything for the likes of you, lass,” Mullins replied, running his tongue over his teeth.

“You won’t like this. First, we need you to close the tavern. Plague is raging like wildfire all over town, and this place is more crowded than a pigpen after a sow has had a litter. We also need you to fill in the privy pit outside and dig a new one. A clean one. One without gut-rot in it.”

“Gut-rot or no gut-rot, I’m keeping The Pit open. Crowds mean coin. Do you wish to make a beggar of me? Also, I’m not filling the privy in. What’s wrong with it? Privies stink, and that’s the Law’s honest truth. Now, if you don’t want anything else, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“Not yet.” Quara leaned in closer, placing her elbows on the bar counter. “I know the mayor. He won’t be happy that you’ve chosen money over life while a dire sickness spreads. He could send you to his dungeons, or worse, a hard labor detail. Do you want to wind up in chains, sir?”

“My head…” Mullins clapped his huge hands to his temples and clenched his teeth. “All right, all right. I’ll call some of my lads to do the drudge work you’re wanting. Me? I have to tend bar.”

“No, you don’t,” said Quara. “Business is done for today. Meanwhile, you’ll help your servants do whatever needs doing. Shall I march you outside with a shovel and watch you myself?”

“Nay, nay. I’ll see to it.” Mullins wiped his hands on a dirty rag and called out, “Kitchen boys! Ash haulers! I’ve a task for you, and it can’t wait. In the meantime, we’re shuttering our doors.”

Shouts and clamoring all around. Several drunkards slammed ale steins down on their tables.

“Aye, aye, it’s not fair. Haven’t you heard there’s a plague about? Buck up and get out of here.”

The patrons angrily rose from their stools and stumbled off, trying and mostly failing to keep their balance. More than one spewed their guts out on the floor, and the tavern wenches cried foul. Serving wasn’t their only job. They knew they’d have to scrub every surface more than once.

Quara and Brialla went outside via the rear door and stepped up to the edge of the privy pit. They may not have been able to smell it, but its foul fumes wafted into their mouths. Coughing and spluttering, they waited for Mullins and his male servants, who begrudgingly carried spades.

“Hail, all,” Quara said. “Fill this in with dirt, all the way to the top, and then dig a new pit.”

The men looked at each other, laughed, then gasped at the sudden pain in their heads.

“Ugh,” one of them complained. “That’ll take all day and maybe into the night.”

“Then get started. I’m not jesting. Your lives depend upon it, as do those of the patrons here.”

“Hey, old Mullins, how come you don’t have a shovel in your hands?”

“I’m the taskmaster. Now do as the pretty lady says, or I’ll tan your hides with twenty stripes!”

That got them all moving. As they toiled away, Brialla and Quara kept themselves intent on controlling their minds. This was a much more difficult feat than their initiation rites. When someone means to do something, like Cheever and Maude meant to murder each other before Brialla made them, the task is simple. When someone refuses to do something, it’s far harder to force them to work. The two blood witches fought off their own headaches as morning turned to afternoon, then late afternoon. By the time the sun lay low in the sky, they were both exhausted, yet nowhere near as much as the tavern lads. As ordered, one hole had been filled, another dug.

“Happy now?” Mullins half-leered, half-sneered at Quara. “And won’t you pay us?”

Brialla clenched her hands into fists and willed herself not to do or think anything stupid.

“All I have is five pieces of silver,” Quara answered. “Split them amongst yourselves, lads.”

“Nay. I’m taking it all,” the tavernkeeper said. “You sots are worthless diggers.”

One of the kitchen boys hit Mullins so hard with his shovel that the fat man staggered backward, then tumbled into the new pit. His skull hit dirt with a sickening crack. Then he moved no more.

“Oh, sod it all,” the kitchen boy bawled. “He’s dead. I’ve killed him!”

“Then bury him,” said another. “No one will know if we cover him up fast.”

“What about the girls?”

“What girls?”

“The ones who – never mind,” said Mullins’ accidental killer. “They were never here. Aye?”

“Aye.” The other boys nodded, not knowing that Brialla was using the last of her mental reserves.

She and Quara left the scene of the crime and wound their way through the streets once more.

*That was close.* Quara gave her apprentice a thoughtful look. *‘Twas clever of you to wipe those kitchen boys’ minds regarding us. We don’t want to get caught up in another murder.*

*Did you – *

*Of course not. Mullins’ death was the lad’s own fault. Fear not. He won’t get caught if he’s careful in the next few days. Rest assured that The Pit won’t reopen without its bartender at the helm.*

*So we did what we set out to do. We served the people, not just the mayor.*

*Yes. Though I was wary at first, you proved what you set out to prove. I’m impressed.*

Brialla felt her face grow hot, not with shame or embarrassment, but something a servant in thrall to the gambling dens was never meant to feel. *A thousand blessings from the Moon to you!*

A sudden cry rang out as the sun began to set: “Repent, repent, or plague will end us all! Repent, repent, or plague will end us all!” Each refrain was punctuated by the thudding of a thick, knotted rope. A poor man’s whip. As the penitent passed, the two witches caught the thread of a thought:

*Dead men’s bones.*

*What was that?* Brialla asked Quara. *Did you hear it? ‘Dead men’s bones?’ An odd saying.*

*Not as odd as you’d think, in these circumstances.*

*Yes, but there’s something strange – *

Brialla paused, hearing the thought in full: *Beneath these streets, I seek dead men’s bones.*

*What in the name of the Blood Moon?*

Quara clutched her arm. *Follow that flagellant. You’re right to be concerned.*

They followed. When they could no longer see the pious man, they listened for the thwack of his makeshift lash. He led them down crooked side streets that pedestrians hardly used, except on festival days, and then to nothing at all except a dead end. The fellow was nowhere to be seen.

*Where’d he go? Is there an alleyway nearby that we haven’t noticed? Look around.*

*How about below?*

Brialla looked down. A trapdoor lay beneath Quara’s feet, its iron ring ready and waiting.

*No. Stay put. We don’t have any torches to guide us to wherever it is that man went.*

*I know exactly where he went. This trapdoor leads all the way down into the town catacombs.*

*Ah. That’s why he said he was seeking dead men’s bones. Still, why now, at sunset instead of in broad daylight? And why not use the official entrance to the catacombs ten streets over?*

*A mystery I say we solve. For this, we need to call upon a blessing of our goddess: the ability to see perfectly in the dark. This spell will make us glow red in light, like a cat’s eyes, or a snake’s. Since there will be little illumination down there, do not fear being noticed. Take my hand.*

With her palm tingling, Brialla did so. Quara pronounced a few hissing, sibilant words that Brialla thought might be Eld Speech. She felt a pressure and a wetness behind her closed eyelids. When she opened them again, Quara glowed crimson in the setting sun.

*Can you see me?* asked Quara.

*Very much so. You’re glowing red. Am I glowing too?* The elder witch nodded. *Amazing!*

*Whether it’s out or not, our patroness grants many gifts. Let’s be quick about this. I’m uneasy.*

With all her strength, Brialla yanked the iron ring and pulled upward. The trapdoor creaked open.

Stone stairs led down, down, down into the catacombs. They were oddly moist and smelled faintly of rot. This odor grew stronger the further the witches descended. No torches lit their way, but faint blue runes shimmered upon each step: unfamiliar magic that burned through their sandals little by little. They grew brighter until, at the very bottom, they illuminated a large antechamber.

Ten black-cloaked figures stood in a circle, chanting long “e” and “o” sounds in a curious rhythm.

*What in the – oh, dear – more mages? I don’t know what sort! Let’s go back up. Now,* thought Brialla.

*Hold. I want to know what kind of magic they’re practicing, and why their runes burn our feet.*

Eee-ooohhh. Eee-ooohhh.

“Great Mus,” intoned one of the new mages. “Hear us. Fill us with your contagious power.”

Eee-ooohhh. Eee-ooohhh.

“You were here before the Law, before the Exarch and his Inquisitors. You roamed these streets as a lowly rodent, seeking and biting all ere they had a chance to crush you beneath their heels. You were here before the workers of fire, air, earth, and water. You were here long before the new witches and warlocks, those of the Blood Moon, learned to harness her power. As old as the world itself, you are. You bring disease and decay to animal and human, friend and foe. Nothing and no one escapes you. You are Death, and the ten of us are your lethal servants.”

Eee-ooohhh. Eee-ooohhh.

The circle opened. In its midst stood the penitent man, surrounded by a pile of dead men’s bones.

Before Brialla and Quara’s astonished eyes, he transformed into a massive rat. His fur, filled with boils and festering wounds, reeked like the spray of a hundred skunks. His eyes, red-rimmed and glowing, glanced at each of his petitioners in turn. His pointed snout bore whiskers as long as a man’s arm and as sensitive as a woman’s lips. He sniffed the air, paused, and sniffed again.

Thick foam drooled from the corners of his mouth and dripped to the wet stone floor.

“Brethren and sisters,” he said in a combination of hisses and squeaks. “It seems we have visitors.”

The mages turned but did not lower their hoods. They raised their hands to reveal bony fingers.

“Stay your spells. One of them used to be one of us. What say you, Plaguebearer Venna?”

*Quara, in the Moon’s name, what is that THING talking about?*

“I once stood among you,” the blood witch said, “but no more. I have turned from your ways.”

“Now you instruct another?” asked Mus, hissing the “s” on “instruct.” “Without telling the truth? Without revealing the fetid source of your power? You once spread disease. Now you prevent it?”

“As far as I’m able. One bar of soap and one clean pair of hands at a time. I wash and teach others to do so. It won’t cure the plague, but at least it may stop it from spreading. As for you, Mus? You claim to be the oldest magician, but I knew you when you were learning the shape-shifter’s art from Gito, one of my current brethren. You’re nothing but a pretender. A wearer of masks. You are naught but a man. The rat guise is quite a crafty illusion, but one that’s easily dispelled.”

“How dare you. I ought to bite you and have you spread all of my diseases while still alive.”

“But you won’t.”

Quara unsheathed her amethyst-encrusted Cupbearer’s Dagger and threw it straight and true. It pierced the bulbous, yellow-caked eye of the great rat, who fell dead to the floor. What had been a tower of fur, pus, and infected meat now dissolved to reveal the penitent, his left eye replaced by the dagger’s hilt. After entering the midst of the circle, she pulled her weapon out, wiped it on her skirts, and re-sheathed it. The black-cloaked spellcasters fell down before her.

“Get off your knees, you fools! Depart, and return here no more.” Terrified, the death mages fled.

She beckoned to Brialla. Step by trembling step, the novice witch approached her. “Quara? Why?”

“For the same reason you slew your masters: revenge. I’ve been a cupbearer for one rich family or another for ten years, since I was a girl. When I reached sixteen moons, several nobles tried to have their way with me. I swore vengeance upon them and their houses, but how to take it and not get caught? The art of plague came easily. Piss, shit, spit, vomit, blood. That’s how it spreads. Especially via blood. Every sickness that seemed only to afflict the wealthy came from me and those you saw before you. Mus was once my master, but as you can see, I bow to him no more. His death? A payment to Apricus for the final result of my initiation. I’m now a senior mage.”

Brialla’s open mouth was as dry as the pavement in the town square had been on Summerday.

When she finally spoke, she coughed first, and the sputum contained blood. “And now?”

“Now I leave you at a crossroads. You know what I’ve just done, and what I’ve done in the past. You know when I’ve lied and when I’ve told the truth. Will you continue to follow me and the rest of the blood mages? You can turn us in to the mayor or even the Inquisitors if you wish. All that I ask is that you consider it more carefully than you considered the deaths of Cheever and Maude.”

“Don’t speak their names. They are nothing, and they mean nothing to me anymore.”

“Then why else are you so angry? Perhaps they’ve scarred you more deeply than you think.”

“Perhaps,” said Brialla, wiping her eyes, “but at least they didn’t spread pestilence to everyone.”

“I’m trying to stem its tide. What you did today at The Pit was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen anyone do. Though your powers be tiny sprouts now, they’re growing like weeds, not like roses. If you harness them, you will be the greatest among us. Don’t waste your potential.”

“I don’t intend to,” Brialla said. “I won’t betray you. Both of us are guilty of murder, but that’s the wellspring from which our magic flows. The Blood Moon may purify and sanctify it, but its light can’t banish darkness completely. The more secrets we hide, the more dangerous we become.”

“You speak truly. ‘Tis why I want us to keep ours close to our chests, not to erase them. Did Scepi tell you that he can wipe minds as well as control them?” Brialla nodded. “Did he wipe yours?”

“Nay. He said he wouldn’t, for doing so would make me forget why I became a blood witch.”

“Good. No matter what happens, remember who you are and why you’re one of us. Let us go. I’m tired, not only from our work today, but from doing a dagger trick that I haven’t in four moons.”

“With practice, aye?”

“Indeed. When the two of us are gathered together, and when we have time, I’ll teach you.”

Brialla imagined her own dagger piercing Quara’s right eye. She shoved the thought away.

*Good,* came the senior mage’s reply. *Fury has a rightful place among us. As does hate.*

The thing was, those weren’t the only things Brialla felt toward Quara at the moment. Admiration, awe, envy, and an unnameable urge also warred within her, each fighting for supremacy. As she climbed the runed stairs from the catacombs up to the twilit world, Brialla found herself both disappointed and relieved. After exposing and killing the leader of a death cult, now it was time to bed down for the night in another cramped safe space. Now it was time to hide once again.

“Where shall we – ?” Brialla collided with Quara. “Oof! What are you standing there for?”

“The mayor,” she said, her voice flat. “I’ve completely forgotten it’s time for me to pour wine.”

“Sod it!” Brialla spat on the ground. “How far is it to his mansion from here if we run our fastest?”

“Fifteen streets, bending this way and that, doubling back. Half an hour.”

“Half an hour? By the Moon! Is it even worth going there if it’ll take us that long?”

“I cannot afford to lose my place. If I haven’t already lost it.” As Quara heaved her shoulders in a heavy sigh, an empty death cart came rolling by. Though bare of its cargo, it stank to the skies.

“Wait. I’ve got an idea. Do you have any silver left from paying those kitchen lads earlier?”

“I fear not. All I have is my silver pendant. A gift from one of the kinder nobles I’ve served.”

“Take it off. Give it to the carter. It’ll be payment enough for this errand. Won’t it?” Brialla asked. The driver of the death cart frowned. “Come on,” she said to him. “You can sell it tomorrow.”

“You two aren’t dead,” he said, “but you might be come morning. Well, jump on. Where to?”

“The mayor’s mansion. Hurry,” Quara said, removing her necklace and handing it over. “Leave us at the servants’ entrance in the side courtyard. The one that smells even worse than this cart.”

“Suit yourselves.” The carter waited for them to climb aboard, then cracked his whip. His horse gave a weary neigh and began pulling. What it lacked in speed, the cart made up for in sturdiness. No matter how badly it lurched, the two women weren’t bucked off, as they might have been if they’d had steeds. Moreover, people darted out of the way as the cart passed, some of them shrieking. Its driver, paying no heed, kept his eyes glued to the cobblestone maze before him. In daylight, finding the way to the mayor’s estate was hard enough. Now, at near-nighttime, it was almost impossible. The only thing that kept it from being so was the carter’s knowledge of Milham’s Ford, all its ins and outs, and most of all, its shortcuts. What would have taken thirty minutes on foot took ten by cart.

Quara would be late to court, but not too late, she hoped.

She said a quick prayer to the Moon as the cart came to a halt in the stinking side courtyard.

In the early torchlight, she and Brialla saw that no one had done anything to clean it up.

“This the place?” the carter asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Aye,” said Quara. “Thank you for making such haste. We’ll be climbing off now.”

She and Brialla disembarked. The carter signaled his horse, who left droppings and clopped away.

“I can’t believe it,” Brialla said, coughing at the smell. “It’s still filthy around here.”

“Thanks to us.” Quara put her hands on her hips. “We went off to The Pit and did some good, but no one else was here to scrub the steps and the rest of the cobblestones. We were given orders, and we disobeyed them. Now I fear we’ll pay the price. Come on. I’ll knock on the servants’ door.”

As they climbed the steps, they felt foul liquid seep into the soles of their sandals. It didn’t burn their feet, but the smell made them refresh the blood enchantment on their noses and the Sigil of the Cupbearer on their palms. It had been a long day, and it promised to be a longer night.

Quara grabbed the brass knocker and pounded four times in quick succession on the door.

The mayor’s head housemaid opened it. She recognized the beautiful young lady immediately:

“Venna! There you are. The master’s been searching for you. Where have you been, and why in Law’s name do you smell like death? Never mind. We have to get you clean. Who’s this with you?”

“Rose, ma’am,” said Brialla. “I’m the reason Qu – uh, Venna is late.”

“Rose? I don’t know you. You’ll have to leave now. Wait. Weren’t you to scrub this place clean?”

“No.” The word fell out of Brialla’s mouth before she thought about it. “I’ll be going. No, hold! Venna and I were given that task today, but we didn’t do it. We were otherwise engaged.”

“So you ignored a command from the mayor? I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come with me. You’ll be spending the night in a holding cell. In the morning, you’ll do your duty. If not, I’m telling the master you spurned a direct order from him. You’ll be lucky to be flogged instead of hanged.”

The housemaid grabbed Brialla by the arm and told Quara to follow her as well. She led them to a bathing room, where they stripped naked and soaped until their skin was red. After they wetted down and dried off, Quara was given her usual mustard-yellow dress, and Brialla a ragged one.

*That color looks horrid on you,* Brialla thought, then bit her lower lip. *Agh! I’m so sorry.*

*And those rags don’t become you one bit. Or perhaps they do. They fit your station, as my livery fits mine. We all have our place in this world. Yours just got several rungs lower, Rose.*

Brialla bowed her head and stared at the floor. She dared not look up until the housemaid took her arm again and led her away, down more stairs into a dungeon area. No one was in the cells.

“You’re lucky not to have company tonight,” said the housemaid. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

She took a keyring off the wall, found the correct key, opened a holding cell, pushed Brialla inside, and locked it. “I’ll send a kitchen maid to bring you bread and wine in the morning.”

“But I’m hungry now.” The realization struck Brialla that she hadn’t eaten since Quara had found her in Lord Ponisc’s abandoned barn. “Please. Can’t I have some leftovers from dinner?”

“Quiet, you little wench! Dinner’s long past. You’ll have to wait. ‘Tis only what you deserve.”

The housemaid turned and left. Brialla sat down on the cold stone floor of the cell, wrapped her arms around herself, and lowered her head again. No cots for the prisoners. Only fresh straw and an empty bucket. Thankful she didn’t have to use it, she drifted off into a deep, uneasy sleep.

She awoke to a nightmare. Mus was chasing her.

In his giant rat form, he slavered and ran on all fours, snarling and snapping his yellow teeth. His whiskers twitched, keener on her scent than any dog. His red eyes wept pus-filled tears as he ignored the pain of the countless diseases wracking his body. Diseases he would give to Brialla.

She ran and ran, turning countless corners and kicking bones aside. She did not know her way in the catacombs, but she sensed she was climbing down rather than ascending toward the light. She slid down some embankment into a pit that reeked of animal scents. Then a horror:

A pregnant female rat, as infected with plague as her mate, was giving birth to a new litter.

Her pups emerged pink, hairless, blind, and sickness-riddled. She’d passed every ailment of hers on to them. They squealed in agony, rooting for their mother’s milk and finding white scum that only gave them more pain and precious little nutrition. The mother’s mouth hung open as she panted with exhaustion. This was the third litter she’d had, not this month, but this very night.

When she saw Brialla, the rat threw the pups off of her nipples and fell asleep on her side.

The babies squirmed toward Brialla. They clambered up on their tiny pink legs and swarmed.

Their teeth grew.

In a span of seconds, they went from suckling to biting the flesh of Brialla’s bare feet and ankles. Blood dripped into their mouths, and it made them ravenous. No matter how hard and how much she kicked, they clung on. Eventually, she slipped in a pile of filth and sat down with a thud.

The tiny rats climbed up her torso, nibbling and squeaking and making her howl with dread. They grew to a swarming horde without their mother, until they were indistinguishable from Brialla’s now-naked form. They scrambled past her lips and into her mouth, biting her tongue and making her cough and choke. She swallowed several of them, and their teeth sank into the flesh of her esophagus and belly. When she attempted to vomit them out, there were so many that she could not. The last thing she saw in the dream made her break out in a cold sweat.

The rats roamed everywhere in Milham’s Ford: fathers, mothers, offspring. Mating. Reproducing. Multiplying. Devouring everything and everyone in their path, including the fortunate dead.

Brialla woke screaming. No one else was around to hear her.

When she realized where she was, Brialla murmured, “The plague. There’s no hope for us.” She knew it with the same certainty that she knew how much she still owed her late masters. What did this mean for the town? Only one thing: an Interdict, pronounced by the Exarch himself.

In the history of the realm, only twelve Interdicts had ever been performed. They’d engulfed and ended small hamlets such as Milham’s Ford, for the most part, although one city had fallen victim to a worse pestilence than this: the Scarlet Death. Rumors said that it was rampant in Exarchion. As for the gut-rot, it was so common there that it didn’t cause much alarm. A course of ale mixed with the High Inquisitors’ magic got rid of it, but there were no High Inquisitors here. Only those who flogged and hanged people who dared to stand against them. Like that poor matron.

“You had courage,” said Brialla, feeling as miserable as the mother dream-rat. “I have none.”

She fell back into an uneasy doze, leading to the loud rattling of her cell bars.

“Get up, get up,” the mayor’s housemaid snapped. “You’ve bread to eat, then much to do.”

Brialla opened her sticky eyes. “Ugh. Where’s Venna?”

“Waiting for you. She volunteered to help you clean the side courtyard. Be thankful for that.”

The housemaid served Brialla bread and cheap wine, then unlocked her cell door. The girl ate gratefully, her stomach grumbling its thanks as well. Then it was time to face the music.

“Hello.” Quara smiled. “Ready to get to work? There’s certainly a lot of it.”

“A waste of our time and talents,” Brialla huffed. The housemaid then spun her around.

“Repeat after me: I will start, and I will finish. No complaining.”

Seeing as how her captor had collared her, Brialla did so, then joined Quara on the steps.

They scrubbed in tandem, each having a full bucket of sudsy water from the well and two full bars of soap. As they worked, they sang glorious songs of battle and victory, their voices rising in point/counterpoint. It took them all day to scour the courtyard down until it was free of its filth.

When they were done, Brialla asked Quara: “Why did you volunteer to help me when all this is my fault? You’re – well, much higher than me on life’s ladder. Why lower yourself like this?”

“The Law of the Cupbearer. Have you any idea what it could be?”

Brialla swallowed hard. “Lift yourself up too high, and you’ll fall right off your damned pedestal.”

“Yes. What’s the second part?”

“Serve others. Humbly.”

Meanwhile, the do-nothing mayor had received a sealed scroll from one of his messengers…

Credit: Tenet