Chapter 23 Pop
Chapter twenty-three
Pop
I send my shadows deep into the earth, tangling with the roots. This has to be done carefully, with the right type of magic, so I pulse decomposition into the trees, faster and faster, until I huff with exertion. Nothing happens yet, but Jaga is quiet and watchful.
Death races up the roots, and now it reaches the trunks. I’ve spread myself thin all over this grove. My skin itches and my magic aches from the proximity of the oaks, but I don’t stop.
“This used to be my temple,” I tell Jaga, choking the trees with my shadows to make it faster. “The people of Slawa worshipped me, because I built this city. It was beautiful. I will show you one day, when our bond is strong enough. You’ll love it and mourn it with me.”
The grass withers, and I bare my teeth in triumph, but only half of the work is done. These trees are old and powerful, well fed on magic harvested through Perun’s tolls. I brace myself and push out more death, a flood of it, until my chest gapes empty.
Jaga sends me more magic, unasked. I welcome the soft glow of her in my mind with a shaky breath, her power shining so much brighter in the emptiness.
“And now we wait. Thank you for your gift. I’ll need it should something go wrong.”
“If he destroyed your temple, it’s only right that you do the same to him.”
“Oh, Jaga, it was so beautiful. I built it out of moonstone and obsidian. Fires burned inside, and there were sculptures, and poisonous vines climbing the walls, growing flowers that only bloomed when a blood sacrifice was made.
“Each bies I’ve created had their little altar, and it gave them pride to be so included. Biedas were respected back then, strzygas and planetniks—revered. I shall have a temple again, one day. And the biggest altar will be yours.”
Deep shudders race up the thick trunks of the oaks. Jaga is silent, and we both watch as the trees sicken, their boughs growing brittle, leaves raining down. I rise higher in the air, obscuring myself with Jaga’s magic, because I can’t be seen doing this.
Though, maybe it’s not necessary. Mokosz said Perun won’t bother to look for witnesses. In a sense, both of them are too self-absorbed to notice subtle signs. If I play it right, Perun won’t even suspect a ruse. He’ll go off in a rage, his thunderous impulsivity leading him right into my trap.
With a mighty creak, the nearest oak falls. It’s a slow, majestic death, and as the desiccated canopy shakes on the ground right below me, I cannot hold back a laugh.
“That’s it. Bow before your master. Good tree.”
The others follow soon after, the mighty grove falling as one, right until the tallest, oldest oak falls—the one Perun planted in the ashes of my temple when they were still warm. It is so right that I am the one to make it fall since my defeat nourished it back then, centuries ago.
“You did it,” Jaga murmurs, neither impressed nor scornful. Her voice is carefully even.
“And now for the master stroke. A proof to Nyja and to you, but most importantly, to me. Old Weles is still here, plotting and scheming. He might be rusty, but he won’t give in.”
I reach into my shadow realm, a space only I have access to, and pull out three beehives I’ve set aside in preparation. I place them carefully between the fallen trees, which keep rotting, the leaves now black, their bark slimy with spores.
When Perun gets here, hopefully hours from now, all will be rotten through.
And three golden, buzzing beehives will stand among the carnage. A clear declaration of war, but not from me.
“Beehives?” Jaga has no idea what I’m doing, and I laugh under my breath, letting my shadows swallow me.
I emerge in my throne room, right at the foot of the dais. She sits on my throne, a cup of wine in her hand. Her eyes flick to me without surprise, and I bow elegantly.
“Your Lowness.”
She bursts out laughing, then stops sharply, pressing her hand to her mouth as if she’s said something indecent. I shake my head with pity.
“We are allies, remember? You’re allowed to laugh at my jokes.”
“Why the beehives?” she asks, letting her wine cup hover in the air as she folds her arms on her chest with a faint creak of leather.
“You remember the King of Bees, don’t you? Powerful, fuzzy, not right in the head. Well, he doesn’t like the company of gods and bieses, and I’d be hard-pressed to get him to join me. But if Perun attacks him first, he’ll fight.”
“Oh. I see.”
She studies my face with vicious attentiveness, and I straighten to show my body off to its full advantage for her perusal. My tail flicks with tension. Jaga is devoted to honesty, and my underhanded methods might earn her disapproval.
So when she smiles, shaking her head, I breathe with relief.
“Are you certain it will work, though?” she asks, taking a sip of her wine. It colors her lips, and I yearn, that thirst for her kisses and blood darkening my mind.
“I’m not. We’ll have to wait and see. What have you done with the dragons?”
“I gave Foss to Nyja and infected Igor with the rot. I needed a new subject after I sort of killed Nienad. It was an accident.”
I laugh, loud and throaty, and give her another bow, this one deep and partly mocking. Oh, why can’t she see how perfect she is for me? So vindictive, so cruel, such a lovely poppy girl.
“Let me know when you need more,” I say as I straighten. “I’ll find you a dozen rapists to experiment on. They aren’t hard to come by, as you well know.”
She tilts her head from side to side, thinking.
“Well, I should really examine how the rot behaves in different species, you know. Those more and less magically potent, to start with. An upir would be nice. Maybe a kobold? A chochol, too. Oh, and I know an utopek who’s led a useless, wasteful life and deserves to have a moment of significance. ”
“Very well. If I get them all for you, would you consider moving this project to the proper torture chamber? We have one, though it might need some dusting. I haven’t used it in centuries.”
Jaga’s eyes sparkle as she grins. “Of course you have a torture chamber. Fine. You can show me while we wait for the results of your scheming.”
When I offer her my arm, she ignores it, but when I call her a nuisance again, she calls me a rotten maggot, and somehow, a small ember of hope lights in my heart.
It was worth it.
*
“There’s a vicious thunderstorm razing the forests in the west of Slawa,” Nyja says, throwing open the heavy door of the torture chamber with a metallic clang. “Oh. I see you’ve been busy.”
It took me a day to hunt down ten rapists of various species and the utopek from the bottomless pond Jaga told me about. Most of them sit in seatless chairs that I’ve explained to Jaga are normally used to flog genitals.
She found them excellent for measuring the amount of pus produced during the illness. Under each chair sits a large basin, collecting it, and all of it is a smelly, disgusting affair, yet Jaga is in her element.
If I hadn’t done my turn on her torture wheel already, I would have been a bit anxious about her eagerness to infect and maim dicks.
But as she eyes her subjects with a cold, dangerous spark in her eye, I think I understand her. She grew up in a world ruled by men, and she was powerless and afraid. Then she came to this world that’s magical and precious, so much better, yet women are still mistreated. Magic fixed nothing.
A man wants to own her, me. It’s no wonder she hates my gender. Yet, no matter how justified her hate is, I’d loathe for it to make me a target again, so I remind myself to replace her subjects as they perish. Better keep her occupied with others.
“They are rapists and deserve it, unlike Nienad’s victims,” my witch says coolly.
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t judging.” Nyja gives Jaga a sharp nod and turns back to me. “It worked, Weles. You did it. At fucking last, after centuries. I’m so happy to have you back.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. “I am not back. That was hardly more than what I did with the rebels over the years.”
“You’re wrong.” Nyja goes over to the utopek, whose lips are sewn up, just like all of their lips, and leans in to look into his face. “Hey, I know this one. He’s an old lecher, isn’t he? From the bottomless pond? Isn’t he one of the first bieses Chors made?”
Jaga jolts, her shoulders stiffening. “Chors?”
“Yes, all water creatures are his.” Nyja nods, poking the utopek’s slimy, smooth head with the sharp tip of her fingernail.
“What was it? Let me see… Oh, I remember. He was a hunter living in the woods as a mortal. He stole young women from a nearby village and kept them in his hut, forcing them to serve him. He was mad and didn’t care for his prisoners properly, so they usually died after a few weeks, and he got new ones.
The villagers thought some forest licho took their women.
Then one escaped, and the men from her village came and drowned him in the well. Chors turned him into a bies.”
Jaga shakes her head, looking at the utopek with disgust. “What’s the point of giving him another life after all the atrocities he’s committed?”
“He would have been happy in Nawie,” Nyja says with a shake of her head. “He’s miserable now. You see, those who die from drowning are terrified of water. Chors made him into a creature that needs to stay submerged to survive. It’s endless torture.”
“Oh. Thank you for telling me.”
Jaga snaps her fingers. A large, translucent container of water appears around the utopek, like an enormous, clear crystal glass.
When the chair and basin rise, pulled up to the surface, Jaga snaps her fingers again, and heavy chains appear, weighing the utopek down to the bottom.
He glares at her with fury and terror, and she sends him a kiss.
“I’ll keep you alive for a long time,” she promises with quiet menace.
“Why do you believe I am wrong?” I turn to Nyja. I’ve tried to figure it out while they talked about the utopek, but I don’t know what she meant.
“What? Oh, yes. You said you did barely more than you’ve done with the rebels over the years, but that’s not true.
You always took care not to piss him off too much, so he wouldn’t come after you himself.
You played it safe. This time, you attacked Perun right where it hurts.
It was the boldest challenge you’ve thrown in centuries, Weles. I am proud of you.”
I look away, unsure whether she’s right. The familiar fear squirms in my chest, and in its wake comes shame. I haven’t really done much, and it’s telling that she’s so proud of this. I must have been so pathetic. Still am.
Jaga looks up sharply, her eyes piercing mine, and I turn away with a low growl. I keep forgetting the bond works both ways, and she senses my emotions if they are powerful enough. Was it a mistake to bond with her? Was everything a mistake?
“So, he didn’t go to the forest himself, but he made a storm.” I change the topic to escape Nyja’s and Jaga’s scrutiny.
Why the fuck have I surrounded myself with astute women? I should have gone for someone shallow and unobservant, like Mokosz.
“A very powerful storm,” Nyja confirms. “There are tolls going through the forest every hour. It will be a miracle if the King of Bees survives this.”
I’m about to reply when I’m distracted. There’s a soft pop and a loud splash, and Igor screams through the gag of his lips, thrashing in his chair that’s nailed to the floor. Jaga goes over briskly, crouching in front of him to assess the damage, and I exchange an uneasy look with Nyja.
“It seems the rot progresses the fastest in those who have the most power,” Jaga says briskly, poking the mess between the dragon’s legs with her long nail.
“The King of Bees will survive.” I look carefully at Nyja, doing my best not to let my gaze stray toward Jaga, no matter how fascinating the gruesome sight is.
I’m unhappy to realize I’m queasy. Maybe Woland could handle it better, though I think I’d be uncomfortable in his skin, as well.
There is something viscerally wrong about dicks that swell with pus to the point of popping open, like a strange kind of overripe fruit. I shudder. No, even Woland wouldn’t come up with this kind of torture. Even for Perun.
Nyja seems to think the same thing. “She’s worse than you. You made a monster.”
“A goddess,” I correct her. “Let me know once the storm ends. I’ll send Chors to negotiate our alliance. And once we have the King of Bees, you can get Strzybog to talk to Jutrzenka. I’ll get Rod and Dola. It should be easy to convince them all when the King joins us.”
Nyja bares all her blindingly white teeth in a wide, happy grin. “Welcome back, Weles. My god.”
She gives me a shallow bow, something she hasn’t done in decades, and retreats. I glance at Jaga, who pours pus into crystal vials with utmost concentration, and decide to let her work in peace.
“Come find me once you’re done here,” I tell her from the door. “I brought you a gift from the city.”