chapter two
Mother of Night
The figure standing on the road opened her arms, a cloaked black silhouette in the night. Ayla crawled another step and the dizziness brought a wave of nausea. Her throat tightened and sweat dripped from her face.
“I … I can’t.”
Her mother waited, arms outstretched. “You can.”
“Please, help me.”
“It is you who must come to me, my child.”
Ayla hobbled towards the figure on all fours, one knee leaving dark round blood prints in the road. Tears and pain obscured her vision. Her heart labored in her chest, every beat throbbing in her temples. By the time she reached the woman’s feet, her breath came in short gasps.
“Stand,” her mother’s voice said.
Ayla reached out to pull herself up by her mother’s tunic, but something inside warned her not to. Blinking away her tears, she squinted up at her, fighting back vertigo. The shadows that shrouded her mother’s face hid all detail. She summoned the strength she had left and pushed herself to a standing position. The world spun away into darkness as she fell into her mother’s arms.
The first time she came to, her mother was carrying her down the south hill away from the cabin. The back of her dress was wet with fresh blood. She offered a weak smile before passing out again.
She woke the second time to the sound of a pair of coyotes calling to one another somewhere out in the night. Despite the humidity, Ayla shivered and shook with cold. Her dangling legs had gone numb.
“Mom?”
“Shh, rest now,” she said without looking down. “We’re almost home.”
The only home Ayla ever knew was back the way they came, Hillside. She’d never traveled more than a mile from the plantation, but she’d heard of these woods. Once a year, a master accompanied a group of slaves to gather herbs and sometimes blackberry bushes to transplant.
The bushes rarely produced any berries and all of them died after the first winter. Nothing thrived on the plantation anymore, it shriveled more each year as the droughts worsened. The minotaur masters knew nothing of how to save the land, and the slaves that did no longer cared.
They stopped at the edge of a clearing, bordered by a shallow brook at the bottom of a steep embankment on one side. Tiny curious eyes in the branches above reflected the moonlight. In the center of the glade, nature had reclaimed the last traces of some ancient building. A door stood in the center of a crumbling, vine-choked wall. As the woman approached with Ayla in her arms, a glowing violet symbol appeared on the wall - a winged serpent with its tail in its mouth.
Ayla’s mother paused in the glow of the purple light and the door swung inward. The clearing behind them contained nothing more than grass and scattered stone, but through the opening in front of them, a plush indigo carpet covered the center aisle of a gorgeous temple. Wrought iron pedestals topped with burning braziers lined each side. Their light spilled into the glade flickering over the trees and grass. Ayla blinked in disbelief of the sight in front of her.
The woman stepped through the door. When the light hit her face, Ayla caught the first glimpse of her savior. Her skin was ageless porcelain with eyes the same as Ayla’s - blue-white, like winter. Her hair framed her face with short bangs and long, jet black locks cascading down her shoulders.
The door closed behind her and the braziers flickered. At the end of the carpeted path stood an altar of polished obsidian. Maroon and violet tapestries adorned the stone walls between tall narrow stained glass windows.
The woman sat Ayla down on the glossy altar at the end of the path so that her legs hung off the side, then lifted a bowl from below the altar and tipped it over Ayla’s hair. Warm water flowed over her scalp and face, instantly soothing her. The seams of Ayla’s dress unraveled of their own accord and the heavy cotton fabric came away from her, exposing her broken and bruised body. The woman continued to pour the water over her and as she did, something miraculous began to happen. The fresh welts and cuts over her shoulder from Goreskin’s whip mended their halves together and itched like week-old stitches. Ayla reached to scratch, but the feeling passed before she could manage it. With each bowl of water that trickled over her, the pain subsided and her struggling heart slowed.
The woman’s lips curved up in a smile but no lines formed in her cheeks. She looked like a living statue, and not one bit like her mother.
“Who are you?” Ayla asked.
The stranger leaned over Ayla, resting her palms on the altar. Her voice took on a hollow yet resonant quality. Her breath suffused the air with a heady fragrance of scented oils.
“I am the dark corner that hides those in need. The eternal ruler of the Abyss.”
“You’re a God?”
“I was once their Queen.”
“Am I dead?”
The Goddess kissed Ayla on the forehead with cold lips. “You are at His doorstep.”
“Where’s my mom?”
“The dead cannot hear your pleas. I have come in her stead, my child.”
Ayla never believed in the Gods. And if they did exist, she wanted nothing to do with any who would leave their people in chains.
“I’m not your child.”
The woman grabbed Ayla under the jaw, fingers digging into her cheeks. Her icy eyes remained impassive but her voice lowered threateningly.
“You are the daughter of Steelhorn, the grandson of Tor, who is my son. I am not just your mother, but the mother of every woman born from a breeding cabin.” The Night Goddess let go of Ayla’s jaw. The closest brazier’s flame shone blue on her black tresses. “I have waded through the River of Dreams to answer your call, and this is how you thank me?”
“I'm dreaming?” Ayla asked.
“The River of Dreams flows through the Abyss. It is one of only a few ways for me to access the mortal realm.”
Tears stung Ayla’s eyes seconds before spilling onto her tanned cheeks. “When I wake up, will I still be in the cabin?”
“Yes, but you need not fear. I have come.”
“Please, take me with you.” Ayla closed her eyes. The memory of the day her mother died returned to her, as it did every night for the past four years.
Ayla stood at attention in front of the manor, in mandatory attendance along with the other plantation slaves. Her mother’s screams ripped through the manor and carried over the fields. Then the cries faded, leaving only the sound of torches and shuffling feet.
After an eternity of waiting in the cold, Goreskin stepped through the arched front door onto the porch. He held a naked half-beast calf aloft for everyone to see. Its tiny hocks kicked at the air, eyes still closed, fur slick with fresh blood – her mother’s blood.
Ayla sat up and bit her palm to stifle a building cry of anguish. The vision left an impression on her heart, like the imprint left behind by a cold hand on warm flesh. She drew up her knees and hugged them. She relived that night over and over. Awake or asleep, nothing ever dulled the sound of her mother’s screams in her ears.
When the woman spoke again, the pretense of Ayla’s mother left her voice. What remained was distant and ominous, as if from down a dark tunnel.
“In another time, your pleas to your mother would have been called a prayer,” she said as she smoothed Ayla’s wet hair behind her ear.
“What do you mean?”
The Goddess placed a hand on Ayla’s back and faced the room. The dancing light threw shadows on the walls and smooth oak benches and reflected off the colorful stained-glass windows. Ayla’s attention turned back to the Goddess as she parted her cloak, revealing a suit of form-fitting scale armor dyed a deep blue.
“Prayer is a means of speaking with a God.”
“What is this place?”
“This is a temple,” the Goddess said, and presented the room with lifted palms. “A place where the faithful came to worship, before the God of Sun and Toil cursed our people.”
“Why would the Sun God curse us?”
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br /> The Goddess lifted her chin to the first window, left of the front door. It depicted a white building, with curved red and yellow flames in its windows. A man in shining red armor stood at its front step, serrated sword drawn.
“Tor, my son, sacked a temple to the Sun God. The Sun God cursed Tor and transformed him into a half-beast.”
The next window pictured a minotaur with a heavy yoke resting on his shoulders. A long piece of yellow glass - a ray of sunlight - cut through the leaden clouds above. It shone down upon broken red armor on the ground behind him.
“The Priests of the Light forced him to haul the stone to rebuild the temple, like a common bull. When Tor escaped, he came here and demanded the curse be lifted. My priests told him it was impossible, and Tor slew them in his rage.”
Ayla followed the picture story in the next window. Priests in black and navy tunics lie dead on the ground or stood burning at the stake in a collage of fire and blood.
“But there are thousands of minotaurs now, not just one.”
The Goddess nodded. “The curse was passed to Tor’s male offspring. That is why all minotaurs are male - and why they require human women to sire children.”
The next image depicted a minotaur with gold rings at the base of his horns, wearing a suit of full plate armor. He held a naked pregnant woman by her throat over a puddle of her own blood. Her belly, disfigured by the oversized progeny within, was cut halfway from her groin to her protruding navel by a long curved knife in the beast's other hand.
Ayla covered her mouth in horror. The memory of the calf held aloft in Goreskin’s hands returned. He’d had a similar curved knife that day, looped into the sash of his kilt.
Her stomach rose up and she leaned over the side of the altar. Her body strained and forced out a mouthful of bile. Ayla wiped her lips and gagged one more time. She sat up and gave the Goddess a silent, watery-eyed apology. The taste of bile in her mouth made her empty stomach twist into knots. She took a slow breath to calm it.
The Goddess gave the image one last hard stare, then returned her gaze to Ayla. She handed Ayla the bowl of water from the altar. “It took Tor and his eventual sons almost eighty years of kidnap and rape, but they sired an army of half-beasts. They marched across the north, enslaving the people, and burned every one of my temples until my power all but vanished from the world.”
Ayla tried not to look, but couldn’t help herself. No one ever told her why she lived life as a slave – as property. She put the bowl back on the altar, her throat healed and mouth sweet.
Each of the windows decorating the ancient temple depicted similar atrocities. One showed a woman in chains on all fours acting as a leg rest for her minotaur master. Another revealed a burning village with dozens of men in armor stacked high upon a pyre. Image after horrifying image assaulted her until she forced herself to look away. She met the Goddess’ icy eyes with her own.
“Why didn’t you do something?”
The Goddess pointed at the colorful depiction of red-armored men in a pile. A minotaur stood above them. “To lift Tor’s curse risked war among the Gods. I sent champions to slay him, but they all failed. Born half a god and cursed by another, he cannot die or grow old.”
“Couldn't you just kill him yourself?”
“The Goddess of Healing and Peace guards the souls of this world from the next. Tor can only be slain by a mortal of his own bloodline.”
“A minotaur? I don't think -” Ayla paused, her eyes went to Tor’s naked human footrest. “You mean a daughter of one.”
“Yes, my child.”
Ayla swallowed, the window of the dying pregnant woman in her peripheral. “Deetra says that since my mother had a girl first, I will too. Is that what you want? My girl?”
“No. I came for you.” Her smile faded as she walked back to the other side of the altar. “You carry a male - a calf.”
The Goddess’ words stabbed her in the heart like the thrust of a minotaur’s horn. Ayla dropped down from the altar.
“You healed me for what? To die, like that?”
“If I let you die tonight, who should take your place?”
Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks again. Ayla set her jaw, eyes fixed on the scenes played out in the temple’s many windows. The Goddess didn't really want her to choose. She wanted to lay guilt on Ayla’s shoulders like a load of bricks.
Ayla couldn't look at the Goddess. Instead, she turned to the temple. The window with the pregnant woman flickered in the light. She balled her fists, nails cutting into her palms.
“So it’s live until he guts me, or die and let him do it to somebody else?”
“I confess, I am disappointed. I thought you were more creative.”
Ayla turned around, to see if the Goddess meant what Ayla thought she did. “What? Kill him?”
The Goddess leaned over the altar between them, eyes sparkling like a winter sky. “I could give you the power to crush him under your heel. Goreskin would be a small test of your faith. You will face many more tests before you confront Tor.”
“If Tor dies, our people will be free?”
“The God of Light’s curse was lawful among the Gods. The curse can only be broken once Tor is slain.”
“Why me?”
“Every night for four years you have called for me to come for you. I have come, and now you ask why?”
“I was talking to my Mom.”
“Many of this world do not know to whom they pray. It does not change who hears them. You called to me and I answered. If that is not enough, know that I have chosen two others before you.” The Goddess lifted Ayla’s chin. “But their faith did not compare to yours, and you are the first to have my blue eyes in 200 years.”
Ayla blushed.
“Thank you, Mother.” She expected the word to feel awkward on her tongue, but it didn’t. “What happened to the others?”
“Their faith faltered. The light has many guardians that seek to burn away the darkness forever. But you will not share their fate. The other Gods of the Pantheon grow restless with the imbalance. The time for our people’s freedom has come.”
The Goddess took Ayla’s hands in her own and lifted them to Ayla’s chin. “Cup your hands here as if drinking water. Good. Now repeat after me.”
When the Goddess closed her eyes, Ayla did the same, and each time the Goddess spoke, Ayla dutifully repeated the words.
“Mother, Goddess of the Night.”
“Your daughter is in need.”
“And begs, humbly.”
The Goddess touched Ayla’s cheek and she opened her eyes.
“Then,” she explained, the corners of her mouth curled up in a smile, “tell me what you pray for – or do not – I will know your need.”
“That’s it? Just pray?”
“Prayer is a gift of yourself to me, a small sacrifice of humility. You will make far greater sacrifices in my name. But for me to answer, you must first make the greatest sacrifice of yourself.”
Ayla’s brow lowered with apprehension. The Goddess’ crystal blue eyes peered down into her own, hungry, chilling her soul. Afraid to ask, Ayla just waited through the Goddess’ cold stare. After a long silence, the Goddess spoke.
“You must surrender your soul to the will of your Goddess, in death, to the Abyss.”
The Abyss. On the lips of slaves and minotaurs alike, the words meant darkness and fear for eternity. It was a curse of condemnation. Ayla only thought as far as missing her mother and reuniting with her. The where and how of that reunion never once crossed her mind. The Abyss didn’t portend the happy reunion she envisioned.
“I’ve never heard someone mention the Abyss as a good thing.”
The Goddess’ countenance grew stern and Ayla realized she had insulted her. Ayla’s heart sank into her stomach. The woman directed her attention to the temple proper. Her conviction cowed the flames of the braziers to a low smolder.
“For those whose faces filled my temples waiting for the
sun to set, eager for the Prayer of Humility, the Abyss reflected my infinite rewards. For the faithful, it is an eternity in the arms of those you love, with your enemies under your boot. A realm of true freedom.”
“So, does everyone go to the Abyss when they die?”
“Each God has their realm. Those who love the Abyss find rest and succor in its depths. Those who fear it, live those fears for eternity. Alliances exist, however -”
The flames all shot up at once around them.
Ayla looked around.
“What was that?”
“Dawn approaches. I must have your answer. Do you commit your soul to the Abyss in death, and to the will of your Goddess?”
“I don't know. I have so many q-”
“I understand you have questions. Most priests would have a decade’s worth of instruction. We do not have that kind of time. You have called me Mother. If you truly meant it, you will trust me. Do you commit your soul to the Abyss in death, and to the will of your Goddess?”
Her eyes lingered on the image of the pregnant woman. In seven months, she would face the consequences of her next words. A short life with meaning was more hope than Ayla had when she had laid down to sleep.
“I do.”
“You are now a true Priestess.”
“Am I the only one?”
“True Priesthood is attained by the vow before the flesh and blood of an immortal. You are the first to take the vow in a century. But, you must listen, my chosen. Once you have killed Goreskin, flee north to Hornstall Castle. There you will find free men who will aid you.”
“How do we get there, Mother? We have nothing - not even shoes.”
The Goddess waved her hand to indicate the temple around them. “The Temple can provide, my child. In the dirt below us lies a chest buried with the priests who died here. It contains symbols of faith, vestments, and offerings. Wash yourself in the brook and take what you need.”
The door to the forest opened and a dark horned shadow spilled over the temple. Two of the braziers snuffed out, their radiant coals washing the white ceiling in red. First, just the horned head appeared, but more and more of the shadow’s body rose into the doorway like a black rising sun.
The Goddess put a sympathetic hand on Ayla’s shoulder and turned her toward the door. “You must go now.” The Goddess stared at the doorway. “He’s come for you.”
Ayla looked back. The umbra of her tormentor, Goreskin, stood before the doorway like a disembodied soul. He unfurled a few loops of his whip and her heart lurched with fear. She wheeled back around and grabbed the Goddess’ tunic with a white-knuckled grip.
“No! Don't let him!”
The tapestries, altar, and windows turned to bare wood walls. The tunic became a coarse wool blanket between her fingers.
Ayla screamed.