The Wildness Within

Lesson Three - Hunger 1

Gwyn didn't think of him as the Bird King anymore. He thought of him as the Raven Prince now. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but he was sure that the Raven Prince still stunk of bird musk and he seemed to revel in the scent – did he ever clean that cloak?

Noises filled his ears. Today they stood above a flat plain of sand and stone, a round caldera fringed by the tall and fossilised dusky red remains of a volcano that was no longer active. Below them, hundreds fought, wearing old, blood-stained armour and wielding swords – every one of them tarnished. There were cries and moans of pain, shrieks of despair, and their tired bodies moved with the energy of those who had been at battle for far too long. The swords seemed too heavy for their joints, plate armour too heavy for their knees and elbows and ankles.

One side of the battle was comprised of fae covered in horny appendages, the other side made of a population of lizard scaled fae. No one seemed to be winning. The battle had a pointless, endless feel to it. The ground beneath their feet was tacky brown – not with soil as Gwyn had first thought – but with layer after layer of blood.

So much of it that they had to have been battling there for weeks? Months?

'They're cursed,' the Raven Prince said, his arms folded on a platform of elevated rock as he looked idly down at them. 'They once made a very powerful Mage angry, and he cursed them with dual fates. That they would be compelled to battle forever, and that battle wounds would never fell them. They cannot leave the battleground, and they cannot kill each other. They've been here for seventy-five years.'

Gwyn stared.

'How do they feed?' Gwyn said, hearing more despair in their voices than anything like bloodlust. Gwyn could hear distant sobbing and pleading. Perhaps they weren't pleading with each other, but begging for death. He didn't know their language. They sounded desolate. It made his chest feel cold.

'That's what bothers you?' the Raven Prince said, laughing quietly. 'They're permitted to stop for two hours past the stroke of midnight. There, in their respective areas, they're allowed to sleep or eat. The sleep will never be refreshing. And the food – which replenishes blood and sweat – will never sate them. It was a well-made curse.'

'Why don't you break it?'

'I can't,' the Raven Prince said. He looked over and smiled at Gwyn's expression. 'I may be quite powerful, but I'm not a god. It's also considered exceedingly rude for a Mage to break another Mage's enchantment. Especially a curse of this calibre. It doesn't do for Mages to be rude to one another. That's when duels happen. They almost always end in death.'

Gwyn stared down at them. One fae had fallen to his knees and his shoulders were moving as though he was sobbing. He was wailing by the time he forced himself to his feet to start fighting again.

Seventy-five years...

'You can break the curse,' the Raven Prince said.

'What?' Gwyn gasped. 'With magic?'

'Oh no, with that light of yours. If you enter that battleground as a psychopomp, what you do to them wouldn't count as a war wound. You'd free them, Gwyn. You're not a Mage, so you wouldn't draw the same level of ire as I might. You see, I've been thinking about it – your rubbish need to care for others, has led me to conclude that this might be the best way to get you to feed that light of yours. You're not leaving here without doing it.'

'I...'

'You'd only have to set one of them free,' the Raven Prince said. 'And it's a contained space. Even if you spill over, you can't hurt anyone else except those who beg for death. You'd be a mercy to them, Gwyn.'