Conceiving (Subdue Book 3) Read online

  Conceiving

  The Subdue Series

  Book three

  By: Thomas S. Flowers

  Conceiving

  Copyright © 2016 by Thomas S. Flowers.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: November 2016

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-892-7

  ISBN-10: 1-68058-892-3

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For Terra Lynn, making the world a better place.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

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  Chapter 1

  1533

  Hernando DeSoto

  The Saquechuma could not be trusted. Of this, DeSoto was certain. His native guides had lead him and his men for days up the great river, starting in the salty gulf and moving north into the lush humid forests of unexplored foreign land. Now the path was becoming rockier and his patience exceedingly thin. The Saquechuma chief had shown him gold. And there was promise of more, for services rendered if DeSoto could defeat some savage general the natives called Quisquis. As a conquistador, he had little care for the squabbles of petty savages, but he knew if he was to gain a footing in the interior Americas, he’d needed allies. As he had conquered the swampy glades of La Florida with the use of patsies, so too he would conquer the foothills of the Appalachians. What was one dead savage from any other? Glory. God. Riches. These were the things that interested DeSoto. And above everything, he craved wealth the most. If he could not obtain wealth, he’d damn sure get the glory. For the rest, God could sort them out.

  Farther north, markings began appearing on the water oaks and red maples in the dense forest that filled the land, symbols DeSoto had not previously encountered. They were strange curved lines intersecting, as one might imagine lovers entwined in a provocative embrace. Others had circles with half-circles inside them. And more of what could have been mistaken as the sun and moon and all the other celestial bodies roaming the night sky. What are these? DeSoto wondered. Motioning with his hand, he halted the march. Two of the savages leading the expedition turned. He could not be for certain, but the look on their tan faces seemed to be that of fear.

  “What are these?” DeSoto asked gesturing with his gloved hand.

  The natives looked at each other and then intercrossed their fingers, slapping their palms together as they sounded out the word, “Wormi.”

  “Wormi? What is that?”

  “Wormi.” The two Saquechumas continued slapping their palms, making an off tapping or clicking sound. Their own voices trembling slightly, refusing to look upon the strange symbols cut into the tree bark.

  “Okay. But what does this mean? What is Wormi?” DeSoto traced the marking with his finger. The cut in the tree was deep. Along the edges, the bark almost looked burnt. Darkened by…something. A torch, perhaps. Some kind of flame.

  “Not much farther.” One of the savages turned to pick up the march. Puka or Ishkay—DeSoto could not be for certain, they all looked the same to him—took his arm.

  DeSoto glared at the dirty hand touching his already marred shirt. He sneered, feeling the familiar rage he’d struggled to conquer since adolescence building up. How dare one of these barbarians touch him, but his anger was quickly subdued by the emotion glimmering in the brown skinned native’s gaze. It was more than fear. It was terror. Shear horrifying terror. As cold as the northernmost reaches of the world. As rigid as any dead soldier he’d ever laid eyes on, slain on the battlefield, frozen and bloated. Whatever Wormi was, these Saquechumas were terrified. No wonder they want us to siege this village. They’re traumatized by whatever has happened in Cuzcu…curious. What is this Wormi? What are these savages doing to cause such desperation?

  As the march resumed, DeSoto made a quick sketch in his journal, making sure to note carefully the odd curvature of the symbols. “They look like something used with a sextant, for celestial navigation” he made sure to scribble before catching up with his guides.

  They must have walked another hour or so before inching along the edge of a clearing. DeSoto knelt near a rustle of dead foliage. Peeling back the brown decaying branches, he peered out at the village the Saquechumas wanted to raid. The sun had started to creep below the peaks, casting a long gnarled shadow over the huts made of animal skin and carpentered branches. At the center of the village, a bonfire had been ignited. Dozens of savages who, to DeSoto, looked just like his Saquechuma guides. They were deprived of clothing and painted in white chalk, which seemed to glow against their dark skin. They took to rhythmic chants and drunkard dancing consisting of wild jumps and kicks and rolling on their bellies as if they were snakes slithering on the soft black earth.

  DeSoto looked to the west. The sun was almost gone.

  Perfect.

  Readying his men, what remained of the six hundred troops he sailed with from Florida to the interior gulf, and the four hundred-fifty he left on the shore camp. His officers, Diego, Pizarro, Alvarado, Francisco, Nicuesa, and Juan Orellana, spread word through the ranks. The first wave loaded their harquebuses. The second and third wave sharpened their Toledan blades. Wicks were soaked. Armor set. When the sun vanished, the attack would begin.

  DeSoto looked out among the crowd of savages, still dancing and shouting, some had fallen on the dirt spasming as others laughed and twisted around them. He glanced at his own guides. Their gaze seemed fixed on the ceremony before them, eyes wild with horror, and their hands…their hands were trembled. Was it fear of the battle to come? Or perhaps fear of betrayal of this kinsmen tribe? No. No. DeSoto was sure it had to do with those symbols on the trees. The strange curves, seductive almost and yet something else entirely. Something…unnatural.

  “How much longer do you intend to wait?” Francisco was beside DeSoto, whispering while he gazed out at the frantic rhythmic dancers uneasily.

  DeSoto looked again toward the west. The sun was nothing more but a final blaze of dark orange and red. After a few more moments and he turned back to Fra
ncisco.

  “Send in the first wave with the second close behind. Send the third on the eastern flank.”

  Francisco nodded, both grave and ablaze.

  The first wave of soldiers marched out from the foliage and into the clearing. The dancers did not notice. The second wave came in step behind them, about fifty meters or so. The harquebusiers were just about upon the savages when the first scream broke out. And then chaos came upon the battlefield. His men were good, ordered, and disciplined; Desoto had no doubt of their eventual success in the decimation of these barbarians. But he still wished, partly, for better trained men. More uniformed. More in step as he’d seen from his skirmishes with the British when he was a much younger warrior.

  After the first volley of thundering bursts and powder, his men took to swords and long spears, hacking at the naked natives. The doomed ones who ran east were met by DeSoto’s third wave. He himself came up the middle, carving and hacking and bloodying his face. Fingers, limbs, hands, arms, and a few heads, lopped off. Blood seemed to rain from the heavens, drowning most of screaming, turning into howls and pitiful moans of some delightful church hymn in the ears of these conquering conquistadors.

  The battle lasted for less than an hour. Near the bonfire, DeSoto looked out upon the wasteland of mutilated bodies. Most of his men searched in the nearby huts. Every now and again, some surprised and begging plea would be silenced, forever. Honor? Perhaps…he thought, looking upon the mayhem. His native guides came out from hiding. They looked pale, nearly white as ghosts as they surveyed with a closer eye the destruction their own chief had set in motion. Carefully, the made their way to DeSoto.

  “We’ll camp here and set out first thing in the morning.” DeSoto did not look upon the graven faces of his guides. He cleaned his sword, glancing at his men as they moved about searching for survivors and the remains of this supposed great savage general, Quisquis.

  Diego and a few other soldiers came up to DeSoto. They frowned at the native guides. Diego smirked, as if to say, “Behold! Your fate!”

  “Any sign of this chieftain?” DeSoto sheathed his sword.

  “No. Chances are he is in one of these piles.” Diego gestured to the many slaughtered.

  “He is more likely at the temple.” Puka or Ishkay, DeSoto was not certain, motioned with a trembling arm, gesturing out farther into the unseen places of the encampment.

  “What temple?” Diego mocked. “One of these huts?” He motioned behind him, at the fires being set. Smiling at the screams as those within were being burned alive.

  A few of the soldiers laughed.

  Again, the Saquechuma motioned out toward the darkness. Beyond the plentiful yellow glow of the bonfire.

  “There is a temple. It must be destroyed.”

  “Show us.” DeSoto gripped his sword, gesturing for the savages to lead the way.

  Both natives moved past the bonfire and toward the blazing ruins of Cuzcu. Most of the cries had all died away in the heat of the soot that covered the dark brown ground in ashen snow. His victory was never in question. Still, in his gut DeSoto couldn’t shake the feeling something was not right. On the horizon, maybe. Or nothing at all. The Saquechuma traitors had been so terrified of this village. But the inhabitants fell without much of a fight. What was to fear?

  The temple?

  What could possibly be there to be so—?

  “Wormi.” The native guides had come to a halt. They pointed toward a large mound coming out from the ground to the north. To DeSoto the presumed temple looked more like some monstrous lump, cancerous and diseased as those poor doomed bastards who fell in Spain no more than thirty years prior, painted with sores and tar and orange-yellow tongues, coughing blood in dirty torn pieces of cloth. Moaning and whimpering for death.

  The mound could have harvested lush green grass, purples, and sun-coated petaled flowers, once, but not anymore. Where life could have been, only death resided. The Spaniards gazed upon the structure, faces mired in stupefaction and child-like dread, as if they’d stumbled upon the home of one of the horrible creatures told in tales around camp fires. The places children should never go for fear of being eaten alive by trolls or ghouls or imps or worse.

  “Wormi,” the natives said again.

  “Tell me, now. What is this Wormi?” DeSoto demanded, taking hold of one of the native guides. The other protested, rubbing his stomach is some strange gesture.

  “What are you doing?” DeSoto still held the native.

  “Wormi,” the native said, still rubbing, patting his stomach.

  “Please, Hernando. Let us see if this native scum is hiding inside this…temple. Cut off his head. Torch the place. And make camp somewhere far away from here ’til morning.” Diego stood beside DeSoto, looking at the native and then General.

  DeSoto nodded, releasing the whimpering savage, chest tight with rage.

  Diego led the way toward the grotesque mound. An entrance had been carved out, using large polished black stone to keep the dirt from caving in. Torches had been lit, but the blessed light they gave seemed dulled in some unseen gloom hanging above this unnatural place. The air felt cold. The wind carried the smell of the burning village and of something else, something horrible of tart and sour rot.

  Inside, shadows danced wickedly on the earthen walls. The owners stood in the epicenter of this surprisingly massive chamber. Naked, painted savages danced drunkenly and shook poles with bones tied with sinew. Each strike made a sort of rattle, set in rhythm with the pounding of their bare feet against the ground. Another stood above the chaos. A priest of sorts, if the native’s story were true and this mound was indeed a temple. The shaman wore the same white chalk paint, covering his thin frail body. On his shoulders and shielding his face, a bear had been skinned and carved out to make a type of mask and robe. Across his neck he wore a dazzling jewel, some sort of blue azurite crystal turning pitch black, as one might imagine a rock covered with coal painted malachite, as the dim torchlight touched its surface. Within the circle, another native could be seen between the dancing horde, thrashing, weeping, and pleading. A woman, for all DeSoto knew, taken against her will, or so he assumed. Why else would she protest so? A sacrifice of some kind? He’d heard of other savage nations practicing such a thing. Beyond the gulf in the lower islands, yes. Such a thing has been heard of before. Why not here among at the foothills of the Appalachians?

  Damn them.

  Damn them all.

  “I want his head.” DeSoto drew his sword, gesturing toward the priest. Diego and the other men followed, dashing out and hacking at the naked dancers. None fought back. They fell. One after the other. Crimson mist sprayed upward and came down in horrible droplets of rain. The priest fell to his knees, hands in Christian prayer. At this, DeSoto spat.

  “No gods here to save you, savage.” Without hesitation, DeSoto swung. The sword gleamed in the waning torchlight. It sunk into the meat and muscle of the shaman’s neck. Using his foot, he tugged the blade back and swung again, this time the head came off, bouncing once on the ruined ground. The body spasmed and fell, splattering blood in the soft dirt.

  The woman panted and moaned on some kind animal skin DeSoto did not immediately recognize. Her legs were bound and spread. Her stomach was swollen, very near to the point of giving bursting.

  The men watched, panting from bloodlust, with a look of uncertainty painfully painted on their faces. What could they do for this woman? She is alive. Saved from some horrible ritual, perhaps. But she is in labor and there was no physician among them.

  The woman thrashed and thrashed. Whimpering and screaming simultaneously. With each kick and moan, her stomach expanded.

  “What can we do?” Diego yelled.

  “I…don’t know.” DeSoto held in his hand the necklace the shaman had worn, the dark azurite seemed to glow. Inside the crystal, differing and strange colors intermixed and changed, reminding the Spaniard of the tales his father used to tell him, of the northern lights in the ice lands.r />
  “Bring in one of the guides. Make them help this woman give birth,” DeSoto suggested, uncaring for what was happening around him. His gaze fixed on the stone.

  Moments later, two soldiers pushed the savages inside the large ceremonial room. They both trembled terribly, but when they laid eyes on the woman, what remained of their color drained on the blood soaked ground.

  “Help her,” Diego snarled, gesturing at the woman moaning and gasping her air.

  The natives stepped back, hands protesting in front of them.

  “Wormi. Wormi.”

  “Help her!”

  “We cannot. She must…die before…”

  “What?”

  “They come.”

  As Diego looked at the woman who pitched and fought against her bindings, the two natives turned and ran from the temple. The soldiers standing near them pursued.

  The woman’s screaming became gurgles, as if blood had pooled in her lungs.

  “Hernando?” Diego moved to the woman. “Help me, I think I can deliver the baby.”

  DeSoto stroked the jewel.

  “Hernando?”

  “Let Them come.”

  “What?”

  The woman hitched and bucked, nearly snapping the sinew holding her legs apart. Diego moved between them, casting away most of his armor. He rolled his sleeves and opened the flap of animal skin shielding her sex.

  “Push.” Diego looked at the woman who now was white and pale, shivering and weeping.

  The woman grunted, as if holding her breath from some kind of massive horrifying pain.

  “I think I see something…it’s…God…what…what…?”

  From the womb birthed a swarm of black fluttering things. Chattering. Chattering. Clicking as they swirled about the expansive chamber. Diego fell backwards, shielding his face from the barrage.

  Within the black swarm, a large gluttonous worm glared out at him from the gore ruined womb. It pushed itself out, slick and wet. Tip twitching. Moaning. And then the rolls, and rolls, awful and covered with tar like syrup, birthed.