Under the cover of night, surrounded by the chomites, Anabeel made the journey back to the village of Mournburn. She was proud of what she had achieved, and surely the village would welcome her. Her chomites would be indispensable in defending the village from its many enemies.
She bade her army wait while she climbed the porch steps and tried the door. It was locked—there had been no lock when she’d lived there as a child. She rapped on the door. A bolt slid across and the door opened to reveal her mother and father. Behind them, the glow of a warm fire lit the interior of the farmhouse. They both looked much older than she remembered, stooped, their hair now grey and faces lined with wrinkles.
They were still her parents. Overjoyed to see them, she rushed to embrace them.
They backed away through the door, their eyes wide with terror. She followed them, squeezing her massive bulk through the doorframe. “It’s me, Anabeel, your daughter.”
Her mother’s mouth yawned in a soundless scream.
“You killed our daughter,” her father roared. He took an axe leaning against the wall and raised it to strike her.
“No,” Anabeel screamed raising her front legs in defence.
He brought the blade down and hacked off a leg. Her mother’s scream found voice, joined too by Anabeel’s.
Enraged, her father swung the axe again and severed another leg. She was on the ground now, a milky white puddle spreading out beneath her. “I am Anabeel,” she begged. The axe was raised for a killing blow.
The house became alive with her children. They streamed through the doors and crashed through the windows, burying her parents beneath their numbers. Anabeel screamed and sobbed, pleading with her offspring to leave them alone, but the chomites would not stop. Their queen had been threatened. She lay there, helpless, listening to them feed, and wept. When they’d finished she dragged herself to her parents’ corpses. Nothing left but bones picked clean.
She knew she was different now, no longer Anabeel, the girl, but Anabeel, the chomite queen. All that mattered to her was her children. The villagers would seek revenge for the murder of her parents.
“Kill them all! Leave nothing alive!” she said in the strange language of clicks the chomites used to communicate. She dragged herself through the house and down into the darkness of the cellar. Her limbs would grow back, and in time, she would fill the fields of Mournburn with her offspring.
Szat raised his hand to fling a fireball at the monstrosity. “No, not yet,” Morwen hissed and grabbed at his arm. She was not threatened by the monster despite it having the body of a chomite killing machine—legs like sabres and plated armour.
“At last,” the monster said. Stooped nearly double she began to rise as if Morwen’s presence was renewing her.
“Who are you?” Morwen asked.
“The queen…I am Queen of the Chomites…” She paused. Her stare glazed over as she added, “And a woman.”
“You don’t look much like a woman.” Morwen moved closer to inspect the armoured body and spiked legs.
“More like a demon,” Szat added undiplomatically.
“Yes, I was cursed. Anabeel was my name, and I lived in the nearby village with my parents. When I was a girl, one of the chomites captured me, and his dying queen imbued me with her power.” The stairs creaked behind Morwen as Goron shifted his bulk onto them. “It feels like a lifetime ago.” The queen dragged the swordlike tip of her leg across the stone. The harsh grating sound was magnified tenfold in the underground room. Morwen noticed there were similar marks on the surrounding stones. “I’ve done terrible things.”
“The village?”
“Yes, and I killed my parents.”
Morwen shrugged. “We’ve all thought about killing our parents.”
Another creak on the stairs—Goron was no cat.
The queen watched Morwen intently. “I don’t want to live with the guilt of what I’ve done anymore, but I can’t abandon my children. They need a strong queen, somebody that will ensure their survival and help them grow, not someone who hides in a dark cellar, brooding and wallowing in sorrow and guilt.” The queen stopped worrying the stone. “I’ve waited a long time for someone like you, so I may join my parents.”
“Me? Why me?”
“I can give my power to you, and you could make the chomites strong again.”
Power, the word rang in Morwen’s ears. Thoughts whirled in her mind as a world of new possibilities opened up. The queen and the chomites didn’t appear to be affected by dark rot. She looked formidable too—Morwen could pull that off. And imagine what she could do with an army of loyal foot soldiers. “I’ll do it,” she said enthusiastically.
“Wooh, hang on a minute. What’ll become of me? Who will feed me?” Szat said.
“Shut up, you’ll still get fed,” Morwen hissed.
Szat’s round eyes narrowed to slits at the brisk tone. “That’s okay then, just so long as it’s not bugs and vegetables,” he said sulkily.
The queen scraped a step closer to Morwen. It was obvious from the stiffness of her legs, she had not moved for some time. She was still magnificent though—the stuff of nightmares. Morwen couldn’t wait—she was sure her head would look more attractive on the chomite body, though.
“What do I have to do?” she asked.
“Receive my gift.” The queen’s mouth opened, and a long proboscis unfurled from its depths. “This may be a little uncomfortable, but when you wake the transformation process will have begun.”
Morwen crossed her legs tightly and grimaced. “Oh, what the hell, it’ll be worth it. She hitched up her robe and began to take down her knickers.
The queen’s lips curled in
