Empire of the Worm (12 page)

“We need a plan,” he said,
addressing the gathering. “The Enemy is here. Uulos. I saw his Black Altar
being transported to the Temple
of Lerum myself. The
Lerumites have also taken possession of the Jewel of the Sun and have placed it
on the altar of their temple—not the Black Altar, but the one already there—why,
I don’t know. Anyway, I realize the besieging armies seem the greater threat, but
they’re here solely because Uulos wills it so. He may not have returned in
flesh yet, but He will in time. And He has many servants.”

“What does it matter?” said one of
the priests. “The city’s about to fall. We have only to wait for the Aesinis
and Ctai and Ysagra to finish us off.”

Davril matched the man’s gaze. “Uulos
is here, and He must be dealt with. If you don’t believe He’s strong enough to
throw back the barbarians at will, I do. He wouldn’t have come here if He wasn’t.
For now, chaos suits His designs, whatever they are. But imagine how much
easier it will be for Him to carve out a new rule for himself if He’s the one
to save the city.”
They glanced uneasily at each other.

“Good,” he said, seizing the
moment. “Let’s assume that I’m right for the moment, that that’s His intention.
We must come up with a way to fight Him. The Jewel of the Sun—the
ilisan
, Father Elimhas called it—seems
the most likely choice.”

“Of course,” said one of the men in
yellow. “It’s the unborn Son of Tiat-sumat. Ilisanali, the Little Sun.”

“Nonsense,” said the Lady of
Behara. “It’s the Eye of the Sky.”

“But what does Uulos want it for?”
Alyssa said, cutting through the sectarian bickering before it could disrupt
the proceedings.

“The High Priest of the Lerumites
said Uulos meant to swallow it,” Davril said. “Can any here propose a reason why?”

That stumped them for a few
moments. Finally Father Trisdan, High Priest of Tiat-sumat, an ancient and
vulture-like man, said, “Whatever else it is, whether the son of Tiat-sumat or not,
the Jewel is a thing of power. If Uulos could somehow . . .
take in
that power . . . he would be
mighty indeed.”

“But,” said one of the others,
“wouldn’t the Jewel kill Uulos if he devoured it? It’s deadly to him. The
powers suffused within it are his antithesis, light to his darkness.”

“Maybe that’s why the Lerumites
placed it on their temple altar,” Davril suggested. “They’re trying to weaken
it.”

“Yes,” said a woman in yellow. “He
fears it.”

“He won’t fear it for long,” Father
Trisdan said. “When he’s strong enough, and he returns in flesh, he
will
devour it, and will be
unstoppable.”

“How will he grow that strong?”
Davril asked.

Trisdan’s mouth quirked bitterly.
“Sacrifices, my boy. Uulos must consume massive amounts of sacrifices, must
harvest the souls of many, before he can cross over.”

“How terrible,” Alyssa said.

Davril tapped his chin. “So: the
General and the Lerumites will make sacrifices to the Worm to make him strong
enough, and then Uulos will return, at which time he’ll swallow the Jewel and
become invincible. Good.”

“
Good
?” Alyssa said.

“Yes. It gives us time.”

“Sacrilege,” said one of the
priests.

“Behara would welcome any weapon
against the Deep One,” said another. “Even if it were a feast of human flesh
and souls that would take some time to consume.”

“Behara would welcome nothing, you
fool; he doesn’t exist!” said of the priests of Tiat-sumat.

An angry debate started, and Davril
let it go on for a minute, then pounded the table—once. The priests instantly
stopped their arguing and turned to him. When he saw he had their attention, he
waited still another moment, solidifying his role as leader, then said, “It’s
obvious we must steal the Jewel,
when
we’re ready
. We’re not. We’re scattered, hunted, and weak. For now we must
find some place to relocate to and gather our strength.”

“Excuse me?” asked the Lady, offended.
“This is the
Temple
of Behara
. The Great God protects us.”

Davril looked at her solemnly. “We’ve
discussed this already, and the others here surely know; it’s why you’re all here:
the Lerumites are destroying the churches of Tiat-sumat, Behara and any other
sects of the Light they can find.”
“We’re all painfully aware of that,” the Lady said. “That’s why everyone’s
gathered
here
.”

“Yes, but what you may not be aware
of is that the Lerumites have been destroying the altars in every church and
chapel they sack.”

“No,” gasped one the priests of Tiat-sumat.
“But why?”

“I have no idea, but perhaps you
do.”

“This could be an attempt to weaken
Tiat-sumat, or the Light in general, if you prefer,” said Father Trisdan. “We
must warn the Illyrians.” To the Lady, he said, “Yours might be next, Mira. In
any event, Behara’s is a sect of the Light and this is its finest
representative. You, Lady, are an enemy of Uulos, and his servants know it. What’s
more, you’ve given shelter to many the Lerumites have targeted for the
sacrificial block. Davril’s right; they will be coming for you.”

The Lady and the priests of the
Brotherhood shared tense, uneasy looks.

“We must relocate,” Davril
reiterated.

“But how?” asked one. “We can’t
leave the city. We’re under siege!”

An angry clamor broke out, and Davril
forced himself to appear calm, raised his hands in a placating gesture, and slowly
the clamor faded.

“There is a way,” he said quietly. “The
Avestines.”

“Ridiculous,” said a round-faced
priest. “They disdain the followers of the Flame. And they hate you Husans.”

“That’s just why no one will
suspect them of aiding us.”

“They’ll betray us! Besides, where
would we go? Would we live with them in their ghettos? It’s absurd!”

The priests were about to start
clamoring and arguing again, but Davril made himself throw back his head and
laugh. It worked, catching them off-guard.

“Why do you laugh?” asked the Lady.

Smiling (and feeling the strain in
it), Davril said, “There’s still some advantage to being Emperor, it seems. I
have intelligence the rest of you don’t. For many years my family’s spied on
the Avestines, for obvious reasons; they’ve assassinated several Husan Emperors
and have tried to assassinate still more. So we’ve kept our eyes on them, and
one thing we’ve learned is that they have deep warrens underground. It’s where
many of them live, and how they get from place to place throughout the city.”

“So
that’s
their trick. I’d always assumed they used some necromancy.”

“Just tunnels. Miles and miles of
tunnels. All underground. With plenty of room for us, so I believe. Of course,
we will need to be on our guard. As has been pointed out, they bear no love for
us or our gods, and they are a strange and mysterious people besides. But I
really see very little choice—save to sit here and wait for the end to come,
which if we sit and wait it most surely will.”

Silently, they digested this. Then,
slowly, they began to discuss it amongst themselves. They did not speak in an
angry clamor this time, but slowly, methodically, intelligently. Davril waited.

Suddenly, a priest from outside
screamed.

Davril bounded up and out of the
room, using his Uuloson staff. The others followed, joining the priest that had
alerted them and staring down at the base of the Tower, where a line of
dark-robed figures streamed through the Gates and marched up the long, winding
stairs.

“Lerumites!” Davril hissed. “They
must have waited for the sun to set before launching their attack.” Part of him
wondered if they had come for him or the Beharans, or perhaps merely for the
Beharan altar, but it didn’t really matter.

The priests of the Light made
sounds of despair. A great gathering of blue-robed men and women formed,
accompanied by a smaller crowd of yellow-robed figures and various others.

The Lady turned to Davril. This was
symbolic, her granting authority to him.

Calmly, almost too calmly, she
said, “What shall we do?”

He did not hesitate. “Gather all
your blessed objects, all those you can carry, and follow me. We’ll go down the
inner stairs.” The Lerumites used the outer stairs, winding round and round the
Tower. Only the priesthood had access to the inner set. With any luck, the
Lerumites wouldn’t even know about it; Davril only knew of them because of his
frequent visits to the Tower. “And hurry! The fish-priests are moving swiftly.”

Chapter
10

“You’re mad.”

“No,” Davril said, matching the
other’s growl. “I am not.”

They eyed each other tensely. The
other was Patriarch Jeselri Montral, the secular head of the Avestines. They
stood within the squarish main hall of the burnished red Ziggurat of Dusk,
often considered the oldest of Sedremere’s many ziggurats. Alyssa, Father
Trisdan, the Lady of Behara and other priests and followers of the Light waited
in an antechamber.

Jeselri crossed his lean arms over
his chest. He was a tall man of perhaps sixty, bald, clean-shaven and hawkish,
yet remarkably fit and healthy for his age. Behind him stood rows of ancient Avestine
artifacts—sculptures, pottery, fragments of paintings, tapestries and mosaics,
even a few crumbling scrolls. Visiting Avestine families would (in times of
peace) come to this place and visit the artifacts, the children learning of the
rich history of the Avestines. And it
was
a rich history, Davril had to admit. The Avestines had possessed a high
civilization back when his own ancestors had been little more than savages not
too dissimilar from the Aesinis.

“Yes,” Jeselri replied. “You are. We
cannot possibly accommodate you.”

“Play no games with me, Patriarch. Remember
who I am.”

A twisted smile crossed Jeselri’s
lean, dark face. “I am painfully aware of it . . . my lord.” He sort of smirked.
He had large dark eyes that rarely blinked, and a great, curved nose jutted
knife-like from his swarthy face.

Davril let the comment pass. “You
have plenty of room for us.”

“Eh.” Jeselri’s features assumed a
facial shrug, the corners of his wide, thin lips turning down. “What are your
problems to us?”

“Our problems are yours. There are
greater forces at work here than the besieging armies. Surely your people have
felt it, too. Surely your priests’ abilities have lessened of late.”

“As a matter of fact, they have
not. They have swollen. Why, have not yours?”

That was interesting, Davril thought,
and a bit unnerving. Just what sort of people was he dealing with that would swell
with power at the coming of Uulos?

“Never mind,” he said. “The
important thing is that there’s a malevolent power rising, and it will turn its
gaze on you before long if it hasn’t already. I happen to have information that
could harm that power, and I’m willing to share it with you, but first you must
aid me. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Ha! You are penniless, a
vagabond.” This obviously pleased Jeselri greatly.

“Yet if you help me and we restore
order to the realm, I will regain my throne and have access to my rightful
wealth. And if you aid me—and I am not asking for much, just a few rooms out of
the way, and a few attendants from time to time—then I will be very generous.”

“Money, wealth—these are things
that mean little to me and mine.”

So
. . . he wants to haggle
, Davril mused, and accordingly narrowed his eyes. It
was important not to appear too willing to bend.

“Just what does mean something to
you?” he asked.

Jeselri paused, making sure he had
Davril’s attention, and said, simply, “Respect.”

Davril waited.

“
Respect
,” Jeselri repeated, warming to the subject. “For too long
have you Niardans treated us as third-class citizens, as filth to be shunted
aside and confined to our Quarter. It is we who
built
this city.” His dark eyes blazed. “It is
our
city, ours by blood and toil. How can you treat us like this?”

Davril could have reminded Jeselri
that after the Niardans had seized the city they’d permitted the Avestines
their freedom as long as they acknowledged the laws and rule of the Niardans—including
the injunction against human sacrifice. The Avestines had pretended at obeisance,
but almost immediately the disappearances had began. The killings. The mutilations.
A campaign of violence and secrecy had been waged by the Avestines against the
Niardans until finally the Emperor had confined them to their quarter and
monitored their comings and goings closely. A hundred years later an emperor
had granted them greater freedoms, but with the same result. And so it went. Every
few hundred years an emperor would give the Avestines another chance, and every
time they betrayed that trust.

Davril simply ground his teeth. “So
you want your restrictions abolished.”

“That is only the beginning, as we
have managed to slip around your net for some time now—as, perhaps, you shall
see. No, I want my people to have a voice in the Empire. I want there to be Avestine
governors and mayors and senators. I want us to enjoy every right of a citizen
of Qazradan.”

Davril needed him, but still he
could not resist saying, “And do you swear to
honor
that trust?”

Jeselri’s brow lowered. In a
deceptively mild voice, he said, “We are an honorable people.”

Davril checked himself. “Very well.
I’ll do all that you’ve asked, if you help me now.”

The Patriarch studied Davril. Davril
could see the gleam of pride and ambition in his eyes, could see that Jeselri
had fixed upon his dream and saw that it was within his grasp, and so it did
not come as a surprise when Jeselri finally nodded.

“Very well. Let it be so.” He bowed
to Davril, and Davril bowed back. “I will take you down, where we will find a
place for you and yours.”

Davril let out a breath. “Thank
you. You will not regret this.”

“Oh, I know I will not. I will
hold
you to our bargain.”

Jeselri waited while Davril
gathered the Beharans and Tiat-sumatians and others. Meanwhile Jeselri
conferred with his subordinates. Finally the Patriarch led his new charges down
through the ziggurat and into its musty catacombs, where the high members of ancient
Avestine society had been laid to rest eons ago. He triggered a hidden panel
and darkness gaped from a secret tunnel.

Davril smiled. He remembered his
father speaking of the Avestines and their rat-tunnels and of how he would like
to see them. He wondered where his father was now. Did the old emperor and his
sons still linger in the shadows of the Palace?

“This way,” Jeselri said. He and
his attendants lit their torches and marched off into the gloom, Jeselri in the
lead, Davril immediately after.

The square tunnel led on
indefinitely, and Davril saw the black mouths of many cross-tunnels, with
occasional vague hints of stairwells going both up
and
down catching his attention. Everything was made of stone and
built to last. For how long had the Avestines been using this network? The Avestines
moved in eerie silence, their dark faces locked in brooding scowls. Theirs was
a gloomy people, given to age-long feuds and swift violence. Still, Davril knew
that their celebrations were filled with wild abandon and were often considered
debauched even by the more colorful cults of the city.

As he passed one particularly large
stairwell, Davril could not help but ask, “Just how deep do your tunnels go?”

Jeselri shot him an odd look. “Deep,”
he said. “Very deep.”

He did not elaborate.

As they went, Davril saw more and
more people, Avestines all, coming and going through the tunnels, some emerging
from depths below, some down from the streets and shops of the Avestine Quarter,
or from all sides. They regarded Davril and his people with open surprise, even
hostility.

“It is well,” Jeselri would
reassure the Avestines. “They’re under my protection. I will give a meeting
about it tonight in the Great Hall. At midnight. Spread the word.” The Avestines
would nod and move off, obviously both bothered and intrigued.

Jeselri showed Davril and his
people down a flight of stairs, and then another, then sideways for a stretch. They
passed areas where everything was built of stone, then through long stretches
where it was all shored-up dirt, then through bubbles of more stone.

In the stone areas, there were
rooms on all sides with apparent occupants, their doorways covered in curtains
of colorful beads. Davril smelled incense and hashish, and roasting fowl, and
heard children playing and adults conversing. Somewhere lovers grunted. There
was the jingle of bells, and the wail of an Avestic accordion. The accordion-player,
a bandy-legged man with a riotous beard, danced about while a long, sinuous form
curled around his limbs in time to the music, its black fur rasping against his
coarse clothes. Children and adults, huddling in the background, pointed at the
great hypnotized worm and marveled.

Davril was surprised. He had
expected to find a few Avestines living below ground, but not in such numbers
and density. How could people truly live down here in this musty darkness? And
if indeed many did live here then the estimates Davril had of the Avestine
population (roughly two hundred thousand) were surely wrong. Perhaps
quite
wrong.

Alyssa came up to him. “I don’t
know about this,” she whispered. “I don’t want to go any deeper.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted. “We
have no choice.”

Hearing this, Jeselri turned to Alyssa.
“As to going any deeper, have no fear, my dear. We’re almost there.”

Sure enough, in only another few
minutes had Jeselri led them down a certain hall, through a bright curtain of
multi-colored beads, into a warren of musty, stone-walled rooms with a few
pieces of dilapidated furniture and said, “Here we are.”

Davril looked around at the
slime-mold-covered walls flickering in the torch-light, at the stained urns and
cracked pillars, wrinkling his nose at the stench of rot and time. At least the
air was not as stale as it could have been. The Avestines had built air shafts
throughout their tunnels, and that helped tremendously.

He forced himself to stand straight
and nod judiciously. “It will do,” he said.

“Excellent. I will leave you now
and let my men see to your specific needs. Javrol is authorized to act on my
behalf.”

He bowed, and Davril returned the
gesture. The Patriarch spoke a few quick words to his underlings, turned and
vanished into the darkness of the tunnel. His underlings stayed. Davril, the
Beharans and the Tiat-sumatians spent some time conferring with them, working
out the basics—food, water, furniture and other accommodations—and one left to
arrange things while the other four Avestines stayed. Davril noticed that all
wore curved sabers at their hips.

“You can go,” he told them. “We’ll
be fine on our own.”

They retreated from the rooms,
taking up station at the end of the hall just past the curtain of beads.

Davril went to them. “Truly, we
have no need of your services,” he said. “It will be all right for you to go
about your normal duties.”

The senior one, who must be Javrol—strong-armed
and black-eyed, with gold rings in his equally black beard—stared at him
coldly.

“We are not leaving,” Javrol said.

“Are you here to guard us, or to
guard against us?”

Javrol’s face betrayed no emotion. “We’re
to keep our eyes on you, that is all. You are our guests. It would not do to
let you go without.”

“What if we were to, for example,
leave our rooms? Would one or more of you go with us to ensure our continued
well-being?”

Javrol sort of smiled. “Just so. And
we would steer you on your way. We would not want you getting lost. And there
are certain areas where you should not go.”

Ah
,
thought Davril. “Where are these areas?”

Javrol shrugged. “There are more
than one, but principally . . . down. This is as deep as it is . . .
prudent
for you to venture. If you were
to go below this level, you would, I fear, not return.” This was a genuine
threat, Davril was certain; if by chance or design he or one of his people
strayed below, the Avestines would see to it they did not come back up. Thoughts
of what the Avestines had to hide intrigued him, and worried him.

Javrol tipped his head, a sort of
bow, indicating that the conversation was over. Davril returned the gesture and
limped back through the bead curtain to the warren of rooms he and the others would
share.

These
are my people now
, he told himself, looking around them as they settled in,
reclining on stone benches and grouping around cracked tables.
Where before my people consisted of an entire
empire, now I have only a straggle of priests and worshippers.
How was he
to build an effective resistance against Uulos with such a lot? He thought of Sareth,
and Hariban, and the ache within him flared. It was as if some place deep
within him had been carved out, ripped violently from his body with dull
instruments, and where he had been full before he was hollow, hollow and sore
from the extraction. He knew he could not restore what had been there—it was
gone forever—but he could fill that hollow space.

He could fill it with fire.

“Davril,” Alyssa said, approaching.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to see
you.” He turned his face away so that she could not see his anger.

For a moment she appeared ready to
turn and go, but from somewhere she rallied. “There’s something I want to show
you.”

If it would get rid of her, fine. “Take
me to it.”

She brought him through high, thick
columns toward a bench along a wall where, judging by the blankets given to her
by Javrols’ people, she had evidently decided to make her home. Davril noted
the huge black blocks that made up the walls, very different from the bricks
that the Ziggurat of Dusk was composed of. But, of course, the Avestines were
very ancient and would have experimented with many architectural styles. And it
was likely that the engineers who had built these tunnels required different
techniques entirely.