Empire of the Worm (5 page)

“None can say, of course, but the
shadowy figures have been reported higher and higher in the catacombs. They’ve
even been seen in the Palace proper.”

“Send out the troops again. Search
every inch.”

“I’ve already ordered it.” With a
grimace, the General added, “It’s a big place, though, my lord, and there are
supposedly innumerable secret passageways.”

“With time, we’ll catch them.”

He said it with more confidence
than he felt. That night, as he lay in bed with Alyssa, he muttered, half to
himself, “What have I done?”

She heard. Her eyes glistening, she
said, “It’s my fault, Davi.”

“Nonsense.”

“
I
asked you to save me. I shouldn’t have. I was selfish, I see that
now. I was just so scared, and confused.”

“I was the selfish one. I didn’t
want to lose you. I still don’t.” He sighed and kissed her cheek. “But placing
blame won’t help us.”

“What will?”

He didn’t answer, and an
uncomfortable silence passed between them.

“I think I’ll go check on Hariban,”
she said.

When he was alone, he closed his
eyes and tried to sleep, but it proved elusive, and the shadows around him seemed
to swell. They felt cold, unnatural, and fingers of dread scratched at his
throat. Then, out of the darkness at the foot of his bed, something moved
forward into the light. Davril gasped.

The shadowy figure wore Davril’s
father’s face, swimming palely in the gloom.

“Father . . . is that
you
?”

In answer, the dead emperor yanked
the ceremonial dagger Davril had slain him with from his chest and hurled it at
the young emperor. Davril just barely dodged in time.

“Father, forgive me!”

“Never!” The rough, strained voice
seemed to come from a half-rotted throat, but it was intelligible. The
apparition lunged forward, hands outstretched to throttle. Davril reached for the
dagger, closed his hand about it, and slashed it through the onrushing form—but
his father was no more.

Davril lit all the lanterns and
candles in the room and searched all about. He ordered the Palace combed
thoroughly, though his guards and servants muttered darkly. Even Alyssa looked
at him with troubled eyes. They found nothing. Yet, unlike the red mists, the
dagger did not vanish with the sunrise.

The Asqrit compound, located on the rocky beach to the
southwest, encircled verdant grounds filled with gardens and gazebos, and in
the midst of it all rose the fabled Light-House, splendid and ancient. At its
top a strange red light burned at night, letting ships know where the shore lay.

It served another function, too,
though Davril had only read about it. Supposedly, during attack from the sea,
the priests of Asqrit would intensify the beam at the top of the Light-House so
that its lance of illumination would actually burn enemy ships. Some said this was
done with mirrors, or lenses that harnessed the light of the sun; some said it
had never really happened but was a myth fabricated by the priests for their
own glorification; and still others (most notably the priests) maintained the
light was divinely caused, that Asqrit Himself, the Great Phoenix, personally
directed His might, through the abilities of the priests, to destroy Qazradan’s
enemies.

Whatever the case, Davril had
always dreamed of ascending to the highest chamber and viewing for himself
whatever apparatus caused the lethal beam of light, but unfortunately the priests
only allowed members of their order to view the miracle.

Occasionally they would admit an
emperor, however. Davril had several times asked his father if he’d seen the
chamber at the top of the House of Light, and the Emperor had merely winked and
said, “The Jewel of the Sun, my boy. The Jewel of the Sun.” Whether he’d said
this in jest or not, Davril didn’t know.

But if he had told the truth . . .

In any event, Davril stared up at
the tower as he rode through the gateway and into the lush grounds of the
compound. The Order of the Golden Plumage maintained an admirable garden, and
he could not resist plucking one of the ripe red apples that grew in profusion as
he made his way along. He bit into it, savoring the sweet juices, and smiled as
priests admitted him into the ground floor of the Light-House. Great windows
flooded the immense chapel in radiance, and as Davril’s eyes adjusted he saw
the sea through the high windows, the blue foaming and breaking against the
rocks below.

“Beautiful, is it not?”

Davril turned to find Father
Elimhas, the High Priest of Asqrit, smiling and nodding.

“Quite,” Davril said.

“We’re truly blessed.” Elimhas was
an old man, and plump, but there was something cadaverous about his face, which
was wrinkled, the skin hanging in course, sagging folds, and covered in spots
and errant hairs. “But you didn’t come to discuss the view.”

“No.”

Elimhas walked toward a rear door,
and Davril followed. Silently, the priest led him out onto the curving terrace
that spiraled about the outside of the Light-House. The wind blasted Davril,
cold and wet off the sea, but invigorating.

“I need to know about Subn-ongath,”
Davril said bluntly. “I need counsel in the ways of the gods.”

Elimhas stared at him with his gray-blue,
watery eyes, wind whipping his short gray hair. “And you think
I
know?”

“Don’t play with me, Father. My
family’s worshipped It—for eons, perhaps—and for most of that time they’ve
professed to serve Asqrit. You priests perpetuated the fraud, but you had to
know.
 
Had
to.”

The High Priest pressed his lips
together. “A god-
thing
I would call it,”
he said. “A demon, perhaps. Not a true god. A demon creature from another . . .
well, place.”

“God-thing, then,” Davril said,
relieved that Elimhas had ceased dissembling. “How do I destroy it?”

They had stopped in their walk, but
now Elimhas resumed walking, treading carefully. The foam on the sea had coated
the walkway in a layer of slaver, at least on the lower levels, and with the
moisture and the wind it was treacherous going, especially for one so old.

“Why have you come
here
?” Elimhas asked warily.

Davril returned his look sternly. “You
know why.”

Elimhas sighed. “You cannot have
it.”

“So it’s true, then. The Jewel of
the Sun. It
does
exist.” When Elimhas
did not answer, Davril continued, “But I’ve been led to believe that you allow
emperors access to it, and I’m an emperor. I demand to see it.”

“You
demand
?” Elimhas arched his eyebrows. “You may be a king of men,
boy, but my province is gods. The rights of the priesthood are recognized by
the realm.”

“I am the realm.”

“Insolence!”

Davril forced himself to take a
deep breath, then to let it out before he spoke again. “I need all the help I
can get in fighting this . . . this
thing
,
Father. And if the Jewel truly is god-given—well, Father, surely even you see
the need for Subn-ongath’s removal.”

“Our realm has prospered for eons,
even with your Patron’s presence—indeed, though it pains me to say it, because
of it.”

“Then you favor this thing?”

“Of course not!”

“But—”
Elimhas shook his cane in front of Davril’s nose. “It’s an abomination! A
horror! I rue the day your forefathers made their bargain with it. Oh, I know
all about it, young Lord Husan, yes I do, of course I do. About It and the
Circle it is a part of. Knowledge of the bargain has been preserved and passed
down among the Order for countless generations. But we’ve tolerated it. Tolerated,
and grown complacent with the prosperity that was the fruit of that pact.”

“Why did you tolerate such a
thing?”

Angrily, Elimhas gestured with his
cane—pointing at something inland. Davril squinted, trying to see what it was
he pointed at. When he saw it, Davril narrowed his eyes. The Temple of Lerum,
grand and mysterious, sitting in its own compound at the source of the Lerum River
to the northeast.

“The Lerumites,” he said. “What
about them?”

“They’re the true evil,” Elimhas
said, and there was hate but also fear in his voice. “Them, and the Thing they
serve. Beware them, Davril. Beware the fish-priests of Lerum.”

“What do they have to do with
Subn-ongath?”

“Subn-ongath and the others in his
Circle, they keep the Lerumites’ god at bay.”

His father had said much the same
thing, that the Patron was protection against the Worm. But could that mean the
god of the Lerumites was
Uulos
? It
seemed too horrible to believe.

“So their deity—the Lerumites—it
is
a god?” he said.

Elimhas looked at him bleakly. “Yes.
Yes, he is. And he is coming. And you’ve already guessed which god, haven’t
you?”

Davril’s voice only hardened. “And
you won’t allow me to use the Jewel of the Sun to fight him?”

Suddenly, the old priest looked
tired. “I would, boy. Of course I would. But at the moment the thing is
useless, at least for such purposes. That knowledge is lost.”

“What do you mean?”

“We lack the ability to read the
rites that could make the Jewel into a weapon against Him. For the moment it’s
a glorified paperweight, Asqrit forgive me for saying so. So nurture your Subn-ongath,
Davril. Feed him. With your own flesh, if you have to, or your wife’s, or your infant
child’s if need be. Keep him and his brethren strong, and he and his Circle
will protect us against the coming night. For He does come, Davril.
He comes
.”

Chapter
4

“Isn’t this amazing?” Alyssa asked.

She and Davril strolled through the
gardens of the Tower
of Peace, arm in arm. For
the moment, for one single, quiet moment, they were alone and at rest, with
Sareth watching the baby. Alyssa laid her head on Davril’s arm, and he had to
walk slowly, for his leg pained him, though he used the cane.

Alyssa stopped and smelled the
bloom from a pink rose bush. “Mmmm.”

Flowers exploded all around, a riot
of artful colors and intoxicating smells. The Tower of Peace
was the second-highest spire of the Palace, each level an overwhelming garden
that only became more wondrous as one ascended, and they were currently at the
penultimate stage.

“This is lovely,” he said, drowsy. “Like
a dream.”

She picked the rose and carried it
with her. “Yes,” she said. Then, sadly, “Yes.”

More than a year and a half had
passed since that night at the Altar, and in that time Davril had watched his
empire, the grand realm of Qazradan, that shining empire that had stood and
prospered for thousands of years, come crashing down about him. The deadly
mists had returned for good. This time they didn’t dissipate during daylight
but remained and slew or drove mad all those they touched. Half-seen monsters
carried off grown men and women, and tortured screaming could be heard
constantly throughout the city, even from Davril’s lofty perches. The mountain
the Palace was set on quaked. Burning rain flung down, killing and disfiguring.
The ground split and swallowed scores of people at a time. Noxious,
phosphorescent vapors issued forth, and strange shapes could be seen in it. What
was worse, these phenomena were not exclusive to Sedremere. They and the like
arrived in every single city and town in far-flung Qazradan.

The empire’s multitude of enemies
had learned of her weakness, and barbarian hordes from the icy north and the
exotic east had begun assailing her outskirts. With every month, they’d driven
closer and closer to Sedremere herself. Riots had turned into outright revolts,
and many of Qazradan’s territories had broken away. Some banded together, some
warred amongst themselves, but one and all had turned against Sedremere. Against
Davril.

He had been shocked at the speed
with which the empire unraveled. It had taken thousands of years to build, yet
only a matter of months to fall apart. But fall apart it did, and all too soon
Sedremere stood alone, the last city of the empire—no, it had
become
the empire—and a thousand
slavering wolves surrounded it.

 
He and Alyssa strolled through the Tower of Peace, trying to enjoy being alone with
each other for a brief moment while they could, before the end came round at
last.

Sharing a strange silence, they
walked onto a terrace, past cascading trellises interwoven with scarlet blooms.
The setting sun winked on the spires and domes of the city, seeming to caress
the tiered levels of the Tower
of Behara off to the
east. To the west, along the shore, he could just see the pinprick of light in
the top chamber of the House of Light. Was the fabled Jewel of the Sun truly
there, the foundation upon which all the sects of the Flame had been built?
Davril didn’t know what it was, not exactly, but all the sects agreed it was a
thing of the gods, and if that was true perhaps it could help him fight gods,
as well.

“So beautiful,” Davril said. His
eyes strayed to the campfires of the nearest besieging army, the wolf-skin-clad
barbarians from the icy north, the Aesinis. A thousand different clans of the
war-like people, who previously had been at each other’s throats, had gathered
to sack Sedremere—though why anyone would want to take the cursed city was
beyond him. “So doomed.”

“Not necessarily,” she said.

He looked at her. There was something
strange about her today. Her eyes were a little too bright, her smile a little
too knowing.

“How do you mean?” he asked.

“There
is
a way to save Qazradan.”

“If you know a way, please, tell
me.”

She hesitated, biting her lip
cutely, though how she could be coy at a time like this he couldn’t fathom. “I’ve
heard that the fish-priests of Lerum serve an old god, one that might help us,”
she said.

He grimaced. “They would be the
last group I’d seek assistance from. Still, I’ve sent your father to petition all
the cults of the city for help. Even them. They refused.”

“The time was not right yet, the
Circle too strong.” Before he could ask her what she meant, or how she had
heard that term, she looked at him seriously. “I’m of the River Families, or
have you forgotten? I know more of the Lerumites than you. There’s nothing to
fear from them, my love.”

“Except the thing they serve.”

“You disparage the god of the
Lerumites?”

She was acting so . . .
odd
. He rubbed her shoulder, soothingly.

“They are . . . not human,” he
said, as kindly as he could. “Any god they serve is no ally of ours.”

“But He could be. The time is
right. Before, the Great One slept, and His Circle ruled. Now the Betrayers are
weak, and the blood of Asragot has revived Him.
He sleeps no more
.”

He
is coming,
Elimhas had said. Davril stared at her. “Alyssa, I don’t
understand—”

“You don’t need to. All you need to
do is to decide—to join the Lerumites in the Service of the Great One—or not.”

He hesitated, thinking many
thoughts at once. “I’ve had enough of gods,” he said. “Now—” He started to
reach for her again.

“Then you have made your choice,”
she said.

He almost didn’t see it coming. But
she had been behaving so strangely that his guard had been raised, so when he
detected the glitter of silver he flung himself backward.

Howling, her face a livid mask, she
slashed her dagger at him again, almost disemboweling him. Where had she been
hiding it?

He flung himself back, striking the
railing of the terrace. He almost lost his balance to topple hundreds of feet
to his death. His arms flailed, his toes fought for purchase . . .

She thrust at his belly.

He caught her wrist. Shoved it to
the side. She was strong. Unnaturally so.

His eyes locked with her. “Dear
gods!”

Her eyes were huge and utterly
black, without pupils, like those of a shark.

With his free hand, he punched her
in the nose. Something cracked. Blood spurted. She reeled back, a gargling cry
at her lips. She no longer sounded human.

A trickle of ice coursed down his
spine, but he didn’t stop, didn’t give in to the fear. He lunged forward, one
hand still gripping her knife-wrist, and smashed her face again, telling
himself that this wasn’t Alyssa, it couldn’t be Alyssa.

It was no longer her face. It was
changing, even as he watched, becoming gray and slick, with fish-like scales
and a round, gaping hole of a mouth, lined with many sharp, irregularly-spaced
teeth, rows and rows.

His fist landed, he felt another
satisfying crunch, then the thing was snapping at him—lurching, biting. Its
free hand (fingers webbed), tipped with claws, slashed at his face.

He let go his hold on its
knife-wrist and ducked. Claws raked his side. He leapt away, landing on his
back indoors. The thorns of a climbing rose pricked his shoulder blades.

The thing that he’d thought to be
Alyssa loomed in the doorway, framed against the setting sun.

“Why?” he asked, knowing as he did
just what manner of thing he addressed. It could be nothing else than a
fish-priest of Lerum.

“Only you could have changed
things,” it said, using its real voice, gargled and watery. “Only you could
have reversed the coming of the Old One. I gave you the chance of aiding His Arrival,
but you refused.”

It flew at him. He rolled aside. Sparks flashed as the
knife struck stone.

Davril grabbed a coil of thorny
vine and twisted it about the fish-priest’s neck. It screeched and thrashed. The
knife flashed at him, catching his arm.

He crawled across the floor. Grabbed
the shaft of his gold-inlaid cane. Swiveled. Just in time. The Lerumite tore
itself loose of the vine. Lunged.

Davril swung. His blow struck the creature
square in the head.
Crunch
. A shock
ran up his arm. The thing dropped to the ground. Still it moved, mewling,
waving its arms and legs pitifully.

Swearing, Davril hauled himself to
his feet, then dragged the monstrous body to the terrace. He hefted his
would-be-assassin up, leaned it half over the balustrade, out over the abyss.

“Alyssa,” he gasped. “Where is she?”

It spat cold, gray-blue blood in his
face.

He pitched it over the side. Wordlessly,
without a sound, it fell, dwindling into the distance until it struck the roof
of the Palace far below.

Breathing heavily, he watched its
body for a long time, but it didn’t move.
What
could it mean?
he asked himself.
What
are the Lerumites up to?

He retrieved his cane and hobbled
inside, down the Tower
of Peace, through its
myriad gardens, and finally met up with his retainers at the base. A soldier
ran up to them, frantic, wild-eyed.

“The Empress!” he cried. “The
Empress Alyssa has been found, struck over the head and locked in a closet.”

“Does she live, man?” Davril
demanded.

Breathlessly, the solder nodded.

“Take me to her.”

Alyssa was in the royal apartment atop the Emperor’s Tower,
the highest spire of the Palace. A bandage wrapped her head, but the wound was
minor. A nurse gave her a bitter broth, and she made a face as she forced it
down. Sareth tended to her, bringing her a blanket to wrap herself in and a
sprig of parsley to freshen her mouth after the broth. Eventually the nurse left,
then Sareth too, leaving Davril, Alyssa and their son Hariban alone.

Davril massaged her shoulders and gently
kissed her wounded head. “Thank Asqrit,” he said. “For a moment I thought you
were dead.”

She rubbed her arm where the
fish-priest’s teeth had left a mark. “It itches,” she said. “The nurse put something
on it, but still.”

He hadn’t known the fish-priests
could assume another’s shape, and he certainly had not known that they required
the blood of their victim first. He wished his army was not busy repelling the
invaders or he’d send them to sack the Temple of Lerum.

“It’ll fade,” he assured her.

With a heavy heart, he strode out to
his balcony and surveyed once-magnificent Sedremere. Beyond a series of high
encircling walls blazed the campfires of the three besieging armies. He
pondered the Lerumite’s words, that only he could set things right.

The terrible thing was that he knew
how. The truth was that he had known all along.

He closed his eyes.
The time has come.
If there was a way,
he would do it and be proud. And yet . . . He was almost there. If Davril could
rob Subn-ongath of sacrifices for just a bit more, the Thing might die, and his
brethren, what Elimhas had called the Circle, with him. Davril had been willing
to brave their wrath, as he’d known it could only be a temporary thing. At last
they would fade, and the Empire could begin rebuilding. Those who had died had
done so to ensure a Qazradan freed of the yoke of Subn-ongath and his ilk. But
they were too strong, their vengeance too brutal. Davril must appease them in
the only manner he could.

Alyssa, holding Hariban, joined him
and together they stared out over the city. Hariban cried, and Davril took his
son in his arms and sang softly, lowly. Gradually Hariban quieted.

Alyssa pressed herself against
Davril and asked, “What shall we do?”

The ground quaked, and dust drifted
down from the ceiling.

Gently Davril handed Hariban back
to her and went to a closet where he retrieved the ceremonial dagger with which
he’d slain his father and damned his empire.

“I’m going down to the Altar.”

She nodded, and to her credit she
did not cry. “I’m ready,” she said.

He smiled and cupped her cheek. “No,”
he said. “It is my death they want, not yours.”

She burst into sobs, and he stroked
her back and whispered reassurances in her ear. Dusk gathered outside. His gaze
strayed to the blood-stained dagger (his father’s blood had never come off),
and he knew what must be done. Though he was not out of his teens, he felt like
an old man. His hair was streaked with gray, and he walked stooped and with a
limp.

He kissed first her forehead, then
Hariban’s. “Farewell.”

The long trek through the darkness
seemed even longer than before. Longer, and lonelier. Each step was an
eternity, but down Davril went, descending through the thirty-three levels of
the Palace and the seventeen levels of the catacombs. No one accompanied him
this time, nor did he wish them to. He hadn’t even had to instruct anyone to remain
in their rooms, as there were so few in the Palace it didn’t matter. It was
almost as though the place was deserted.

At last he reached the lowest level
and approached the Golden Door. The snarling face of the demon seemed to leer
down at him. Grimly, he sliced open his palm with the dagger, wincing at the
pain even as he flung his drops of blood at the door.

“By this blood I command you!” he
shouted. “Open!”

The blood spattered on the twisted
lips of the demon. The blood spattered, and trickled, sliding down, over the
lips and chin.

But the Door did not open.