SPARX Incarnation: Order of the Undying (SPARX Series I Book 2)

by K. B. Sprague

  Holly and I raised our arms as the Red Maiden patted us down. The other guardess picked through my backpack.

  “Asthana,” said the one named Khotahri, “They have nothing.” She turned back to me. “May I see your colors?”

  I handed Khotahri my documents. She looked them over carefully, and then handed them back. Satisfied, she nodded to Asthana.

  “You may pass,” said Asthana. She returned my pack.

  Khotahri opened the door for us and Clandt ushered us down the shadowy stairwell that lay beyond. I felt a sudden chill.

  It did not seem fitting that we should be entering the lower levels. A former king should have a high chamber, I thought. A single flight of stairs brought us down to a sloping corridor. Into the belly of the beast, I thought. Like the tower’s exterior, the walls were of stone block construction, predominantly dull black with multicolored streaks and swirls, but mostly reds.

  Torches lit the way, held in smooth, translucent sconces, each made to resemble a mask of sorts. Each mask presented its own unique facial expression and method for supporting the torch. Some had long, drawn out faces of anguish and agony – a different kind of pain depending on the intrusion. As Holly and I struggled to keep up to the guard’s long-legged pace, I noted the chiseled out face of one shining mask grinning at me from its roost, as though it knew some terrible secret. Another looked wickedly amused as it clenched a torch in its eye socket, and yet another seemed surprised that it had somehow swallowed one… whole. The latter’s cheeks, nostrils and crystalline eyes glowed red with the light cast. A set of two opposing fixtures appeared to be enjoying some forbidden pleasure with their torches, not spoken of in polite company. Even with an abundance of fiery lights to guide our way, I could still smell dankness in the heavy air.

  “The walls!” exclaimed Holly, pointing. She stopped, as did I.

  “What is it?” I said, taken aback by the urgency in her voice.

  “They’re moving!”

  Subtle but true, Holly was right – the pattern was not still. The walls were alive with a slow, sickly motion, fluid and churning like chaos. Shapeless forms danced and swayed amidst the mess of colors. Swirls of blood red, mustardy yellow, foul green and deep purple faded in and out, hypnotic and upheaving to the stomach if looked at too long.

  “Just keep going,” said Clandt, his voice firm and his eyes fixed straight ahead. “And try not to look.” So Holly and I kept going in the same way you might if walking along a high fence and told not to look down.

  “Unreal,” whispered Holly, almost to herself. I had my own thoughts on the matter.

  The down-sloped passageway curved around several turns before straightening, where it also widened. It never did level out though. Three stone doors lined one side of the sloping hallway. Mask sconces lit the way to the third door, but beyond that door, the corridor was lost in darkness.

  Clandt brought us all the way to the third door. He used the brass knocker three times and waited. The door and the wall shifted in color to a translucent aquamarine. Fiery light filtered through from the interior, giving a vague sense of what lay within the chamber. The swirling motion faded to the point of being barely visible, and two wavering splashes of red marked blazing fires on the other side.

  I heard a click. The door swung inwards, half-open. Clandt alone stepped in, leaving us alone with the door firmly closed behind him. Silence filled the hallway.

  I looked to Holly. She stood hunched, rubbing her arms to fend off the chill, and her face looked pale. She offered me a nervous smile. I took her nervous smile and sent back a reassuring one. It wasn’t real though. I didn’t know what undeath really meant, or what to expect of Taradin.

  As we stood waiting for Clandt to return, the translucency in the wall turned dark and murky. Deranged notions darted through my mind about what we might find on the other side of the door: limp bodies hanging from the ceiling by nooses, or half-opened iron maidens propped up, with ghastly corpses staring out blankly. Or perhaps we would find a huge iron pot over a cooking fire, filled with stew and with an arm dangling out.

  A minute later, Clandt emerged, only partially closing the door behind him. The red glow of the chamber radiated into the hallway.

  “Taradin will see you soon,” he said. The guard read our wan expressions and gave us both a pitying look. “Don’t be afraid. He knows the Way. He can get you what you Want.”

  The words of the leviathan, I recalled. I knew exactly what I wanted. All I needed was the way.

  Chapter XX

  Hall of the undying

  “Honorable guests of the Illustrious Bog,” called a young girl from within the chamber. Proper, soothing and fully nasal, her voice carried the faultless accent of high society. “Vicegerent Taradin, the once and mighty King of Fortune Bay, will see you now. Enter and be seated at his table, if you would be so bold.”

  Bold? I wondered. What is that supposed to mean?

  Clandt inclined his head to us, pushed the door open and held it firmly with one arm. I stepped through.

  The reek of death was new to me then, but even so, I recognized its lingering presence in the air. What hit me first was a kind of sweet rot, interlaced with hints of a tangy aroma that swirled among the trails of smoky incense, disguising all but the slightest trace of cadaver.

  The guard, holding his expression to the limits of composure, stepped back and stationed himself fully outside the chamber. He nodded to Holly, who was already struggling. She followed close behind me.

  I pushed forward despite the smell, hiding my disgust as best I could. Holly entered and stood next to me. By her wan look and stooped posture, I could tell she wasn’t doing so well. I patted her back and gave it a rub. She coughed and put one hand to her chest. Then she stuck her neck out with her mouth wide open and dry-heaved uncontrollably. It took a long minute for Holly to compose herself. When Clandt saw that she would be fine, he closed the door behind us.

  I suddenly felt trapped – the air, the walls, the fire and the smoke, not to mention death lurking somewhere within. And two Red Maidens, standing tall and motionless on either side of the doorway, didn’t help either. Their faces were placid, with eyes unblinking. They were near spitting images of the guardesses at the top of the stairs.

  I need to breathe, I thought. Breathe. But I could only tolerate a few measured breaths at a time through the sleeve of my shirt. I scanned the chamber. The openness of it helped, and did much to alleviate my initial anxiety. We had stepped into a great hall with a high, domed ceiling supported by four intricate pillars of carved stone. I stepped in a little farther.

  Central to the chamber, charcoal burned from a ring of large braziers suspended by thick chains. The fiery light cast long shadows on the stone floor, polished to a mirror-like smoothness with red veins streaking through it. The shadows also crept across the cured hide of a great, battle-scarred beast, hauled up from ocean depths unimaginable. The four pillars surrounding the braziers depicted marine life of intangible colors, bright and livid. Wrapped around them, life-like mermaids kept watch through dense kelp, glaring out at us with bright green eyes. Stalks of red seaweed clung to their sinuous forms.

  Holly’s eyes danced across the room as she took in the sights, and mine followed hers. Stunning in a freakish way, the scene was lush and captivating – an opulent suite abounding with priceless artwork, elegant decor, and lavish furnishings. The glow of metal was fluid and writhing in the wavering firelight, and the sheen of gold entered every quarter: woven into fabrics, inlaid to earthenware and spiraling up the mermaid columns in thin ribbons. Set on marble tables were gold vases, silver flagons and cups, candelabra, and intricate, aquatic-themed treasures. The heads of gem-encrusted corals served as bookends on shelves of dark wood where many old tomes had been laid to rest. Large shells of unusual shape and vivid colors mixed with the books.

  Textures were plentiful and pleasing to the eye; a rich wash of blood red and velvety purple fabrics with gold accents covered
chair frames and wall hangings. Elegant tapestries depicted seafaring scenes, with details barely discernible in the dimness. The walls themselves conveyed the active turbulence of grey weather on the rise. I could almost smell the salty air. In fact, the terrible odor subsided to some degree – that or I had just gotten used to it. I no longer wondered why the royal chamber was “stuck” below ground. Indeed, in all ways it seemed fit for a king.

  Holly appeared to have gotten past the stench as well, and now bore a starry-eyed expression on her face. She whispered into my ear, “He really is a King. It’s true isn’t it?” Holly had every reason to be excited as we prepared to meet a celebrated character out of myth, and a hero at that.

  I mouthed the words just loud enough for Holly to hear. “Red and gold for death and glory, purple is for royalty.” She smiled. It was a line from First King’s Silver Thread, spoken in the Great Hall of the story, where the Orbweaver is deceived.

  Could this be the Great Hall? I wondered. I shook off the notion – even if the story were true, the events would have happened long before Akeda existed, nevermind Harrow.

  There was no sign of our host, the so-called First King. The Red Maidens by the door had not broken their silence either – not even to greet us, although I appreciated not having to be searched again. Casually, we wandered about the chamber, admiring the display pieces. Holly commented on a prominent portrait of a stately noble, adorned in jewels and wearing the finest linens. Piercing blue eyes shone from under a silvery crown. Desiring to sit, she patted a pillow on the chair beneath the portrait. A cloud of dust flew up. A closer look at the fabric revealed its age: old and decayed.

  Holly wandered back near the exit. After careful prodding, she discovered that the guardesses were actually statues, so lifelike they had passed for real at first glance.

  I, on the other hand, approached one of the bookshelves. The leather bindings of its holdings were tattered and smelled of mildew. Much of the furniture was in poor condition as well – especially the chair cushions, split and frayed. Not all of it though. Near the far wall stood an intricate table with six plush chairs, all well kept. I moved closer for a better look. Cups for wine and a freshly filled decanter had been set upon it. The stone slab tabletop glimmered aquamarine in the dim firelight, supported from underneath by a single pedestal carved in the likeness of a sea serpent, finely sculptured. A shallow depression appeared in the centre of the table, rounded like a bowl. Holly joined me.

  As we stood at the table, the image on the wall behind it began to shift. Still, overall, it showed the swirling dark grey of cloud cover in the night. Then, for a brief moment, a shrouded moon shone through. To our right, a patch of star-lit sky became visible in a parting of the clouds.

  I heard a click to my left, followed by a voice. But the words spoken were gargled and incomprehensible.

  We turned to see a statuesque figure, thinly veiled in a long purple robe. He stepped out of a dark corner against the backdrop of a storm passing. His robe was torn and the man was gaunt. By the crown he wore, he could only be Taradin. His slow and fluid approach seemed both elegant and yet unnatural for his critically ill appearance. The tattered remnants of what might have been considered fine apparel at one time hung ragged upon his imposing frame. As if the sight of the figure wasn’t ghastly enough, an equally ghastly smell preceded him, increasingly vile as he drifted closer. His presence saturated the air with aromas of bile, urine, mildew, and some underlying flowery scent – perhaps to mask the others. It was more than enough to turn my nose. I looked to Holly and thought she might pass out by her pale demeanor. The man reached the corner of the table, cleared his throat and then addressed us again, rasping his words.

  “Do you care for wine?” he said, before even introducing himself. “I hold all the best Proudfoot vintages. Fine little brewers, they are.” His long teeth flashed when he grinned, like daggers of worn enamel. It was plain to see that only a scant bit of gummy flesh held them in.

  “No thank you,” I said, wanting to run. I fought hard against the instinct. It took every ounce of courage within to maintain a calm and steady tone. I tried not to think of the man that stood before me as decayed or deathly ill. I tried to think of him as a normal person with an unfortunate condition.

  “We had our fill this morning,” I lied. It may have been slightly rude to refuse an offered drink, but the thought of eating or drinking anything at that moment was repugnant.

  “Yes, I’ll have what you’re having,” said Holly, to my surprise.

  “Spectacular,” he said. “Please, join me little ones… my great guests of honor.” His outstretched arm gestured to the ornate table. It hung in the air, frail and emaciated.

  I took the opposite head table position to where he stood and carefully laid my pack at my feet, while our host grasped the flagon of wine. Holly paused, and then took a seat with her back to the door. I tried mouth breathing in shallow breaths to deal with the awful pungency in the air, and did my best to keep from showing the overwhelming disgust I felt.

  Arm quivering, the grim figure poured a cup of red wine, raised it, and steadied himself with a quick swig. He paused for a long moment to ponder the flavor of the liquid as it swished and sloshed in his mouth. At the same time, he studied our expressions. Finally, he made a satisfied nod, swallowed, and poured a fresh cup. With a thin-lipped grin, made crooked by a patch of stiff flesh, he passed the cup to Holly and promptly refilled his own.

  “It is quite good,” he said. “You have to be careful with the Seawind Flats label; oft times it is vinegary.”

  Holly, by then, had taken to rubbing her arms. Nerves, I surmised, since the chamber was plenty warm. Taking note of her chill, the withered figure produced a metallic scepter from beneath the confines of his robe. He held it in front of him.

  “I told the servants I wanted a strong fire in the braziers!” he complained. He looked to the wall behind him. “Good help is hard to find, these days.” Seconds later, it was set ablaze with images of a leaping fire, except they were more than just images – I could feel the heat.

  How is this possible? I wondered. But now was not the time to ask. Such things could be sorted through at a more appropriate time. Now was the time to get to the business of our visit.

  Our host turned back to face us, the grotesqueness of his face in plain view. Remnants of dry and hardened flesh clung to his ghastly visage, and sunk-in eye sockets cupped exposed eyeballs with black irises – a slash of fiery light across each one. His whole left side appeared rough and ragged. Rusty orange and yellow patches of lichens, as cover rocks, old wood and tombstones, had taken hold to clothing and exposed skin and bone. Underneath the skin, the occasional glint of metal shone through. Revolting to behold, yet too remarkable to look away from, the First King appeared as though he belonged in a cemetery or the rubble of ancient ruins lost to the world. “Crypt King” was more like it, perhaps, given the jeweled rings of gold and platinum that decorated his boney fingers, and the matching platinum crown and necklace that completed the set.

  With the grace of a bodiless spirit, our host took the expected seat across from me at the table and formally introduced himself. He addressed us in a hushed tone that adult’s normally reserve for polite conversations with children.

  “I am Taradin,” began the gruesome spectacle, “former King of Fortune Bay and now Vicegerent of Harrow, an honor bequeathed to me by the rightful heir and ruler from the Iron Tower. I speak in his name and also in the name of Karna’s Vessel – He Who Finds the Way Beneath the Waves.”

  “I speak in his name” was exactly what I wanted to hear.

  “I am Nud Leatherleaf, Councillor of Webfoot,” I offered. “I speak in the name of the lord mayor in this dealing. My views and opinions also reflect those of the Triland Council.”

  “Reflect,” repeated Taradin, who then nodded to Holly. The crown he wore caught the light in that moment, at the slight bow of his head. It sparkled with tiny diamonds encrusted in the fr
oth of a wave as appears on the sigil of Harrow. Front and centre, beneath the frothing wave, it bore a large aquamarine gemstone, light blue and teardrop-shaped. Arcs of black pearls curved along each side.

  Holly blurted out her introduction. “Hopkins,” she said with a nervous tone, “Holly, of Webfoot also. I’m here to assist Nud… ah… Mr. Leatherleaf… Councillor Nud… Leatherleaf.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Well cheers to you both, Councillor Nud and Hopkins Holly,” he said, lifting his cup in salute.

  Holly followed. “And cheers to you, Vicegerent Taradin,” she replied.

  Cupless, I offered a nod and an awkward smile.

  After the salute, Taradin put his cup down and placed his palms flatly on the table. He then leaned his meager physique forward, and in so doing, his arms spread wide like wings. The First King stared at Holly. By all appearances, he seemed awfully concerned about her.

  “Before we begin – Hopkins, do you require a quill and paper?” he said. “There is a writing desk near the archives.” Holly and I looked to one another with raised brows and wide eyes. He doesn’t know.

  “That will not be necessary Your Highness,” replied Hopkins, “Pips have perfect memory.”

  Taradin rubbed his boney chin. “Really?” he said. His eyes rolled up to one side, contemplatively. “All Pips?”

  “Yep… I mean yes Your Vicegerentship, pretty much,” she said.

  Taradin nodded. “That explains a few things… yes… from what I’ve heard of… Pips as you say. Intriguing… very intriguing. Ah then, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? A lesson in history, perhaps, connected to something you found in your bog?”

  “I love history,” said Holly.

  “Shall I start from the beginning?” asked Taradin.

  The prospect was tempting, but there was no sense beating around the bush. Holly finally appeared comfortable, at least, but I was not in line with her pleasant approach. She would try to put us on friendly terms with Harrow and win cooperation through kindness and reciprocation. No, that was not going to work. It would only serve to raise the ire of our Triland partners who are struggling to deal with Harrow’s unreasonable demands. This negotiation required firm action.