A Viral Imperium: The Plagueborn Series Book 1

by Darren Joy

  ‘Well ... of course ... it’s a trap.’ Davard’s chest heaved as he gasped for air, his fat cheeks bright red. His lumbering bodyguard had kept pace with him, and seemed rested. It was clear who the imp planned on protecting. ‘What matters is ... how ... you spring it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Aiyana, not believing his winded act for a second.

  Cathya answered. ‘He means someone must act as bait, go in alone.’

  ‘Spring the trap,’ said the spymaster, ‘and then ...’

  Aiyana drew the soul splice from where she’d tucked it into a belt, which she’d taken from a dead man. It proved uncomfortable, but she couldn’t run about holding it all the time. She fingered it, thinking.

  ‘It must be you to face Liviana,’ said Cathya, and Aiyana gave her a grateful look. She had thought her Darken would argue it further. No doubt, the woman wanted to.

  Shaking her head in sorrow, Aiyana tucked the blade back beneath the tight belt. ‘Then you must be the one to spring it.’

  ‘The fate of all depends on you,’ said Cathya, ‘and what you do today. Know that I love you and I am proud of you.’

  Aiyana and her companions moved on, urgent now. Just as it seemed they might make it, a street leading to the palace walls ahead, a pair of sydarags rushed from an alley. Their riders didn’t notice the four, preoccupied with escape. The animals were agitated, snorting and rearing, the soldiers whipping them. Then one soldier spotted Desool, and gave a shout. It was all he had time for.

  A warg bounded from an adjoining street. It trailed a metal chain about its spiked neck, which scraped the paving stones. The beast increased speed.

  It had the riders in the open.

  With a crack of bone, its teeth sank into the nearest mount. It gouged a piece of flesh from the flank, and part of the rider’s left leg. Both victims toppled to the left. The other rider swung and stabbed with her spear. The warg twisted about. It flanked the second rider, tearing the woman’s arm off. She screamed, falling from the saddle. Though badly injured, she struggled for a dagger at her waist. Her mount snapped at the warg’s neck, but the crushing force of a grond ended the sydarag’s counter. An iron shod boot ended the woman.

  The Emim raised its weapon and gaze, spotting Aiyana. The warg handler bellowed and stomped towards her. It also held a short spear in its other fist.

  Davard vanished with a crack of displaced air. He reappeared ahead of her to block the giant’s path. The Emim paused, but recovered quickly. It aimed its weapon, but again, Davard vanished. This time he reappeared behind the giant, slashing at its legs with his sword. Shouting at Aiyana to flee, he kept this up for several seconds, before a hurled spear erupted through his flesh. The impact spun him to face her. The Emim had somehow anticipated his movements. Davard remained standing, the spear halfway through his left shoulder, though his face had gone pale.

  The imp joined his master, a jagged scarap in his grip. The warg handler held the beast’s chain again. The Emim hesitated for a moment, confused by Desool’s presence, but then advanced.

  ‘Go on,’ shouted Davard over his shoulder, having sunk to his knees. The air around him pulsed as though he was trying to escape, but was too weak. ‘Go while we got their attention.’ Then in a softer voice, which she still heard, he added, ‘Goodbye, my lady.’

  A teeth-splitting growl erupted from the warg. Desool stood between Davard and the Emim. With a bellow, the imp rushed to meet handler and beast.

  Aiyana’s Darken pulled her back, and she turned and ran. She felt affection for that cantankerous sweaty old fool, and not a little gratitude. She’d also grown fond of Desool in their short time together. Every fibre of her being wanted to help them, but she knew it futile. If either she or Cathya were injured or killed, who would stop Liviana? If Threadfin failed his task, retrieving the Shathra Stone might be the world’s only hope.

  She swiped at the tears as she ran.

  Chapter 38

  Holding the Bridge

  THE DEFENDERS HELD the crossing. Surviving Paldanars and Valtari loosed volley after volley until they had nothing but daggers. The phalanxes held to the bridge’s centre, shields and spears a bristling barrier. A handful of Nephilim had made it across before the defence could be organised, though most of those lay dead. The remaining catapults on the western bank opened fire.

  The Nephilim battered at the phalanxes, which closed ranks, growing tighter, smaller. Four enemies fell, two to catapult shot at close range. The ones behind dragged the dead or wounded from their path. More forced their way onto the bridge. None yet braved the depths of the icy river.

  Eight more handlers released their wargs. This time the humans were ready. Four of the animals fell to spears, but the others got beneath the wall of shields. They savaged unprotected thighs and groins, as soldiers tried to skewer or hack at them.

  The phalanxes broke. Three animals remained on the bridge, savaging retreating spearmen. Three cohorts, each consisting of eighty men and women, held the end of the Malk Bridge. They raised their spears to allow survivors through, and then finished the wargs.

  The Nephilim withdrew, dragging their dead with them.

  A ragged cheer arose from the survivors. They didn’t see what Threadfin did, at least, not at first. He stared at the approaching menace. The wait was over.

  The earth ahead of the monster split. A shock ran beneath the city, and buildings that had escaped unscathed, swayed. Others collapsed.

  Threadfin watched as soldiers who defended the bridge, lost heart. They fled, crawling through rubble, most falling between widening fractures. The bridge itself began to crumble, but that wouldn’t stop him. What came now wasn’t anything a breather could fight.

  ‘Hold,’ Rollic roared at them, despite the fact his messengers had fled, and no one could hear him. ‘Hold the bridge. The Grim damn you all to Hell’s Teeth. Hold!’

  THE MONSTROUS BEAST, skin smouldering with a blue fire, crouched beneath a tree. The oak was gnarled but strong, immovable. It grew less than thirty feet from the wall, and a round guard tower. The beast smelled men inside the stone, rank with sweat and wine, saw their faces as they peered out through the crenulations at the driving rain. Thraels, brought from the capital. It knew the faces of these men and women, at least, a part of it did.

  The primal part of its soul didn’t care. Meat was meat, but this beast had neither taste nor interest in men.

  It slunk from the protection of the oak, keeping low and using bushes and small trees for cover. The Redcloaks raised no cry. The silence was interrupted only by the battle in the distance, the patter of raindrops, and the worried whispers of men.

  As it approached the barred gates and portcullis between the towers, the beast spotted movement. It wanted to flee, but the insufferable intelligence binding it, refused. Something about that slow movement was odd.

  Human ghosts, pale and ethereal, passed out of the city through the gate. They were running, mouths open in silent screams. A growl rose in the throat of the creature.

  Then Canaan saw it. His consciousness forced aside the primal soul he’d subsumed. Leading the ghosts was a man, who though dead, appeared strong and fearless. With his right hand raised, the dead man urged others onward. They fled in fear, but this one did not. He stood his ground, the translucent image of a sword in his left hand. Beyond the ghosts was the hint of dark wings, a terror Canaan Pen Luthus knew well.

  Markus Olen was a fool, even in death. Nothing could escape that which consumed existence. It was what had convinced Canaan to abandon his own, to become a Fallen One. He despised the name, but he had earned it.

  None of the guards saw the beast leap up the walls with unnatural ease. They didn’t notice it slip between two wide merlons onto the rampart. It slunk down the narrow stone stairs to the street below. Perhaps they did hear the agonizing screech of a beast, but none dared investigate.

  They never saw a naked man murder in the shadows. They never saw him clothe himself in red one fina
l time, and walk away to blend in with the tremulous refugees and defenders of the Blue Palace.

  Chapter 39

  Approach to the Palace

  AS THE ENEMY overran the Mammon Quarter, and approached the steep streets leading to the Hallow and the Palace, Rollic’s own cohort prepared to lead their first assault. Wielding ropes ending in barbed hooks, his soldiers hid within the buildings below. Threadfin knew that Scatter and Pods were down there, though he’d seen no sign of Lorn. After all, she had promised she wouldn’t let herself be killed. He didn’t know why he thought of her now, but something about her bothered him.

  Men and women crept along the rooftops. Here the streets were older, curving, and narrower, and steep too. They leapt from one peaked roof to the next, a few of the soldiers slipping on slick or loose tiles. One man fell with a sharp cry, but none gave him a glance. There would be worse causalities before long.

  The soldiers leapt out as the first giant appeared, swinging the hooks, ropes entwining the Rephaim’s thick legs. Others attacked from above, aiming for the neck. Two hit their target. The metal claws dug into flesh and bone, though steel armour and swatting wings thwarted others.

  Four versions of Scatter rushed to aid the men on the ropes, and a lone Podral Pole, who appeared less than happy. Threadfin shook his head in wonderment. Breather magic; he still found it hard to credit.

  Between those pulling from above and below, the lone Rephaim became unbalanced. Bellowing, it crashed earthward. Another soldier leapt from the rooftop onto its chest. Forcing up its steel faceguard, he buried a spear through its eye, into the brain. The soldier worked the spear free with a spout of blood. The giant’s body twitched and jerked for a few moments.

  Nephilim battled breathers in other streets, roaring amid the downpour. Humans slipped and screamed. Giants trod on them or minced them with heavy steel. Wargs savaged the injured who lay helpless. Ordinary citizens abandoned the false safety of their homes to flee. Few made it far.

  Rollic’s men ran further along the street. Threadfin knew this would work a few times, but the Nephilim would catch on. As long as the enemy came in ones or twos, they could manage. The narrow climb towards the palace worked in their favour.

  The captain stood rock still, but Threadfin sensed the tension in the breather. Rollic wanted to fight alongside his soldiers, but Threadfin needed him. He needed him to stay alive, to co-ordinate this defence.

  The Nephilim prince approached. Buildings burst aflame, crumbling in smoke and ash, but there was no glow from those fires. The flames were as evil as the presence incensing them. Steam rose from the giant’s passage, the river evaporating as a fog enveloped the city. Hundreds of Nephilim flooded across to the western bank. The power of that beast was otherworldly, impossible.

  How, thought Threadfin, staring at the monstrosity, in the name of the Holy Spectrum above, am I supposed to stop that thing?

  Threadfin witnessed people flung aside by an unseen force, though he had to strain to see through the fog. Others it crushed or ripped asunder, like dolls in the hands of a brat, red stuffing carpeting the paving stones. The god devoured corpses and blood-spattered stone, which crumbled like biscuit. The earth gave way at its passing. Fissures opened, magma bubbling within. This was more than mere corrupted angelic power. Something terrible lay behind this obliteration, and that Grim-blinded Nalrost gave me the job of doing something about it.

  The sheer slaughter, the finality with which those lives ended, disgusted him. He could no longer ignore it. I do care if these people live or die, even if I don’t like them. Okay, so maybe I like some of them. Fine, then, I like most of them, but he would reserve a few to dislike on principle.

  He saw how wretched and defenceless they were, and he felt helpless to save them. What a bad joke. The Aidari had been wrong, the poor fools. Yet, the desire to stop this madness, along with the fear it would also find Aiyana, motivated him to try. It was that, or run.

  Black fire licked Gog’s limbs, kissing the edges of his breastplate. Skulls and dried skins girded his waist, a loincloth of conquest. The skulls moved, scanning the way ahead, speaking to their master. The giant’s thick shoulders bristled with spines of fire. It stood higher than rooftops, a flaming fist crushing buildings as it advanced.

  Then the Nephilim prince burst into flame. This wasn’t an otherworldly fire of its own making, but a living fire of writhing orange, reds, and yellows. The imperial marshal and a small band rushed across the rooftops. They held clay pots in leather satchels on their backs. He’d seen them prepared with a noxious mixture, which included bitumen, petroleum jelly and tope. Two soldiers with lit torches raced beside them. They lit the fuses on each pot, which they held in leather slings. The torches sputtered in the rain, forcing them to work quickly. They flung the missiles at the monstrous Nephilim, aiming for the head and upper torso. The pots shattered in a wash of sticky flame. The burning substance gummed armour and flesh, an unquenchable appetite.

  It was a brave attempt. Threadfin felt elation as he watched their hazy forms through the fog and rain leap to another rooftop. Gog swung a heavy harog, wide as a small house. It was no natural weapon, formed of black flame into something solid. The blade ground through stone, wood, and glass, attempting to dislodge the attackers. The assault had infuriated the god, but that was all. Threadfin’s elation waned.

  Captain Rollic bellowed beside him, ‘Bring the bastard down!’

  His group reappeared, with several hooks. There was a chance with Gog distracted. The Marshal and her group were racing towards the edge of a rooftop opposite Threadfin’s shattered building, about to leap the gap. There was a blur of motion as the colossus struck.

  The soldiers disappeared in an eruption of shattered stone and dust. The giant’s gaze then settled on Threadfin. Rollic yelled something, but he couldn’t make sense of the words.

  Through the curtain of water and fog, Threadfin glimpsed another world and knew it was no coincidence. Within the blurred reflection was a shadow, he knew belonged to him. Just as quickly, it was gone. Gog raised his weapon for another strike.

  Two forms got to their feet on the opposite rooftop and Threadfin noted with relief that Sarscha was one of them. They retreated as the next squad took over. The replacements appeared on both the rooftops and in the streets. There were several versions of Scatter, casting hooks, hurling spears, or hauling on ropes. Podral was there, with a knot of soldiers and more of the clay pots. He looked more miserable than before. He glowered across at Threadfin, who grinned back. His grin faded as he realised, they were waiting for him to do something.

  What was he supposed to do? Scatter’s lessons rushed through his head in a vivid rush, but he saw nothing to stop this monster.

  As Gog struck, they flung the last of the burning mud. Pots smacked into the giant’s head in a billow of flame. The Nephilim’s blow swung wide. The harog crunched into the rooftop, two feet from Threadfin. He stumbled backwards. When he regained his footing, he saw what was left of Captain Wyn Rollic. Rollic’s sword lay a foot from the man’s outstretched hand ... just a hand, nothing else. He picked up the weapon, gazing into the iron, but a hazy image was all he saw. He dropped the blade, feeling lost.

  Gog let the harog vanish, and replaced it with a spinning whirlwind between his gargantuan paws. Threadfin knew it was the Shathra Stone. Nothing but a white-blue light shot with colour was visible.

  He felt a strangeness in his body, as though the Stone tugged at him. Instinctively, he raised his hands and saw through them. It was like looking into oily water. A black pattern erupted from his fingers and the thin weaves toyed with the air, like the tentacles of a frantic squid, but the Stone pulled at those too.

  He knew if he remained there, he was done, but it was too late for anything. Instead, he focused the dark weaves of his power. They tried to rip at the fabric of time and existence. A dark vortex formed, extant for a breather’s heartbeat. The Stone foiled his attempts. He felt life forces like molten streams
of energy feeding him, and the horror of it hit home, not knowing whose lives he took. Dozens, hundreds perhaps, would die because of what he now did, even as he failed. Worse, he was killing the people he sought to save, while attempting to flee. The Nephilim prince smiled, a cavernous grin of flame.

  Threadfin let go of his power. He could not fight back, not at such cost. He gripped the lump of silver at his neck, and waited for the end. It was for the best. Perhaps Aiyana could find a way to survive. I’m sorry, he thought. I wasn’t strong enough, sister.

  The swirling Stone became a hole of colourful flame. Both sides of the hole showed the on-going battle, but in a reverse image like a mirror. He saw wargs bounding across the rooftops and descending upon his companions. He saw more than one Scatter fall to vicious jaws, Pole stabbing like a man possessed. He saw armoured giants thunder into the knot of soldiers below, dislodging hooks, ripping into human flesh. Hundreds of Nephilim entered the city, crossing the evaporated river.

  Closer to the yawning vortex, he saw what lay behind it as though light bent around it, but the images were stretched. It was like looking through bubbled glass made of flame. People died, no matter if he used his magic or not. It was then he remembered he was the Key. With one last burst of viralic power, he tentatively reached out to the Stone, not to thwart it, but to unlock it. The vortex sucked him out of all time and reality into the fragmented reflection of another world.

  CANAAN’S BOOTS RAPPED on the blue-veined marble, a solid sound. They weren’t his, but taken from a dead soldier. He wiped sweaty palms on his knee length tunic, crimson cloak whipping behind him. He’d left the armour. Against this foe, it would do no good. The pain in his shoulders made him wince. He could feel those protrusions. Soon, he thought, very soon. His angelic power corrupted by Darkness, he had become something twisted, a chimera. He would end this now, as an Angelborn.