Ashes of the Tyrant

by Erin M. Evans

  “Nothing,” Dumuzi said. Then, “Lanitha’s one of the girls they’re considering marrying me to. I have to marry back into Verthisathurigiesh.”

  “Ah. Qallim clause?” He clicked his tongue. “Nice thing about coming from a far-flung clan is you get far out enough, your parents’ contracts come down to which homestead you have to wrangle livestock on which season.”

  Dumuzi nodded, considering Arjhani lying so still and slack he might have been dead. As they’d slipped deeper and deeper into the catacombs, Dumuzi kept imagining what it would be like to find him: long dead, freshly dead, desperate and injured, or even perfectly well with a bragging, roundabout tale of how he’d bested the maurezhi himself. He’d shied from every one of these, not wanting any of them to be true. The truth was not much better: seeing Arjhani, wasted and wild-eyed, spring from the tomb ready to kill. Feeling his father struggle against his grip, too weak to break free. Wishing—for a horrible moment—that he could have just been dead.

  It took the breath out of him, that thought.

  You don’t have to like him, you don’t even have to love him. But for your own peace of mind, if nothing else, you have to forgive him for this.

  “That was brave, what you did,” Kallan said. “Going down after him.”

  “I did what was required.”

  “Yeah, I think you believe that, but all those rules? They don’t make you do a karshoji thing. They certainly don’t make those catacombs any less creepy.”

  Dumuzi laughed once. “They’re just a part of the city. It’s scarier going out in the world, having no idea of what’s done or not done.”

  “Which you also did,” Kallan pointed out. “And which was also brave.” He nodded at Arjhani. “He’s lucky to have a hatchling like you. Hope he knows it.”

  The way he said it—as if he knew already that Arjhani didn’t appreciate Dumuzi and Kallan thought less of him for it—made Dumuzi want to protest. But Mehen’s words echoed back to him. It would be a lie to pretend it wasn’t true.

  “You want this spot?” Kallan asked.

  “Yes,” Dumuzi said, even though it wasn’t exactly so. “Thank you.”

  FOR ALL MEHEN would have said he hated his first life, he found Djerad Thymar wrapped around him, like a mold closing on its casting. He remembered why he loved this city, why he’d sworn to defend it, why he’d dreamed—yes—of being Vanquisher when he was young and foolish, like every hatchling born under the pyramid. He’d said he had to come because he owed Anala, because he had to see Pandjed was well and truly dead, but those were only reasons to justify the pull in his heart.

  But whatever his heart murmured, his eyes were clear. Thirty years he’d walked the world beyond the City-Bastion, with only his daughters for clan, with only the respect he’d earned himself following his name. And so all the days he’d been in Djerad Thymar, Mehen felt as if he were walking in and out of two separate worlds. One moment, perfectly at ease, the next finding everything foreign and false.

  Anala walked into the elder’s audience chamber, her gold-chased breastplate polished to a shine, her greatsword strapped to her back—every inch the matriarch of old—and Mehen felt for once as though he stood in both those lives at the same time.

  “I take it you found Arjhani?” she said. “Is he well?”

  Mehen nodded. “Shocked and in need of rest and care, but alive. He’s upstairs, waiting for healers. When he wakes, he might be able to tell us who else the maurezhi is masquerading as.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Anala said. “You’re not waiting here just to tell me that, though, are you?”

  Mehen folded his hands together. “I’ve heard rumors you brought me here to stand for Vanquisher.”

  Anala’s brow ridges rose. “And?”

  “And tell me it’s not true.”

  “Well, I won’t lie.”

  “Have you forgotten everything that happened? “Mehen demanded. “You’re supposed to lead this clan to victory and strength. You can’t possibly think I’d be elected Vanquisher.”

  “To be honest, no,” Anala said, removing her gauntlets. “I don’t believe you’ll be Vanquisher. But thanks to Pandjed, my options are thin on the ground and there isn’t time to build up a truly viable candidate. You’re the best option Verthisathurgiesh has.”

  “I can’t imagine Arjhani wouldn’t suit.”

  “With Uadjit standing for Kepeshkmolik? That would be poor form.” She set the gloves on the side table and poured herself a cup of tea. “Besides, do you honestly think you’re the only one whose trust he’s broken? Narghon might make a lot of noise about you, but Arjhani’s the one he’d like to toss off the pyramid. He’s a vain little peacock and selfish as they come. He’ll never be elected Vanquisher.”

  “He has a damned better chance than I do.”

  Anala chuckled to herself. “You’re not seeing the entire picture. I think you’ll build your reputation back,” she said. “I think you’ll end the elections better off than you started. But most important, while you won’t be Vanquisher—you’re right: too many scandals, too many old memories, too much gossip—when people start to talk, neither will Uadjit. You will bring her down even as she lifts you up. And who knows? You’ll be a bit old when the next elections come, but we’ve had grizzled Vanquishers before. Is that settled?”

  “You brought me all the way back here to spit in Kepeshkmolik’s eye?”

  “Not exclusively,” Anala said. “Besides, that’s a glib way to frame things. I would say instead it’s preserving our clan, our city, and our way of life from their proud and nearsighted declarations.”

  “Kepeshkmolik has the city’s best interests in mind, just as—”

  “Please. Do you think for a moment we’re better off trying to make ourselves more like the maunthreki?” Anala shook her head. “Ten years of a Kepeshkmolik and where are we but begging the Imaskari for their aid, the Chessentans for their attention. Put another on the throne, we’ll be heading to karshoji Aglarond with shoes on our feet and our shields held out like beggar’s bowls. Is that clear to you?”

  “I think it’s karshoji clear you’re not so different from Pandjed after all.”

  Anala waved the condemnation away. “I’m different from him in all the right ways. Pandjed might as well have been the Starshine karshoji Duke for all he looked on this clan with anything approaching sanity. A patriarch who kills off his generations—a tyrant who devours his own limbs, and then wonders why he can’t bloody walk. We would be dying if he hadn’t passed first.”

  Mehen grew very still. “You killed him.”

  “No,” Anala said. “He died of a heartstop.”

  “There are a lot of things that cause heartstop.”

  Anala’s dark eyes glittered dangerously. “Quite. Many terrible, terribly handy things. We are at war, Mehen. My brother left us in the midst of our enemies with only our fists for weapons. You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I make use of every tool I can get my hands on for the sake of the clan.”

  “I’m not standing for Vanquisher.”

  Anala chuckled again. “Hatchling, all I have to do is declare you. You can deny it, if you wish, but you won’t save Uadjit—why ever you think that’s worth doing. You forget your place. You forget where your strengths are.”

  Those two lives scrambled over each other—Djerad Thymar pressing him back into place, the world beyond urging him to roar and spit and storm out. “You can’t declare me if I’m not here.”

  “True,” Anala said. “You can always leave. But there are things to keep you. The handsome Yrjixtilex lad. The demon you can’t find—”

  “Karshoj,” Mehen swore. “You called it down?”

  Anala looked startled, hurt. “I would not. You forget my child died in that thing’s first attack.”

  “The child who risked humiliating you.”

  Anala set her teacup down, so hard that the sound of it clunking against the wooden table might have been a weapon itself. “I am not P
andjed,” she said again. “And I am not Kepeshkmolik. What do I have to fear from hatchlings playing ancestor stories in the catacombs? I would not call Baruz my favorite, I would not name him my scion, but I would not have killed him. I loved him. I’m not a monster.”

  “But you’ll use it to keep me here.”

  “If it works—even long enough for you to reconsider—I will take it. Maybe Arjhani didn’t tempt you. Maybe the reminder of what being Verthisathurgiesh means didn’t. Perhaps my offers of a kinder qal agreement, of taking in your foundlings won’t affect you. And maybe you will find the demon and be ready to leave.” She unbuckled the harness for her sword. “But before you start packing your things, I would suggest you ask your daughters what their plans are.”

  Mehen stood, all panic. “What have you done?”

  “Given Havilar a destiny she might prefer,” Anala said. “You should discuss it with her, though. If you’ll excuse me, the first bands of hunters will be returning soon. I’ll need the room to hear reports. And you have quite a lot to think about.”

  Mehen left the elders’ audience chamber, feeling almost as disoriented as the last time he’d left Pandjed there. He should have seen this coming—every bit of it was there, plain as day. He found the little alcove and sat beneath the bust of Verthisathurgiesh Ana-Patrin, trying to get his bearings. Too many dangers, too many dice not thrown—sorting them all out would not be a simple matter, especially when it wasn’t only about him.

  You are not overwhelmed yet, he thought. After all, he knew what Anala wanted, what she had planned. And if Pandjed had taught him nothing else, it was that knowing an enemy’s deepest desires was nearly as useful as knowing their greatest weakness.

  BRYSEIS KAKISTOS TRACED a deep bow, though the demon lord only cocked his head as if she were a particularly odd sort of cave rat. The madness he exuded seemed to press upon the shield she’d made around herself before she’d descended into the Underdark. She marked the paladin among the milling mortals. A pity, that.

  I’m busy, he said.

  “You haven’t heard my offer, my lord,” Bryseis Kakistos said with careful deference that belied her impatience. The erinyes would not be able to trigger the portal by its usual methods, but they were clever enough to know there were unusual ways to make it suit their needs. “I think you will be quite interested.”

  The demon lord’s lambent eyes swept over Sairché’s borrowed body in a way that would have made a lesser soul shrink away or perhaps succumb to the Dark Prince’s arguable charms. Bryseis Kakistos only gave him a mild smile.

  “What I’m offering, my lord,” she continued, “is the chance to destroy the Raging Fiend.”

  Violence danced in the demon lord’s eyes, and the mortals behind him, the ones well under his thrall, reflected it—what had just been moans of pleasure became shouts of anger and pain and mastery. Graz’zt remembered the treachery of Asmodeus and the Nine Hells—not even the Abyss could scrape that from him.

  Is it Asmodeus then who’s played this little prank? Who thinks to bring Graz’zt to his knees? The Dark Prince smiled, a pleasant atrocity. Does he forget I have long since mastered this plane? Once I reach the surface, he will find all his attempted torments are turned to my utmost advantage.

  Bryseis Kakistos guarded her tongue. How had the demon lord come to Toril, if not by his own wiles and accord? Interesting. She tucked that bit of information away. “It sounds like him, doesn’t it?” she said. “Lording his so-called might over others in ways that hardly matter. Reigning like a madman from the heights. I wouldn’t be surprised, and I think you wouldn’t either.”

  Do you? Graz’zt tilted his head, considering the cambion from toes to horns to the tips of her wings. His smile spread, wider than his handsome face ought to have allowed. And what do you ask in return?

  “There is a spell,” Bryseis Kakistos said, “which can divide a soul from itself. Powerful magic that all upon this plane seem to have forgotten. One trusts, my lord, you have forgotten nothing.”

  How clever of you, warlock. Bryseis Kakistos hid her surprise. Graz’zt would know more than she said, she reasoned. He would make a point of trying to unsettle her, of course. So I give you this spell, this gift, and Asmodeus will suffer?

  “He will fall,” Bryseis Kakistos said.

  The demon lord leaned forward. And the others? The archlords? His conniving daughter? How complete is this vengeance?

  “When the king comes down,” Bryseis Kakistos said, “all his vassals collapse. The very Hells will quake. What you do after is your own design.”

  Truly a revenge for all the Abyss.

  “Every layer, but yours most especially.”

  All for a spell. How cheap a deal.

  “It will take more than the spell, but I have all else I need.”

  You’re very bold. He tilted his head. Or is it just very angry?

  “Asmodeus deserves nothing less,” she said. “Destruction comes to us all, one way or another, isn’t that the song of the Abyss? His time has come. Asmodeus has plotted and dealed and made himself more enemies than even a god can handle.”

  And how do you plan to handle a god then?

  “Believe me,” Bryseis Kakistos said savagely, “I know how to divest His Majesty of that little boon. I will break him, I will punish him, I will see you have your revenge—for your betrayal, for the loss of your brood, for every slight the Blood War brought. And I will have mine. You can trust in that. Do we have a deal?”

  Graz’zt began to laugh, a sound that echoed throughout the cavern, down through the Underdark, and into the very lacunae of Sairché’s bones.

  I don’t trust anyone, he said. Least of all you, Bryseis Kakistos, child of my loins.

  He snapped his fingers, and the shield surrounding Sairché disappeared in a burst of flames. Every mortal in the cavern straightened, turned to her.

  Destroy her, Graz’zt said, and settled back down on his throne.

  21

  25 Nightal, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)

  Djerad Thymar, Tymanther

  THIS BODY IS A WEAPON, A TOOL LIKE NONE OF THE OTHERS. I KEEP THE crutch and the limp—it’s a mask, a joke. It takes effort to keep from laughing. What they see is a liability, a weakling, a broken sword. They trust, but they pity. They don’t know the maurezhi has been nibbling at their edges, indulging in a half-dozen souls as Ophinshtalajiir Sepideh, Commander of the Lance Defenders. I could pick them off, one by one, for days and days, and they’d never, never suspect Sepah.

  But time is short. I cannot return to the catacombs, not while they swarm and seethe with armored dragon-folk. I think of the meals I have, dropping like flies in the catacombs. I think of the Dark Prince. I have to press on.

  I know enough—the defenses, the defenders, what will happen when the attack comes, what will need to be done to prepare the way—but, too, I know how to make certain there is no way that king of dust won’t claim this city of primordial-twisted stone, this tomb-turned-city-turned-tomb.

  So Sepideh limps through the hallways, nodding to her colleagues and students, heading for the Vanquisher’s audience chamber.

  The day is growing long at last, and the crowd around the broad-shouldered dragonborn on his throne is thin. Every muscle urges action—I could tear through them, bathe in their blood and their memories. They are few enough—

  I remember the fight in the catacombs, over the unfinished meal of the tiefling, and choose caution. For now.

  Tarhun smiles at the sight of the woman waiting. He stands, gives his regrets to the man still talking at his side, and descends the dais.

  “How’s our fiend hunt going?” he asks.

  I smile. They know each other from years and years ago. They were comrades, peers. They’ve dallied with each other, in their youth and more recently, though nowadays they only speak of that passion with faint fondness, perhaps an eye to the future, but nothing more urgent.

  “I need to talk to you in pri
vate,” Sepideh says.

  Tarhun grunts. “Nothing private for me. I’ve agreed to go nowhere without guards close by, until the creature’s caught.” He shakes his head. “I can’t say I understand why. I can’t imagine it would risk the Vanquisher’s enclave. But I’ve agreed.”

  “Let them come,” Sepideh says. “It will make them feel better.”

  “Just two,” he says.

  I giggle as we leave the audience chamber, walking down a wide hallway lined with trophies, dragon skulls, and claws, weapons of old. It’s more than I can help. I pause as if my leg pains me, let the guards pass by. The doors close behind us and it’s the easiest motion in the world to slide the heavy crutch through the ornate handles.

  The leftmost guard turns at the sound, but he doesn’t know quick the maurezhi is. Before he realizes Sepideh no longer limps, I am even with him. Before he can cry out, I’ve run him through with her sword. The other guard shouts to the Vanquisher, and Tarhun turns. I stride toward him, even as he draws his broadsword, even as the guard tries to flank me.

  This one will be fun.

  “Sepah,” Tarhun says, not understanding what’s happening, “what are you doing?” He’s going to be difficult, I know, he’s fought his way to this place, stronger, cleverer than many others. “Who put you up to this?”

  The guard charges me, and I move too fast for Sepideh, tripping him, slamming him into the granite floor. I plant my foot on his head, plant the sword in his back.

  “The True Prince of Demons,” I say sweetly. Someone deserves to know, after all of this. “Graz’zt the Dark Lord.”

  Half a dozen souls are fresh in me, and with the power of them all, I wake the dragons on every side. The ancient bones rattle off the walls as I strip away poor Sepideh’s form, as I re-call the ghouls and the dretches to my side. Tarhun could kill the maurezhi, but not even he can fight an army like this one.

  There is something glorious in the way he fights, though—the surety that he will prevail. My master would prize this one, who has clawed and climbed his way to greatness, to the precipice of tyranny. He would tip so easily, I suspect. He would be a prize more precious than many who have sought out the Dark Prince.