Destroyer of Legends

by Clayton Wood

  “So this is the Kingdom of the Deep, huh?” Hunter asked. He looked around. “Where is everyone?”

  “Hmm?” Kip replied.

  “Where’s all the people?”

  “Most are in the Shrine of the Ancestors,” Kip answered. “There aren’t many people here,” he added. “Less than a thousand.”

  “Not much of a kingdom,” Hunter opined.

  “Most don’t choose the Ancestor spirit,” Kip explained.

  “The what?”

  “The Elders will explain,” Kip reassured.

  Hunter glanced at Xerxes, who shrugged, and they followed Kip and the other men as they made their way deeper into the kingdom. Far in the distance – in what appeared to be the center of the kingdom – there was a lake with a large island in the middle of it. And on that island was a large ziggurat-like structure, made of the same black stone as the walls and the spires.

  “What’s that?” Hunter asked, gesturing at the ziggurat.

  “The Shrine of our Ancestors,” Kip answered. “That’s where we’re going.”

  Hunter glanced around; there were no more of the long buildings, nor the treehouses he’d seen earlier. Instead, small hills flanked the grassy path they walked on, large pits dug in the sides of them.

  “I’m surprised you just let us in,” Hunter admitted to Kip. “You guys don’t have much in the way of defenses,” he added. Kip frowned.

  “Pardon?”

  “You have the wall,” Hunter clarified, “…but there’s no gate. No guards. And you don’t have any weapons,” he added, gesturing at Kip. “What if Tykus attacked?”

  “There is more to the Kingdom of the Deep than your eyes see,” Kip replied. “And the Guardians protect us.”

  “The Guardians?”

  “Hope you never see them,” Kip stated. “Anyone who does, it is the last thing they see.”

  Kip offered no more explanation, bringing Hunter and Xerxes through the hilly terrain. The land leveled out as they got closer to the lake ahead, allowing Hunter a better view of the area to either side. A quarter-mile to his right, massive trees grew, large birds perched atop them. One of the huge black spires shot upward from within this forest; he spotted countless ledges on each side of the spire, with more birds perched there. Lots of them. And they weren’t small either.

  “I hate birds,” Hunter grumbled.

  “Mom too,” Xerxes signed. Which was true. Hunter had forgotten about that; Mom had always hated birds – and spiders – viewing them with an unwarranted suspicion. Trips to the beach had been great fun for Dad, but for Hunter and Mom, the festivities had always carried a dread of seagulls descending upon them like vultures, tearing them apart piece by bloody piece.

  “You hate ‘em too?” Hunter asked. Xerxes shook his head.

  “NO…FEAR FOR…SELF,” he replied. “ONLY…FAMILY.”

  “Ah.”

  Kip glanced back at Xerxes with surprise.

  “You talk?” he asked. Xerxes grunted, but nodded.

  “SOME.”

  Hunter watched the birds in the distance warily, trying to figure out what kind they were. But they were too far away.

  “What’re those?” he asked, pointing at them.

  “Birds,” Kip answered.

  “What kind,” Hunter clarified, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  “Many kinds,” Kip replied. “We celebrate all spirits here.”

  “Spirits?”

  Kip glanced at him sidelong, a frown on his face.

  “You do not understand spirits?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Everything has a spirit,” Kip explained, gesturing all around him. “The grass at our feet. The birds. Anything that flies, crawls, swims, digs…even us,” he added, gesturing at himself and Hunter. “We have human spirits. Others have animal spirits. And most choose to have many spirits.”

  “Many spirits?”

  “You will see,” Kip promised, patting Hunter on the shoulder. “The Elders will teach you.”

  They reached the edge of the lake them, stopping at the shore. Kip put a hand to his mouth, emitting a shrill whistle. Moments later, Hunter saw a rippling in the water ahead of them; something emerged from its surface, coming right for them. It looked for all the world like a huge turtle shell, easily twenty feet in diameter.

  Then he saw a huge turtle head pop out of the water. Or rather, a turtle-ish head. Instead of having eyes on the sides, they were facing forward…and the thing had a face of sorts. A squat nose, and a mouth with short, stubby white teeth. And tiny ears on either side of its head.

  It looked vaguely…human.

  The creature swam up to them, stopping at the shore. Then it spun around slowly, until it was facing away from them. Kip hopped on its back, gesturing for Hunter to do so as well. Hunter followed, hopping onto the turtle’s shell, and Xerxes did as well. To Hunter’s surprise, the massive turtle handled their weight easily, and immediately began swimming toward the island in the center of the lake, leaving the other men behind.

  “What is this thing?” Hunter asked.

  “A great turtle,” Kip replied. He grinned. “Not as big as the turtle you lived on,” he added.

  Hunter frowned. His mother was black – or had been, before becoming an Ironclad. But she’d also been part Native American, from the Wampanoag tribe of Massachusetts. They believed that the Earth was a huge turtle, and that everyone lived on its shell. It made sense that these people would know of the Great Turtle, he supposed. The Gate to this world was in Massachusetts, after all…and before the pilgrims came, Massachusetts would’ve been populated by natives. They must have come through the Gate long ago, creating the Kingdom of the Deep.

  “Its face looked almost human,” Hunter noted. Kip nodded.

  “Sassamon took the spirit of the turtle long ago,” he explained, kneeling down and patting the turtle shell. “And that of a Giant. He is very old…one of the oldest in the kingdom. Some say he will never die.”

  “Wait, you’re saying he was human once?”

  “He has the spirit of a human,” Kip replied. “According to legend, his grandparents were human, and accepted the spirit of the turtle. Sassamon took the spirit of a Giant.”

  “By spirit you mean the traits of things,” Hunter deduced.

  “In a way,” Kip agreed. “The Elders will tell you more.”

  The turtle – Sassamon – took them slowly across the lake, eventually reaching the shore of the island. They disembarked, and Sassamon turned about, vanishing below the surface of the water. Kip strode toward the ziggurat – the Shrine of the Ancestors – motioning for Hunter and Xerxes to follow. The Shrine occupied a large space – it was at least a hundred yards squared – but was only five or six stories tall. The entrance was a small rectangular doorway, but with no door. Stairs led downward into darkness beyond. Kip brought them to this entrance, then stopped, turning to face them.

  “Stay here,” he stated, holding up one hand. “Do not enter until I come for you.”

  “Where are you going?” Hunter asked. Kip smiled.

  “Inside,” he replied. “To speak with the Elders. No one enters without their permission…and no one leaves the kingdom without their blessing.”

  “Wait,” Hunter said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Anyone can come into the Kingdom of the Deep,” Kip answered. “But no one may leave without the Elders’ approval.” His smile faded. “And that,” he added, “…is seldom given without sacrifice.”

  Chapter 3

  Dominus rested on his belly, prickly blades of grass stabbing his flesh. He lay there, the side of his head on the ground by the small pond he’d drank from what seemed like hours ago. Or maybe days. He’d passed in and out of consciousness countless times, with each slip into the dreamworld acting as a blessed respite from his pain. The agony that had begun to consume him, the feeling of tiny hot needles pricking his flesh over and over again. A symphony of pain that had re
placed the numbness he’d experienced before.

  He lay there, staring at the grass waving in a warm breeze before him. At the trees beyond. There was a strange sweetness in his mouth, almost like honey. The taste summoned an all-too-familiar feeling that seized him, gnawing at his belly.

  Hunger.

  Dominus stirred, reaching out with one hand and gripping the base of a clump of grass. He pulled it free, roots and all, shaking it a little to get rid of some of the dirt. Then he brought it to his mouth…and ate. It was bitter, his mouth so dry that it made it almost impossible to swallow. He turned to the pond, crawling up to the water and drinking.

  He chewed some more, then swallowed, trying not to gag.

  In this way he continued, pulling up grass, tearing leaves from their stalks. Eating small mushrooms growing in the dirt. Consuming everything around him, then drinking. Eating and drinking until he could consume no more. Then he lay back down on the grass, utterly exhausted.

  And then, mercifully, sleep took him.

  * * *

  Dominus opened his eyes.

  He was lying in the grass, a few meters from the pond now. He frowned, pushing himself onto his hands and knees…and to his surprise, he found he could do so. The movement made him lightheaded, and he stopped moving, closing his eyes and waiting for the sensation to pass.

  Then he opened his eyes, staring down at his hands.

  They were black no longer, his charred flesh replaced by smooth, pale skin that clung tightly to his bones. They were skeletal, but whole.

  I’m healing, he realized.

  It was only then that he remembered the Ironclad’s head. That wondrous artifact that had saved him from certain death so many weeks ago, giving him the power to heal…and even to regenerate his amputated hand. The gift that had slowly begun to give him his youth again…for a steep price. For now he was corrupted, no longer welcome in Tykus, the kingdom he’d spent his life protecting. He was a criminal now, a man without a home.

  Dominus paused, then shifted to a sitting position, looking down at himself. He was utterly naked, his paper-thin flesh draped over his ribs. The terrible pain and pins-and-needles sensation that had accosted him earlier was gone. Now he felt no pain whatsoever…only hunger, triggered by that strange sweetness that once again coated his tongue.

  The hunger grew within him, demanding to be fed.

  He ignored it, trying to focus. Trying to remember the last thing that’d happened to him, before…this. An image of King Tykus came to him, of the Seekers who’d been sent to assassinate the man. He remembered saving Tykus, then being confronted by Duke Ratheburg. Tykus had killed Ratheburg, sparing Dominus’s life…and giving him a chance at a new one. Tykus’s final words came to him.

  You will stand outside the kingdom, its eternal champion. You will ensure that we endure, that I endure.

  Dominus closed his eyes.

  I am the beekeeper.

  He opened them, staring at the pond ahead, then rising slowly to his feet. His muscles were weak – terribly weak – but he managed to stand without losing his balance. The hunger pangs grew more insistent, and he knew that he would have to give in to them. The Ironclad’s power of regeneration was his now, and it demanded to be fed. In doing so, he would continue to heal.

  Dominus looked down at his body again, at his bare chest. An image of a sword – his sword – plunging through his back, the bloodied tip emerging from his chest, came to him.

  Farkus!

  His butler had murdered him…or tried to. Had stabbed Dominus through the heart for the crime of dealing in wild artifacts, those forbidden by the kingdom. Farkus had stabbed him, then…

  Burn the body, he’d said. Please.

  A chill ran down Dominus’s spine, and he lifted his gaze, clenching his fists at his sides. He spotted a large patch of charred grass nearby, and knew that this was where he’d been burned. Where he’d been left to die.

  Killed by a damn peasant, he thought, gritting his teeth.

  His first instinct was for revenge. He could kill Farkus easily, at least once he was fully healed. But he discarded the idea as quickly as it’d come. Succumbing to a desire for petty revenge would not serve him, not in the long run. He was dead now, at least officially. In trying to kill Dominus, Farkus might have given him an unintentional gift. The butler would spread the news of his death, and the kingdom would pronounce him thus. No one would come to hunt him down.

  He could start over…start the new life that Tykus had offered him, and protect the kingdom from the outside. Let Farkus have his victory; Dominus could hardly fault the man. After decades of being exposed to Dominus’s will, and nights spent in Dominus’s ancestral shrine, Farkus had for all intents and purposes become Dominus. The old Dominus, that was. A man disgusted with who he’d become.

  Yes, he would let Farkus live. He had to focus on preserving the kingdom now.

  Dominus felt another chill run through him, remembering the night the Guild of Seekers had attacked the kingdom. They’d attacked the prison first, undoubtedly freeing their master, High Seeker Zeno. Farkus had given Zeno’s second-in-command the Ironclad’s head…which meant that Zeno was almost certainly in possession of it now, assuming he’d fled Tykus. It was possible that the Guild of Seekers had managed to overrun the kingdom and overthrow King Tykus, but Dominus had to have hope that this was not the case. The wise king had not seemed afraid, after all. In fact, Tykus had admitted to planning the whole thing, knowing full well the Guild would attack…and that they would use the secret, ancient tunnels beneath the Acropolis to carry out that attack.

  The same tunnels Dominus had used to escape the city, emerging well beyond the Deadlands before making the long trek back to the Castle Wexford, his former home.

  Dominus felt the hunger return, more pressing this time. He resisted the urge, knowing full well he would give in to it shortly. That he would soon become an animal, scouring the forest for anything he could keep down.

  Zeno has the head.

  If that was the case, then the leader of the Guild of Seekers constituted the single greatest threat to the kingdom of Tykus. With it, Zeno could become as powerful as Dominus…and could raise an army of immortal Seekers to overthrow the kingdom. Dominus had to find Zeno and take back the head before this happened. But the only people who might know where the man was were the highest-level Seekers…and one other person.

  Dominus grimaced, taking a tentative step forward, feeling his legs wobble as he did so. He steadied himself, then took another step, spotting a thick cluster of mushrooms growing from the base of a nearby tree. His mouth watered at the thought of eating them, and he gave in to his desire, hobbling over to the mushrooms and kneeling before them. Tearing into them, he stuffed the mushroom caps in his mouth, chewing vigorously. This time he needed no water from the pond, his mouth having regained its ability to make saliva.

  He ate until he could eat no more.

  Then Dominus sat back on his heels, feeling vaguely disgusted with himself. A former duke reduced to a beggar. A wild man scrounging for food, naked in the wilderness.

  Quite the fall from grace, he mused.

  But he knew better than to equate a man’s possessions with his station. Any man could wear the robes of a duke, but a duke needed no finery to play the part. His mind was his greatest weapon, and he would use it to his advantage.

  He returned his thoughts to the Ironclad head, and to High Seeker Zeno.

  There were only two possibilities: Zeno had been caught within Tykus, and the head had been disposed of…in which case Dominus need not worry. Or that Zeno had escaped, and was in possession of the head. In that case, there was one person who might know where the man was. Someone who had no love for Dominus, former Duke of Wexford…and who was every bit as dangerous as Zeno himself, possessed of a keen, devious mind and the ice-cold heart of a merciless killer.

  The one-and-only Lady Camilla.

  Chapter 4

  The sun was directly overhe
ad by the time Sukri and Dio stopped following the banks of the River Ormr, the wide, serpentine river whose shore Lady Camilla’s mansion had been built upon. They’d left the mansion yesterday morning, trekking silently along the riverside for a whole day, then setting camp in the nearby woods. Dio had set a brutal pace, bastard that he was…and had demanded a repeat performance today.

  Sukri glared at the man’s back, following him from behind.

  Asshole.

  Dio wore the standard red and black leather suit and similarly colored mask of Lady Camilla’s Seekers, the men and women she hired to retrieve artifacts and Ossae for her wealthy clients. The prick was also Camilla’s personal bodyguard…and had been ordered to train Sukri to become one of her Seekers. A dick move by the Lady, considering Dio had also murdered Sukri’s best friend Gammon in cold blood.

  Psychopathic bitch, she grumbled to herself.

  And cold blood was all that ran through Dio’s veins. The last few days had taught her that much. Sukri was an Empath, able to sense the emotions of almost everyone around her. This meant of course that her emotions could change on a whim, mirroring anyone she was near…but that she could also tell what other people were feeling, as long as she monitored her own feelings. Hour after hour of traveling and sparring with Dio had revealed no emotion coming from him other than cold indifference…and on occasion, contempt. She’d have sworn he was part snake.

  Sukri’s stomach grumbled.

  “We gonna eat anytime soon?” she inquired, hopping over a fallen tree trunk. Dio said nothing…which meant no. She hadn’t been allowed to eat since last night. “Okay,” she grumbled. “I’ll just starve to death.”

  “Hardly,” Dio replied, his cold, flat voice sending a chill through her.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re soft,” Dio answered. Sukri’s eyebrows rose.

  “You calling me fat?” she inquired.

  Dio said nothing…which meant yes.

  “Prick,” she muttered, not even caring if he heard. Still, she glanced down at herself. She was barely over one-and-a-half meters tall, with lightly bronzed skin and long dirty-blonde hair tied into thick braids that fell over her shoulders. She was certainly a bit curvy – a fact that made her quite popular with the guys – but she wasn’t even close to being fat. Well, maybe compared to Dio, but the guy was built like a goddamn statue. She could practically see his damn veins through his tight-ass uniform.