King of Chaos

by Dave Gross

It occurred to me that Viridio had not been present for the illusion of Saint Lymirin. I perceived a shift in his speech pattern.

  The hag froze, perhaps uncertain whether Viridio was bluffing about seeing her. His gaze so perfectly followed the motion of her face that she relented and revealed herself to all.

  "You can call me Briktawite, dearie. I can see you aren't like these other trespassers. Perhaps—"

  "You were really going to eat that bunny?"

  Again she hesitated, sensing as I did that a penalty would accompany the wrong answer. "No," she said slowly. "The truth is that we prefer horseflesh, and manflesh when we can find it. You can see we have plenty to share. The bunny was just my little joke."

  "Huh," said Viridio. His deep laughter vibrated through the stone floor. He stretched his neck in a familiar gesture, first left, then right. Radovan's mind was at least partially present, if not struggling for control. "Funny joke."

  "Yes!" said the hag, cackling with laughter. "Did you see their faces?"

  "I see yours." Viridio opened his fiendish jaws and bit off the head of his captive, his segmented eyes never leaving Briktawite's sagging face.

  The captive had no time to scream, but Briktawite and her surviving sister shrieked for her.

  Among the shattered pews, the horses panicked again. With no path of escape that did not lead to undead, hags, a devil, or a gigantic wolf, they lunged against each other and the stony walls. Unchecked, they would soon kill themselves.

  "Blech." Viridio chewed a few times and spat out the pulverized remains of the hag's skull. "Bitter. I want something fresh. Is that a rat in your skirt?"

  "What?" screeched Briktawite. She reached down to touch the rodent, which clung tightly to the strands of her skirt. "Not my precious Wriggletooth!"

  Tossing aside the remains of his snack, Viridio pounced.

  Briktawite's hair flew up like sodden whips, catching a rafter and pulling her upward. Viridio's claws caught in her skirt, tearing away river weeds and rusty blades—but not the rat—before he crashed to the floor. Marble tiles crumbled under his weight. Nearby, the unicorn reared and shrieked, its body twisting side to side as it struggled with the opposing instincts to fight or flee.

  "Come to me, Bastiel!" called Oparal. Still skittish, the unicorn obeyed, treading a wide detour around Viridio to reach his mistress.

  From above, Briktawite cried, "Heaven and Hell! The coven is broken. Muslera, flee for your life! Every witch for herself!" She leaped off the rafter and flew through the gap in the sundered western wall.

  Still invisible to all but me and Viridio, Muslera flew after Briktawite. I saw no benefit to pursuit, but I watched Viridio's black eyes follow the witches as they fled toward the setting sun. He muttered, seemingly to himself.

  Then he answered himself in a different tone.

  Radovan was negotiating with his devil.

  I heard a sound above me. The enormous Tonbarse had moved close. He looked down, licking his chops as he stared at the hare huddling against my foot.

  "Mind your wolf," I told Alase.

  "Tonbarse is not a wolf. He is a god."

  "Mind him anyway." I drew a riffle scroll from my bandolier and discharged it at the hare. In a matter of seconds, the creature grew larger and more hound-like until Arnisant sprawled on the floor beside me, surprised by his changing center of balance. Recovering himself, he sat proudly at my side, gazing defiantly up at the far larger Tonbarse.

  "What about your god?" said Alase.

  "What?"

  "It's still Radovan, isn't it? You called him Radovan."

  "It's ...It's complicated," I told her. The truth was that I did not know the answer, though I hoped for the best. "Radovan? Are you with us?"

  The devil—Radovan, Viridio, or both of them together—had made no aggressive moves since the hags' departure, but he continued to stare out the broken wall. I moved to give myself a view of his face, but he turned away. I glimpsed only his multifaceted eyes and the slight motion of his jaws, as if he were mouthing words to himself.

  "Captain?" asked Oparal's bearded sergeant. "Your orders?"

  "Aprian, you're with me," she said. "Bastiel, stand fast. The rest of you calm the horses. Count Jeggare, I trust you have the fiend under control."

  "Of course." The lie came easily, and I regretted the need for it. I told myself I had spoken hastily, surprised by Oparal's commanding tone. In Kyonin, the paladin had been assigned to serve me at the behest of Queen Telandia. Here, she commanded her own squad of crusaders. Her assertive manner was both unfamiliar and strangely appealing.

  Oparal drew her sword. Its blade blazed white, but not as brightly as I had seen it shine in the presence of demons. If it grew brighter, we would have warning that more of them approached.

  Oparal and Aprian strode toward the drowned men massed by the doorway. They held their blades point-downward as they advanced, prayers upon their lips.

  At the approach of the living, the now-masterless dead lurched forward. Before they could lay their loathsome hands upon the crusaders, golden light radiated from the hilts of the paladins' swords. The damp faces of the dead parched and withered. Their bodies fell to the ground, inanimate.

  That was one problem solved. I turned to address the next great danger in the room.

  "Radovan?"

  "Stay away, boss." Despite the basso profundo voice, the speech patterns were more Radovan's own. He continued to face west, away from us, murmuring to himself.

  Arnisant looked at me for permission. In the past, his intervention had calmed Radovan in his struggles with an infernal presence. I gave Arnisant the gesture to go.

  The hound padded over to sit beside the fiend, in which I hoped my friend's mind had regained dominance. Radovan raised a massive claw. My breath caught in my throat, but he brought it down gently to stroke Arnisant's head. The big hound seemed tiny beside the enormous devil.

  "Count," said one of the surviving sellswords. It was Gannak, he of the regrettable nipple rings. When I turned to him, he indicated the line of crusaders standing at attention behind their impatient-looking commander. One of them removed his cape and gave it to the naked man they had defended during the fray.

  It was time to address the last great danger in the room.

  "Well met, Captain Oparal." I bowed in the fashion of the Mendevian court, hoping she would not consider the gesture too calculated. My smile, while tempered by our continued peril, was quite sincere.

  "Count Jeggare." She returned my bow with a military salute. She did not return my smile, but she did nod. "I suppose I must thank you for your timely intervention."

  "Not at all," I said. "I thank Desna for the concinnity of our meeting."

  Her eyes narrowed as she worked out the meaning of the term by context. "You should thank Iomedae for the opportunity to mete justice against those who would profane the images of her servants."

  "Praise Iomedae," murmured her crusaders. The response might have seemed rehearsed in other circumstances, but I saw true devotion in their weary eyes.

  Oparal's strained dogma stole from Desna in her aspect of Lady Luck, but I nodded polite agreement. The faithful of Iomedae often attributed the aspects of other deities to their goddess. Crusader logic, while often twisted by the inquisitors of Mendev, often sounded both simplistic and sincere.

  "Speaking of concinnity," I said, "do I surmise correctly that you have come in search of a book?"

  Oparal's dark eyes narrow in suspicion. I sympathized with her distrust, especially after the hags' elaborate ruse, but it pained me to see her skepticism directed at me. After the events in Kyonin, I hoped we had earned some measure of mutual trust. She said, "I am here in service to Crusader Queen Galfrey."

  "As am I."

  Her expression of disbelief could not have been more insulting, or more sincere.

  While not the simple truth, neither was my claim false. Still, I thought it best to clarify. "That is to say, I am acting indirectly in her servi
ce. I have come at the behest of Ollystra Zadrian of the Silver Crusade." Oparal's expression remained nonplussed, but some quality of the dusky light in her gray eyes prompted me to add, "And also at the behest of other parties."

  "Abrogail." She spat the queen's name, reinforcing my suspicion that her allegiance in Cheliax lay with the Wiscrani rebels who sought to overthrow the House of Thrune. That would explain her distrust of me, her distaste for the intrigues of the elven court, and her subsequent admission to the Mendevian Crusade.

  "Her Infernal Majestrix, yes. And also at the request of Queen Telandia Edasseril."

  Behind Oparal, the other crusaders exchanged glances but remained silent. Their commander was less reticent to voice their concern.

  "You are a man of many loyalties," said Oparal.

  "I prefer to think of myself as a man of many friends," I said. "You among them."

  "I aided you at the time because I was in service to Queen Telandia."

  "As you are now in service to Queen Galfrey. Perhaps you are becoming a woman of many friends."

  She did not miss the implication of my verbal riposte. Her brow furrowed, and for a moment I feared she might treat me as she had Radovan on their first meeting, with a brutal slap. Instead, a rueful smile crossed her dark lips. "Fair enough, Count."

  "Please, Oparal. Let me remind you that, in the field, you may address me as ‘Varian.'"

  "In the field, you may address me as ‘Captain.'"

  Her insolence stung. I felt my cheek flush as though she had indeed slapped me this time. "Must I remind you of my station?"

  "We are not in Cheliax Jeggare."

  "Nor are we in Mendev, Captain Oparal. We are in a land of chaos, surrounded by dreadful foes. To survive, we must aid each other, but to succeed we must do more than that. We must cooperate. How is it that you cannot—?" As her face hardened, I realized my mistake.

  In my ire, I had failed to consider her position and that of her followers. We had come to their aid unbidden, and despite their prowess against the hags' undead forces, the crusaders might well have suffered disaster had we not intervened.

  In short, we had humiliated them. For all their virtues, the Mendevian crusaders were also known for an abundance of pride.

  Lowering my voice, I opted for a delaying tactic. "Perhaps you and I might discuss the particulars in private, later. Until then, I would welcome your assistance in the ossuary."

  "The crypts?" Oparal appeared surprised.

  "It would not be the first time we have explored a tomb together." I smiled in what I hoped was a disarming manner. Her continued expression of perplexity confused me for a moment until I realized the truth. "You did not expect to find the Lexicon here, did you?"

  "No. We sought shelter from a battle. The hags' illusion— You think the book is here?"

  "Throughout Storasta, the clergy were instrumental in preserving ancient knowledge. In many cases their libraries far exceeded those of the sages and scholars who in the south are better known for such deeds. Furthermore, my information on these ruins—" I nodded toward Alase, our guide "—indicates that the other likely sites have been thoroughly pillaged or taken over by hostile forces, demonic and otherwise."

  As Oparal considered what I had said, she glanced over my shoulder and did a double take. I looked back to see Viridio had risen and walked back toward the mutilated husk of the amphibian. His chitinous feet crushed a few of the remaining fiendish centipedes.

  Oparal had beheld Viridio before. The fiend made a terrible sight, especially when the battle-lust was upon him—not to mention the rotting flesh of a giant amphibian.

  As Viridio passed too near him, the unicorn whinnied and reared.

  "Bastiel, stop it!"

  Despite Oparal's command, the unicorn moved forward, horn lowered to strike. He stopped when Arnisant interposed himself. The hound and unicorn had squared off before.

  Viridio—or rather, Radovan in Viridio's body—appeared not to notice the exchange. With every step he shrank a few inches. His scorpionlike features melted away as his skin returned to its natural coppery hue. Lanky blond hair fell to his shoulders. Where the hag's slime had previously destroyed his face, Radovan's golden eyes appeared unmarred. The physical restoration was a wondrous side effect of his unique transformations.

  For that phenomenon and others, I sometimes thought that Radovan's condition could prove more blessing than curse, if only it could be controlled. Since torturous pain accompanied the transformations, Radovan naturally did not share my opinion.

  Radovan stopped beside the damp leather of his elf-crafted jacket. In the dim light, its leather appeared black rather than green. He held it up, noting a few holes and tears but no egregious damage. He shook off the worst of the nauseating mess covering the garment and shrugged it on.

  The short jacket did nothing to protect his modesty.

  "Radovan," I said. "There is a lady present."

  "She's seen it all before." He pointed at the naked crusader, whose half-cape also failed to lend him decent privacy. "Besides, that guy's got no pants neither."

  The other crusaders turned to their captain, apparently intrigued by the implications of Radovan's remark. Oparal's cheeks darkened. Her jaw clenched, but she refused to dignify their curiosity with a response.

  Radovan stepped barefoot into the carcass of the abomination and picked through the remains. With a low whistle of relief, he retrieved the starknife he seldom used but always kept on his hip. A moment later he found the Ustalavic copper he had carried since our first visit to Caliphas. After a few more moments, he lifted the shreds of his leather pants. They were beyond repair.

  "Dammit!" he grumbled, tossing aside the remnants of the garment. "Any of you mooks got a spare pair of britches?" Before anyone could answer, he resumed his search of the carcass.

  The crusaders exchanged reluctant looks. No one wanted to lend clothes to a man who not only transformed into an enormous fiend but also thought nothing of stepping barefoot into a huge rotting corpse.

  "I implore you," I said to the company at large. "I have money."

  "Desna smiles!" Radovan turned, grinning as he held up his boots, intact if irredeemably besmirched. "I wasn't sure I got them off in time."

  "Here." Oparal's bearded second offered me a worn pair of leather trousers from his horse's saddlebags.

  "I believe I speak for all present when I offer you my heartfelt gratitude, Sergeant."

  Aprian smiled, but only for a second. After handing off the trousers, he returned to stand two feet behind and to the right of his captain.

  As Radovan made himself decent, Oparal and I took turns introducing our companies while they lit torches against the increasing gloom.

  I memorized the names and deduced the nationalities, social rank, and in most cases the soldiers' individual motivations for joining the crusade. Silvio was obviously a former slave, perhaps freed on the battlefield. By his grim demeanor and the corner of a lace handkerchief protruding from his breastplate, I imagined the former Eagle Knight, Tolliver, had fled a failed romance.

  The others impressed me to various degrees and in different manners, but none stood out so much as the pragmatic Sergeant Aprian and the Thuvian sorceress, Jelani. Alone among Oparal's company, Jelani offered no outward clues as to why she had joined the crusaders.

  After reciting the names of our surviving Kellid swordsmen—Roga, Gannak, and the giant Kronug—I introduced our guide to Oparal. "This young woman is—"

  Alase stepped in front of me and offered the paladin her hand. "Alase Brinz-Widowknife, guide and god caller."

  "Ah, yes," I said. "And apparently her own herald."

  "All part of the service, boss."

  "Hey!" said Radovan. He sat on the floor, folding cuffs at the end of Aprian's pants to keep from treading on them.

  "What?" said Alase.

  "Never mind. Forget it. What's a god caller, anyway?"

  "How can you not know that?" Alase spread her hands.
"Maybe you got some different name for it. When I call Tonbarse, he fights beside me."

  "More often before you," replied the giant wolf. Everyone but Alase startled at the human tones of his deep voice. More disturbing by far was the unnatural manner in which his lupine lips stretched to form the syllables.

  The diminutive god caller ignored her eidolon and walked a circle around Radovan, examining him from every angle. She seemed disappointed that he had put on his clothes. "I've heard tell of callers like you, who wear the god's body like armor."

  "You don't know him like I know him." Radovan scoffed. "Viridio definitely ain't a god."

  "Radovan! Let us avoid uttering that name."

  "How come, boss? We've said it plenty since Kyonin."

  "Yes, but ...humor me."

  "You got it, boss." From the floor, he smiled up at Alase, not too widely, but enough to assure me he had once more recovered from his trauma with astonishing alacrity. "See? That's what I call him."

  "He pays me, too. Why are you the only one to call him ‘boss'?"

  "Forget it. Tell me more about how I'm a god." He looked past Alase to wink at Oparal. "Turns out my body really is a temple. Maybe I need some paladins of my own, keep the place shipshape."

  "Not a god," said Alase. "A god caller." She looked at him again, reconsidering.

  "See, boss? You and the captain sizing each other up, it don't matter. I'd outrank you both, even if I wasn't already the Prince—"

  "Radovan."

  He blinked, realizing he had gone too far. "—of Eel Street. You know, royalty among the street gangs. That's what I meant."

  Oparal shook her head and turned her back to Radovan. "Why were you here? We withdrew from a mob of wicked fey, including treefolk like those we saw at the Century Root, only tainted by the Worldwound."

  "That doesn't sound like something you'd want to take on," said Radovan. "Not without the dragon, anyway."

  Alase's mouth fell open. "You had a dragon?"

  "Not ‘had' had." Radovan cast a skeptical eye at me and added, "Not me, anyway. The boss, on the other hand, dropped in on her last winter, and I can't vouch for anything he may or may not—"

  "Radovan!" I choked.