Wolves of the Tesseract
book 3
the
Architect
King
the Architect King
Wolves of the Tesseract #3
By Christopher D Schmitz
Published by Treeshaker Books
© 2020 by Christopher D. Schmitz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Prologue
During The Syzygyc War, The Desolation
…an eon ago.
Disguised as one of them, Krenyr the Hunter walked through the camp of humans. He stood tall and walked with nobility and grace, even if the stench of the invading mammals from the Prime assaulted his nose.
Krenyr was vyrm—one of the Shades and a master infiltrator. Nobody gave him a second glance.
All assumed he belonged exactly where he was, that his presence was guided by some higher purpose and came from higher up the chain of command. Krenyr the Hunter certainly had orders from the top-he was Nitthogr’s chief assassin. Today he played the role of Luciannus, the eldest son of the King and the Commander-in-Chief of the military.
As Luciannus, Krenyr strolled directly through the encampment of the enemy. The shade’s purpose was to cause pain and chaos, disrupting the enemy wherever possible and sinking their morale as the war against the vyrms’ Brothers of the Apocalypse waged on.
He smiled and nodded to a few of the soldiers who passed them by. Krenyr didn’t bother to mentally register them any more than one might notice a flee or tick. Spotting the tent where he knew his target would be, the shade ducked through the flap.
“Ah, Lord Luciannus,” welcomed General Vangdahl, the leader of the Guardian Corps, as he looked up from the battle plans he’d helped draw up; a hint of surprise shone through his voice. “We were not expecting you until the evening.”
Vangdahl pushed a book to the edge of his table. The title, gilded with inlaid silver, read Meditations of J’v-Ellah. Krenyr recognized it as a religious text common to the Veritas and the devout who lived in the Prime. He refrained from scowling, though the writings mere presence enraged him deep within.
Luciannus furrowed his brow and put an edge of arrogance into his voice as he addressed the general. Krenyr assumed all royalty spoke with a kind of jaded tone. “I could not wait, Vangdahl. These monsters have captured my sister and their cultists are threatening to use her blood and split open the veil between reality and the nether.”
The General nodded his sympathy and understanding. “It was bad enough when they’d gained just a small amount of it—that event is what instigated this whole conflict. Think what they could do with all of it.”
Vangdahl frowned, realizing the distastefulness of what he’d brought up. But the reptillian vyrm were not beyond spilling all of her blood for their foul magics, and avoiding the topic would not make its probability go away.
Luciannus frowned and leaned over the map of Neggath, memorizing troop movements and placements as indicated by the tokens laid out upon the table. He spotted one in particular. The Architect King’s direct whereabouts.
The creator-king of the Tesseract and all reality was the hunter’s top priority. If he could get to him, Krenyr knew he could win the war. Krenyr had strong beliefs he wished to prove to the multi-verse: that this god-king was neither invulnerable nor immortal. He already knew firsthand that the King’s children could bleed—and so would He.
Krenyr smiled as Vangdahl leaned over the table to discuss the impending assault which would hopefully reclaim Luciannus’s sister. He was so close to his prey that he could taste the man’s scent upon his sensitive olfactory glands. Luciannus was known as a brilliant strategist, nearly the equal of Basilisk, his lord’s brother. He played the role.
“We’ll need to send a team of specialists through this channel here where they will have cover. Perhaps the Veritas can assist. A member of the Flame Order could use their magics to camouflage a strike team of your best Corpsmen to reclaim the princess and escape with her before these beasts have bled her dry.”
Vangdahl pointed to a spot on the map. “We could bring our entire army to this point here and draw all eyes away to make sure they are not watching the gulch?”
Krenyr nodded, feigning excitement.
The General smiled. “My lord we have already done that—or it appears that way. Our magicians have used an illusion spell that made it appear we camped right outside of that same location, between the cities of Straruck and Sharonash.” He traced a finger through the gully that they’d discussed and smiled. “Our team has already been deployed just as you suggested.” He beamed with pride. “My son is among them. I am pleased to tell you that the Princess was already rescued safely.”
“I know,” said Krenyr as he placed his hand over top of Vangdahl’s wrist and let his scaly skin take its true form. He ripped the wolf embossed band from the general’s forearm to prevent him from shape-shifting into his lycan form.
Vangdahl’s eyes widened with dread realization and the hunter brandished his knife.
Both looked up just as a boy, maybe eleven years old, but wearing Guardian Corps armor walked in. “Shardai, run!” Vangdahl yelled.
“Grandpa!” the boy screamed as he reached for his pistol.
Too late, Krenyr had already dragged his dagger across the general’s throat. The hunter ducked behind the body as it collapsed atop the strategy table, splattering the pieces with hot blood.
Shardai’s blaster bolts ripped through the canvas of the tent as his enemy rolled to the ground and cut a slit through it to escape.
Krenyr scrambled through and leapt to his feet, taking the face and form of any number of soldiers as he went. A siren blared, announcing the intruder. Krenyr abandoned the faces he wore as quickly as he acquired them while he meandered through the camp, pretending that he, too, was responding to the alarm. Word of the general’s assassination spread quickly.
The Hunter smiled, and quit the camp, sneaking out the rear side by the latrines. He knew where his next mark would be: the ultimate target. Krenyr had vowed to Nitthogr that he woud kill the Architect King, and by tonight, either the King would be dead, or Krenyr would be.
***
The Desolation: Limbus…
…a short while ago
Chartarra gasped and jerked awake in a panic. He grabbed at his throat instinctively, reaching for the wound he knew he’d just taken from Basilisk—the Tarkhūn Emperor; Chartarra knew that he’d bleed out within seconds if he didn’t get pressure on it—even then, survival was unlikely.
He could barely move, though, and it took everything he had just to move his hands across the wet, sticky tear across his neck and chest. Dread realization washed over him: he’d already died. At least, the tarkhūn guards had mistaken him for de
ad and thrown him out with the trash.
Pain burned across the slash marks when he touched them. They’d clotted enough that they wouldn’t tear if he moved and Chartarra wondered how long he’d been lying in the heaps of refuse in the garbage trench beyond Limbus.
The vyrm tried to roll over, but struggled to do so. The fact that he’d somehow lived was a miracle, but it would not do him much good if he laid in the festering pits for too long.
Finally getting to his hands and knees, he recognized the spongy, squishy things below him. Faces. The bodies of comrades who had also been executed by Basilisk in his attempts to strike at Caivev’s power base.
Chartarra served Caivev, Nitthogr’s successor. That fact had sealed his fate the moment he’d stepped into Basilisk’s stronghold—even though he’d been on diplomatic business. Diplomacy was a treacherous thing for vyrm—and he had been sent with orders to kill the Emperor at the first available moment.
A terrible smell of trash and rot wafted across the hole.
Chartarra’s guts turned and his stomach threatened revolt. The vyrm warrior bit back the urge to vomit, but he identified the colors in the odor as decay and disease. He knew if he stayed too long in the gulch with his open wounds, something would infect him, if it hadn’t already.
Staggering to his feet, he ambled through the uneven footing. Heaps of trash, corpses, and debris shifted underfoot and threatened to topple him on several occasions. Simply walking was the hardest physical challenge he’d ever endured and every step nearly caused him to lose consciousness as the pain radiated from his neck.
He took step after agonizing step. The slow, zombie pace felt like an eternity spent slogging through the waste.
Chartarra spotted a figure in the distance. He didn’t know if it was friend or foe—he was in Basilisk’s capital city, after all. He could not assume the person was anything but a loyal minion of the enemy… but at this point Chartarra didn’t care. His strength was failing, and he thought the wound might have reopened with all the movement. He might’ve bled more, had he any left to lose.
The figure ahead became his only choice.
He croaked out a call and tried to call for help. It was not words that came out, but something more visceral and primal. The words that were not words got the point across and he gained the silhouette’s attention. The fellow vyrm hurried over to him just as Chartarra’s legs gave out.
“Easy, there. Be at peace, friend. I have you,” the other vyrm comforted him, picking him up and dragging him from the trash, careful not to exacerbate the wound.
Chartarra tried to ask his allegiance. “Bas… Bas-sil?” He couldn’t get the words out and his voice barely worked because of the damage on his throat.
“It’s okay. I don’t care who you work for,” the scavenger said, setting aside a bag of collected items he’d scavenged from the trash piles. “You’re in my care. I will see that you are mended and then you may return to whoever or whatever cause you are a part of. I am not one to judge.”
Chartarra noticed that the vyrm had a huge scar down his face, discolored and ugly. As a warrior, Chartarra admired it. Surely, his rescuer had a story.
“W-who?” the injured vyrm croaked.
“Your wound is grievous. We will have time to speak later—I must get you to the healers immediately. For now, know that you are in the care of the Seekers of Maetha.”
Chartarra’s eyes widened. The rover cult had a long history, though he doubted much of it was true. Nonetheless, his pulse spiked despite his veins barely having enough blood to operate. His pupils widened and his lungs constricted. Finally, the vyrm warrior passed out.
Chapter 1
The Prime
“He… he killed him! He killed my father, General Zahaben, all over again. Just when I’d gotten him back.” Zabe’s eyes burned as he shifted from his lycan form back into his human shape.
They’d locked firmly, murderously, on Jenner, the soldier who had just split the General Zahaben vertically with his sword. The man had only been reverted to flesh and bone for moments before the attack.
Mangled, the bloody victim laid twisted and visceral upon the floor. Shocked looks painted the faces of the bystanders as much as Zahaben’s blood painted the tile floor of Respan’s pod where the murder occurred.
Jenner struggled against the guards who detained him. They’d all but saved his life by arriving in time to arrest him rather than let Zabe, the werewolf Captain of the Guard murder him on the spot.
Zabe had always been a model of self control and duty, but now? After such a sudden murder, and of his father by his protege? He’d just gotten his father back when Shjikara Stonehand, the High Priest of the Veritas, discovered a way to reverse the flesh-to-stone curse and restore the famous General who’d been petrified during the last great war.
Zabe had worked so hard to help find a way and gained perhaps a mere fifteen seconds with his father… only to watch aghast as the sudden murder overshadowed all of it.
With him still struggling, the guards knew better than to let their commander gain an angle on the young man. He was clearly in shock and capable of reciprocating the violence.
They kept a tight grip on Jenner, as well. The murderer was a Guardian Corps soldier, trained by Zabe and his cousin Wulftone. If he’d gone rogue, there was no telling the damage he could do in this room.
Wulftone stood near the back; he crossed his arms, crestfallen with disappointment. Several members of the Veritas’s council of Elders stood with him, equally shocked.
“He’s not your father,” Jenner yelled. “Whatever he… whatever that thing was, it was a spy and not Zahaben. It was certainly vyrm in origins.”
Zabe’s face softened. He’d come to trust the kid, but he’d also been keenly aware that a spy had been in their midst these last several months. Zabe might have let Jenner explain his line of thought, except that a spy turned to stone could not have fed information to the enemy during the Akko Soggathoth debacle.
Shjikara sighed. “I’m afraid you’ve killed the only one who could have confirmed that, boy.”
The corpse, certainly resembled Zahaben. It lay lifeless and split nearly in two by the sword Jenner had used, which also lay nearby. The young man had grown acutely introspective and brooding since the trickster demi-god’s defeat at the Kith and Koth gates; his friends had worried about Jenner’s mental health in the weeks since.
“I’m telling you, he’s a vyrm shade,” Jenner insisted. “That’s what I’ve been spending all this time doing: researching the vyrms’ spy tactics. Whoever that statue was, he was not your father and I can prove it.”
Zabe put his hands on his hips. “Alright. State your proof.” His voice was calm, but his eyes burned dark and severe. No one doubted that Jenner would die in the castle dungeons should his evidence prove insufficient.
“Both Basilisk and his brother Nitthogr used shades to…”
“Nitthogr is dead.” Shjikara’s emphatic words silenced the room momentarily.
“Yes, yes,” Jenner clarified. “Everyone knows that Zabe fed him to Sh’logath, the Devourer God, at the Battle of Nebraska… a conflict you and your Veritas refused to fight in,” he shot back, silencing the leader of the religious order. “The Guardian Corps remembers.”
Jenner continued. “Basilisk has vyrm shades, face-shifting soldiers, who are expert infiltrators. Because of the conflicts between Basilisk and his brother, the two vyrm leaders stamped their shade troops with a small tattoo in order to know his or her allegiance.”
“Thank you for the lesson,” Zabe spoke sardonically. “Everyone here knows what a shade is and who uses them.”
Respan stood next to Tay-lore, the last remaining member of the technological homo diurnus race, an android-like species that once threatened humanity as much as the vyrm ever did. They nearly overthrew the Prime dimension without any assistance from the arcane arts.
The scientist had searched relentlessly for a science-based answer to restori
ng Zabe’s father. He’d come up empty every time, but he had made several discoveries along the way, including a new scanner tech that helped identify aura’s. The old researcher wore one now and flipped through the settings. He nudged Tay-lore and shot him a quizzical look as he handed over the scanner.
Tay-lore busied himself with the device. The two had worked closely together for many years, now, and knew each other better than anyone else.
“But it implicates Basilisk is behind this,” Jenner insisted. “We know he’s been trying to spy on us, even though he’s tried to broker a political peace.”
Zabe kept his mouth tight. Thin lipped. “I’ve never doubted that fact. But there is a problem with your theory… shades take their true form when they die.” He motioned to the body. “That man is certainly a dead human.”
The guards began to haul Jenner from the room.
“No, wait!” Jenner screamed. “My research says otherwise—my research showed that some vyrm are far more talented than others. Some are so good that they retain their form even at post-death levels because they can transform themselves even at a genetic level.”
Zabe looked to Shjikara. The old cleric with a stone fist merely shrugged. Neither of them had heard that before. The two had been political opponents for years—but they aligned in this matter: if Jenner was a traitor he had to be dealt with.
“Just check!” Jenner howled. “It’s behind the left ear!”
Zabe stayed the guards with a hand as Shjikara bent over the corpse, blocking their view.
He had been holding his scepter in his available hand and turned it over to the nearest guard. “Don’t drop that, son. It is the most visible token of my authority.”
The soldier gulped and looked over the scepter, holding it gingerly. The orb atop it was inlaid with the sigils of the Veritas and its four Orders. Wherever the High Priest went, the scepter went, too.
The Architect King Page 1
