The Architect King

by Christopher Schmitz

  Wiltshire didn’t know much about him; their interactions had been mostly professional, but Tay-lore had never second guessed the detective’s assumptions, called him crazy, or failed to pay him for information he sometimes brokered for the mysterious person. However, Tay-lore wasn’t always prompt about responses… hence Wiltshire’s decision to take a much needed eight hours of rest as soon as the message was away.

  He typed clumsily, correcting his fumbling fingers that had begun to feel the effects of the sleep aids. “Any idea about this triangle-shaped magic door? I know you usually come to me—but I’m running out of ideas and a huge case hangs on the line. Any thoughts would be appreciated. I’ll owe you one! V.W.”

  Wiltshire clicked send and then crawled into his bed and fumbled with the charger for his mobile. He failed to plug it in and so he turned the plug the other way. It failed to insert again. He turned it back, cursing with made-up words until it finally plugged in.

  No sooner did it began charging than the phone went off. He groaned and cursed the phone some more, but looked at the screen. An incoming call came from Becky in the crime lab.

  “Hullo?” he asked groggily.

  “Vikrum? Man, you sound like crap,” she said.

  “Just getting some sleep. Or tryin, anyways.”

  “It’s like, only seven PM.”

  Wiltshire sighed a raspberry into the phone and remembered that he hadn’t slept all the previous night. He’d spent the entire last evening searching for a lead. “Don’t tell me how to live my life,” he grumbled. “What have you got?”

  “I thought you’d want to know right away on that DNA result. It was definitely human skin, Slavic, actually. Probably from about the thirteenth century.”

  “That’s what I suspected,” Wiltshire said. “Slavic includes the Bohemians, or Czechs, right?”

  “Yeah… what are you onto, Vikrum?”

  “A thirteenth century Benedictine monk sold his soul to the devil: Herman the Recluse. He authored, well, co-authored, the Devil’s Bible… the Codex Gigas.”

  “The giant book on display in Sweden?” Becky asked.

  “How do you…”

  “The History Channel had some special about it.”

  “Yeah. There are several missing pages. Most of the book’s vellum was made from donkey… except the missing pages.”

  “That’s crazy,” Becky said. “A human doesn’t have that much skin. Those pages were huge.”

  “Have you seen the book? I have, and huge doesn’t do it justice. These pages were later additions. Penned by Tebel-El, the Devil, written on skin ripped from Herman’s body after he was walled away for thirty years to die a slow and painful death in the monastery. He probably tore them from Herman’s body one page at a time. These pages were added in the back and rebound by Rudolf the Mad Alchemist in the fifteen hundreds. You know what happened to him?”

  “No.” Becky’s voice was rapt and breathless.

  “He turned into a recluse and went nuts. Then the book went to Sweden under the ownership of Christina the She-King. Then she went nuts, albeit in different ways; Christina abdicated and banished herself to solitude. The Swedish library repaired the binding, but I was able to get that scrap out to verify my thoughts.” He trailed off. Sleep had begun to take root already.

  “Wow,” Becky whispered. “Is this the normal kind of stuff you deal with? Now I understand why you normally tell me nothing.”

  “Yeah, well…” Vikrum said. “I have been drinking.”

  “I’d like to unlearn all of that, please.”

  “You and me both. But it’s what I’m going to do when I find those missing pages that will truly terrify you.”

  “I’m going to hang up now,” Becky said.

  “Good. I didn’t want to burdened you with that knowledge, anyways.”

  “Thanks. Good night.” She hung up the phone.

  Wiltshire collapsed into his bed, wondering why he still had his shoes on. He’d forgotten to take them off, but he was too tired, now, to kick them off; he thought he could muster the effort, but some still, small voice at the back of his mind told him not to bother… maybe he’d need them. He knew that was absurd, but it was the path of least resistance, and so he took the irrational voice’s advice.

  Seconds later, he was fast asleep, shoes and all.

  ***

  The Prime

  Bithia summoned Chira who met her on the balcony of her apartment. Her internal struggles aside, she was still her government’s leader and had duties to perform.

  “Who are all these people?” she asked, watching them below.

  Gathering in the courtyard, a crowd had assembled. It swelled as people filed into the courtyards in clumps. They pressed up against the tightly arrayed line of royal guards who made a line that the citizens knew better than to cross.

  The crowd wore armbands and headbands of purple and gold displaying a strange logo. Some were more strategically printed, others were hand-painted, making Bithia raise an eyebrow. Whatever the crowd’s purpose, it was a true grass roots movement that had motivated them, and Bithia did not know why.

  She leaned over the rail for a better look and cursed the timing of her secret loss of psychic ability. Bithia cursed Zabe while she was at it—the timing of his absence was terrible. She was usually better than this: it was uncommon for a groundswell of public opinion to shift this far with her in the dark.

  With a sigh, she forgave Zabe. It wasn’t his fault. None of it was. This all started because of Akko Soggathoth, and not her fiance.

  Chira grimaced. “They are protesters,” he informed her. “There have been a few smaller gatherings in other communities, and they’ve never been violent. We didn’t expect them to gather so many so soon.”

  Bithia bobbed her head. “They are upset about the upcoming, diplomatic meetings?”

  Chira agreed. “Among other things.”

  Bithia kept her lips thin. She thanked him and then let him get back to his work. He had much to do in advance of upcoming peace talks, and this sudden security strain would only require more of his attention.

  As soon as it was not suspicious, Bithia left her apartment and went to Respan’s lab. Gita was one of the guards stationed outside of the laboratory and she cocked her head. “Princess—err, Claire,” she corrected, and then gave it a second thought. “Or is it Princess when you’re in public?”

  She flashed Gita a conspiratorial look. “That’s the thing. I’m trying to not be seen in public.” Bithia nodded her head towards the door and both women went inside.

  Past the doors, Respan fiddled on a project with Tay-lore. They both greeted her when she entered. “What brings you down here to my lab?” Respan asked.

  “I need some kind of disguise and I remembered that you had worked on some kinds of tech in the past that altered appearances,” Bithia said.

  Respan was notoriously scatter brained. He scrunched his face to try and remember the item she had referenced.

  “The DCD,” Tay-lore reminded him.

  “Oh yes! My Digital Cloaking Device,” Respan turned to a bin of gadgets on a nearby table. “It’s a bit finicky,” he admitted, “but it’s mostly operational.”

  “I need it,” Bithia said. “I want to walk through that crowd outside and find out who they are, why they are protesting. People are… less honest when they know who and what I am.”

  Gita understood and agreed, even, but hedged aside, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “They’re not violent,” Bithia promised, “Chira told me so.”

  Respan hesitated. Tay-lore remained as expressionless as ever. “It would be an opportunity to see the DCD live and in the field.” The scientist worked his jaw and rationalized, “It’s for science.”

  He set the wearable tech on the princess’s head. It was a kind of circlet that rested upon her brow, and with the push of a button, her face lit with a series of heavily pixel-lated patches. The light swatches smoothed out
and then seemed to form a skin.

  Gita raised her eyebrows, convinced, and Bithia searched for a patch of shiny metal to check her reflection.

  She’d gained perhaps fifteen years, according to the altered image which also overlaid digital makeup. Even Zabe wouldn’t have recognized her on the street, Bithia thought. “Thank you,” she said and turned to leave.

  “Oh, no,” Gita said. “I can’t let you leave. Chira would lose his kittens.”

  Bithia cocked her head.

  “Isn’t that how Jackie would say it? Whatever. You know what I mean. I can’t let you go out there.”

  Bithia gave her a mischievous look which the DCD translated perfectly. “You could come with me—then you’d know I was safe.”

  Gita scowled, sure that she could not stop the princess if she wanted to. “Fine, but I’ve got to shuck my armor first so we can blend in.”

  Tay-lore put on a hat, as if it were a good disguise. “I shall come too. I wish to observe this field test.”

  Respan had already slung on a jacket. “Same here.”

  Bithia sighed. She hadn’t intended to take a whole team out, but knew it was the price of their secrecy.

  A few minutes later, they sneaked through the service corridors. Gita sometimes used them for duty, but Respan felt lost, and said as much.

  Bithia almost smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ve only ever had to sneak into the castle and never out… but I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  “You snuck in?” Gita said, comically amused by the thought.

  The princess nodded. She trusted those in her company with the story and pulled on Claire’s memories. “When I first came here from Earth, Zabe and I had to get into the castle. It was during Nitthogr’s occupation. His grandfather, Shardai, helped us find our way through the Vangandran tunnels and attempt our rescue of Bithia. He took us all the way from the Veritas’s mountain to the throne room, even if I nearly had a panic attack from the tight quarters. The rescue mission worked… in a way.”

  Her memory had not been as amusing as she remembered, the more she dwelt on it, but it brought some peace to Respan and calmed his nerves. They finally arrived at the scullery access.

  The door opened from a maintenance hallway and into the burgeoning crowd. Some people carried signs. Most of them were young, but a few were old. Suspiciously absent were folks ranging from thirty to fifty years old, and then Bithia remembered that most of those in their mid twenties through middle-age had been wiped out in years past by Nitthogr’s invasion.

  “What’s the AVA?” Bithia asked someone holding a sign with those three, simple letters.

  “The Anti-Veritas Alliance,” the woman holding it responded. She glanced at the newcomers and noticed they weren’t wearing the purple and gold logo and so she explained. “We need to make our voice known: the people are fed up with the direction we’re headed.”

  A few of the woman’s companions chimed in, boorish and angry. They shouted some harsh words against the crown and muttered empty threats in case their fellow marcher had engaged in debate with a different ideology.

  “Don’t mind him,” the stranger said. “Some people were hit really hard by the last round of the vyrm wars.”

  Her male companion growled, “It’s not just that! I’m not upset only because I’m hurt,” he snapped. “I’m angry because the Veritas let it happen! They should have helped repel the invaders, instead they sat in their mountainside villa and hid away, hording their power and magic that could have sent Nitthogr packing. At least the crown and army fought—not that I’m any big fan of either.”

  “Why do you say that?” Bithia asked. Her companions stood stiff, not wanting to engage and risk drawing additional attention.

  “It’s like they never listen. It ain’t like I can just address the Princess directly,” he complained. “She doesn’t know me, or who I am. It’s not like she cares or would put a stop to things that bother me—like this upcoming meeting with Basilisk! His brother slaughtered our parents and siblings, and what? We’re supposed to enter trade negotiations with that monster? He was a traitor. He and all the vyrm are monsters.”

  “Maybe there’s a different plan at play,” Bithia defended. “Flipping an enemy to an ally would certainly end the attacks… and hopefully change sentiments so we aren’t killing each other anymore.”

  He complained, “That sounds good in theory, but when have you ever known the Veritas to be open minded about anything? They have to change or go—and my money’s on go. That’s why we wear this symbol.” He brandished the logo: a block adjacent a skinny rectangle. “It symbolizes a broken hammer. If they won’t go, eventually the people will make them go.”

  Bitha raised an eyebrow. “What’s your name?”

  Suddenly the circlet on the princess’s brow fritzed out with a sizzle and a puff of smoke. Her face flickered, and the disguise dropped.

  The stranger’s eyes widened. “Y-you’re the princess! Princess Claire…”

  A crowd immediately began to thicken around her. Everyone wanted an opportunity to voice the AVA’s ideology to her.

  Gita grabbed her. “Come on—we have to go!” The soldier escorted her back to safety.

  In the hallway, Respan turned the DCD over in his hands. “Back to square one on this thing, I’m afraid.”

  ***

  Earth

  [We’ve got to tell our counterparts in Ukraine,] the agitated man insisted, pointing at dots on a map. [They are the region’s intelligence hub. Whatever this threat is that is killing our kind, it’s heading west.] He traced a line from the Caspian Sea and across the southern tip of Russia just north of Georgia. [We must prepare for it to come here.]

  [Calm yourself, Adrik. Three dead cells is not enough to jump to conclusions.]

  Adrik scowled and dropped the Russian language and used their native tongue. “Isn’t it, Rurik? It will be enough for me—especially if we are the fourth group!”

  Rurik put his hands up and motioned for his friend to calm down. None of the other clerical workers in the office knew their true identies, and Adrik’s volume had started to turn some heads. [Follow,] he insisted, leaving the map behind.

  Adrik grimaced and clamped his mouth shut but he did as commanded. The two spies clocked out and left the office for a short break. They grabbed a quick lunch from a food vendor on the street to keep up appearances. Adrik tossed most of his into a trash bin; nerves had ruined his appetite. After a brisk stroll walked in silence, they entered an abandoned warehouse where a handful of others had gathered.

  Rows of boxes and shipping crates, long since abandoned, occupied the facility. Eventually, some entrepreneur would do something with it, but for now it was a shelved Heptobscurantum investment and made a perfect meeting place.

  One of the others who had gathered gave Rurik a signal to confirm that they had swept the place for security.

  “Okay, now,” Rurik asked, “what is all the commotion?”

  Seeing they were alone, the skin of the assembled Russians reverted to their true, scaly form. They were shades, each of them.

  “Tell him, Adrik,” they insisted.

  Adrik had the support of his peers. “If something is truly killing our kind, we must get to the bottom of it,” he insisted. “But first, we should alert the other cells in our radius.”

  “To what end… to raise a panic?” Rurik fired back. “I’ve yet to see any evidence of your bogeyman. We are vyrm—we do not know fear.”

  [We only know foolishness,] one of the vyrm hissed from the back in a sarcastic Russian accent.

  Rurik snapped a glare in his direction.

  “You didn’t see it,” Adrik insisted. “Our cell in Kirovskiy has been silent for too long without a report. I checked in yesterday when company business sent me to Makhachkala. They’re all dead, Rurik. Something tore them to pieces!”

  “You saw this with your own eyes?”

  Adrik nodded. “I saw the bodies and burned them to avoid detection—I follo
wed protocol.”

  “And you know what did this?”

  “No,” Adrik confessed.

  A low growl rumbled in the shadows nearby. “You are about to find out,” a menacing voice said in broken vyrmtongue, and then its owner leapt upon them.

  Chapter 6

  The dank air of the mountain cavern flickered with the light of crude torches. A tear split the low light with a brilliant hole. Three perfect lines burned with ruby laser fire that opened the dimensional gate.

  Behind the altar, two rows of students were seated at lecterns adjacent their chained armarium cabinets; the ancient furnishings stored endless rows of codices. The figures rose, each dressed in black monastic cloth, and looked up to hiss at the invading light.

  The burning crimson lines of energy shone against their pale skin. They shielded black eyes and stood to array themselves as a unified force against the intruder.

  The leader of the lightless wizards stood at the center of their number. He parted his flowing locks. Reddish, straight hair draped behind his shoulders as he growled at the intruder in his long, black leather coat. The enemy carried an ancient kophesh hook blade and meandered away from the blazing rip in space.

  Unimpressed, the pale-skinned wizard growled, “How dare you violate the inner sanctum of the Scholomance?”

  “Heh,” the big man scoffed. “Looks like I came to the right place, then.” He walked around cockily and afforded a wider view for a second man who watched from the other side of the triangle-shaped door. “My name is Sisyphus.” He looked the leader directly in the face, equally unmoved, and demanded, “Where is it?”

  “The strigoi answer to no man,” their leader hissed. With a dread screech, the thirteen wizards sprang into action. They threw blazing balls of eldritch flame at the unwelcome guest.

  Sisyphus conjured a shield of pure magic and easily blocked them. They splashed harmlessly aside as he whirled to blast his own offensive. Strigoi leapt and hurdled his blasts, deflecting them aside with similar shields as they rushed forward to surround him.