The Architect King

by Christopher Schmitz

The boggart looked around in a panic. “Well, you can take your payment back then.”

  “I don’t want your empty cups—you already ate the pudding, you rotten little creature.” He’d offered untold riches for the information, but Bwbych had a weakness for the sweet stuff, especially vanilla.

  Bwbych reached up and sank his teeth into Sisyphus’s wrist. The wrestler yelped and dropped him. The boggart scrambled on his wooden peg legs and nearly made it inside his door and to safety when Sisyphus held aloft his weapon and used his mind to seize the creature.

  “Not so fast.” Sisyphus lifted Bwbych from his feet and hung him in mid-air. The wrestler used his mind and forced Bwbych’s limbs outward, splayed wide.

  “Okay. Okay, you got me. Now let’s talk like civilized beings,” Bwbych bartered.

  Sisyphus glared at him and then shook out the pain in his hand which dribbled red rivulets from the gash. He exerted power through his mind and pulled all four appendages away from each other as if his prisoner had been put into an invisible rack device. “If you don’t have answers for me, this is going to go badly for you.” Sisyphus pulled hard enough on the boggart’s arms that both elbows and shoulders popped in their joints and made him squeal. “You’ll have two new wooden pegs to complete the set unless you have what I want.”

  Bwbych yelped but spoke through the pain. “Tell me… tell me what you want, and I’ll try to help, but I was chained in a tree stump for several centuries—some of my intel was bound to be outdated!”

  Sisyphus relaxed his grip and the pressure he exerted, but he did not release his prey.

  “I can’t track the locations and happenings of every magic user on this miserable plane—nobody can do that—but I’ll help if I can,” Bwbych promised.

  “I only want what was promised to me. The Venus Oculus.”

  The boggart grimaced, making him even uglier. “I do not know where the mirror is now, but if my interactions with the Red Order are any indication, and if the Solomonari have released the mirror, then it could have been claimed and might be anywhere, now.”

  “Has it been used?”

  Bwbych shook his head. “The mirror can only be used once every hundred years, but its power is strong and distinct. If it had been used, I would have felt it.” He could tell that his answer was insufficient to get him out of the wizard’s grip. “Here. Take my amulet as payment for my mistake.” It pained him to make such a trade after the deal had been done, but Bwbych did not have any intention of using the item—though he might have tried to trade it for another haul of sweets. The mirror was likely to give him an unlimited supply, but just as likely to change the boggart’s taste buds so its flavor was like vinegar to him. All magic had a price, and the stronger the magic, the greater the risk accompanying it.

  Sisyphus stared at the circle of baked clay that bore a single rune inscribed upon it. “What is that?” It resembled a cookie on a string. “It looks like some kid’s kindergarten art project,” he scoffed.

  “Very rare,” Bwbych promised. “Very valuable. It can open a portal to the Feylands; my home exists apart from your multi-verse. But a word of caution when you break it, I have not used it because I don’t have any guarantee of returning. The Spider Queen who has long ruled there is loath to let creatures leave her domain once they’ve entered.” He looked across at the scattered field of empty plastic containers and cautioned the wizard. “There is no vanilla pudding in the Feylands.”

  Sisyphus grinned and removed the fragile pendant. Slipping it around his neck he hid it beneath the folds of his jacket. “The token will be a part of my arsenal in case I need a backup plan or a sudden emergency escape… but given how unlikely that is, I will only consider it part of the debt you owe.”

  “Then what do you want?” he yelped as Sisyphus used his powers to start slowly pulling on his limbs again as a reminder. Bwbych was pretty sure it was only because the wizard enjoyed inflicting pain.

  “There is a secondary prize I am chasing. There are amulets from the darque dimension. I know the daughter of the Architect King used to wear such a one. You know it?”

  “Heh. Yes. I know the one. They grant an assortment of boons and curses, but most do similar, minor tricks… prestidigitations, but none are as powerful as the mirror.”

  “There are more of them on Earth, yes? I want one that will insulate me from the magic of others.”

  Bwbych tried to nod, but he still couldn’t move even his head. “There are several, but another has been collecting them.”

  “Is the shard I seek among them?” He tugged on Bwbych’s limbs to reinforce the gravity of his question.

  “Yes.” He panted and caught his breath after Sisyphus relaxed the pressure. “Miles Jecima. He is an archaeologist, not well known except by a few—but he is friends with the Architect King’s princess, and he has acquired a number of them.”

  “Then he will not be hard to find,” Sisyphus said. He released the boggart who fell to the ground.

  Bwbych edged his way towards the door of his tree stump sanctuary.

  Sisyphus turned to leave the oddly littered grove when Bwbych called out to him from the stump. “Hey, wizard! You wouldn’t happen to have any of that pudding with you? Maybe I could barter for more? Surely I have something else you want, perhaps more information.”

  Shaking his head, Sisyphus kept walking and left the boggart to rot in his own vices.

  Chapter 9

  The Prime

  Bithia was tired and worried about her recent revelation with Pollando, but duty still bound her to the throne. She had, however, perked up somewhat despite presiding over meetings with her realm’s administrators. Hope crept slowly back into her and she expected her father and friends might return any day now… and with them, she thought even Zabe might return at any moment.

  Shjikara had also been hovering about, taking care of some business on the castle grounds and making himself generally available to both the crown and the populace. It had been unlike him to be useful up until now.

  Since Zabe’s disappearance, the High Priest had been coming around much more frequently and volunteering to take on the ever increasing duties required. Until a week ago, Pollando had been the go between that connected the Veritas and the Castle, even if the High Priest’s office had always filled that role under previous rulers.

  “I believe that I am close to being able to restore the statue garden… or at least some of them,” Shjikara told her.

  Bithia nodded as the Priest concluded his report.

  Tay-lore watched him from the side of the room.

  “You will recall the refugee situation that we once had in our cloister? In the resulting peace that you’ve helped bring to the realm, the monastery helped resettle and re-home all of those displaced by Nitthogr’s failed invasion.”

  “That is good news,” the princess said.

  “With your permission,” Shjikara continued, “I’d like to similarly assist with whoever we are capable of reviving from the statue collection. They will, no doubt, require a certain amount of re-education in order so they may be reintegrated back into our society. Some have been frozen in stone for hundreds of years. It seems likely that there will be need of therapeutic services which the Veritas could provide.”

  Bithia nodded, agreeing to his proposal.

  Tay-lore would never voice an objection in royal chambers, but he did not like the idea at all. He’d made many efforts to experience the full depths of human emotion, and he believed that he had just felt his skin crawl. He did not have skin, but it crawled all the same. He did not like or trust Shjikara and drew closer so he could better follow the exchange.

  “When do you think you might see some results? When might you revert the first of them to flesh?”

  “I, uh, still have some things to test and read up on. It may also require some elements from the Sacristy vault,” Shjikara claimed. “The process takes much out of me, so I must take it slow, you understand. Much testing. Many late ho
urs.”

  “I understand,” Bithia said, looking towards the next order of business and excusing the High Priest to go about his work.

  “Yes, Shjikara,” Tay-lore said. He understood that Shjikara had used many words to tell her absolutely nothing—another point of suspicion. He added, “best of luck in your endeavors.”

  ***

  Desolation

  “All will be new,” Gerjha said. “Maetha will restore Edenya. He has shown me this,” he claimed to those gathered around him. The prophet’s back was turned to a roaring fire and cinders rose on hot eddies like swirling fireflies. “For the first time I bring you a new prophecy that He has revealed: He has promised that I will live to see this thing happen.”

  Trenzlr sat next to the tribe’s chief, Klewdahar, the father of the vyrm with a broken mind. Klyrtan, his son, sat on the other side of him. Chief Klewdahar had yet to make an introduction of the person on his other side, but Trenzlr had learned from the crowd that the scarred, vyrm’s name was Chartarra.

  He found himself assuming Chartarra’s past. The newcomer carried himself like a soldier but he did not appear to be tarkhūn; whichever of the five tribes he might belong to was anybodies guess. Vyrm of the Black were difficult to guess as far as political alliances, but his presence here meant that he either had none, or was looking for a new one. His scars looked like they should have been fatal, and the way Gerjha the prophet held his interest, it was clear to see that Chartarra had come to believe in the coming Maetha—the one who would re-make the vyrm as they were intended before the Sh’logath cult fractured the vyrm’s racial identity.

  Chief Klewdahar had asked them both to meet at his tent whenever Gerjha finished addressing the crowd.

  “You all know me,” the prophet exclaimed. Every vyrm young and old gave him their full attention. “Some of you thought me crazy; I was another zealot confined to a circle drawn in the sand where I waited for many years. Some of you joined me for a time or fed me, and I thank you. Some believed my words and others mocked—but we are all vyrm. We are all Seekers of Maetha and nothing can divide us!”

  A ripple of energy circulated through the crowd as they murmured assents, stirred to passion by the prophet.

  Gerjha held up a hand to keep them quiet. “I have had a vision.”

  The crowd held its breath, waiting for the prophet’s revelation.

  “We have each waited patiently for the coming of Maetha. That day is drawing near, and soon—and I do not mean that in a philosophical sense. We can rest in that promise.”

  Trenzlr’s scales practically puckered at the words. There had not been a divine word for generations, and now, as faith had begun to falter, Gerjha revived their hopes.

  “Maetha is not what we make him to be. Perhaps Maetha is not a He at all. We too often rely on what we think we know and memories from revelations we may have misheard. I only caution you so that your hearts are prepared for Maetha’s coming—so you will not lose faith if the chosen one turns out to look less like Chief Klewdahar and more like whatever form Maetha has chosen.”

  A voice called out, “What will he look like?” More voices yelled the same request.

  Gerjha continued, “In my dream, I looked to the sky, a sky free of that obscene monstrosity—this was a clear indication that Maetha had come. And in the sky I saw the moon, but the moon was not a moon at all, rather it was a sun: fiery and bright. And the sun had consumed the moon. Together they became something else greater. This new moon-sun both scorched and relieved all of those who waited for it at dawn.” He turned and looked directly at Chartarra. “Only with the light of this sun could those seeds planted for generation after generation finally germinate and bloom. Their fields covered all the wastelands until it revived Edenya.”

  Trenzlr’s brows knit in thought and he whispered to Klewdahar who also functioned as a member of their tribe’s priestly caste. “What does he mean?”

  The chief cocked his head. “I thought you knew the stories from your lessons as a child?”

  A voice teased him in a matching whisper. “I thought you knew,” Klyrtan said with condescension. Hirdac, seated nearby shushed the simple-minded vyrm.

  Klewdahar looked at him. “The sun and moon? Symbols for mankind and vyrm. He’s implying Maetha could be a Dunnischktet.” The Seeker stood as the group had begun to disperse in order to ponder the prophet’s words. “Now come. I value your input on a council I am forming.”

  “M-me? A council?” Trenzlr stammered. “But I am not qualified to be a leader or…”

  Chief Klewdahar waved away his protests. “You are the last of your house and you have spent much time in the Prime. Surely you have gained valuable insights during your travels. I won’t accept your refusal.”

  Trenzlr did not protest further. “Thank you, Chief Klewdahar. I am honored,” and he followed him to the tent of meeting.

  ***

  The Prime

  Shjikara remained behind the closed doors of his chamber where he communed with his dark agod. Never before had he experienced such closeness with the Devourer, except when he was trapped in the void: present with Sh’logath and in an eternal state of everlasting digestion. Now, he walked reality again in that same state; his soul burned and his skin flayed from the inside as the Devourer’s spirit wormed through him like acidic, larval tendrils.

  He stood and looked in the mirror. His face had begun to melt and gravity slid his flesh downward in sheafs as Sh’logath’s touch decayed Shjikara’s corpulent form.

  Nitthogr drew on his connection to that dark power and exerted control over his body. His visage reformed into that of the Veritas High Priest. He smiled at his reflection. “We are not yet ready to be revealed,” he told the man whose body he’d hijacked.

  Ready to be seen publicly again, he exited the private cell and walked the warm stone halls of the Veritas monastery. After a short journey through the corridors, he arrived at the massive door to the sacristy. The impenetrable vault was much like the Chamber of Mysteries in the royal castle; here, the Veritas kept its holy relics and items of arcane power.

  As the High Priest, he was the only one who could open it of his own accord. Its mystic wards were not quite as specific or potent as the spell guarding the royal chamber. This body still remains necessary.

  The circle-shaped door had five halo shaped ports in its center. In the middle bowl, the crest of the Veritas was emblazoned proudly. Surrounding it were four similar sigils for the heads of the four orders: Wax, Flame, the Mystics, and the Merciful Hammer.

  Nitthogr stuck his fist into the center and the door clicked open with a slight hum of vibration. Within the sacristy towered several shelves that housed a variety of artifacts. A long table with items that were still being examined and cataloged spanned the length of the room. At the far end of the table sat an over-sized codex, an inkwell, and a single chair.

  The undead sorcerer took a seat and opened the book as he scoured it for information. Entries in the book were recorded and cross-referenced each with a detailed drawing and description. Much of the book was penned in Shjikara’s patient script, but large, earlier sections were known to Nitthogr and were even recorded into the Grimmorium Nitthogr, his ancient book which he’d kept since before he’d become a dunnischktet, and which now lay in the possession of the Heptobscurantum.

  One page he tore out and set aside for later. Its drawing depicted a mechanical box inlaid with astronomical symbols. The instruction sheet detailed its usage and location within the vault. He’d locate it another time—it was a necessary component for much later in his plans.

  He smiled for a moment, recognizing his own loose script. A few of the entries in this book were his, even; Nitthogr had once been next in line to assume leadership over The Flame Order which studied the arcane and magical arts. Familiarity encouraged a smile which Sh’logath stymied with a jolt of pain that coursed through the sorcerer’s mind. The agod refused to allow anything less than total devotion in Nitthogr, and
nostalgia threatened that.

  He flipped another page and found the first item he’d been searching for. The second was cataloged a few pages afterward. Nitthogr went to the shelves and withdrew a gnarled crown of color-shifting, glassine material. The crystals ensconced veins of darquematter that permeated and gilded them; this item had been secreted away within the sacristy since before the Veritas had come to understand the potent nature of the stuff and how it was keyed to the multi-verse. He polished the crown with the folds of his robes and then placed it on the table near the tome. He picked up the second item: a twisted, cage-like enclosure.

  The High Priest turned it over and examined it. Looking much like a fisherman’s crustacean trap, this blasted wreckage was not an artifact and didn’t have any powers worth noting. It was, however, made of pure darquematter. The material had been cast in an odd, criss-crossing shape during the first battle with Vangandra so long ago when the vyrm first encroached upon the Prime. This piece had been blasted off the vyrm champion’s armor and recast in random fashion.

  Nitthogr placed the twisted shape into the sack and exited the sacristy, sealing it tightly. The bag and item within were rather unassuming except for those familiar with the other-worldly material. Likely only Minas, the current head of The Flame Order would find the contents of the cleric’s sack suspicious.

  Skulking through the corridors, Nitthogr did not encounter any of the four leaders of the Veritas disciplines, and the other adherents bowed so low at his passing that they barely noticed what he carried. He exited the monastery and passed through the outer cloister where preparations were being made to receive and care for any poor souls who Shjikara might free from stone form. Night had drawn long, and the work had already stopped for the evening, allowing the thief to descend the mountain slope by the monastery trail without being spotted.

  After a short trip, Nitthogr arrived at the castle. He passed the gates with ease in his current persona. These last few days had made the guards familiar with him. They also had a Veritas cleric with them, stationed at the gates in order to detect and prevent magic users from any sort of obfuscation.