The Architect King

by Christopher Schmitz

  Sam sighed and stated the obvious. “With Wiltshire off running errands in New York, we’re down a man, but we’ve got to get that device back—at almost any cost.”

  “Swiping the control module from Germany is the best-case scenario,” Cerci interjected. “If nothing else, Walther’s laptop or his notes should do fine. I think I can recreate the thing if I had his notes.”

  “No,” said Jenner. “Sisyphus has to die. No mercy this time—he abducted my father. He ruined our machine. He’s helped to try destroying the known universe on at least two occasions that we know about.” He turned his head to meet everyone’s gazes. None gave him any disagreement.

  Shandra swallowed hard. She sympathized with Jenner and agreed that the Wizard had to be stopped; lethal force was likely the only way to accomplish that. However, assassination was not their primary mission. They couldn’t sacrifice the greater good for the sake of a grudge. “At the very least, we’ve got to destroy his machine. If he came all this way to steal that part, it must mean that his is broken, and as Cerci said, Walther either will not or can not repair it. I’m not opposed to putting this madman down, but let’s remember the prize.”

  None gave voice to why Walther couldn’t effect repairs. It didn’t take any stretch of the imagination to assume that he’d met an untimely demise.

  Heads nodded around the circle. Every other time they’d faced the spell caster, he had fled. Even though they were planning to invade Sisyphus’s home, their track record indicated he would flee yet again when confronted.

  When a massive Peterbilt rumbled to a stop right next to the gas station, all heads turned. Claire opened the door and hopped out.

  “Wait a minute… is that Zabe?” Jackie asked, catching a glimpse of the driver.

  “No,” Claire said somberly. She looked back into the cab and gave a little wave. The driver goosed the engine and released the brakes with a metal on metal creak. A few seconds later, the truck was gone.

  Claire turned to the group and added herself as the seventh member. “Where do we stand; what’s the plan?”

  They brought her up to speed in as little time as possible.

  “I’m going to take Cerci and Claire back with me to Duluth,” Sam said. “It’s someplace that most of you know… Jecima’s old house. We’ll do our best to get the parts ready so Cerci can build a new version of the machine.”

  Claire hesitantly bobbed her head. Clearly she wanted to be a part of the strike team, but understood her father’s reluctance to let her rush directly into danger right after thinking he’d lost her. Family or not, the rest of the others had combat training.

  “If we can get that portal machine working, not even Nitthogr will be able to stop us from getting back to the Prime.” Claire looked at each of them in turn. Hope chimed in her voice. “We can do this. We can save the multi-verse from the Devourer.”

  “Again!” Jackie exclaimed her reminder. “Three-Peat!”

  Claire hugged her friend. “Be safe.”

  “Of course I’ll be safe,” she said excitedly. “I just got married like a week ago. I can’t die until I’ve had time to annoy my husband a million ways. I can’t wait to put my cold feet on his back in the winter time. I’ve got too many life goals to accomplish before I can die.”

  Cerci put a flash drive into Zurrah’s hands. “Take this, too. It’ll uplink a connection to my computer that I can use to remotely connect to Walther’s system; it’ll allow me to pull the data that I need.”

  Her friends shot her awkward glances which she shrugged off. “Yeah. So I’ve dabbled in a little cyber-crime in my past… but it’s coming in handy now,” she admitted.

  The young man looked at the flash drive awkwardly, not totally certain he knew how to use it. He handed it to Wulftone, who looked only marginally more confident in its use. Jackie rolled her eyes, took the drive, and pocketed it.

  The team heading for Germany crammed into one car. Sam, Claire, and Cerci piled into the other.

  Jackie prattled on with the window down. “I want to go on record that, out of all of us here, I’ll be the only one with three confirmed ‘Sh’logath shut-downs.’ I want a medal when this is over, Princess. Don’t leave me hanging like Chewbacca! At least get me a bumper-sticker.” She wookie roared as the cars drove apart.

  Claire smiled sadly as they drifted away from each other. A stroke of melancholy hit and she hoped this wasn’t the last time she would see her friend alive.

  ***

  The Desolation

  Basilisk came down the hill wearing his battle armor. It shined with a flat, chrome-like breast plate that had been mirror polished. Caivev walked alongside of him in a new, custom set designed to match. Together they shined with a dangerous glint.

  The tarkhūn stood straighter as they noticed Basilisk in his armor. Their emperor had not suited up for battle since the Syzygyc War. Both his presence and his appearance meant something significant.

  Skrom and Idrakka stood at the head of gathered knot of soldiers. The mighty Skrom headed up a crew of equally large tarkhūn berserkers. Idrakka commanded a company of firelords and frostmancers.

  The military shifted nervously on its feet. The Black had been growing antsy in the lower quarters of Limbus and they outnumbered the Tarkhūn by a large margin, hence the increase in military activity.

  “Report, Skrom?”

  Skrom didn’t mince words. “There’s talk of revolt. The Black do not like the rumors that have been spreading.”

  “Which one?” Basilisk asked.

  “The one that you and the Empress have been visiting the Maethan heretics in the prison.”

  Caivev met the gazes of all the tarkhūn forces and spoke frankly. “So what if I have? What good has Sh’logath ever done for us? I don’t care if you believe in this Maetha or not—some kind of promised rescuer of the vyrm people, a kind of herald for a redeemer just like there is a prophecy of a herald that will unleash Sh’logath. Maetha or otherwise, I think each vyrm should have the right to choose… and to choose wisely. We’ve endured generation upon generation of devotion to Sh’logath. And for what?”

  The vyrm soldiers around her looked anxious for her to answer the question. Even Basilisk hung on her words.

  “What real and genuine blessing has it ever brought any of us? None… I have chosen something else. I’ve chosen hope—and done so even when the night looks bleakest. The time of Sh’logath appears to have arrived at last, and I knowingly turn my back on the very evil I once served. Look around you… we have thrived in the Desolation and built our homes in the darkness. Imagine what greatness we could accomplish in the light.”

  Basilisk couldn’t help but smile. He had come to similar conclusions, but his wife had a certain elegance when she put it into words. His hackles rose slightly when Skrom lumbered a couple steps towards her, a grim look set upon his face.

  The army stiffened and waited for the massive vyrm’s actions.

  Skrom took a knee. “You know I would follow you anywhere, Caivev. I followed you into the hopeless darque and I would follow you into the service of this strange Maetha if you order it.”

  Caivev caught his eye and drank in his gaze. “My friend… I would never order you to such a thing. I am merely asking you to consider each person free to decide.”

  Skrom nodded repeatedly. “And that is why my answer to all your questions is always yes.”

  The others around them all sank to a knee and declared their fealty. The royal leaders knew they meant it, too. They had asked Skrom and Idrakka to gather those troops who they knew could be counted on to remain absolutely loyal in the face of a Black revolt.

  Idrakka offered an additional report. “Lots of bad info going around the lower ranks,” he said. “I suspect that Jeerzha has been intentionally trying to stir up dissension. He might be trying to stage a coup. He certainly hates the rovers with an unmatched zeal… but after getting his pride wounded by the Lady’s refusal to execute the Maethans, he may hate th
e royal house even more.”

  Basilisk stroked his chin. “Misinformation, eh?” He waved to some servants near the royal grounds and bid them to retrieve some broadcasting equipment. “Then let’s give the people the correct data and force his hand.”

  “Is that wise?” asked Skrom. “His pride will not let him back down if you call out his lies. And look,” the big vyrm pointed towards the looming people group on the horizon. A massive caravan of Seekers plodded towards Limbus, mostly on foot.

  Skrom pointed out his tarkhūn variation. “I am an apex—and a good one, too; I know predators. Jeerzha is unhinged, and he has an army. He will attack the weak points first, but he will come for you, my lord. Never overlook a lack of breeding for talent: tenacity goes a long way towards victory.”

  Basilisk grinned as the communicators were set up. He would use the device to broadcast into the homes of every citizen in Limbus and all those connected vyrm across the Desolation. “Good,” he told Skrom. “I put on my armor for a reason.”

  He did not beat around the bush but got straight to the point within mere seconds of his broadcast. Basilisk pointed out the merger between the Black and the tarkhūn. “We have come to a tipping point and decided our people need a new way forward. The same old failed ideas have never been enough. Our Tarkhūn and Black castes were once at war—new thinking ended that. We found common ground. The thing that has always united the black and tarkhūn has been our loyalty to Sh’logath, but something has changed. What is it?” Basilisk pointed the camera to his wife, surprising Caivev.

  “Everything is different,” Caivev stammered. “But don’t take my word for it.”

  Trenzlr stepped out from the shadows at Caivev’s signal to join her. He briefly introduced himself and then began. “What if generation after generation of vyrm since the Thousand Elders’ sacrifice has made mistake after mistake? What if our way of life was based on a lie?”

  ***

  Earth

  Wiltshire could feel the plane begin its descent towards the airstrip. The lights of New York City were off in the distance. Between the flight time and time zone change, it put his landing at shortly after dusk.

  The detective made sure that his package was secure and then buckled his seat belt. As soon as they were airborne he had let Theera know by text message that he was on his way and then taken extensive photos of the page for his own records before returning it.

  Researching and translating the page had given him something to do during the flight, at least. Thoughts of the page’s contents consumed him. The vellum sheet cataloged a few arcane items, among them was a detailed drawing of a magic mirror named the Venus Oculus.

  The Codex Gigas page promised that the Venus Oculus had the power to even raise the dead, grant eternal life, or give any other sort of limitless wish. Wiltshire stared at the detailed drawing; something about it looked familiar from his days with the Red Order.

  He hacked into the Order’s archives using Atticus Sexton’s password. As Wiltshire had guessed, the maintenance division had not scrubbed the dead man’s password from the system. The corner of his lips quirked; the Order had deactivated his within hours of his excommunication.

  Wiltshire navigated the Red Order’s listings of occult materials. They had amassed huge inventories over the centuries and removed them from circulation for the good of the public. He scrolled the digital files and found a sub page for arcane mirrors and looking glass entries. The mirror was there, the Venus Oculus, and it had a high-level rating for its power and danger ratings. A location entry listed it as stored inside an Italian depot belonging to the Red Order… a site Wiltshire knew had been destroyed ten years ago.

  Something still bothered him about it… the pieces finally clicked. Strigoi can’t use magic mirrors because they have a silver base! The Weathermaker said it was a magic mirror! This is what Sisyphus is killing Solomonari for—that must mean it’s still out there.

  He popped the saved image from the archive into an Internet image search and got a hit. Several looked close, but one of the results was a dead ringer. He clicked it.

  An archival system link listed the item as up for auction on an antiquities site. When Wiltshire clicked the date, he found it had been sold a couple years ago to one Miles Jecima. He clicked the broker’s info link and peeked at the company’s data in the Whois Directory. It read, “A Wainsmith Company.”

  Wiltshire cursed a hot streak and called down a thousand plagues upon Percival Wainsmith, who he knew was Illuminati, and his undying servant Theera. The detective couldn’t do anything but wait until they’d landed. Once the plane finally touched down, Wiltshire looked out the window and spotted Theera waiting for him on the tarmac.

  He punched in a search for an address on Miles Jecima. The address popped up on his mobile phone’s GPS—the same home where he’d met Sam and Shandra during the initial search for Zabe.

  “Hey Captain,” Wiltshire knocked on the cabin door. Since it was a private commission, and they were taxiing, the flight crew opened the door, expecting some sort of thank-you from their guest for such a smooth flight.

  Wiltshire looked at them gravely. “I need an immediate turnaround. We’ve got to get airborne again right away and get this bird back to Minnesota.”

  The co-pilot groused, “We’ve got regulations. Mandatory downtime and whatnot; I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  Wiltshire shook his head. “Fill the plane back up and get us back in the air straight away. You guys can rest when we get there—it’ll be one way and Percival Wainsmith will foot the bill… plus five grand each as a bonus,” he promised.

  The co-pilot opened his mouth to argue. Wiltshire tossed a stack of bills to each of them, a fraction of the haul he’d rescued from the Astrodome. The pilot overruled his junior officer. “Yes sir. It’ll take us twenty to thirty minutes to refuel once we’ve stopped, and we’ll get back up straight away.”

  “Good man,” Wiltshire said, and the plane jostled as it came to a rest and the door opened to an airstair. The detective quickly descended and the flight crew exited behind him so they could freshen up and order the maintenance crew to set them up for a quick turn around.

  Wiltshire clutched the rolled up page from the Codex Gigas. “Do you have my files?”

  Theera handed over a memory card which Wiltshire popped into a mobile device to double check them. Once he saw the extensive scans, he turned over the vellum sheet.

  As soon as Theera had it, Wiltshire decked him in the mouth with a closed fist. Theera reeled and clutched his bleeding face. Through bloody teeth and gums, Wainsmith’s majordomo laughed heartily.

  “I figured it out, you snake,” Wiltshire growled. “I guess it was convenient that I was already on the trail of the Gigas pages in order to find the Scholomance?”

  Theera grinned and laughed. “So you realized I sent the strigoi your way?”

  Wiltshire yanked his gun from its holster and aimed it at Theera’s head. “I just don’t know why you did it?” His gun hand wavered, and he put the weapon away. Wiltshire knew it would do him no good, the strange creature would just regenerate within a few minutes anyway, guessing by the last time he’d seen Theera shot in the head.

  Theera smirked. “My master and I keep many contacts. The Scholomance had asked for the address.” He cocked his head, “Do not worry. You were in no danger; the strigoi promised to leave you unharmed.”

  Great. Now I’ve got to move again, he realized.

  “Mister Wainsmith thought it might motivate you to work more quickly. Time is certainly important,” Theera said. “Jacob Sisyphus has been chasing the mirror for some time now and he is hot on its trail. You will need to hurry if you are going to stop him from acquiring it.”

  “That’s not the job!” Wiltshire shouted. “I don’t care about magic mirrors and Sh’logaths. I just want the page you promised me. I don’t owe anyone anything—except the Scholomance. I owe those guys a heavy dose of retribution on behalf of Atticus Sexton
and his dead wife and kids.”

  Theera merely leered at him. Both of them already knew Wiltshire had no choice. He would protect the mirror because Sexton would have wanted it that way. Atticus had always been the level-headed one; he’d been Wiltshire’s moral compass.

  “I’m sure you understand Mister Wainsmith’s position,” Theera explained. “He could not take any direct action against Sisyphus because of their mutual business and, uh, professional interests. And besides, you would not have taken the job had we simply told you about the mirror.”

  Wiltshire set his jaw and exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to keep his cool. He hated being manipulated. “On second thought,” Wiltshire spat. He yanked his nine millimeter from its holster and put a bullet through Theera’s brain-pan.

  The hollow point’s exit wound blasted a chunk of skull and flesh free in a chunky spray of crimson. Theera crumpled. It might have been ultimately futile, but it made Wiltshire feel better.

  He holstered his weapon again and turned his thoughts inward. Wiltshire knew the Venus Oculus would command a heavy toll if used—but it could potentially restore Atticus… and using the power of the Oculus would prevent Sisyphus from commanding it to something far more evil. Certainly, the wizard had his own foul intentions.

  Wiltshire began clomping up the stairs to the cabin. By his estimate, Theera should be recovered before the pilots returned. He checked his timepiece. It would take another five hours to get back to Duluth. As long as he didn’t run into further troubles he’d be able to arrive in Minnesota before the rest of Jecima’s weird friends attacked the Heptobscurantum building in Germany.

  He twisted his mouth with worry. Sisyphus had a sizable head start on them. The real question was whether or not Sisyphus could make his rift machine work right away. Wiltshire didn’t know if he could beat the Wizard to the Mirror.

  ***

  Jacob Sisyphus answered his phone. He noted that the incoming call came from a number listed as Walther’s workshop.

  “You got something to report?” he asked curtly, without so much as a greeting.