Empire of the Worm

by Conner, Jack

  The grand ceremony of the Crowning took place in

  Sraltar Square, the massive courtyard in the very center of Sedremere, and it was quite a show. It had been here in ages past that the Avestines, the original builders and occupants of the city, had conducted their human sacrifices, and a great flat-topped pyramid stood in the center of the square for the purpose. Of course that had been thousands of years ago, before Davril’s race, the Niardans, had swept down from the north and sacked the city. Now the Avestines were confined to their Quarter, and the practice of human sacrifice had been abolished. Or so Davril had thought. He stood atop the pyramid with the sun beating down on him, Alyssa just behind him to his left, Sareth behind him to his right, and the three high priests of the three most prominent sects of the Flame before him—center among them Father Elimhas, the High Priest of Asqrit. Davril stared out over the gathering of a half a million Sedremerans—all that would fit in the space—and forced himself to smile. Lines of elephants marched down the aisle with performers leaping from back to back, juggling rods of fire, with the band playing in the background and fountains jetting scented green water two hundred feet in the air . . .

  It was magical, and he hated every second of it. Already the doom the Patron’s wrath had implied was beginning. Shadows were rising in the streets at night, red mists boiling up from the caves, townspeople going missing, and sometimes the earth would shake, just slightly, as if promising worse to come.

  Davril accepted the Crown when it was presented to him by the combined priests of Behara, Asqrit and Illyria, the gods of sky, sun and stars, but at that exact moment thunder cracked, and a furious rain began to fall, unnaturally warm and heavy.

  And sticky.

  “Dear gods!” said Sareth, Davril’s sister. “It’s raining blood . . .”

  Davril shared a look with Alyssa, whom he had married the week before, but she, after a startled gasp, looked away. Blood trickled down the side of her face and stained her gorgeous gown.

  Below, the people screamed and scattered. Elimhas, High Priest of Asqrit, led the other priests in prayer. “May the Jewel of the Sun protect us,” he said.

  Spitting blood, Davril said, “I’m afraid this is just the beginning.”

  Chapter 3

  “Tell me,” Davril said.

  Below him gladiators fought on the sand floor of the Arena. Sunlight flashed on ringing blades, and the crowd screamed in response. Vendors marched up and down the aisles, selling candies and sesame-covered roast mutton. The air smelled of food, dust and blood. Davril perched in his special balcony at the head of the Arena, and the imperial flag waved behind him; against a golden background, a great bird, the ever-burning phoenix, clutched a writhing snake in its talons.

  Qasan Ulesme, a senator and Davril’s friend since boyhood, reclined next to him. Far fewer people had attended the events in the Arena than normal, and the empty seats cut at Davril like a knife, glaring reminders of the difficult times that had befallen the city.

  He tried to ignore the strange warbling of the Lerumites; the fish-priests were about their rituals, and they could be heard even over the clash of blades and shouts of the combatants.

  “The night mists are still rising in my quarter, my lord,” said Qasan, who was tall and lean, with black, curly hair and lively hazel eyes. Sareth had always had a certain fondness for him, Davril knew, and he had lately wondered if it might turn into more than that. She was ready. Qasan was clearly not. Though a few years Davril’s senior, he hadn’t had his fill of sampling the opposite sex, and Davril didn’t know if he ever would. Sareth would be miserable if she wedded him now. “They strike at unpredictable spots,” he went on, “and when men become surrounded by the mists, they go mad and set upon each other. Some change. Change and disappear into the mists.”

  “Then it’s the same,” Davril said. “What of the curfew?”

  “It seems to have helped. Fewer people have gone missing since they aren’t out on the streets to be taken. But I fear the mist is learning.”

  “Learning?”

  “Well, whatever power has set it on us is learning, rather. The mist has started to come earlier, during daylight, when there are still people to be taken. It doesn’t stay for long, though, as if the sun burns it away.”

  “It still comes from the caves? Then I see no choice but to seal them up.”

  “But, Davril—”

  “I know. Many homeless live in then. But it can’t be helped. See to it in your quarter. I’ll spread word among the other senators for similar actions to be taken.”

  “It will be done.” Qasan looked sideways at Davril, and there were questions in his eyes that could not be asked. Gingerly, he said, “People are saying this is a plague visited upon us by the gods.”

  “Oh? Which gods?"

  “I don’t know, but it hasn’t gone unremarked that it started ten months ago, just after the Journey. Some say . . .”

  “Yes? What do they say?”

  Qasan let out a breath. “They say the gods do not favor you.”

  “Good. The people aren’t fools.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind.” Half to himself, Davril said, “Is there no cure?”

  “It’s of no human cause, my lord, whatever cause that is. There can be no human cure.”

  “What of the priests? There are a thousand cults that promise the intervention of divinity. Can not one of them help us?” Still the horrid warbling of the fish-priests washed over the city, and Davril would be glad when they finished their ceremony. “Even them,” he added.

  “We’re working on that, my lord.”

  “I’ve asked the General to look into it, too.” General Hastus was of the River Families, and the Families were ancient allies of the Lerumites. Davril did not want to deal with the fish-priests, but any fish is salmon when you’re hungry.

  The crowd roared, and Davril saw that the bout between the gladiators had come to an end. The victor stood with his foot on the chest of his foe, who lay face-up, breathing heavily. Blood from a blade-cut seeped from his arm. The winner had his sword to the loser’s throat, and had turned to Davril for further instructions. This was largely ceremonial, of course, for no Emperor in living memory had ordered a fallen gladiator slain. The gladiators were free men, after all. This was their profession, and they were veritable gods of the city, adored by all the citizens, man and woman alike. To order one of their deaths would have only incited the anger of the people.

  Davril rose and called out, “Mercy!” When the sword had been sheathed, he added, “Well fought, men! Go in peace.”

  The gladiators bowed to each other, retrieved their weapons, and departed. Horns blew, and a gaggle of prisoners were herded out into the sun-lit Arena, blinking their eyes at the brightness. The crowd booed and threw refuse at them. They were mainly convicted rapists and everyday murderers who had elected to “take the sword” in return for a reduced sentence if they lived. In the case of the murderers, the reduction usually meant a life sentence instead of death. In the case of the multiple rapists, it meant a rescinding of the order of castration.

  Mixed in among the normal criminals were several Avestines, Davril saw, and was not surprised. A group of them—the race of people that originally founded Sedremere—had attacked and killed a high Qazradan official last week, butchering not just him but his entire family on their way to the market. Though normally confined to their Quarter, the Avestines—who as a race tended toward extremism—had somehow slipped out (Their tunnels, Davril thought—his father had often talked about them—They must have slipped out through their secret tunnels) and carried out what they considered a retaliation against the treatment of their people. Justified or not, the murders had been brutal, the head of the official’s smallest boy—well. Davril would should no tears for these men.

  The Last Gate was swung open to much trumpeting and horn- blowing, and out of it marched a great, black, wooly elephant, his tusks adorned with gold, diamond-studded
earrings in his large, flapping ears, even glittering rings about his immense trunk. From a litter on its back, one driver and one gladiator stood. The gladiator wore golden armor and his helmet was topped with a high plume of horse hair; he had a bundle of spears with him, as well as his bow and quiver of arrows. As always, his curly beard was as immaculately combed.

  The crowd roared their approval, while the prisoners cringed and huddled fearfully. Weapons were tossed to them, but the swords and spears looked pitifully inadequate when compared to the vastness of the elephant.

  Davril shouted out for the games to begin. The gladiator said something to the driver, and the driver tugged on the reins. The elephant lowered its head and charged the prisoners, who scattered like rats before it. The crowd cheered. Davril laughed as one rapist was ground beneath the great bull’s foot. A servant girl served Davril honey-covered dates, and for a moment the direness of recent events faded.

  The goal of the game was for the prisoners to remove five colorful flags from their holders along one wall and reposition them in the correct holders along the opposite wall. When this was done, the game would be over, and their lives and genitals saved. Few usually survived that long, but the chance of success was deemed better than the alternative. It was a fantastic spectacle, watching the massive wooly elephant with its gladiator slaughter the prisoners one by one, grinding them to paste, crushing them in that long black tentacle-like trunk, or skewered by the gladiator’s arrows and spears. The prisoners hurled their own missiles at him, but the gladiator merely raised his golden shield and they bounced away.

  “He does make a fantastic gladiator,” Qasan Ulesme commented, as he sipped wine from a goblet held by a serving girl.

  “So he does,” Davril agreed.

  General Hastus laughed and roared atop his great black mount even as he hurled a javelin that skewered a fleeing Avestine through the lower back. Writhing and bleeding, the man collapsed to the sand. He did not struggle for long, as the elephant stomped on him even as it chased down a scarred old rapist with one eye. The trunk curled around the man and reeled him in, up to the General. Grinning, the General drew his sword and hacked open the man’s throat. Blood sprayed him. The crowd cheered, loving it. The elephant tossed the corpse away. Behold my father-in-law, Davril thought ruefully.

  “Sometimes I think he missed his true calling,” he said aloud.

  At last the game ended, and flowers and coins were tossed to the General as he bowed from atop the elephant’s litter. He left the Arena to much applause, and clowns amused the audience while the corpses were hauled away. Only two of the prisoners had survived, and they submitted to the city guard gladly.

  Still flushed from battle, his face wiped but his body still reeking of sweat and blood, General Hastus joined Davril and Qasan in their balcony. Smiling, Davril greeted him, and the serving women offered the General refreshments.

  “Quite a sport,” Hastus said, drinking his wine.

  “Yes,” Davril said. “Qasan and I were just saying that perhaps you should retire from the military and take up the Arena full time.”

  Hastus chuckled. “I would, but Qazradan needs me. A pastime it must remain.”

  The earth rumbled suddenly, and the floor under Davril’s feet shook. The audience cried out in fear.

  “Dark times,” the General said, when the earth had calmed.

  “Davril and I were discussing that, as well,” Qasan said.

  In the Arena, another pair of gladiators emerged, and a new duel began.

  “Tell me about the disappearances in the Palace,” Davril said.

  The General, Davril’s second-in-command, nodded. “Aye, my lord. Servants who maintain the tombs in the deepest levels of the catacombs report loud grinding noises in the lowest level, as of a great door sliding open, but as no one save Your Grace is allowed down there no one can corroborate this. Rumors have begun circulating that the Great Tomb is opening of its own accord, and shadowy things have been seen lurking in the catacombs. The vanished servants are attributed to them.”

  “You fear it will continue?”

  “What do you think, my lord?”

  Davril ran a hand through his hair. “Scour the catacombs,” he said.

  “Yes, my lord. Though I do not think that will help.” Hastus paused. “My lord, my I ask—it is past time I did so: deadly mists, earthquakes, dark shadows in the Palace—what the hell has happened?”

  Davril looked away. “Just do your job, General.”

  General Hastus frowned. “You know, you are my son now. I would help you, if I could.”

  “I know. There’s nothing to be done about it.” In his heart, though, Davril was unsure. No, he thought. I won’t appease the thing. No matter what reprisals It visits against us, I won’t bow to It. I’ll starve It of sacrifices and It will wither, and Qazradan will be free.

  When the games ended, Davril departed with his train. The shadow of the Emperor’s Tower was once more stretching toward the Jade Ziggurats. A cool breeze blew through the buildings, and the hackles on the back of his neck stood on end. His procession thundered down the streets, and many citizens turned to look. Wearing his slim golden crown, on his golden chariot drawn by two beautiful white stallions, Davril knew he looked his part. Sure enough, some Sedremerans bowed or nodded from the courtyards and terraces and sidewalks—but most did not. Most just stared, hollowly or sullenly. Some even made obscene gestures, but Davril did not send his soldiers to rebuke them. Dark times had come, and it was his fault, not theirs.

  As they passed the Flying Gardens of Ibrum, screams erupted from the mounted soldiers at the front of the procession. It had grown so dark that Davril couldn’t see what the problem was, and when more screams sounded out, he called, “Hold! Draw up, men! Draw up!”

  His soldiers drew rein. The screams continued, growing louder, sounding like they came from many mouths. Then Davril smelled it: the stench of sulfur, gusting on the breeze.

  “The mists!” he cried. “They’ve come!”

  A dark, billowing cloud flooded up the street from a nearby alley, overcoming the men in the front of his procession, who were instantly obscured from sight. The black cloud approached, so near that the street-lamps illuminated it, all swirls and eddies and malevolence. When Davril’s men burst from the mist, they set on Davril’s unchanged soldiers, ripping at them and feasting on their flesh with bare hands and teeth.

  “Gods!” said General Hastus.

  Fighting the maddened men would only delay the sane men, Davril saw, giving the red mists time to overwhelm them, too.

  “Back!” Davril called. “Fall back!”

  He wheeled his chariot about and led the retreat, but even as he did misshapen wretches seized his chariot and the cart spilled, falling on his right leg. Fire filled him, and he screamed. His men took him under the arms and carried him away, at the same time performing a rearguard action to fight off the changed men.

  Davril’s leg was shattered, he discovered when they arrived back at the Palace. Broken in too many places to mend. He would never walk normally again.

  It will be worth it, he told himself—it had become a mantra—even through the agony of setting the splints. When the Patron is withered, and Qazradan is free, it will be worth it.

  The General found Davril in the Palace Baths. “Another courtier’s gone missing, my lord.”

  Davril cursed in the steaming air. “First servants, now courtiers—what’s the cause this time? Is there any indication?”

  “None can say, of course, but the shadowy figures have been reported higher and higher in the catacombs. They’ve even been seen in the Palace proper.”

  “Send out the troops again. Search every inch.”

  “I’ve already ordered it.” With a grimace, the General added, “It’s a big place, though, my lord, and there are supposedly innumerable secret passageways.”

  “With time, we’ll catch them.”

  He said it with more confidence than he felt. That n
ight, as he lay in bed with Alyssa, he muttered, half to himself, “What have I done?”

  She heard. Her eyes glistening, she said, “It’s my fault, Davi.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I asked you to save me. I shouldn’t have. I was selfish, I see that now. I was just so scared, and confused.”

  “I was the selfish one. I didn’t want to lose you. I still don’t.” He sighed and kissed her cheek. “But placing blame won’t help us.”

  “What will?”

  He didn’t answer, and an uncomfortable silence passed between them.

  “I think I’ll go check on Hariban,” she said.

  When he was alone, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it proved elusive, and the shadows around him seemed to swell. They felt cold, unnatural, and fingers of dread scratched at his throat. Then, out of the darkness at the foot of his bed, something moved forward into the light. Davril gasped.

  The shadowy figure wore Davril’s father’s face, swimming palely in the gloom.

  “Father . . . is that you?”

  In answer, the dead emperor yanked the ceremonial dagger Davril had slain him with from his chest and hurled it at the young emperor. Davril just barely dodged in time.

  “Father, forgive me!”

  “Never!” The rough, strained voice seemed to come from a half-rotted throat, but it was intelligible. The apparition lunged forward, hands outstretched to throttle. Davril reached for the dagger, closed his hand about it, and slashed it through the onrushing form—but his father was no more.

  Davril lit all the lanterns and candles in the room and searched all about. He ordered the Palace combed thoroughly, though his guards and servants muttered darkly. Even Alyssa looked at him with troubled eyes. They found nothing. Yet, unlike the red mists, the dagger did not vanish with the sunrise.