Empire of the Worm

by Conner, Jack

  The Asqrit compound, located on the rocky beach to the southwest, encircled verdant grounds filled with gardens and gazebos, and in the midst of it all rose the fabled Light-House, splendid and ancient. At its top a strange red light burned at night, letting ships know where the shore lay.

  It served another function, too, though Davril had only read about it. Supposedly, during attack from the sea, the priests of Asqrit would intensify the beam at the top of the Light-House so that its lance of illumination would actually burn enemy ships. Some said this was done with mirrors, or lenses that harnessed the light of the sun; some said it had never really happened but was a myth fabricated by the priests for their own glorification; and still others (most notably the priests) maintained the light was divinely caused, that Asqrit Himself, the Great Phoenix, personally directed His might, through the abilities of the priests, to destroy Qazradan’s enemies.

  Whatever the case, Davril had always dreamed of ascending to the highest chamber and viewing for himself whatever apparatus caused the lethal beam of light, but unfortunately the priests only allowed members of their order to view the miracle.

  Occasionally they would admit an emperor, however. Davril had several times asked his father if he’d seen the chamber at the top of the House of Light, and the Emperor had merely winked and said, “The Jewel of the Sun, my boy. The Jewel of the Sun.” Whether he’d said this in jest or not, Davril didn’t know.

  But if he had told the truth . . .

  In any event, Davril stared up at the tower as he rode through the gateway and into the lush grounds of the compound. The Order of the Golden Plumage maintained an admirable garden, and he could not resist plucking one of the ripe red apples that grew in profusion as he made his way along. He bit into it, savoring the sweet juices, and smiled as priests admitted him into the ground floor of the Light-House. Great windows flooded the immense chapel in radiance, and as Davril’s eyes adjusted he saw the sea through the high windows, the blue foaming and breaking against the rocks below.

  “Beautiful, is it not?”

  Davril turned to find Father Elimhas, the High Priest of Asqrit, smiling and nodding.

  “Quite,” Davril said.

  “We’re truly blessed.” Elimhas was an old man, and plump, but there was something cadaverous about his face, which was wrinkled, the skin hanging in course, sagging folds, and covered in spots and errant hairs. “But you didn’t come to discuss the view.”

  “No.”

  Elimhas walked toward a rear door, and Davril followed. Silently, the priest led him out onto the curving terrace that spiraled about the outside of the Light-House. The wind blasted Davril, cold and wet off the sea, but invigorating.

  “I need to know about Subn-ongath,” Davril said bluntly. “I need counsel in the ways of the gods.”

  Elimhas stared at him with his gray-blue, watery eyes, wind whipping his short gray hair. “And you think I know?”

  “Don’t play with me, Father. My family’s worshipped It—for eons, perhaps—and for most of that time they’ve professed to serve Asqrit. You priests perpetuated the fraud, but you had to know. Had to.”

  The High Priest pressed his lips together. “A god-thing I would call it,” he said. “A demon, perhaps. Not a true god. A demon creature from another . . . well, place.”

  “God-thing, then,” Davril said, relieved that Elimhas had ceased dissembling. “How do I destroy it?”

  They had stopped in their walk, but now Elimhas resumed walking, treading carefully. The foam on the sea had coated the walkway in a layer of slaver, at least on the lower levels, and with the moisture and the wind it was treacherous going, especially for one so old.

  “Why have you come here?” Elimhas asked warily.

  Davril returned his look sternly. “You know why.”

  Elimhas sighed. “You cannot have it.”

  “So it’s true, then. The Jewel of the Sun. It does exist.” When Elimhas did not answer, Davril continued, “But I’ve been led to believe that you allow emperors access to it, and I’m an emperor. I demand to see it.”

  “You demand?” Elimhas arched his eyebrows. “You may be a king of men, boy, but my province is gods. The rights of the priesthood are recognized by the realm.”

  “I am the realm.”

  “Insolence!”

  Davril forced himself to take a deep breath, then to let it out before he spoke again. “I need all the help I can get in fighting this . . . this thing, Father. And if the Jewel truly is god-given—well, Father, surely even you see the need for Subn-ongath’s removal.”

  “Our realm has prospered for eons, even with your Patron’s presence—indeed, though it pains me to say it, because of it.”

  “Then you favor this thing?”

  “Of course not!”

  “But—”

  Elimhas shook his cane in front of Davril’s nose. “It’s an abomination! A horror! I rue the day your forefathers made their bargain with it. Oh, I know all about it, young Lord Husan, yes I do, of course I do. About It and the Circle it is a part of. Knowledge of the bargain has been preserved and passed down among the Order for countless generations. But we’ve tolerated it. Tolerated, and grown complacent with the prosperity that was the fruit of that pact.”

  “Why did you tolerate such a thing?”

  Angrily, Elimhas gestured with his cane—pointing at something inland. Davril squinted, trying to see what it was he pointed at. When he saw it, Davril narrowed his eyes. The Temple of Lerum, grand and mysterious, sitting in its own compound at the source of the Lerum River to the northeast.

  “The Lerumites,” he said. “What about them?”

  “They’re the true evil,” Elimhas said, and there was hate but also fear in his voice. “Them, and the Thing they serve. Beware them, Davril. Beware the fish-priests of Lerum.”

  “What do they have to do with Subn-ongath?”

  “Subn-ongath and the others in his Circle, they keep the Lerumites’ god at bay.”

  His father had said much the same thing, that the Patron was protection against the Worm. But could that mean the god of the Lerumites was Uulos? It seemed too horrible to believe.

  “So their deity—the Lerumites—it is a god?” he said.

  Elimhas looked at him bleakly. “Yes. Yes, he is. And he is coming. And you’ve already guessed which god, haven’t you?”

  Davril’s voice only hardened. “And you won’t allow me to use the Jewel of the Sun to fight him?”

  Suddenly, the old priest looked tired. “I would, boy. Of course I would. But at the moment the thing is useless, at least for such purposes. That knowledge is lost.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We lack the ability to read the rites that could make the Jewel into a weapon against Him. For the moment it’s a glorified paperweight, Asqrit forgive me for saying so. So nurture your Subn-ongath, Davril. Feed him. With your own flesh, if you have to, or your wife’s, or your infant child’s if need be. Keep him and his brethren strong, and he and his Circle will protect us against the coming night. For He does come, Davril. He comes.”

  Chapter 4

  “Isn’t this amazing?” Alyssa asked.

  She and Davril strolled through the gardens of the Tower of Peace, arm in arm. For the moment, for one single, quiet moment, they were alone and at rest, with Sareth watching the baby. Alyssa laid her head on Davril’s arm, and he had to walk slowly, for his leg pained him, though he used the cane.

  Alyssa stopped and smelled the bloom from a pink rose bush. “Mmmm.”

  Flowers exploded all around, a riot of artful colors and intoxicating smells. The Tower of Peace was the second-highest spire of the Palace, each level an overwhelming garden that only became more wondrous as one ascended, and they were currently at the penultimate stage.

  “This is lovely,” he said, drowsy. “Like a dream.”

  She picked the rose and carried it with her. “Yes,” she said. Then, sadly, “Yes.”

  More th
an a year and a half had passed since that night at the Altar, and in that time Davril had watched his empire, the grand realm of Qazradan, that shining empire that had stood and prospered for thousands of years, come crashing down about him. The deadly mists had returned for good. This time they didn’t dissipate during daylight but remained and slew or drove mad all those they touched. Half-seen monsters carried off grown men and women, and tortured screaming could be heard constantly throughout the city, even from Davril’s lofty perches. The mountain the Palace was set on quaked. Burning rain flung down, killing and disfiguring. The ground split and swallowed scores of people at a time. Noxious, phosphorescent vapors issued forth, and strange shapes could be seen in it. What was worse, these phenomena were not exclusive to Sedremere. They and the like arrived in every single city and town in far-flung Qazradan.

  The empire’s multitude of enemies had learned of her weakness, and barbarian hordes from the icy north and the exotic east had begun assailing her outskirts. With every month, they’d driven closer and closer to Sedremere herself. Riots had turned into outright revolts, and many of Qazradan’s territories had broken away. Some banded together, some warred amongst themselves, but one and all had turned against Sedremere. Against Davril.

  He had been shocked at the speed with which the empire unraveled. It had taken thousands of years to build, yet only a matter of months to fall apart. But fall apart it did, and all too soon Sedremere stood alone, the last city of the empire—no, it had become the empire—and a thousand slavering wolves surrounded it.

  He and Alyssa strolled through the Tower of Peace, trying to enjoy being alone with each other for a brief moment while they could, before the end came round at last.

  Sharing a strange silence, they walked onto a terrace, past cascading trellises interwoven with scarlet blooms. The setting sun winked on the spires and domes of the city, seeming to caress the tiered levels of the Tower of Behara off to the east. To the west, along the shore, he could just see the pinprick of light in the top chamber of the House of Light. Was the fabled Jewel of the Sun truly there, the foundation upon which all the sects of the Flame had been built? Davril didn’t know what it was, not exactly, but all the sects agreed it was a thing of the gods, and if that was true perhaps it could help him fight gods, as well.

  “So beautiful,” Davril said. His eyes strayed to the campfires of the nearest besieging army, the wolf-skin-clad barbarians from the icy north, the Aesinis. A thousand different clans of the war-like people, who previously had been at each other’s throats, had gathered to sack Sedremere—though why anyone would want to take the cursed city was beyond him. “So doomed.”

  “Not necessarily,” she said.

  He looked at her. There was something strange about her today. Her eyes were a little too bright, her smile a little too knowing.

  “How do you mean?” he asked.

  “There is a way to save Qazradan.”

  “If you know a way, please, tell me.”

  She hesitated, biting her lip cutely, though how she could be coy at a time like this he couldn’t fathom. “I’ve heard that the fish-priests of Lerum serve an old god, one that might help us,” she said.

  He grimaced. “They would be the last group I’d seek assistance from. Still, I’ve sent your father to petition all the cults of the city for help. Even them. They refused.”

  “The time was not right yet, the Circle too strong.” Before he could ask her what she meant, or how she had heard that term, she looked at him seriously. “I’m of the River Families, or have you forgotten? I know more of the Lerumites than you. There’s nothing to fear from them, my love.”

  “Except the thing they serve.”

  “You disparage the god of the Lerumites?”

  She was acting so . . . odd. He rubbed her shoulder, soothingly.

  “They are . . . not human,” he said, as kindly as he could. “Any god they serve is no ally of ours.”

  “But He could be. The time is right. Before, the Great One slept, and His Circle ruled. Now the Betrayers are weak, and the blood of Asragot has revived Him. He sleeps no more.”

  He is coming, Elimhas had said. Davril stared at her. “Alyssa, I don’t understand—”

  “You don’t need to. All you need to do is to decide—to join the Lerumites in the Service of the Great One—or not.”

  He hesitated, thinking many thoughts at once. “I’ve had enough of gods,” he said. “Now—” He started to reach for her again.

  “Then you have made your choice,” she said.

  He almost didn’t see it coming. But she had been behaving so strangely that his guard had been raised, so when he detected the glitter of silver he flung himself backward.

  Howling, her face a livid mask, she slashed her dagger at him again, almost disemboweling him. Where had she been hiding it?

  He flung himself back, striking the railing of the terrace. He almost lost his balance to topple hundreds of feet to his death. His arms flailed, his toes fought for purchase . . .

  She thrust at his belly.

  He caught her wrist. Shoved it to the side. She was strong. Unnaturally so.

  His eyes locked with her. “Dear gods!”

  Her eyes were huge and utterly black, without pupils, like those of a shark.

  With his free hand, he punched her in the nose. Something cracked. Blood spurted. She reeled back, a gargling cry at her lips. She no longer sounded human.

  A trickle of ice coursed down his spine, but he didn’t stop, didn’t give in to the fear. He lunged forward, one hand still gripping her knife-wrist, and smashed her face again, telling himself that this wasn’t Alyssa, it couldn’t be Alyssa.

  It was no longer her face. It was changing, even as he watched, becoming gray and slick, with fish-like scales and a round, gaping hole of a mouth, lined with many sharp, irregularly-spaced teeth, rows and rows.

  His fist landed, he felt another satisfying crunch, then the thing was snapping at him—lurching, biting. Its free hand (fingers webbed), tipped with claws, slashed at his face.

  He let go his hold on its knife-wrist and ducked. Claws raked his side. He leapt away, landing on his back indoors. The thorns of a climbing rose pricked his shoulder blades.

  The thing that he’d thought to be Alyssa loomed in the doorway, framed against the setting sun.

  “Why?” he asked, knowing as he did just what manner of thing he addressed. It could be nothing else than a fish-priest of Lerum.

  “Only you could have changed things,” it said, using its real voice, gargled and watery. “Only you could have reversed the coming of the Old One. I gave you the chance of aiding His Arrival, but you refused.”

  It flew at him. He rolled aside. Sparks flashed as the knife struck stone.

  Davril grabbed a coil of thorny vine and twisted it about the fish-priest’s neck. It screeched and thrashed. The knife flashed at him, catching his arm.

  He crawled across the floor. Grabbed the shaft of his gold-inlaid cane. Swiveled. Just in time. The Lerumite tore itself loose of the vine. Lunged.

  Davril swung. His blow struck the creature square in the head. Crunch. A shock ran up his arm. The thing dropped to the ground. Still it moved, mewling, waving its arms and legs pitifully.

  Swearing, Davril hauled himself to his feet, then dragged the monstrous body to the terrace. He hefted his would-be-assassin up, leaned it half over the balustrade, out over the abyss.

  “Alyssa,” he gasped. “Where is she?”

  It spat cold, gray-blue blood in his face.

  He pitched it over the side. Wordlessly, without a sound, it fell, dwindling into the distance until it struck the roof of the Palace far below.

  Breathing heavily, he watched its body for a long time, but it didn’t move. What could it mean? he asked himself. What are the Lerumites up to?

  He retrieved his cane and hobbled inside, down the Tower of Peace, through its myriad gardens, and finally met up with his retainers at the base. A soldier ran up
to them, frantic, wild-eyed.

  “The Empress!” he cried. “The Empress Alyssa has been found, struck over the head and locked in a closet.”

  “Does she live, man?” Davril demanded.

  Breathlessly, the solder nodded.

  “Take me to her.”

  Alyssa was in the royal apartment atop the Emperor’s Tower, the highest spire of the Palace. A bandage wrapped her head, but the wound was minor. A nurse gave her a bitter broth, and she made a face as she forced it down. Sareth tended to her, bringing her a blanket to wrap herself in and a sprig of parsley to freshen her mouth after the broth. Eventually the nurse left, then Sareth too, leaving Davril, Alyssa and their son Hariban alone.

  Davril massaged her shoulders and gently kissed her wounded head. “Thank Asqrit,” he said. “For a moment I thought you were dead.”

  She rubbed her arm where the fish-priest’s teeth had left a mark. “It itches,” she said. “The nurse put something on it, but still.”

  He hadn’t known the fish-priests could assume another’s shape, and he certainly had not known that they required the blood of their victim first. He wished his army was not busy repelling the invaders or he’d send them to sack the Temple of Lerum.

  “It’ll fade,” he assured her.

  With a heavy heart, he strode out to his balcony and surveyed once-magnificent Sedremere. Beyond a series of high encircling walls blazed the campfires of the three besieging armies. He pondered the Lerumite’s words, that only he could set things right.

  The terrible thing was that he knew how. The truth was that he had known all along.

  He closed his eyes. The time has come. If there was a way, he would do it and be proud. And yet . . . He was almost there. If Davril could rob Subn-ongath of sacrifices for just a bit more, the Thing might die, and his brethren, what Elimhas had called the Circle, with him. Davril had been willing to brave their wrath, as he’d known it could only be a temporary thing. At last they would fade, and the Empire could begin rebuilding. Those who had died had done so to ensure a Qazradan freed of the yoke of Subn-ongath and his ilk. But they were too strong, their vengeance too brutal. Davril must appease them in the only manner he could.