Empire of the Worm

by Conner, Jack

Chapter 11

  “Are you sure you would not like another glass?” Qasan Ulesme motioned toward his scantily-clad servant girl.

  Davril pursed his lips as if in thought, then smiled. “I think three is quite enough, thank you. Excellent wine, by the way—from Trian, my favorite—but I must keep my wits, if it’s not already too late.”

  “What few you have left need the protection,” Qasan agreed.

  Davril lifted his glass with its one remaining sip. “To old friends.”

  “Old friends.”

  Warm sunlight flooded the high-ceilinged room, shooting down from the ornate sun-hole above and washing in through the high windows that looked out over Sedremere. Davril enjoyed the pleasant drowsiness that was the gift of the wine, smiling as he looked about at the beautiful women in myriad stages of undress lounging on the couches and pallets all around. They lived here in Qasan’s mansion and provided him his every desire. A girl wearing only a string of gold discs about her waist and a few golden armbands and anklets waved a fan, cooling the two friends. Qasan, once the beloved of Sareth and would-be brother-in-law to Davril, was keeping himself indoors in his own mansion and out of sight of General Hastus and his new allies these days. Qasan had been a senator before the General disbanded the Senate, and it was not good to be associated with the old regime.

  With his drink still in hand, Qasan sobered quickly. “It’s frightening how swiftly they chased off the Ctai and the others.”

  “Miraculous,” Davril corrected him, earning a snort.

  Looking out a window, Davril could not even tell that war had come—and gone—from Sedremere. Vanished were the clouds of smoke and screams of panic. As soon as the General’s leadership had been announced, his pet Lerumites had mounted the walls of the city and begun their campaign to rid Sedremere of those who would destroy her. They’d caused earthquakes to swallow the besieging barbarians, lightning to blast them from the skies, had caused some individuals to simply burst apart as though having exploded from within. Others went insane and slew their mates—all feats that were now being dubbed “miracles” by the General and those that supported him.

  “One man’s miracle is another man’s nightmare,” Qasan muttered.

  “All the more reason why I need your help.”

  For a long moment, Qasan stared at Davril, and Davril did not prod him. For a month Davril had been coming to Qasan in secret, trying to solicit his aid, and for a month Qasan had brooded on it. Now it seemed he was ready to make a decision.

  Instead of answering directly, Qasan said, “You know, the other day I went to the Arena, just like in old times. Well, not quite. I disguised myself as a commoner and sat in the common areas to avoid attention from the New Nobles.” These were the ones who had flocked to the General’s banner. Davril could tell Qasan had not liked disguising himself or, for that matter, sitting with the commoners. “He still does it, you know. General Hastus. He still goes out on his elephant and runs down prisoners. Only now many of the prisoners are those who speak against Uulos. Those who speak loudest get an even worse death—public torture, then being burnt alive, right there in the Arena. Can you imagine—the Arena used like that?”

  Davril nodded slowly. His eyes never left Qasan’s. “They must not be allowed to stay in power, my friend. They must be removed.”

  “And you think this . . . resistance of yours . . . is the best way to do it?”

  “It’s the only way.”

  For a long moment, neither spoke. There was only the whisper of the fan.

  Finally, Qasan said, “No one can know.”

  Davril didn’t let himself smile. “No one will,” he said. “And your involvement will be minimal, I assure you. Your family still owns several warehouses along the River, near the Temple of Lerum?”

  “You know very well we do, Davril.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “So you need access to the warehouses? You want to store something?”

  “Not quite. But we’ll get to that later. For now it’s enough that you’ve agreed to help.”

  Qasan motioned to the serving girl, and she refilled his goblet, smiling. Davril hoped these girls were as discreet as his friend maintained; otherwise his plans could be in serious jeopardy. But Qasan would not be without them. He claimed that they provided him sanity in an otherwise insane world, and it was difficult for Davril to gainsay him.

  The former senator tossed back his drink and made a sour face. “How could I not help, Davril? How could I not? The General has openly declared his worship of the Old One.” He laughed, and there was a touch of madness in it. “He’s converted all the temples in the city to temples to Him.” He visibly shuddered. “Already the prisoners of war the Lerumites took are disappearing from the prisons.”

  “Oh?”

  Qasan rolled his eyes. “I have eyes and ears throughout the city, Davril—as you’re well aware. Anyway, we all wondered why the General ordered so many of the Ctai and Ygrassa and Aesini taken prisoner instead of simply killed.” In a lower voice, he added, “But I can guess.”

  Davril nodded. “Sacrifice.”

  “And what happens when they’re all used up? What then, Davril? Then,” he said, stabbing a finger, “he will come for innocent Sedremerans. I know it in my bones. When will it end? How many will it take to satisfy his appetite?”

  Davril held his friend’s gaze. “That is why he must be defeated.” He sighed and motioned to the serving girl, who had gone pale. “I think I will take another,” he said.

  Wesrai was waiting outside with the camels.

  “It went well, I take it?” asked the priest, reading the expression on Davril’s face.

  “He’s agreed to help.”

  “At last.” Wesrai visibly relaxed. A broad smile creased his ageless face as he assisted Davril into his saddle. “Where to, my—ah, Sir Rianon?”

  “Better,” said Davril, who now often went by various false names, among them Rianon Hyrcunis. He’d been forced to grow a beard (a wispy one, and streaked with gray) and wore a turban over his head in the style of the Ctai. The Ctai who lived in Sedremere were understandably unpopular these days, and Davril received more than a few angry glances and occasionally more than that, but it was better than being recognized.

  “I have a meeting in the Gold Quarter,” Davril said.

  Wesrai looked at him oddly. “Are you sure, Sir Rianon? Lerumites are sometimes seen dealing with the Asqrites there. They come and go at odd times.”

  “We’ll be cautious.”

  Davril prodded his camel and led the way through the crowded, colorful streets. Sedremere looked much as it had before the invasions, but the faces of the people told a different tale. Some looked wan and nervous; others moved with grim purpose. Many seemed bowed by a great weight. As Davril passed one of the converted temples, he glanced within to see rows of people bowing before a twisted statue of Uulos, all tentacles and mouths. There was something alive moving on the black slab before it, alive and bleeding. The sacrifices were sometimes very slow, Davril knew; Uulos fed not just on blood and souls, but fear and pain, as well. Davril had to look away.

  “How can it have come to this?” Wesrai muttered, his mind running parallel to Davril’s.

  “The General didn’t give the people much choice,” Davril reminded him.

  Immediately after seizing power, General Hastus had begun converting the temples and chapels, and he and his followers (of which there were a surprising number, the fish-priests evidently having visited many, mostly from the aristocracy, before they made their move) had claimed to have had visions in their dreams proclaiming the glory of the One True God. Overnight prophets of Uulos had sprung up all over, and they had prowled the streets preaching of the Old One’s return and eminent triumph.

  Uulos was clever, Davril had to admit. His agents had waited until many Sedremerans had begun attending his temples before unleashing the first of the “miracles” —- saying that Uulos would only save the city if the people tur
ned to him for guidance—and this had in turn fueled more waves of converts. By the time the besieging armies had been driven off or captured, most of the people in the city regularly attended the many Uuloson temples. And at every one, every day, there was a sacrifice.

  As for the people that refused to worship the Old One, Davril had no doubt that they were being watched and numbered, and that when the General’s supply of prisoners of war were used up, they would be the first Sedremerans to find their way to an altar. Already those that actively spoke against the Worm were meeting bad ends, as evidenced by those tortured and burned alive in the Arena.

  Davril wended his way through the curving, labyrinthine streets, at last coming to the Gate of Gold and, after supplying false documentation, was admitted to the Gold Quarter. Wesrai looked about apprehensively.

  “We’ll be all right,” Davril said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “How can you not? You’re a man of faith.”

  “My god is far away, my—Sir Rianon. And now with the Old One’s coming, I can’t even feel the presence of the Fire. The Light. I am completely cut off from it.”

  “You’re not alone,” Davril said. Then, remembering his recent spate of dreams: “I wish I were cut off from my god . . .”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “Nothing. Here we are.” Davril stopped his camel not for from a certain café. He allowed Wesrai to assist him down from his mount, then gave the reins to the priest and said, “I won’t be long. Stay here and out of sight. I don’t want my dinner guest to see any more of our operation than he has to.”

  Using his cane, Davril hobbled to the café, where many people sat at the street-tables enjoying wine, beef chips and spicy pila bread, as well as flavorful goat cheese, grapes and perfectly soured dates. Davril’s companion waited for him at a table for two under a canvas shade, as far from the street as he could get. He too had come disguised, wearing a stained white travel cloak with its hood up. Davril had to smile at that; his guest probably attracted more attention than he evaded.

  “Well met,” said the man, whose cowl shadowed his features.

  “Well met,” Davril agreed, bowing his head slightly. He took his seat and poured himself yet another glass of wine from the jug on the table. He took small sips, his head still swimming from his visit with Qasan. “Exquisite,” he said.

  “It should be. I ordered the most expensive thing they had. You’re buying.”

  Davril sighed. Why were clergymen always so miserly? His guest certainly had no reason to be.

  Father Elimhas dipped a sesame mutton chip into a sweet, tangy sauce and munched on it thoughtfully. “I almost didn’t come,” he said.

  “I know how difficult it is for you.”

  “I would be killed if they found me.”

  Davril smiled ruefully. “I would be lucky if they just killed me.”

  “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. I thought you would stop trying to contact me after your first pigeon never returned. You are persistent.”

  “I’m sure the population of trained pigeons in the area is less impressed by that than you.”

  “What I’m impressed by is that you’d try so hard to win the support of one who betrayed you.”

  Davril rolled a shoulder. “You thought you had no choice. You had to give the Jewel up to the Lerumites. I think I understand that much. And you were probably right. Anyway, I had an idea you would see reason, once the armies had gone, once the Uuloson temples started to take over.”

  Father Elimhas nodded gravely. “You needn’t be coy. I’m all too aware that my little church may be next.” He smiled bitterly. “Actually, that’s not quite true. I am fairly certain it will be last. It’s too big, too strong, and too much a symbol of the city. Were the Light-House to be converted before the populace is ready, the people might well turn on the Uulosons.” He drained his glass and poured another. His aged hands trembled. “Alas, I think we’re almost there. Even my own flock is turning.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes, and it is not simply the ‘miracles’ of the Lerumites, or the fear of invasion, or even public pressure. They report to having strange dreams, sensations . . .”

  Davril winced. “Uulos is growing strong. Sending out his will. His Altar is here, right in the middle of the city, and he can call out from it. So all the priests in my group have told me.”

  Father Elimhas’s look was troubled. “It must be so.”

  “His foothold on our world is gaining. The door is opening. We must do something, and quickly, before he returns in the flesh.”

  “And you think that because I aided him in gaining that foothold, that my guilt will sway me to your side? Hardly.”

  Davril was starting to lose his patience. “If not guilt, then at least a sense of duty—of decency. For pity’s sake, you’re a man of Asqrit!”

  Father Elimhas’s eyes narrowed. They were bright and sharp in his liver-spotted face. “My guilt is lesser than you think. As you yourself just said, I merely did what I thought necessary, and I am still unconvinced that I acted wrongly. The time of the Worm has come. We’d better be by his side than in his way.”

  “Let’s be frank, Father. You won’t live long enough to enjoy being by his side for long. Why struggle so hard to betray everything you’ve worked for all your life?”

  When Elimhas spoke, it was almost a whine: “Why would you trust me anyway? I’ve already betrayed the realm once.”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Now will you help me?”

  Father Elimhas looked hard at Davril, then glanced around nervously at the other people in the café. It was entirely possible that agents of the Enemy were watching them even then. Davril waited.

  Father Elimhas leaned back, and his face fell into shadow once more. “It depends,” he said. “What would you ask me to do?”

  Wesrai looked up nervously when Davril returned.

  “Let us hurry home,” the priest said, face tight. “The sun’s almost down, and it’s not good to be out at night.” That was when the Old One was strongest, and the Lerumites roamed the streets in droves.”

  Davril swung himself awkwardly astride his camel, then ordered it to stand, but he did not set off.

  Pained, Wesrai said, “What is it, sir?”

  Davril turned his gaze on the red riot of spires and domes that was the Palace, looming over all, a constant reminder of the power and glory of the Empire, though now it was dark and empty.

  Almost.

  Wesrai stared at Davril in confusion. Then comprehension dawned. “No, master,” he whispered. “Do not think it! That place is haunted. I’ve heard tales . . .”

  Curious, Davril asked, “What have you heard?”

  “Many have gone there over the last month. To loot, to steal, some to live, but they did not return.” He stared hard into Davril’s eyes. “None of them. People say . . . people say there is something evil there, something horrible. It was there before the armies came, before the Old One came. It fed on servants, then courtiers, now it feeds on looters and squatters—and it is always hungry.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  Wesrai waited for him to tell more, but Davril did not feel like sharing. Still, it was good to know that his father and brothers had not vanished with the retreat of their Masters. The dreams had not left Davril. It had started out with one or two a week, but now it was almost every night, sometimes more than once. He dreamt of the strange city beyond the Altar, of colors and songs . . .

  “My lord?”

  Most of all, the songs . . .

  “My lord?”

  Davril shook himself. “I’m sorry, Wesrai. There are answers I must have.”

  “Y-you cannot mean to go to the Palace—at night! It’s madness!”

  “Then I am mad.”

  “Sir!”

  Davril clapped Wesrai on the shoulder. “Return to the homestead. Inform everyone I’ll be back shortly.”

  Wesrai gazed at him
with wide eyes. For a long moment, he seemed on the point of nodding eagerly and bolting, then he summoned strength. His chin firmed and he straightened his back.

  “I go where you go, sir.”

  With a sigh, Davril set off toward the Palace. Night fell black and heavy, and somewhere off in the distance came the screeches and warblings from one of the rituals of the Lerumites. Davril passed through the city, noting the order that Uulos had brought to it and hating what it represented: the growing domination of the Worm. Worse, he was aware that many in Sedremere were actually grateful to Uulos and his thralls. As if he had done them a service.

  Davril reached the mountain the Palace was set atop and rode up the spiraling roads, past the walls and mansions. This had been the home of much of Sedremere’s aristocracy, but now, with the dark terrors that dwelt in the Palace, most had fled their homes, no matter how grand or beautiful. And what squatters had come to occupy them had perished or been driven out, or driven mad. Not even guards were left to man the series of walls that safeguarded the Palace. All was deserted, and a hushed, fearful shadow lay over all.

  “The Mountain of Shadows, they’re calling it,” Wesrai informed him as they passed under an archway.

  “I can see why. I suppose it’s only a matter of time before Uulos orders the Palace burnt.”

  On the other hand, Davril wondered if Uulos feared the presence of the Deep Ones. Surely he could feel their echoes lingering here. And they had all but destroyed the Worm once. Perhaps some of that old fear remained.

  Davril entered the courtyard before the Palace. Here the fountain rose, and in normal times water would be cascading over the long string of metal fish, which would shimmer in the sun and look like they were actually swimming, all in a great gleaming school, and one could imagine the water rippling, the play of light in the depths . . .

  No water ran. The fountain looked strange and sad, the string of fish arcing pitifully into the air, dry and awkward, covered in bird offal.

  The Palace—beautiful, crimson and golden—soared high and proud, as majestic as ever. Seeing it, being in its shadow, Davril felt warm. Despite himself, he smiled. Home.