Empire of the Worm

by Conner, Jack

  Davril’s group neared a certain amphitheater, where Davril’s men wrestled the Jewel into a series of underground tunnels that connected with the Avestines’ territory. Davril’s priests and his most trusted men went with it.

  As for himself, he led the procession on, hopefully drawing any pursuers away from the Jewel. At the prearranged place, he abandoned the carriages and led his men through a series of alleys and finally into the gutters. The entrances here were too small for the Jewel, but not too small for men.

  Here, at last, surrounded by the stink and the slime, Davril felt safe.

  Chapter 15

  General Hastus hunted them relentlessly in the coming days. His troops scoured Sedremere and the surrounding countryside. He searched every nook, every shadow. At one point he even discovered a portion of the Avestines’ tunnels, though the section he broke into was far away from the Avestines’ Quarter. Still, Davril consulted with Jeselri and several tunnels were collapsed between here and there. The General’s searchers were stymied.

  Not to be deterred, Hastus interrogated citizens of the city, torturing them for information about the rebels. As an example, he hung the ragged remains up from lamp-posts throughout various cities, often with a placard about their necks reading TRAITOR, whether they had been one or not. These tactics worked against him, though; many Sedremerans, fearing the Generals’ persecution, sought refuge with the rebellion, and Davril was strained to accommodate them all. Their ability to find him both gratified and unnerved him; if they could locate his halls, then it wouldn’t be long before Hastus could, too.

  The influx had another effect. The droves of Sedremerans that sought refuge with the Avestines and rebels brought with them their religions, and Davril was bemused to see many vacant halls and rooms converted to chapels to their countless gods—and the people had much to pray for.

  Even Davril’s friend Qasan Ulesme was not immune to the temptations of faith. Qasan was one of a number of like people, adrift on the currents of the times, that gravitated to a little-known new cult: that of Octhus, God of the Night. “It’s wise to worship such a god,” Qasan told him over drinks one day. “For Night comes upon us all.” Just the same, it was better than seeing Qasan depressed.

  Tense days passed, and Davril dispatched his agents to infiltrate various organizations, and while he gathered intelligence he also coordinated with the priests. They worked constantly with the Jewel of the Sun, fashioning weapons and trying to commune with the god that may or may not slumber within it. They tried various sorceries, trying to quicken Its birth, or hatching, but nothing worked. Just as Davril had feared, the Lerumites’ arts had weakened it, perhaps permanently. Father Trisdan turned to his ancient books to see what could be done and spent many hours studying them; he even recruited the likes of the Lady and Elimhas to aid him, though Elimhas did so only grudgingly. Davril eagerly awaited any results. Like the priests, he had become convinced that the Jewel was the only way to destroy Uulos.

  “It can’t be done, I fear,” Trisdan confided to Davril one day. “We are missing key passages.”

  “Would those be in the books the Asqrites took at the same time they stole the Jewel from your order?”

  “You know about that?”

  “The Lady told me.”

  “Among my order we refer to them as the Lost Books, and it’s been our dream for hundreds of years to recover both them and the Jewel.”

  Davril nodded. “When I recruited Father Elimhas, I asked him to steal the books from their secret library in the House of Light.”

  “Dear Tiat-sumat! Did he . . . ?”

  “Sadly, no. I believe he was seen conferring with me, or perhaps his absence was noted. In any event, they were waiting for him. He barely got out with is life.”

  “The poor man. I never would have imagined.”

  “Now the Light-House is more heavily guarded than ever. It won’t be long till the Lerumites destroy it.”

  Trisdan’s face tightened. “Then we don’t have long to recover the books.”

  Davril’s spies reported to him later that day, informing him of the ever greater numbers of prisoners that the Lerumites were gathering. Soon they would have enough to bring Uulos over.

  “Amazing.”

  Davril cast a sidewise glance at her as he escorted Alyssa through his new suite. She still did not seem comfortable in his presence after what had passed between them last time, and she seemed unsure of his motives in asking her to join him today.

  “Yes,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

  He’d taken over the abandoned chambers of the former High Priest of the Avestines, and the labyrinthine suite shone with gold as Davril and Alyssa passed a grand (golden) bas-relief of a massive serpent clutching hundreds of enemies in its shimmering coils. The enemies writhed, and fire played at the serpent’s maw. A cunningly-crafted sheet of water constantly trickled over the bas-relief, and the water had been tinged with dye to appear red. Thus it seemed that a curtain of blood constantly flowed over the bas-relief. It was only one of the many marvels of the High Priest’s chambers.

  “Ah,” he said, “and here are the bedchambers ahead.”

  She stopped. “Davril . . .”

  He smiled down at her. “Alyssa,” he sighed. Hesitantly, he traced her cheek with his thumb.

  She started to flinch away, then stopped.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She turned away.

  “No,” she said.

  “But why?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes full of pain. “Hariban is between us. You put him there, not I. And Sareth, too.”

  He ground his teeth. “Damn you.”

  She narrowed her blue-green eyes, and tears spilled over her cheeks. Only then did he realize she was shaking. “Damn you,” she said. She spun away again, her shoulders hitching.

  For a moment, he just stood there. He took a deep breath and gently, very gently, placed his hands on her delicate shoulders, massaging them, then lowered his lips to kiss the top of her head.

  Instantly, she wheeled about and flung herself against him. The change startled him. Laughing, he almost fell over. She steadied him, and he stroked her back and pressed her to him. She felt so small, so light, so breakable. How could he have been so cruel to her?

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Shaking, she looked up at him. “Does this mean you’ve forgiven me?”

  Instead of answering, he kissed her.

  For a moment, she was rigid. Then she melted against him.

  The truth was that he hadn’t forgiven her. He knew he never could. Yet he could not go on hating her, either. She had meant well, that was clear, and she was still Alyssa, the girl he’d grown up with and fallen in love with long ago, back when he had been pulling her hair and teasing her. Her body felt very good against him.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said when they parted.

  She sobbed, and her hands clutched at him, squeezing his arms as if to reassure her that he truly existed. “Oh, Davril . . .”

  For a while, he held her. When he could, he led on. They passed a large arched doorway that had been bricked up; the mortar-work was still damp.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “The High Priest’s Inner Sanctum. Trust me, you don’t want to see what was in there. I’ve sealed it off so no one has to, so that hopefully we can begin to forget.”

  They passed a statue that towered high overhead. Made of black stone, it glistened sickly. Davril stared up at it, marveling at the serpent that seemed to thrust through the floor of the chamber and up . . . and it did not even end at the mouth. The maw was agape and tongues of fire shot out, a grand inferno made of reddish stone that sparkled with hints of quartz. In the center of the fire the tongues of flame took on the shapes of towers, and above these were walls and domes and minarets.

  “Amazing,” Alyssa said, and Davril smiled at the wonder in her eyes. She was like a child suddenly.

  “Yes,” he said. “
The Palace of a Hundred Venoms. It’s supposed to be the afterlife of the Serpent’s followers. The Palace has a hundred towers, each reserved for a different group. The High Priests get the highest, central towers, their immediate subordinates the next, and so on, until we get to the betrayers of the faith, who are roasted over the furnaces or dangled off the sides of the wall in iron cages to roast in the Serpent’s fires forever. Either way, it gets you a toasty spot, and you don’t have to worry about being cold for the rest of eternity.”

  She stared at him cryptically, and he laughed.

  “I’ve gotten to know a thing or two about the Avestines lately. Jeselri has been giving me an education. Now come, you must see the bedchambers.”

  After a moment, she followed.

  They passed down a high, narrow hall, through a curtain of amber beads, then into the palatial bedchambers of the former High Priest.

  Alyssa gasped. “Dear gods.”

  “Yes, but which ones?”

  Together, they stared up at the high ceiling and the elaborately carved walls, then down to the centerpiece of the room: the bed. Bed seemed an inadequate description for that massive affair of golden cushions and pillows, a vast sea of silk on which two hundred people could easily lay. Not that much sleeping had gone on on that bed, Davril thought. The High Priest had liked his orgies, that was plain. The Bed had been meant as his little paradise on earth, before he arose to those central towers. And in the very middle of the great, circular bed was another bed, a loftier one that rose over all like a little dais.

  Davril gestured to it. “That’s where I sleep.”

  Alyssa stared from it to Davril, then shook her head. “You haven’t changed, have you? You’re still a Husan.”

  “Now more than ever. I’m the only living one, remember. I have a tradition of opulence to carry on.”

  He stepped closer to the Bed, past a statue of yet another serpent. The Bed was encircled by a hundred serpents, each one with its mouth jutting outward, its tail to the bed, its body undulating. Its mouth gaped wide open, and old bloodstains could still be made out on them and the floor below.

  “During his orgies, the High Priest would have various sacrifices’ heads shoved into these statues, and the victims would writhe about, dying, stuck, while the High Priest enjoyed himself. If any of his bed partners refused a certain act, they would go to join the sacrifices.”

  Alyssa blanched. “How horrible . . .”

  Davril took her hand and led her past the statue, then onto the bed. Shuddering, she seemed to force herself to look away from the statues. Once on the bed, he made a grand gesture, sweeping his arm at the golden room with its shining chandeliers and massive bas-reliefs of serpents and orgies and battles, its rearing braziers in the shapes of serpents’ heads that would make the serpents’ mouths glow with fire when lit, and he said, “Fit for a king, is it not?”

  She turned to look up at him, and he read disapproval in her eyes. She stared at him for a long time, and he let his frivolity wither away. She relaxed. Laying her head against his chest, she said, “Oh, Davril. How I’ve missed you . . .”

  He wrapped his arms about her. Again he marveled that she felt so small and fragile. Her golden hair smelled of roses.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” he said.

  She tilted her face up, and her eyes glistened. “Davril, I—I’m so sorry, about everything.”

  “Don’t. What’s happened has happened. We must look toward tomorrow. I’ll destroy Uulos and retake Qazradan, it’s the only way, and that’s all I need to worry about.” He held her tighter.

  “And if you can’t destroy Him?”

  “Then the world will belong to the Worm, and the light will fade from the universe forever. But that won’t happen.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  With more confidence than he felt, he said, “Because I’m a Husan! I was born to be an emperor, and I will not let some thing take that away from me.”

  He kissed her.

  For a moment, she fought him. Her resistance faded, and she softened in his arms. He hefted her up and carried her to that high bed in the center of the greater bed, and there he lay her down.

  Several days later found Davril and Alyssa walking through one of the Avestines’ splendid gardens. The Avestines used systems of mirrors to light many of their warrens, and this case the sunlight was so bright as to be overwhelming. Davril had to squint as he passed the rows of flowering bushes, over the bridge that spanned a deep gorge and past a stone wall covered in flowering vines.

  “Oh, it’s so beautiful,” she said.

  Before he could agree, he heard coughing behind him and turned to find Wesrai looking chastened.

  Instantly Davril felt alarm. “What goes on?”

  Wesrai took a breath. “It’s Uulos,” he said. “His priests are moving the Black Altar.”

  “Moving it?” said Alyssa.

  “Where?” said Davril.

  “A great host of them marches from the Temple to Sraltar Square,” Wesrai told him. “They pull it on rollers and sacrifice prisoners to it with every step, greasing the way before it.”

  “Gods.”

  Wesrai looked very pale. “It’s a terrible sight, my lord. I saw it myself. The priests haul the Altar down the avenues, with their new High Priest standing atop it, singing and conducting sacrifices as they toss them up to him, and the other Lerumites sing with him, and the people gather on the terraces and slash themselves with knives and fling their blood down to the slab. After he sacrifices the victims they’re tossed before the rollers to be ground into paste . . .” He mashed his eyes shut. “It should arrive in the Square within an hour. Then the ceremony will begin.”

  Davril turned once, kissed Alyssa on the lip, and left the gardens. He followed Wesrai through the halls until he met up with the various high priests and generals in one of his conference rooms.

  “This is it,” Elimhas said, his voice sharp as ever. “They’re bringing Uulos over tonight.”

  “Under the open sky?” Davril asked. Day was just dawning, he knew by the somewhat rose-tinted light that had flooded the gardens.

  “Even now storm clouds gather over the Square,” the Lady of Behara told him. “They block out the sun.”

  “But why in the open instead of in the Temple?” It was what he had prayed for, but it still made him wary.

  “Obviously to draw us out,” said General Trius. “They want us to attack them. And they’ll be ready for us, believe me.”

  Davril nodded. “I believe you. Fortunately we won’t come anywhere near Sraltar Square, not today. ”

  “We go to the Light-House, then?” Father Trisdan asked, hopeful. When Davril nodded, the old priest smiled. “Excellent. Perhaps the Lost Books can be recovered, after all.”

  “You will keep your hands off them,” Father Elimhas snapped. “They belong to my order.”

  “Fool! You can’t even read the language they were written in.”

  “It is the Holy Language, not meant for Men to utter.”

  “It is Ancient Illisic. All the priests of Tiat-sumat are taught it. The Books are exactly what we need to quicken the Jewel.”

  “I hope so,” said the Lady. “We can’t defeat the Worm otherwise.”

  “Perhaps not,” Davril said. “But I mean to hurt him nonetheless. Father Trisdan is correct, though; our main objective is those books. Ready yourselves. We go at once.”

  Chapter 16

  In the darkness of Sraltar Square, they gathered, huddling in the chill warmth, while atop the pyramid the fish-priests sang and warbled, and the pounding of their drums rolled across the city. Drawn by the drums, the people came, in ones and twos, in dozens and scores, some in fear, some in wonder, some in worship. But however they came, they came—to witness the return of a god.

  As soon as the drumming began, in the early hours before dawn, they came. They knew what the drumming signified. For weeks, months, Uulos’s eventual return had been the subject of end
less discussion, by the residents of the city as well as the fish-priests who now led them. At every sacrifice, every day, the priest who wielded the knife promised that this death brought Uulos that much closer to returning. At the words, the people had trembled, and they trembled now even as they gathered, summoned by the singing, by the drumming, by the darkness.

  They gathered before the grand pyramid, jockeying for position, the best view, to be closest to Uulos when He returned. Not all of them wanted to be close. Many did not even want to be there. But Uulos was mighty, and his influence had spread. All those that participated in His ceremonies, in His sacrifices, fell deeper and deeper into his shadow.

  They gathered in Sraltar Square, where Lord Davril Husan had once been crowned, where so much of this woe had begun. The great, octagonal slab that was the Black Altar stood proud and hungry on the pyramid’s top, right where Davril had knelt before the three priests to receive his crown. The people gathered, and as the day dawned and the crowd grew, the Lerumites led them in prayers and songs, and in several prolonged sacrificial rituals. The sun rose bright and burning, then passed behind the storm clouds and slept. Still, the people sweated.

  The Black Altar loomed defiant. The people turned restless, then starved. Aisles were formed in the throng, aisles down which sacrifices were herded, sacrifices in the hundreds, in the thousands, in the tens of thousands, all in chains, their heads bowed, their eyes glum. The Sedremerans felt little pity for them; these were the people who had attacked and besieged Sedremere in her moment of weakness, after all—the Ctai, Ysagra and Aesinis. They had raped and slaughtered and looted. As far as the Sedremerans were concerned, they deserved what they got.

  Even so, as first one prisoner was led up the pyramid’s stairs to its top, then slaughtered over the Black Altar, then another, and another, one by one until hundreds, then thousands had been systematically dispatched—so that blood ran in rivers down the blood gutters of the ancient pyramid, the pyramid built by the Avestines long ago to honor the Serpent in this very manner before he had woken, as the bodies were thrown to the butchers and dismembered, and the meat passed around to the people, and the uneaten remains festered and stank, as the rivers of blood grew wider, the lower layers hard and sticky and foul, as the stench of death grew unbearable, and the line of sacrifices marched on, and on, led inexorably to their doom one by one—eventually the Sedremerans felt pity. Eventually, even as they were forced to eat the flesh of the sacrifices, even as they sang or chanted when bidden, even as they shouted in concert whenever a Lerumite decapitated a sacrifice, even as they outwardly rejoiced in the Old One’s return, inwardly many shriveled, and knew despair.