Empire of the Worm

by Conner, Jack

  The guise of the guard sloughed away. The skin color changed slightly, the build grew taller, but more finely-boned; the face became young and handsome, crowned by curly red-gold hair. Clear blue eyes gazed out from the familiar face.

  “No . . .” said Davril.

  The other Davril turned to Hiera, the Lady of Asragot. “Am I convincing, my Lady?”

  “You are. Now go.”

  The Davril-thing bowed and left the room. Davril blinked dumbly after him. What did the creature intend to do?

  The Lady of Asragot nodded to the other guard, who pulled a few levers, and Davril tumbled to the floor in a limp wet heat, striking his jaw. He barely noticed it. He felt the click as his manacles were unshackled, and he tried to swat at his captors, but they just laughed. At last he flipped himself over, feeling like a fish gasping for air, and stared up at the Lady, framed by all the endless rows of thorns above.

  “What . . . the other . . . ?”

  “He goes to fetch the key.”

  “But I never . . .”

  Her smile turned pityingly. “You don’t even remember, do you? I’ve seen it before. At the last, speaking is just an animal reaction, an unavoidable reflex to preserve life. Some aren’t even aware of it afterward. No matter.” She held her slim little blade again, and Davril’s blood dripped from it onto his mutilated chest. He only had one nipple now, and almost idly he wondered where it had gone.

  She fingered her sword, staring down at him. “A shame to waste you. An emperor would make a worthy sacrifice to the Great One. Yet I dare not let you live that long. You’ve proven yourself a menace, and not without resources.”

  She nodded to the remaining guard, and it grabbed Davril by the ankle. Unemotionally, the Lerumite hauled Davril over toward the black hole of the Serpent’s gullet.

  “No!” Davril said.

  “Farewell, Lord Husan,” called the Lady.

  Davril swatted at the guard, who ignored him. The Lerumite hauled him downslope, into bowed section where the floor imitated the curves of a serpent’s mouth.

  “No . . .”

  The hole loomed wider, darker. He fancied he could smell the reek of rotting bodies still emanating from it. Where did it go? How many had gone down it before him?

  Desperately, he turned to the Lady of Asragot, who was watching him with disinterest. “Where’s Alyssa?” he demanded. “What have you done with her?”

  Then they were at the hole. The guard contrived to swing him in by the ankle. Using his last once of strength, Davril curled up, clutched the guard by the outstretched hand, and jerked with all his might. The guard had been slightly off balance due to the curved floor, and now he toppled over, taking Davril with him. Together, in grim silence, they fell into the gullet of the Serpent.

  Chapter 18

  Davril cracked his skull on the pipe. Bit his lip. Tasted blood. Was hardly aware of it.

  The body of the Lerumite fell on top of him, crushing him against the inner wall of the pipe. Flesh scraped off his back, and blood ran between his shoulder blades. Down they tumbled, grappling with each other in the dark. The stench of death rose about them, thick and cloying. Davril had not imagined it, after all.

  He balled his right hand into a fist and smashed it into the gut of the Lerumite. A rush of air escaped the creature’s lips. Its cold, slimy hands—it has eschewed its human guise—wrapped around his throat. Squeezed. Davril struggled for air, could not find it. Pins and needles filled his chest.

  He smashed his fists again and again into his opponent, and gradually the fingers around his throat loosened. Not enough.

  They fell, crashing down the twists and turns of the pipe. Several times the body of the Lerumite crushed Davril up against the curved, crusted wall, driving from him what little breath remained, or smashing his head against the metal or stone. Stars and flashes wheeled in his vision, though everything else was black. The only noises he heard were the echoes of bodies striking metal and the sharp rasps of their grunts. The stench of rotting corpses elicited bile from the back of his throat. Often he rolled over greasy spots that must be old flesh, and several times he and his foe smashed through brittle things that must be old bones, and twice they broke through some wet, mushy thing that must be newer remains.

  At last they crashed into a slimy, yielding heap, the stench of which brought tears to Davril’s eyes. He felt the ruins of partially liquefied bodies under him. All around him. He and the Lerumite had come against a partial obstruction in the pipe, bodies heaped on bodies. And, somewhere in the background, came the soft gurgle of water.

  Against the dam of corpses, Davril and the Lerumite fought until at last Davril’s bleeding fists pummeled the resistance from the Lerumite. It slumped back, breathing raggedly and releasing its hold of Davril’s throat. Davril collapsed backward, feeling a ribcage snap and mush under him. Ooze slimed around his backside. This time the smell came even closer to making him pass out.

  There was a draft though—a faint, vague draft—and the soft gurgle of water . . .

  All else was blackness.

  He heard the shuffling of the Lerumite trying to rise and knew he must act quickly. He was so exhausted that part of him wanted to just let the Lerumite do what it would.

  He reached around him to the shattered ribcage. Rotting, half-dissolved flesh still clung to the bones, and he had to wrestle to snap off a rib, but he did. Then, using all his strength, he rose, staggered forward, and half-collapsed atop the stirring Lerumite, who had apparently slipped and fallen back down, judging from the squelching sounds Davril used to guide himself. Quick exploration found the thing’s throat. It squirmed, and he cooed to it to be quiet and still. Almost gently, he inserted the jagged end of the rib into its throat, shoved it in, and leaned back and forth, back and forth, trying to break the jugular. The creature thrashed and mewled under him. Its fists beat him, but it grew weaker with every strike. Finally cold blood sprayed Davril’s face. The creature went limp.

  Davril panted in exhaustion, surrounded by death. His gasps came fast and shallow, and sparks wheeled in his vision. After a minute, though, the sparks faded and his breaths came easier.

  Blackness surrounded him—plus the stench of rotting (human, dear gods) meat and offal. Without mortal combat to distract him, his eyes watered, bile rose in his throat, and he vomited on the floor beside him. After, his stomach ached and spasmed, and he spat to get rid of the taste. How had it come to this? The emperor of the mightiest realm in history, mutilated and flayed alive and cast into a pit?

  Too weak to crawl away, he set about exploring his surrounds by groping blindly with his fingers. He found the end of the dam of bodies, and then, to his surprise, the lip of the pipe. Just feet away from where he’d slain the Lerumite the Serpent’s throat ended, and there was space . . . vast, echoing space. The stomach, I suppose. He shouted into it, and the echoes reverberated forever. Below him, far below, water ran, gurgling sluggishly.

  A black lake. The Serpent’s gullet dumped the High Priest’s victims into a subterranean lake.

  Experimentally, he shoved one of the bodies out. It tumbled and spun, he could hear the whistle of air as the body parted it, hear its ragged clothes flap in the wind. He waited. At last he heard the splash. There was no magic, there was no fell god waiting down here to devour the bodies. Unless, of course, it waited in the lake . . .

  Davril edged away.

  For a while, he rested. When he was able, he crawled up the pipe, slowly and torturously. At intervals he found small round holes in the wall. Water-pipes, he thought. To flush out the bodies periodically. But the High Priest had been dead and his flock scattered, and no one had been around to pull the levers. Thank the gods, Davril thought. If not for the dam, he and the Lerumite would have personally found out if the Serpent visited the lake.

  He pressed on, desperate to reach the opening. He imagined the Davril imposter and shuddered. Even now the Lerumites could have their slimy hands on the Jewel.

  F
requently his hands felt bodies and body parts around him, but at last he came across a form different from the others.

  It was warm.

  Shocked, he drew back. When the body didn’t attack him, he felt it again, more carefully. It was the body of a girl, he decided, young and unclothed, covered in filth from the tunnels. Her breasts rose and fell, and breath came from her mouth.

  Emotion rose in him. It’s not her. It can’t be her.

  He shook her, gently. She didn’t respond. He shook her more firmly.

  He held his breath.

  Finally, she murmured something. He let out the breath. It sounded like her.

  She murmured but did not waken. He ran his hands over her body, trying to find some wound, and at last touched her head. She cried out. Blood caked her hair.

  No, he thought. Surely I haven’t found her in this hell only to lose her now.

  He would have to carry her out of here. There was no other way. The problem was that he had no strength; he’d lost a great deal of blood, and flesh, and had vomited up what sustenance his body had left to it.

  But there was nothing for it. He rose to a crouch and hefted the warm body of Alyssa over his shoulder, straining with all his might and almost surprised when he did it successfully. She neither protested nor helped as he carried her through the darkness, up around the bends, slipping on greasy spots, entangling his feet in fetid guts, and tripping on a flesh-covered skull, until finally he beheld a faint grayness ahead. With renewed intensity, he pressed forward. With the weight over his shoulders, his leg pained him even more than usual, and he cried out, but after what seemed like days he flung Alyssa as gently as he could over the rim of the Serpent’s gullet into the High Priest’s private sanctum, then dragged himself up behind, his arms trembling.

  The light seared his retinas. He blinked, gradually able to see. Little light remained, only the fading embers left in the two serpent-shaped braziers. The eyes and maws of the snakes still glowed with fire, but it was a ghostly fire.

  The Lady was gone. All that remained of their encounter was Davril’s pool of blood and bits of flesh under the protrusion he’d dangled from. He winced. Had he truly betrayed the location of the key?

  At least he’d found Alyssa, and he was her, he was sure. A sigh escaped him. She looked so peaceful, so beautiful, even with the slight bump on her head. Her lip was puffy, and there were bruises on her arm. The Lerumites had not been gentle. Hopefully handling her roughly had been all they’d done.

  He sat beside her, exhausted from his labors, his leg throbbing, and suddenly her eyelids fluttered, revealing a flash of blue-green. She gazed unseeing for a time, then settled on Davril’s face.

  “Davril!”

  He smiled. “Alyssa . . .”

  Gently, too gently, as if she were afraid he might break, she sat up and cupped his bloody cheek in her hand. “What did they do to you?” Her voice was horror-stricken. Her eyes roved up and down his body, and he saw terror there. Pity. From somewhere, though, she found resolve and composed herself.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “I don’t remember it all. But I think I did a terrible thing.”

  She cradled his head in her hands. “It will be all right,” she promised. “It will, I swear.”

  He staggered to his feet. “We’ve got to leave,” he said. “I can walk now. They have the key to the room holding the Jewel. And they have me—or at least a fish-priest that looks like me.”

  “We can’t let them have the Jewel,” she said, rising.

  And he thought, Can’t we?

  As they hastily dressed and departed the High Priest’s suite, Alyssa explained how she had wound up in the gullet. Apparently the Lady of Asragot and her accomplices had entered the suite through passages unknown to either Davril or Alyssa; Alyssa speculated that the Lerumites had been closer allies to the Avestines than any had previously supposed, and that the fish-priest’s highest agents would from time to time visit with the High Priest of Sythang, possibly to partake of his sacrificial rituals and orgies.

  At any rate, the Lady had surprised Alyssa and her guards; the Lady’s fish-priests had easily slain the men, but not before obtaining a mouthful of their blood so that they could take their forms. The Lady spoke to them in the tongue of the Lerumites, and the fish-priests dragged Alyssa into the inner sanctum after removing its seals. What they wanted of her Alyssa couldn’t say. Perhaps they meant to rape or torture her. Davril thought it likely the Lady had wanted to use her against him, to threaten him with her death and mutilation if he didn’t tell her where the key was. In any event, Alyssa had wrestled one of their knives away and slashed one across the side. It had struck her, sending her down the gullet, where she’d struck her head. The next thing she knew she had looked up into Davril’s blood-covered face.

  “You should rest,” she said as he strapped on his sandals. “You’re in no shape to go anywhere. You’ll only tear open the wounds.”

  “So be it.” He thrust his sword into his scabbard. He was ready—almost. He marched into the bathing room.

  As he stooped to retrieve his sacrificial dagger, Alyssa tugged at his arm. “Please,” she said. “Just rest.” Tears were in her eyes.

  He stroked her cheek. “I’ve done a terrible wrong,” he said. “I must right it if I can.”

  Without another word, he marched out of the suite. Alyssa followed, evidently determined not to let him out of her sight. Immediately they were swarmed by frantic Avestines and rebels, all surging frantically through the halls. The noise deafened. People brushed past Davril, scraping his wounds. They were in such a panicked state most didn’t even recognize him. They recognized his stench, though, and after the initial contact most swerved to avoid him.

  Davril pulled one man aside. “What goes on? Where’s everyone going?”

  The man looked at him, stunned. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

  “If we had we wouldn’t be asking,” Alyssa snapped.

  “It’s the Uulosons. They’re attacking! Led by the General, I heard. And they’ve stolen the Jewel of the Sun!”

  This is all my fault, Davril thought. Our worst fears realized.

  Before the man could dart away, Alyssa asked, “But where’s everyone going?”

  “Some to battle. Some’re fleeing. There are forgotten halls down in the deep earth where none will find us.” From the tone of his voice, Davril didn’t have to ask in which camp he belonged. The man nodded, a terse gesture of farewell and good luck, and disappeared into the throng.

  “What can we do?” Alyssa said.

  Davril took her shoulders. “Let’s go to the chapel. The thieves of the Jewel cannot have gotten far.”

  She followed him as he pressed through the throng. It was madness. People wailed in despair, or huddled to the sides of the tunnels praying silently. He saw people in the chambers he passed bowing to altars, sacrificing more chickens, deflowering more virgins. Some participated in end-of-the-world orgies, others mass suicides. They would rather die at their own hands than on the altar of the Worm. Others rushed to arms, or combat. Many of the fighters rushed toward the chapel, and Davril followed, coming upon the battle suddenly. The tunnel opened out into a great hall lined with high, thick pillars, the arched ceiling disappearing into shadows overhead. What Davril now recognized as bricked-up windows stretched vertically on the walls to either side. In the large space, rebel soldiers many rows deep drove against the invaders. All was the clashing of battle. In the pandemonium, there was no way for Davril to reach the forefront of the battle and engage the enemy himself.

  To the rear, carried on a litter so that his soldiers could see him and so that he could see the line of battle, Jeselri shouted orders. “Wedge Three drive now!” he cried, and the corresponding battle wedge drove deep against at the enemy soldiers. The lines of soldiers were arranged in tight wedges, a dozen rows deep and more. It was an effective battle grouping against barbarians and outlanders, but General Hastur utilized the same tactics.
“Wedge Four, SWITCH!” Jeselri shouted, and the first row melted backward to take up the rear, while the second row took the front position.

  Davril approached Jeselri, but the Avestine’s attention was riveted on the battle. Jeselri’s guards noticed him, and in an instant Davril found bristling spears shoved toward his throat.

  “Hold!” he called. “Hold!” When the spears didn’t impale him, he breathed easier.

  Jeselri noticed. “You!” he cried. His black eyes narrowed. For a horrible instant, Davril thought the Avestine would order his immediate execution, and he didn’t have to wonder why. Someone looking much like Davril had stolen the Jewel of the Sun, and now an enemy army poured in. The attack both covered the theft and posed a genuine threat.

  Jeselri took in Davril’s wounds, then nodded. “Release him! It’s not the imposter.”

  The spears retreated. Jeselri returned his attention to the fight. He held a golden-covered shield before him. Already a dozen arrows quivered from it.

  “Where’s the Jewel?” Davril called.

  “Taken!” Jeselri replied, when he could. Sweat ran down the sides of his head, and his hawkish face was even darker than usual.

  “We must stop them,” Alyssa said.

  Davril had another idea. Nevertheless, he pitched his voice high and said, “Collapse the tunnels! Crush them!”

  Wiping sweat from his brow, Jeselri responded, when he had a moment: “They knew all our weaknesses, Husan. They knew just where our collapsing mechanisms were, just where our most vital tunnels are. Already our main force is divided into many. They strike from a dozen points on different levels.”

  “But how did they know? We rounded up most of the Uulosans.”