Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3)

by Bartholomew Lander

  The light spread, and a horrific burning raced across his self-inflicted wounds. It felt like molten metal was being poured into the slashes and solidifying against the bone. He let out a pained howl that echoed off the walls of the stone tomb. After what felt like an eternity, the sensation ceased, and the screaming voice of the Writhing Malefice receded until only a whisper remained.

  Dizzy, his eyes drifted to his arm. The faint light from the complex above glinted off something, and his dilated pupils were barely able to make out the black infection that had spread over the wound. Chitin. It worked! He had absorbed the gift of the King! But his mind was quick to interject that the ghastly light from before was no biological phenomena; it was magic. Magic—the hallmark of a Chosen. And yet it felt so different from the magic that had once allowed Repton to enter the World on the Web. And that meant it could not have been gifted by Raxxinoth, but by the other—by the Writhing Malefice. And that realization came in growing waves of grim understanding.

  Hunger for that power overcoming him, he gripped the knife again and drove it into his arm. The pain once again bit, but he relished it this time. He stabbed himself three more times before his mind opened the gates of his will. Let us see just what your gift can do. The warm wetness slopping over his arm was overtaken by a searing chill. Once again, he felt the power of magic—his gift—bending reality to his vision. A dull purple glow settled about his arm, sealing the wounds with chitin. Miraculous chitin. That miracle was confirmation of the place he had earned, and yet it now filled him with a seething rage.

  There was no denying it: he was Chosen, and yet the Yellow King had abandoned him. All the strength and power granted him by his birthright was no more than a tool to the Yellow King’s ends. That was how things had always been, but now there was a schism in his mind. He remembered the times Dwyre utilized his gift to commune with the being that yet lurked in Zigmhen and sat upon the Spider Throne. Each time, blades of electricity had shot through his brain, revealing the words of the King; he could still feel the glowing eyes peering through the veil of mist and smoke at him, plunging knives of rattling pain into his cortex. But to whose ends were those edicts shared? It was all incongruent, and the ultimate truth was obvious: the Yellow King did not serve Raxxinoth.

  It was so obvious now; all of NIDUS’s projects, while meant to further the Overspider’s ambitions of melding man and spider, were carried out with the sole intention of serving the King. They were idolaters and heretics, all of them! Even in Simon’s own memories, was his reverence not to the King instead of Raxxinoth? Unforgivable!

  Panting, filled with both excitement and anger the likes of which he had never known, Nemo buried his face in Rith’s battered corpse and again began to eat. This time he did not eat to evolve, but to sate himself. Two weeks of nourishment through a clumsily inserted IV had left him with an unbelievable hunger, unmatched even by the long days between hunts in the underwilds. Now, he took a ghoulish delight—both carnal and symbolic—in ripping apart the loathsome False One with his teeth and slurping down strips of his flesh. The chitin growths upon Rith’s trunk jabbed at Nemo, cutting his lips and face, but at once the magical essence hissed to life and his own protective chitin grew over the injuries.

  When he had gorged himself on the flesh, he released a trembling sigh and rose upon rickety legs. The stone shelf ended only a few feet away, and below it lay the network of caves leading back to Ur’thenoth. Back to the Websworn. Licking the cocktail of blood from his lips, he pulled the Vant’therax’s yellow robe tight around himself and began his journey, leaving the carcass to rot.

  Down, through the twisting tunnels and gulfs of darkness, through the carved secret hallways, Nemo wandered. Repton and Dwyre and Griffith’s memories guided him through the labyrinthine passages, toward the deepest caverns Repton the elder had explored. He passed through halls adorned with ancient mosaics and the ruins of wondrous architecture. He threaded his way through the pitch black altars and hollowed temples. When he left behind the upper chambers and again entered the natural recesses of the cave network, he began to hasten his steps.

  He was very far below the surface now, and the old icons engraved upon the cavern walls seemed to stare at him through the blackness. His magically dilated eyes took in light that did not exist, and he studied the details of the sacred halls without breaking stride. Never before had he seen them so clearly.

  Down, through the tunnels untouched by the sun. Down, into one of the great gravelly pits that plunged through untold corridors and depths. When he pushed his way through the narrow, jagged tunnel paved in human bones—once a mass grave for the people of this forgotten civilization—he at last saw the glint of light ahead. The vast torch-lit cavern yawned open, and he bellowed a roar that echoed all around.

  From the myriad tunnels eaten into the walls of the chamber, cautious eyes peered out at him. He knew it was the yellow robe that they were scared of, for he wore the vestments of the enemy. Nemo pulled back the hood as he marched toward the center, where twelve braziers stood in a fiery semi-circle. “I have returned!” he shouted, spreading his arms wide and demanding the attention of all. At the center of the braziers, he stopped and waited. A soft murmur rustled from the edges of the great grotto, scraping across his skin like a horde of insects.

  Finally, three old, spindly men emerged from the ramshackle huts built into the far wall. In the center was Zurt. Zurt—cult-shaman, archon, grandfather. Zurt approached Nemo, flanked by the other two archons. When he drew near the border of the Websworn’s domain, demarcated by the blazing fire of the torches, the old man’s footsteps slowed. He studied Nemo, a look of horrified recognition showing in his features. “Talm?” he gasped.

  Nemo gave his grandfather a wicked smile. “I have returned.”

  Again, Zurt gasped. This time the sound shook his ancient frame. “Talm. You can speak?”

  “It is but one of many talents I have acquired.” He spread his arms again in a commanding gesture. “Gather the Websworn! Gather the believers! I have much to say!”

  The archons beside Zurt exchanged a few hushed words. Zurt nodded and beckoned at the walls and tunnels set within. There was a moment of stillness. Only the flickering tongues of fire in the braziers moved. Then, the first of the Websworn emerged from the honeycombed passages and started cautiously toward the center of the great hall.

  Skeletal bodies shuffled past one another. Thin, pale skin gleamed in the light of the torches. Discolored eyes wide, the Websworn he’d once known regarded him with confusion. Some began to run, dashing into the tunnels and hollering for the others deeper within the tangled cave city. From the elevated hovels, two more archons emerged. Their bodies were brittle, thinner than the younger Websworn. Of the original twenty-four banished to the underrealm, only five now survived. Of them, Zurt was the oldest and the most revered.

  At last, when the runners returned with the rest of the population, and the tunnels finished disgorging the Websworn within, no fewer than fifty man-things stood in loose clumps around the perimeter of the braziers. Nemo passed his eyes over the congregation. The youngest members—those he had once been friends with—looked aghast at his transformation. None drew nearer than the fires. None called to him. All stood silent, waiting.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Nemo said in a coarse, gravelly tone, “hear my command.”

  The Websworn were silent. The only sound was the hum of anticipation and the crackling of the torches. Nemo cast his glance across the crowd. Their faces were thin and pale, their bodies spindly and sick. “I have returned from the clutches of the False Ones,” he said. “I have returned to bring you the truth. I left you as Talm, a boy; I return to you as Nemo, a king.”

  A soft muttering grew from between the folds of humanity. “Above, the False Ones used their foul, heretical magics to transform me into their Helixweaver, for Griffith and Dwyre are no more. Now, I am one with their memories and spirits. I was made a vessel to their blind ambition.” He s
cowled. “And that ambition has laid the heretics to waste! NIDUS and the False Ones are no more. They have been destroyed—smashed to pieces upon their blasphemous beliefs. For over forty years, you have all awaited the day that Raxxinoth would reap the sins of Griffith and Dwyre. That day has come!

  “Today, the iconoclasm wrought by the heretical Repton and his ilk shall be undone. Today, we shall rise anew from the ashes of exile. But today,” he said, tone growing savage, “the cabal known as the Websworn is no more.” The murmuring returned, and Nemo saw several of the cult-shamans scowling in his direction, looks of uncertainty upon their ancient faces. He raised his hand and drew it into a fist. “Be silent!”

  When quiet again came upon the hollow, he spoke. “As NIDUS crumbled to ruin, I met with a tragic fate. A sorcerer from a distant clan cast a spell upon me—a spell that should have destroyed my very soul. That I now stand before you is a sign of providence; I was saved by the intervention of a great deity. Touched by his thoughts, I was protected and empowered—I was chosen.”

  He scanned the transfixed faces of those in attendance. “Recall, you faithful, the Scrolls of Heinokk. The Scriptures tell of the eponymous sorcerer, the heretic priest of the reviled death cult of the Web—those who, it is written, stood defiant against the Yellow King and Raxxinoth. So brazen was his transgression, that the King himself severed Heinokk’s magical gift and slew him. Or so the Scriptures would have you believe. But what is written bears little resemblance to the truth that I now understand.

  “I have seen the visions. I have seen the echoes of these things, and now understand the truth! That god, the black beast of the Fatewoven who inspired Heinokk to rise against the Yellow King, was not the enemy of Raxxinoth—he sought only to free Raxxinoth! Heinokk, the Chosen of that ancient god, went to the Yellow King not to usurp the throne of Zigmhen, but to unite the realm under a single cause. But the Yellow King was a coward. He was arrogant. He was a jealous ruler, and his pride would not allow him to cede even a mote of power to another. The Yellow King had long ago ceased to worship Raxxinoth, and had begun to worship only himself!”

  The Websworn muttered amongst themselves. Angry shouts erupted from the crowd, but Nemo silenced them with a violent gesture. “Heinokk’s death began the war that destroyed the spider kingdom. The Yellow King forsook his realm and wrought destruction upon the blessed children of Raxxinoth. He, who has forgotten who granted him his power, selfishly destroyed his own kingdom. All to spite the god who sought only that which the King himself should have yearned for. Those of you who now mouth the word heretic, know this: if there is a heretic among the old tales, it is not Heinokk, but Nayor!”

  There was a violent stirring as he spoke the name. “That’s right—the true name of the Yellow King is Nayor. I spit upon that name, for it tastes of sacrilege! Brothers and sisters, we stand now at a crossroads. Here, at the threshold of our destiny, you must ask yourselves one question: do you worship Nayor, or do you worship Raxxinoth? My life was saved from the heretic’s spell, but not by the Yellow King. Nor by Raxxinoth. It was that deity the Yellow King so reviled that spared my life, and I stand before you not as the Chosen of Raxxinoth, nor as the Chosen of the Writhing Malefice, but as the Chosen of both!”

  Nemo pulled back the sleeve of his robe, revealing the dark chitin patches that now grew along his arm in jagged formations. “By embracing the power Nayor attempted to contain—that he tore his own kingdom apart to destroy—we shall rebuild that sacred realm and bring an era of glory to the World on the Web! We shall pry open the iron fist of the King and put an end to his ambition! We shall at long last release Raxxinoth and usher in the age of the spider!

  “The Yellow King is a traitor to Raxxinoth. For what purpose was the King born but to free Raxxinoth from A’vavel? And yet his own ambition has caused this. Look around you! Strife broke his kingdom, just as strife has poisoned the very name of the Websworn! And so we must now cast it off. From this day forward, we are no longer the Websworn; we shall be known henceforth as the Order of the Yellow Dawn. Those of you who will cling to the old order, know that you are our enemy. Those of you who reject my words as those of a false prophet, know that you are our enemy. Those of you who would close your eyes and ears to the words of the Chosen and continue to serve the Yellow King, you are our enemy!”

  A note of silence rang loud against the walls and ceiling. “But those of you who would at last leave behind the trappings of exile,” he said. “Those of you who would follow beyond the sealed and forbidden tunnels, to the glorious tomorrow that shall see Raxxinoth released. Those of you who will embrace the destiny entrusted us by the Writhing Malefice.” He snarled a malicious chord. “Those of you who will see the Yellow Dawn rise. Kneel before me!”

  Amanda awoke from an unsettling dream with the name Johnathan Griffith on her tongue. Blinking away the lingering discomfort of whatever had pursued her, she found that she’d fallen asleep at her desk. Her bedside alarm clock read 4:52 a.m. In her bed, Chelsea had fallen asleep atop the covers. Amanda’s first thought was to wake her up and make her sleep in her blanket-nest on the floor, but it was a transient thought; it wasn’t like she herself was getting any more sleep tonight.

  She yawned, stretching her arms over her head, and something in her back popped. She turned her attention again to the open book on her desk. Her composition book, cracked open to a page full of dissociated notes and points, scoured her eyes with the reflection of her desk lamp. And beside it sat the book she’d found in the locked chest at her grandfather’s. The Repton Scriptures.

  The entire book was written in ink by hand. The majority of its several hundred pages were crammed thick with dense lettering. There were, however, a surprising number of drawings and arcane-looking diagrams within the pages. The earlier images were distinctly scientific in nature, indicating measurements and styles of various iconography. The latter, however, were far more decadent and disturbing.

  There was one page that had particularly unnerved her, and she now thought it may have inspired the nameless terror pursuing her in her dream. In the latter half of the book, where the dense script changed hands and wrote from a mind replete with madness, there had been an image of a horrible humanoid creature. The thing had no hair at all, nor eyes or nostrils. Its gaping mouth bristled with long and savage-looking fangs. A slithering tongue whipped through the air, as though it relied upon an ophidian sense of taste for navigation. The creature’s body was lanky, and even the artist’s lack of skill could not hide the suggestive curves of skin stretched tight over bone. From the creature’s back there extended four long, thick arachnid legs. The text at the image’s foot was a single word with a provided translation: Vant’therax, Children of Raxxinoth.

  She shuddered as she thought of the image. The resemblance to Spinneretta and her siblings was uncanny, though she felt morally unwilling to compare her best friend to something so nightmarish. Since discovering the book the previous night, she had flipped hither-thither, reading segments and jotting down notes of things that seemed particularly interesting or relevant. The section with the Vant’therax, however, she had no intentions of reading until she’d exhausted everything that came before it.

  She picked up her uncapped pen and held it between her fingers. To her still-dreaming muscles, it felt like it weighed several pounds. The brief terror that had accompanied her awakening was gone, but her eyelids again grew heavy. She tried to hold back a yawn, but it would not be ignored. The tip of her pen scraped the paper, but whatever she’d been about to scribe slipped away from her. Johnathan Griffith. Where had she heard that name before? That was the last thought in her head before she nodded off once more.

  “Oh good, you made it home safe.”

  Amanda started awake again, and the vague afterimages of another dream slipped through her fingers. She turned about in her chair and saw her dad standing at her door. Her heart skipped a beat. “Hey, remember that whole knocking thing?”

  He scowled at her. �
�It’s your fault for not waking me up when you got back. I was up until three waiting for you, you know. Your mother and I were worried sick.”

  She yawned and stretched. That same vertebra popped again. “Sorry it took so long.”

  His expression softened. “As long as you’re safe, I don’t care.”

  Amanda looked toward her bed. Chelsea had shifted at some point and now had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The cool light of early morning through the curtains made her feel a little dizzy.

  “Did you find Grandpa’s place?” her father asked.

  “Yeah, right where you said it’d be.”

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “Maybe.” She reached for the tome that lay upon her desk and eased the cover closed, making sure none of the time-worn pages would be damaged. She picked it up and wobbled to her feet before holding it out to her father. “Can you tell me anything about this book?”

  The rays of morning sun and the dim desk lamp gave the room an oppressive air. Confused, her father took the book and brought it close to his face. He adjusted his glasses. “Repton Scriptures? Afraid I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Then I think we have a lot to talk about. About your dad.”

  Her father turned the book over in his hands, puzzled. “You found this at Grandpa’s?” He tentatively cracked the tome open, and Amanda was once again assaulted by the scent of mildew. He blinked at the pages, apparently unable to comprehend their contents. “Want to give me a hint about what I’m looking at?”