Tatters of the King (The Warren Brood Book 3)

by Bartholomew Lander

  There then came a shift in the air. A pressure, a scratching at her mind. It was a tangible hum running through the ground and walls, reverberating, vibrating. And at the epicenter of that shaking stood Arthr. His eyes were wide, his mouth agape, his body as stiff as a statue.

  “Arthr?” She coughed, pushing herself once more to her feet. “What the hell is . . . ?”

  “Oh my God, I forgot,” he muttered, one hand in his pocket. When he withdrew it, Spinneretta gasped. Wrapped about his fingers was a silver chain that hummed with a yellow light. The glow of the sigil was unmistakable. It was the pendant Mark had given her.

  Her eyes fluttered, a tingle piercing through her chest. “A-Arthr . . . Why do you have that?”

  He didn’t say anything. He just stared dumbly into the pendant’s light as mist began to seep from its inscription. A hiss of rushing vapor spilled over his palm, and a vortex formed in the air. He went deathly pale and stumbled back in shock. He fell clumsily into a hunched crouch, but the pendant just floated there, held aloft by the nascent portal and the crackling energies within. At last, the tear in reality twisted, distorting into a fully formed pillar of fog. A deafening crack shook the cathedral, and a figure emerged from the mist. Wreathed in the swirling vapor streams, it came into focus and fell to its knees in an unsteady wobble.

  Spinneretta blinked, staring at the figure. “M-Mark?”

  As soon as she spoke, he was up, stumbling and grabbing his head. His pale eyes found hers, and a softness came to the harsh tightening of his face muscles. “Spinny! Are you alright?”

  She didn’t think he should be the one asking. Between his red eyes and the bloody scab across his nose, he looked horrible. But nonetheless, a comforting warmth flowed out from the center of her chest. “I’m . . . What are you doing here?”

  He shook his head. “Do not tell me you thought I was just going to let you go.”

  She was unable to stop the tears that moistened her eyes. She’d never been so confused and lost, but neither had she been so happy to see anybody.

  “Uhh, guys?”

  She broke her link with Mark’s gaze and looked where Arthr crouched. The portal still seethed and churned in the air. Amid the ebbing and waning vapors, a violent pair of flashes lit the internal storm. The portal burst once more. Streams of fog scattered in all directions, and Arthr fell away in fright. Blotches of uncast shadows clumped and swam the floor. Spinneretta tensed. Mark turned on his heel, posture unrefined and tired, as two Vant’therax rose from the syrupy puddles.

  Silt cracked his neck and looked Spinneretta up and down, ignoring the man standing between them. “Ahh, excellent. You are still in one piece.”

  The earnest relief she heard in the comment startled her. “Uhh . . . Yeah, I’m—”

  “Then that means we have time.”

  Dirge rolled his shoulder, shifting his stance into a subtly more aggressive one. “Arachne. Where is the Yellow King?”

  The question froze her thoughts. The muscles of her torso began to squeeze and twitch of their own accord, her spider legs assaulted by a wintry chill. “The King?”

  Mark’s own stance opened. He glared at the two robes. “You traitors. Dare not tell me you came with the intent of sacrificing her to your King.”

  Dirge growled and raised his voice. “I did not address you, Warren. Tell me now: where is the Yellow King?”

  Mark threw an arm out, a crackle of magic licking at his fingers. “If you believe I’m going to let you—”

  “The King is dead.” Spinneretta’s lips shook around the four words of blasphemy.

  Everything went silent. Mark and the Vant’therax alike gave her the entirety of their attention. Silt took a slow step forward, eyes probing her. “What did you just say?”

  Her cold muscles trembled. “The King. Is. Dead.”

  Mark’s eyes went wide. “Spinny, did you . . . ?”

  Silt’s confusion collapsed into fury. “Arachne, what have you done?”

  She fell a step back from the force of his words. “No. Not me. It wasn’t—I, I didn’t—”

  A thunderous crash interrupted her, and the entire room rumbled. A cloud of dust billowed from between the broken teeth of the stone door. “False Ones!” From the cloud, a robe of saffron emerged. Tattered, fluttering in the stiff wind that penetrated the windows, the robe slunk forward with an imposing presence that again iced Spinneretta’s blood and set her spider legs ashiver. The green eye of the Helixweaver was ablaze with a mad glee. He raised his right hand—the bite wound black with sepsis—in a mocking gesture. “False Ones!” he howled. “Welcome to my kingdom.”

  Silt’s posture tightened. His emotion vanished between the stark wrinkles in his cheeks. “Nemo,” he said in a venomous tone.

  Mark’s befuddled gaze bounced between the two of them. “Nemo?”

  The Helixweaver cackled once. “Oh, this is just wonderful. The False Ones and the Warren have come to pay their respects to the new king!” He burst out laughing, and for a few agonizing moments it seemed as though the spasms would continue forever. At last, he expelled a coarse sigh through his teeth. “How does it feel to know your entire lives have been lived in deceit? Dead. For such a long time, a mere ghost. A skeleton, monument to the ages of deception and decay, the price of his lack of fealty to the Writhing Malefice!”

  With a trembling breath, Nemo parted his rotting mouth in a deathly rictus. “Raxxinoth. You False Ones have long championed the will of Raxxinoth. Raxxinoth is a lie! She never cared about you. Her Chosen never guided the likes of Repton and Dwyre, and I understand that all now! It was for the Writhing Malefice alone that the cult was reborn, that the old kingdom was discovered. You False Ones, foul imposter Vant’therax, were born hollow vessels with no hope of finding your redemption! Oh, if only I could stretch this moment to eternity. A fine reward for subjugation, torture, blasphemy. Well? How tastes your despair?”

  Silt and Dirge looked at one another, horror pulling their expressions into impressionist caricatures of grief. Their faces—ever angry, mocking, or numb—were now flooded by fear, loss. But slowly, as Nemo’s laughter grew more mad and hysterical, a familiar fury returned to them, and even the placid Silt’s face became a visage of vengeful rage.

  The two robes vanished in a flash, once again reduced to streaming shadows on the floor. Before Spinneretta could see what they planned to do, Mark spun about and grabbed her hand. Her whole body lurched off-balance as he dragged her at a full sprint away from the door. “H-hey,” she said, “what are you—”

  “Come along, Arthr!” Mark shouted, almost tripping Spinneretta on the uneven tiles near the wall.

  Arthr gave a panicked shout. He snatched the silver pendant up from the ground and scrambled to follow. “What the fuck is even happening?”

  Mark closed his eyes, and for a moment his lids shone with internal power—the spell of second sight. Then, just as soon as it had begun, his eyelids shot open again. “There!” He cut to the left at a sharp angle, and Spinneretta almost tripped again.

  Nemo shouted after them. The two Vant’therax exploded from the shadows and attacked like two sharks breaching the chummed sea foam. Spinneretta had to tear her eyes away from the scene for fear of tripping again.

  As they reached the wall, Mark came to a stop. The Flames burned into existence in his right hand. He grimaced and thrust the glistening plasma into the surface of the wall. A tide of energy flowed from the Flames, and they began to spread and grow. Arthr gasped, and Mark let out a pained cry. There came a flash, and then a blast of heat and wind. An explosion rocked the chamber. Dust filled the air. Shards of stones clattered along the floor. Spinneretta buried her mouth in the crook of her elbow, squinting at the natural light beyond the billowing curtain of dust. Mark’s hand again tightened around hers, and he pulled her forward into the gaping hole.

  Spinneretta shouted in protest as Mark led her into the gap, and then shrieked when they dropped over the edge. Her stomach did a somersau
lt, but a moment later her feet touched solid ground. She fell upon her knees, spider legs splayed to absorb the impact. They’d exited onto the slanted surface of another of the great ramparts surrounding the fortress city. This particular stone wall was twenty feet wide, lined with low merlons, and extended into the distance where it fell into disrepair before finally reaching the mountains that rose from the mists.

  Arthr landed beside them with a terrified shout of his own, his spider legs groping for purchase where none was needed. Mark got to his feet and pulled her up beside him. “Are you okay?”

  She coughed a lungful of dust, tears in her eyes. “Will you fucking quit asking me that, already?”

  “Forgive me, and remind me to ask you later!” With that, he gave her arm another yank that set them both sprinting along the top of the wall. Though her muscles could easily have put Mark ten feet behind her in the blink of an eye, she clung to the comfort of his hand. Arthr was close behind, each step seemingly bringing another complaint.

  The mists blanketing the ancient metropolis whipped across the top of the ramparts, wetting her cheeks and neck. The scrape and drone vibrating through the air crept into her mind again. It called to her from the tiered temple off in the distance. DO NOT LET HIM OPEN THE GATE.

  “What’s the plan from here?” Arthr shouted.

  Mark didn’t even look behind him. “Run. Kara’s going to reopen the portal in ten minutes, so we just have to last that long.”

  Spinneretta ventured a glance behind at the retreating tower at the edge of the shore. She heard the distant hiss of a wave breaking upon the rocks, but the mists obscured all detail of the teal sea. She set her gaze back on the path and tried to convince herself that Mark’s limp wasn’t as prominent as it now seemed.

  Beneath the fear that poisoned every breath she took, beneath the humming whispers from the tower, a spark of hope ignited Spinneretta’s heart. The King was dead. The King was fucking dead! That meant the curse of their family’s exile could be dissolved, if only they could wipe out what remained of the cult. The question of how the cult had prospered with a dead sovereign at the helm was one for later; whatever meaning lurked beyond the folds of this story’s parchment could wait. For now, she had hope that she and Arthr and Mark could all leave this terrible place together and bury the remnants of the cult in a shallow grave.

  But the top of the wall under their feet went dark. At first, she dared to dream that one of the planetary strands in the black heavens had blotted out the star. But that darkness raced along underfoot and then coalesced ahead of them. Their footfalls slowed and then stopped. A sickening laugh echoed off the broken city below as they once more came face to face with the inescapable Helixweaver.

  When the captain of the watch had announced the gathering in the grand hall, Amanda hadn’t the will to resist. Without complaint, and under the gaze of her personally appointed watchers, she walked in the same column as the adherents and zealots as they crossed the great span toward where the egg-shaped tower bulged violently from the cavern walls. Amanda had spoken little, even ignoring Chelsea’s helpless pleas for reassurance. She was drained; she had no words left. Just despair, and a quickly diminishing hope for escape.

  And when the congregation gathered within the towering bastion, and the archon told them that the forward scouts had reported intruders, it felt like a mere formality, a pointless addition to their funeral march. Everything just passed in a numb blur.

  But all that changed the moment the great metal doors clanged open, and Amanda saw who it was that intruded upon the forbidden realm of Ur’thenoth. From the other side of the statue where she’d been made to hide, she could just make out a familiar face.

  She remembered distinctly the night Spinneretta had chewed her out for daring to blab about that stupid prom invitation. It was a sore memory, but a permanent fixture of her mindscape even now as they lodged among the walking dead. She’d distinctly remembered finding Spinneretta’s ninth cousin attractive, right up to the point she realized Spins had already claimed him. The entire memory was so starkly carved into her brain there was no doubt that the man who now stood in the very heart of the cult fortress was Mark Warren. And there was a woman beside him. And Yellow robes that moved in and out of the shadows—this time she was certain they were the same things that had been at Spinneretta’s house.

  Moments later, when the room blossomed into a violent melee and she witnessed Mark commanding the forces of unthinkable magic, a mix of awe and hope swelled in Amanda’s chest. The icy frailty of her heart began to thaw as she and Chelsea took cover behind one of the statues near the corner of the balcony. And that was where they remained as the battle unfolded and Spinneretta’s cousin was held at knife- and spear-point by Zurt’s guard.

  It was only when she saw that Chelsea was shaking at the sight of the scene that Amanda realized that she was, too. Her insides felt like they were made of lead. She wanted to help him. She wanted to do something to preserve the spark of reckless hope that had accompanied the awe of his magical powers. But she couldn’t do anything. Everything faded toward a numb monochrome once again. Even with such unbelievable power, Mark had ultimately been subdued by the archon’s elite. Now, it was like she was watching Kyle’s execution all over again, helpless to do anything but tremble in horrified inaction.

  But when she heard a childlike voice from above answering the demands of Zurt, she could only gasp in disbelief. “Kara?”

  Chelsea jumped to attention beside her. Then, from the upper reaches of the towering entrance hall, one of the ancient half-man statues tumbled down toward the ground. The crowd of enslaved townspeople and robed Websworn had little time to move as it smashed into the floor, shattering the tile and crushing bodies beneath it. The whole chamber rattled from the impact, and Amanda stood, eyes fixed on the dark above—just as the rest of the cult did. When Kara appeared, spider legs slung over an invisible silken strand, Amanda’s heart leapt. “Kara!”

  Time’s disjointed bleeding slowed. The blurring dissipated, leaving Amanda back in the present. It felt like she had awakened from a dream.

  Suddenly, the columns of neophytes rushed forward, shoving Amanda and Chelsea in opposite directions. Amanda stumbled but caught herself on the wall, eyes drawn to the unfolding chaos. What’s Kara doing here? A screaming determination replaced that thought. As though the magic were too believable, the appearance of Spinneretta’s sister now proved this was all an insane fever dream. And yet it wasn’t. Her hands were sweating. Her heart was thumping. She wasn’t dreaming. She was alive. And they had a chance.

  But there was a darkness in that hope, a cynical note to the joyous refrain. “They’re going to kill her,” Amanda muttered, the realization dawning with a fresh despair.

  No sooner spoken than silence broken. The room exploded into a cacophonous roar. Spears and robes and those yellow shadow beasts clashed down on the ground floor. Gunshots began to ring out from the woman in the doorway, making Chelsea jump in fright. But Amanda heard only a distant droning as her brain screamed at her. We can change our fate. We can all get out of here alive. “Follow me,” she said, breaking into a run toward the center of the second level.

  “W-what? Where are you—?”

  “We have to save her! All of them!” Amanda danced around a robe charging toward the edge of the balcony, nearly losing her balance.

  “Mandy are you crazy? What can we . . . ” The hiss of magic mixed with gunshots blasted Chelsea’s words away.

  Amanda’s breath grew hot and labored, barely able to support her own optimism. They didn’t need magic to save Kara and themselves because she had something stronger: the need to survive and see justice brought to this God-forsaken tribe of murderers—to not let what happened to Kyle happen to her best friend’s baby sister.

  She bashed her way through another flank of robes, cherishing the pain in her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a vortex of mist swallowing Mark.

  “Pres
s the attack!” her grandfather howled. “Kill the child!”

  The phalanx of spear-wielding Websworn at the doorway began to advance. More gunshots thundered, echoing off the walls with a blistering percussive force. A blood-painted yellow robe crashed against the spear points, shivering shafts and sending broken bodies flying. There wasn’t much time. Zurt stood only twenty feet away, his back turned to her, whole body shaking with each hateful word he bellowed.

  Amanda bit her lip hard enough to make it bleed. No time for second-guessing. She had to save Kara and the strangers and Chelsea and, God willing, herself. Her eyes flickered to the hilt protruding from Zurt’s sash. The point of no return. She charged toward her grandfather’s exposed back, a violent cry honing her resolve to a razor. Her shoulders heaved, and she threw a punch with the entirety of her momentum and strength. Her knuckles smashed into the ribs of Zurt’s lower back, and a dry crack came from within. His body rocked forward, seizing from the impact.

  She saw her mark. Her fingers seized his ceremonial dagger and tore it from his sash. A flick of her wrist. One hand grabbed his arm and the other brought the blade against her grandfather’s throat. The order he’d been barking cut off abruptly as he found the kris laid across his windpipe. Amanda gave his arm a hard crank, and a yelp warbled from his throat. She took a deep breath and bellowed a painful cry into the chamber. “Stop!”

  Shouts came from behind. A pair of Websworn yelled in alarm, but she didn’t care. She drove her elbow into Zurt’s back and forced him forward, the edge of the knife directly over his vital arteries. “Stop what you’re doing and get out of my way!” As the crowd of cultists guarding the stairs realized what was happening, neophytes and tribalists alike scrambled to get out of her path. The sea of men parted. She wanted each and every cultist to see what she had to barter with.

  The whole hall went deathly quiet. Every pair of eyes brushed over her. She felt the confusion and fear of the Websworn, read their indignation in the gaps of their stained teeth. No backing down. No mercy. “Yellow Dawn!” she screamed. “Nobody move! Or I’ll cut his motherfucking throat!”