The Mirrored City

by Michael J. Bode

  Lyta froze.

  “Yes.” His head righted itself, bones snapping into place. “We knew. We always know exactly where you are. Now tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “I want you to release Shannon,” Lyta insisted. “Or I will rip this place to pieces. You can’t hide what’s in the basement if there’s no building.”

  He chuckled. “Very well. I agree to let her go. I suppose the ritual has been contaminated anyway. But if I do this, you must agree to join your true family. We need you, Lyta.”

  “Just like that?” Lyta asked. “How can I trust you?”

  He laughed. “Because I gave birth to you.”

  “You infected me,” Lyta challenged, the memories of that red room flashing to the surface.

  He shook his head. “You are a mystery, Lyta. You have a Protean body, but you kept your human identity. That’s never happened before. The transition must have been traumatic.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “A show of good faith then?” He snapped his fingers toward the chimeras. “Fetch the twins. Alive.”

  The creatures vanished into whirls of dark energy.

  They appeared moments later at Quillian’s side, their shrouded heads leaning in to his ears, whispering and clicking. His expression darkened with absolute rage. “How…”

  They continued to chatter.

  “What are they saying?”

  “The vessel was supposed to be one of us!” he cried out. “This cannot be! It’s impossible.”

  He grabbed his hair and started pulling as he let out an ear-splitting wail. His eyes rolled back in his head. Lyta staggered back, covering her ears. Glass shattered in the windows, and her skin crawled.

  The worms slithered out from the corners of his eyes and mouth. They were breaking through, eating their way through his flesh until the skin was replaced with a writhing mass of purple. Only the eyes and teeth remained to show any trace that he had been human.

  The scream stopped.

  And then with a fluid, synchronized motion, the worms slid off his body, starting with the head and pooling down toward the feet. The skeleton left behind collapsed as the swarm left nothing else. The mass flowed toward the open hole, pouring into the crawlspace and through the hole toward her friends below.

  The chimeras disappeared.

  Wasting no time, Lyta bent her knees and jumped as high as she could. She soared toward the ceiling and then dove toward the hole, fists ready to pound. She ripped through the floor like it was paper and came crashing to the stone floor. Landing in a crouch, she had probably shattered her arm and legs, but they still moved.

  The mass of worms crawled over the floor in streams, forming strange patterns. They were hungry and flowed like a branching river of purple slime toward Shannon and Soren. They avoided Lyta.

  “Lyta!” Shannon screamed as she danced away from the creeping swarm.

  Lyta charged over and scooped Shannon in her arms, lifting her toward the ceiling. “They can’t infect me—you need to grab the chain.”

  Shannon winced and clung to the rusty steel so hard her arms shook. Soren started climbing on his own.

  Outside the circle, Maddox and Heath were dealing with the chimeras. Heath was whipping his abraevium blades around, creating a barrier of cutting silver filament and flashing edges. His skin crackled with energy. The chimeras crouched, searching for an opening.

  Maddox kept his back against the wall, the vile book hugged protectively across his chest.

  “Can we use magic now?” Soren asked, glancing down at the carpet of worms below his boots. “Fire would be really nice.”

  Lyta tried stomping on Quillian, but his worms were quick, parting just an instant before she could smash more than a few. It didn’t matter. She could do this all day.

  “Fuck this.” Heath retracted his blades and let the chimeras lunge for him. He laid his hand on their heads, and the monsters glowed with golden Light that traced their bodies along the stitches binding them together. The things froze momentarily as the Light flickered through them and burst in a blinding flash.

  The chimeras fell to pieces with a wet slopping sound.

  Maddox asked, “The fuck?”

  “I healed them back to their natural state… spare parts.” Heath shrugged. “You’re not the only one with brilliant ideas. Speaking of which… we need that circle broken.”

  Soren was still climbing his chain. “I might know where Sword is. Daphne has a house on the edge of the city.”

  “Maddox, can you lift them up through the hole?”

  Maddox shook his head. “This circle is generating its own theurgy. Anything we put in there could fully activate it.”

  “On the way here, you said it needs a vessel, right?” Lyta asked.

  “To store and concentrate the energy,” Maddox said. “But I don’t see one.”

  Lyta said, “Quillian said the vessel should have been one of the Proteans. I think he intends it to be him.”

  “Burn those worms!” Heath yelled.

  Soren spread his fingers and unleashed a torrent of fire as he swung from his chain. The flames licked the ground. They spread quickly across the slithering mass of Quillian’s true form. An acrid stench filled the air as the pulsing worms hissed and popped from the heat. The floor was covered in flames.

  Shannon screamed and slipped from her chain. “Soren! Help me!”

  She called for him first.

  Soren shouted, “Servitus Mortuum!”

  Two of the corpses on the chains shuddered to life and grappled her in their dangling legs.

  “No more magic!” Maddox yelled. “This circle is still radiating theurgy.”

  Heath asked, “Can a Harrower possess an unwilling vessel?”

  Maddox hurled the book at Heath. “I don’t know anything more than you about this bonkers modality of ritual magic, so stop asking me.”

  “Keep thinking pleasant thoughts. The Harrowers feed on resentment and fear,” Heath offered as a weak assurance. He didn’t seem like the type of person to ever lose his composure.

  Lyta laughed to herself. Easy for you to say. You didn’t just have your heart ripped out by the woman you love. You didn’t just lose her to a strange man and an ancient legacy. She struggled to find a happy memory, but every single one she called to mind was of her and Shannon.

  There. Something shivered deep inside her body. A primordial dark awareness crawled at the edges of her senses. It came with the promise of power and retribution. They betrayed me: my father, Quillian, Shannon…

  “No!” Lyta pressed her hands against her temples. None of this would have happened if Quillian hadn’t set it all into motion. It was him and the dark forces he trafficked with that were to blame. It was the Harrower who denied her right to feel her anger. It was Quillian’s kind who made her into a monster. She would not give them the satisfaction.

  “Fight it, Lyta,” Heath said.

  Maddox punched the air in frustration. “Daphne screwed us.”

  Shannon turned to Lyta. “I know a lot has changed but—”

  “You can go fuck yourself, Shannon. Up until yesterday you would have never lain with a man! You wouldn’t be in this situation if you didn’t let this man you met in a–a–sick torture dungeon stick his cock in you. This isn’t you, Shannon.”

  Soren whispered, “She didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m not saying she’s right, but pair bonding is confusing for everyone. It doesn’t mean she loves you any less.”

  Lyta shook her head. “Tell me where the Sword is. I’ll go get it.”

  “I’ll get Sword from Daphne,” Heath said. “See if you can get them out of the circle through the ceiling. Are you going to be okay in there?” He placed a subtle emphasis on his wording that let her know he was more concerned for her emotional well-being than her physical safety. Why is he always so considerate and patient with me?

  “Yes,” Lyta said.

  “Maddox, you stay here in case something more happens
.”

  Maddox flopped his arms against his side. “Why? I can’t do shit about it. I might as well go with you for backup. You’ve been up against this madwoman three times without me and failed consistently.”

  “And she’s gotten the drop on you twice. I will handle her. Trust me, this time I don’t plan on being gentle.” Heath marched up the stairs.

  Lyta examined the hole in the ceiling. The edge was a maw of jagged splinters. The trick would be tearing out enough of the upper floor to get Soren and Shannon out. Quillian’s remains smoldered around her, the flames cooling to embers.

  “So.” Maddox clapped his hands and tried to make conversation. “You guys are full-fledged ancient Patreans, huh? What’s that like?”

  Soren grinned. “It’s pretty neat, actually.”

  “Oh, shit,” Shannon said.

  “What?” Soren asked.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Lyta turned away. “Can this day get any worse?”

  “Don’t act like this isn’t exactly what you wanted, Lyta. You wanted me to bear the Stormlord’s child, remember? Well, now I’m going to be mother to a forgotten empire. How is that any different?” Shannon said.

  Lyta didn’t answer. If she thought her alien body could have born children, she gladly would have made the sacrifice herself. Instead, she crouched and leapt up to the rafter next to Shannon to dismantle the ceiling with her fist.

  Lyta had been such an idiot. Shannon would have been safe from all of this nonsense if Lyta hadn’t poisoned Bejia. They would never have been forced from House Ibazz. Heath would never have needed to hunt her. Shannon would never have met Soren. It really is all my fault.

  Maddox interjected, “Uh… guys? You may want to see this.” He waved his hand at the edge of the barrier; it passed over the edge of the circle without resistance.

  Soren jumped down from his chain and helped Shannon to the floor. Lyta dropped to the ground and tested it. The barrier was gone. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  Maddox shrugged. “Why do you people keep asking me questions like I know something?”

  Heath came running down the stairs to the basement. “It’s not safe here. The Harrower is out.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Nightmare

  SWORD

  Your Most Holy Excellence,

  As you well know, I am committed to our cause and will honor my vows to protect Ohan’s Creation from the legions of darkness, in whatever capacity is required. However I am concerned…

  Heath is a heretic Stormlord who quit the order many years ago. Daphne was Abbess during the cataclysm over Rivern and has abandoned her path in a one-woman crusade against the Stormlords. I am confused by your instructions to capitulate to either of these unstable individuals and more vexed by why you would wish me to offer aid to both.

  I do not question your wisdom, merely seek to understand so I can do the work of Ohan better. I should hope the station for which I have dedicated my life would make me privy to any greater designs.

  Yours in Humble Service,

  Abbot Argus

  “THERE ARE ONLY so many times you can say the word ‘fuck’ in a sentence before it loses all ability to describe the transcendentally awful depths of the shit that surrounds you. So whenever I say the word ‘fuck,’ please understand I could say it till the end of history, if time permitted, and it would still fail to convey the dire gravity of our situation. That being said… Fuck.”

  Sword addressed the Abbot and his apprentice. A bumbling old man and a bumbling young man, united in their total lack of readiness for the weight of responsibility history had foisted upon them. They sat side by side on an overstuffed sofa while a fire crackled softly in the fireplace.

  “What do we do, ma’am?” the apprentice asked in the most apprentice-like way.

  Sword huffed. “We find the Harrower and kill it as you swore to do when you joined the Inquisition.”

  “Forgive us,” Abbot Argus said, “but we were tasked with keeping tabs on the Heretics in Baash. Our presence here is not concerned with matters of Harrowers or dark magic. We need to contact Bamor.”

  “If it still stands, Bamor knows,” Sword said. “Under the protocol set forth by the Orsini council, and our beloved founder Saint Jeffrey, they will bring the Eye of Ohan to bear on the Mirrored City with all haste. It will take them a week, a couple of days if Archea has a sky ship ready and is at all concerned. I do not need to remind you what the Eye of Ohan is, do I?”

  The Abbot shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

  “What is it?” asked the apprentice.

  “By knowing this, apprentice Leroy, you are entering into the highest and most secret level of our ancient organization. As the ranking Authority in the Orthodoxy, I can raise your position, but I warn you. Once you have this knowledge, you are forever bound by our most sacred oaths. There is only one way to leave the service of our order, and it is death.”

  “My name is Timothy—but I accept the responsibility.”

  Sword nodded. “It’s a secret weapon of raw solar energy that will kill everything within a three-mile radius. Congratulations, you are now an abbot.”

  “But the people—”

  “Will be instantly incinerated. It’s a relatively painless death, if that’s any comfort—which it shouldn’t be. Without a sentient host, the Harrower manifestation should dissipate. The lands will be habitable in another twenty to thirty years.”

  “Saint Jeffrey killed the Harrower in Bamor with his sword…” Timothy stuttered.

  “Ah. You mean this Sword?” Pulling it from its scabbard, she let them admire its gleaming glory. She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the blade. I can’t believe I’m fucking Daphne now. This day cannot get any worse.

  “Then there’s hope?”

  “A precious little. I have a weapon capable of it, but killing a Harrower is a long and arduous endeavor. Thrycea and Bamor won their independence through heroism, as did… whatever city it was in Asherai. We found it more efficient to blow the remaining Harrowers to bits with the Eye of Ohan, hence the reason lost cities like Minas Craegoria are fertile craters with ashy soil.”

  “Then we are doomed,” Timothy said.

  “Not exactly,” Sword said. “Time operates much differently inside an incursion. A couple of days can be centuries. No one knows how long the ‘Long Night’ actually lasted for those who lived through it, but some astronomical records indicate it might have been a single night.”

  “So what do we do?” the Abbot asked.

  Sword pondered this. “You two should fuck. Timothy is clearly into older men, and he’s been giving you signals which you’ve ignored due to your own insecurities about your body and your sexuality. I appreciate your attempts to be honorable, but Timothy is well above the age of consent and your own same-sex desires are a natural part of ageing when the sensation of intimacy is no longer driven by reproduction.”

  They stared at her.

  The Abbot cleared his throat. “I have a wife and son whom I love dearly.”

  Timothy looked crestfallen.

  I guess I misread that whole dynamic. She said, “A wife?”

  “In Dessim, celibate clergy are… conspicuous.”

  Sword ranted, “That’s the whole problem with a religion with ten thousand gods. People can pick and choose what they believe so faith is a post hoc justification for whatever they decide to do. Don’t want to care for the poor? Pray to the god of wealth. Don’t want to pay your tithes? Pray to Abraxis. Don’t want to battle the maddening demons from the deep beyond? No problem, outsource it to the Inquisition and give them a shitty little bookstore where they can post a skeleton crew of their most incompetent people.”

  “Ma’am,” the Abbot replied angrily, “I received the same training as you.”

  “True, but you did not receive the same experience, and in that regard you are a liability. I’m going to do my best to slay the Harrower, but neither of you have anything remot
ely useful to my mission. Inquisition dismissed.” Sword waved her hand.

  “Why did you summon us, then?” the Abbot asked.

  Daphne had summoned them. But when the Archean sky ship exploded and the city fell under the veil of a Nightmare incursion, she did the only thing she could think of. She took up the Sword, which she knew had slain the Harrower Vilos. Sword had to admire her dedication—she knew her identity would be consumed, but she did it for the greater good.

  “Because I love the sound of my own voice and giving dramatic monologues,” Sword snapped. “I also needed to confirm that you were useless. That much was readily apparent based on your complete lack of knowledge and preparation for this situation. Stay here… and pray for my success.”

  She marched out the door into the streets of Dessim.

  Sword didn’t dream, not exactly. It experienced memories of dreams through its hosts when they were conscious. Some elements were surprisingly common: dropping from great height, being chased, finding oneself back in school, teeth falling out. Walking through the streets of Dessim was like trying to run in thick tar. Every motion felt sluggish.

  The air was like a pale green liquid amid a roiling fog that wrapped around the city. The streets and buildings no longer looked familiar. The angles and architecture were more like a collage. Everything in Dessim seemed thrown together without rhyme or reason. Windows and doors were upside down, occasionally sideways. The streets were empty.

  Some of the walls had become like mirrors. Indistinct silhouettes pursued Sword’s reflection behind the glass. Shadowy figures pounded from behind mirrors, bowing the glass but never breaking through. Poor fuckers. Broadsheets hovered in the air, scrawled with indecipherable language, suspended and motionless as if frozen in wind.

  Above the city, the Archean dreadnaught tumbled in burning pieces, lazily making their way toward the earth in an explosion that would take days to finish. The sun and sky were gone. Above the city, shrouded in darkness, was a mirror version of the city.

  Sword rolled her eyes. “You’re really going all out for this whole mirror motif, aren’t you?”