The Thran

by J. Robert King

  The roar that followed was volcanic. Yawgmoth had awakened forces like those that had first thrust Halcyon heavenward.

  * * *

  —

  The scene was little different in the Caves of the Damned. Everyone knew Yawgmoth was coming. After decades and centuries beneath the earth, the Untouchables had learned to reckon time in the pulses of their blood and the tides of underground seas. Every last occupant of the caves knew a week had passed and their salvation was due. Even those who lay in tangled rags, unable to move for the phthisis that threatened to drag them under—even they knew. They most of all.

  When a star shone in the heights of the main shaft, a cry of hope went up from the hundred souls packed in the gateway. The sound rolled down through the slanting passage beyond and into side caverns as it descended. At the base of the decline, the susurration slipped into the quarantine cave. Until that moment, it had been words—“He is coming! He is coming!” Words failed. In the quarantine cave, the news became a wail, part laugh and part shriek. If Yawgmoth came at all, he would bring the cure.

  Soon in the main entry, the star swelled. It ringed the shaft in a golden crown, descending from unimaginable heights to a people dwelling in deep darkness.

  Children climbed the walls, eager to see fabled Yawgmoth. Health was said to flow from his very hands. Some rioters claimed to have touched his garment and been healed. Others told of his eight-foot-long sword, and his eyes that flashed lightning, and the way he would slay as soon as heal any who opposed him. He had an army, it was said—privately trained and equipped—hundreds of warriors fanatically loyal, who made the Halcyte guard seem washerwomen.

  Why not? Most of the citizens had cowered and fled before the rioters. Yawgmoth had not. He was unlike any other. How unlike was a matter that grew in words and minds with every telling.

  Gix did his best to calm the people. He insisted Yawgmoth was only a man and a heartless man at that. Why would a heartless man bring a cure to the caves, they asked. Why would a heartless man willingly touch an Untouchable?

  He was near now. The corona grew in literal leaps and bounds as the man at its center rappelled down the shaft. He seemed a giant—tall, garbed in voluminous robes, bearing an immense backpack.

  “He’s brought it! He’s brought the serum!”

  “Make way! Give him room!” Gix shouted, pushing folk back.

  The rope whined. With a final few bounds, Yawgmoth landed in their midst. He heaved a sigh.

  Untouchables drew in their breath with a collective gasp. They studied this man—tall, yes, but not ten feet tall, powerful but taxed beneath the heavy pack he carried, commanding but not tyrannical. None of that mattered—only the contents of that pack…

  Gix approached Yawgmoth and stared up into his eyes. “So you came.”

  The silence around was deafening. Folk strained to hear what the man would say.

  “I came,” huffed Yawgmoth. “We’ll be putting a lift in that shaft soon enough. Using the rope, I could bring serum for only a thousand of you.”

  “A thousand?” Gix growled. “That’s less than half.”

  “We concentrated the formula as it was, and twice I nearly fell bringing it down.”

  “There isn’t enough!” Gix declared. His voice filled the passage with desperate echoes.

  “I will return with more, as soon as this batch is administered.” Yawgmoth assured. “There will be enough. Everyone will be treated today.”

  That too swept down the passage, a sigh instead of a hiss.

  “To return yet today, I must get right to work. Take me to the quarantine cavern.”

  Gix nodded. Others imitated the motion, turning acknowledgment into obeisance.

  “Follow me,” Gix said, grinding his teeth.

  Despite the hot press of people, the way opened before Gix and Yawgmoth. They strode down a narrow aisle of watchful souls. Most were content merely to gaze on him. Others reached out tentatively to touch him. Every once in a while, someone clung on. Those around violently pulled the offender back among the throng.

  As they went, Yawgmoth spoke to Gix and all the folk around. “I know why you attacked the city.”

  “Yes,” Gix replied levelly. “We attacked for vengeance. We attacked because the city is poisoning us, and we wanted revenge.”

  Yawgmoth smiled paternally. “It’s more than that, isn’t it? You attacked Glacian before you knew the mana rig poisoned you. That wasn’t revenge. What was it you said to Glacian when you stabbed him?”

  “I said, ‘Welcome to the company of the damned.’ ”

  “Yes,” Yawgmoth said. “It is not that you hate the Halcytes for their wealth and beauty, for the sunlight and glory of their city. You hate them because they have cut you away. They treat you like a gangrenous limb, sawing you from the healthy body and casting you down.”

  There was nothing to say to that. Yawgmoth was right.

  “Once these caves were part of Halcyon. Once they were a prison colony. The people here did not remain forever. They fell for a time from the skies and spent a while laboring in the darkness, only to rise again. That is why you attacked the mana rig and the city—to rise again.”

  “Yes,” Gix muttered, mesmerized. All around, Untouchables nodded in agreement. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, I have come not only to heal you,” Yawgmoth said. “I have come to bring you up, one by one, into the light of day. I have come to bridge our two worlds. This place should not be a hell. It should be no less than a moral infirmary, meant to heal those who enter it and bring them out changed.”

  The words had hypnotized the Untouchables. Only Gix kept his head. Memories of this man’s merciless knife were too vivid.

  “You think you can come here and offer us life and hope and heaven? You think you are a god,” Gix said in sudden realization. Those around him winced, as though stabbed by that accusation. Gix saw in their eyes that they began to awaken.

  “I think we all are gods. I think every last one of us has a divine spark, a spark that should not be denied the light of the sun.”

  Those waking multitudes fell again into blissful sleep.

  They arrived at the quarantine cave. Yawgmoth strode imperiously in, gazed around, and spotted a narrow and empty alcove.

  “There. I will work there.” Without pause, he marched into the niche and shrugged off his pack. He set his powerstone lamp on a ledge and began unpacking the bladders, needles, and containers of serum.

  Gix lingered at the entry to the alcove. “You have found a treatment. You come down here to provide it to us. Yes, we are grateful. We owe you thanks—but not homage, not adoration. I know what you are trying to do. I know you are trying to steal the hearts of these people.”

  Yawgmoth did not even look up from the parcels he unpacked. “What god of theirs has offered them so much? If I can heal them, bring them up into the city—if I grant them life in heaven, they better damned well think me a god.”

  Nostrils flaring, Gix said, “You are the greatest devil in a city of devils.”

  Yawgmoth looked up and pinned Gix with his gaze. “When a devil is the only one who will deal with you, you must make a devil’s deal. And you, Gix, you will make the greatest devil’s deal of all. You will keep your mouth shut about me. You will say nothing but good about me. You will serve me faithfully, or you will receive no serum.”

  “I’d rather die speaking the truth than live a lie.”

  “We both know that is untrue. But there is no time for testing you again. If you do not serve me faithfully, I will deny serum to you and your people.”

  “We will rebel again.”

  “They will not follow you. You have no cure, only anger.”

  “You cannot do this.”

  A voice came from behind Gix, the raspy voice of a young boy. “May I have the cure now? May I,
Master Gix?”

  Gix turned to see a child whose face was half-eaten away by lesions. A long, solemn line of others stretched away behind the child into the distant cavern.

  “May he, Master Gix?” Yawgmoth asked.

  Head drooping, Gix said, “Yes, child. Come in here. This is Yawgmoth. He is the man with the cure. Tell him how thankful you are that he has come….”

  Yawgmoth was healing the city. That thought filled everyone’s mind. No one had known just how ill the city was—how languishing in need of Yawgmoth’s cures—until now.

  The early symptoms of the phthisis had been posted for months, and even children who could not read could recite the list by heart:

  * * *

  —

  Citizens of Halcyon, an invader is among us—a deadly contagion caused by chronic exposure to powerstone matrices. This disease can be spread person to person. Early detection remains our best defense. A case identified and treated early can prevent a hundred more cases. Anyone noting any of the following symptoms in him- or herself, family members, friends, or neighbors is asked to report the findings to Health Councilor Yawgmoth: fatigue, irritability, excitability, lassitude, forgetfulness, confusion, paranoia, itchiness, blotches, rash, pallor, swelling, numbness, lesions, stiff joints, dizziness, nausea, diarrhea, constipation, changes in eating or sleeping habits, headaches, neck aches, or backaches. The council is declaring war on this disease and calls all Halcytes to aid in fighting that war. Health Councilor Yawgmoth will personally visit every reported person, providing a diagnosis, giving instructions to prevent the spread of disease, and where needed, administering treatments. It is the duty of all Halcytes to cooperate and aid in any way possible.

  * * *

  —

  One elder had quipped that Yawgmoth had listed “the symptoms of being human.” Another added, “Yawgmoth claimed he’d cure all mortal illnesses, and that’s what he’s listed.” The posting was approved anyway. Yawgmoth was granted the right to post this and whatever other public announcements he deemed appropriate. His response to his critics was merely to strengthen the language used, changing “are asked to report” to “must report.” To the end of the document, he added another few sentences:

  * * *

  —

  Citizens are advised to watch for loved ones or neighbors who withdraw from contact, wear concealing clothing, act secretively, or oppose early detection efforts. Such action bespeaks a person with much to hide and may be the clearest symptom of infection. Such individuals must be reported.

  * * *

  —

  Opposition to Yawgmoth’s programs fell to whispers. Not only did dissenters find themselves the object of unwanted scrutiny, but they also discovered their views were unwelcome among most listeners. The masses loved Yawgmoth. As long as the masses did, the elected elders of the council did. Glacian and his artificer cronies—long the darlings of the elite—suddenly found themselves without political support. Talk of banishment ceased. Who would exile the new genius of Halcyon? The artificers could only bide their time and wait for fickle public opinion to tire of Yawgmoth.

  Meanwhile, reports flooded in to the health councilor. In the first week alone, there had been a hundred fifty cases. Yawgmoth personally called at the home of every patient. He brought with him Xod and a few other healers. They had ceased to be mere observers. Now each was skilled in the creation and administration of the serum. Yawgmoth was reshaping them into healers after his own image, whose hands were skillful with both scalpel and sword. It was fortunate. Some patients were less than willing.

  Most of those checked were cleared of contamination. A number of others were diagnosed in the early stages of phthisis. Provided treatment, they were charged to avoid physical contact with others, to bathe in salts to avoid infecting the baths, and to report every two weeks for further treatments. A final few displayed obvious lesions and tissue degeneration. These Yawgmoth strictly quarantined in their homes or occasionally in a special infirmary in the caves below the city. The program left most patients thankful for Yawgmoth’s attention and grateful for his findings. It cast others in Yawgmoth’s debt—relying on him not only for injections but also for permission to stay in the world above. As to those sent to the cave infirmaries, only they and their families were unhappy. The rest of the neighborhood, the city—the empire—breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  Reports flooded in. Yawgmoth and his army of healers flooded out. The work kept him busy day and night. He spent eight hours a day ministering to citizens, three more to the damned, and three more to research for a final cure. Yawgmoth allowed his thirty-four followers to treat patients he had already interviewed, but he himself wanted to conduct each initial assessment and diagnosis.

  “I want to talk to every one, shake hands, see homes, learn who they are and what they do, not just whether they are living or dying.”

  It was an ambiguous statement. Yawgmoth’s supporters said it showed his deep compassion. His opponents whispered that it showed Yawgmoth had different diagnoses for friends than foes. They hinted he was sifting the populace, casting away anyone who might resist his rise to power and keeping only those he could mesmerize into supporting it. They hinted and whispered but dared do no more lest they find themselves interviewed by the iron-eyed man.

  It was on the way to one such interview that Rebbec caught up to the health councilor.

  Matching Yawgmoth stride for stride, she said, “Have you a moment?”

  “Not for months,” Yawgmoth replied grimly.

  “My husband isn’t improving. Everyone else is responding to the serum, but Glacian still languishes.”

  “It’s a definite conundrum,” Yawgmoth answered easily. He checked the number carved into a doorpost, consulted a list, and nodded to the healers. “This is the spot.” Yawgmoth knocked on the door, a ragged wooden thing.

  Rebbec pressed. “Why does everyone but my husband respond to the treatment?”

  Yawgmoth lifted an eyebrow. “Already he receives thrice the dose of any other patient. Four times the dose might be lethal. He does show signs of improvement during the first hour after each injection but then quickly lapses. Perhaps his long, intense exposure completely destroyed his resistance.”

  “There have been plenty of Untouchables with worse degeneration. They all are responding. Why is my husband different?”

  “He has always been different,” Yawgmoth replied. “Even before the phthisis, even before he was your husband.”

  “What is that supposed to—”

  The door swung inward. A man stood beyond, old and nervous. Thin, gray hair prickled out across his balding head. He blinked suspiciously out into the bright street and drew a ragged robe up around himself.

  “What is it?”

  Yawgmoth smiled. It was a look that emanated confidence. “I am Health Councilor Yawgmoth.” He glanced down at the list, letting his name sink in. “I have received a report about a certain Dezra, said to be infected.”

  The man pulled the door up behind him and made a quieting gesture. “Look, I’m her husband. I’m the one who made that report. She was feeling tired and dizzy—those were on the list. But she’s feeling better now and—”

  “We’ve come,” Yawgmoth interrupted, gesturing at the group about him. “I have come. The examination will take only a few moments.”

  Narrow fingers quivered fearfully. “She doesn’t even know—she has no idea that there even is—she doesn’t know you are coming.”

  “No one does,” Yawgmoth said. He stepped forward. Without touching the man, he impelled him back through the door and up the stairs beyond.

  “Please. Please. This isn’t what I wanted,” he said as he stumbled backward up the stairs.

  Yawgmoth climbed.

  Rebbec followed. She looked about. The wooden stairs must have been a century old, the plaster falling from above.
Water stains marked the walls. She hadn’t realized such shabby spaces existed in Halcyon—too much time spent in the crystal temple.

  Xod came behind her, and four other healers brought up the rear.

  Yawgmoth pressed. “How many powerstone devices do you possess?”

  “None. None at all. We don’t even h-have a sedan chair,” the man yammered. “Y-you think we would live here if we could afford powerstone devices? Ha ha.”

  “Does she have any powerstone jewelry?” Yawgmoth pursued.

  “W-well, yes, actually, a few things. Just a few—rings, torcs, bracelets. She loves all those things. But she’s fine. She’s one of those immune ones. I heard about that. Some people don’t get sick. That’s Dezra—” The narrow old man had reached the top of the stairs. He staggered into the upper apartments.

  Yawgmoth, Rebbec, and the others followed.

  Beyond lay a tiny room, poorly appointed. Against one wall, a rag mat lay, soiled linens bunched across it. More linens hung across the windows, shadows of broken glass cast across them. Though there were no implements for preparing food, crumbs of bread and dried hunks of meat lay here and there across the floor. There was not a stick of furniture in the room. The stench of mildew and rot filled the air. The only extravagance was a large round mirror leaning against one stained wall. Beneath it lay a cloth of red velvet. It, in turn, held an assortment of gleaming jewelry.

  There was one other extravagance: Dezra.

  She could have been no more than twenty. She leaned beside her glittering jewels, as though part of the collection. They cast stars of light across her young, perfect skin. The torc about her neck gleamed with four powerstones the same indigo color of her eyes. As healers poured into the room, Dezra pulled a silken robe up across her naked figure in feigned modesty. She stared into their eyes, challenge and invitation, both. Her attentions settled at last on Yawgmoth and there lingered with obvious interest.