The Shadow King

by Alec Hutson

  He saw her after taking a few stumbling steps. She was crumpled in a heap a little way down the tunnel leading to the heart chamber.

  “Your Highness,” Keilan cried as he rushed over to her, nearly toppling as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

  He had a horrible premonition that she was dead, but as he touched her shoulder she rolled onto her back, coughing. Her face was swollen, stained by a mass of bruises, and it took her glazed eyes a moment to focus on him.

  “Keilan,” she murmured through bloody lips. “You look terrible.”

  Despite the pain lancing through his body he couldn’t hold back a slight smile. “As do you, Your Highness.”

  She turned her head, spitting out a wad of blood. “Don’t be rude . . . to your queen,” she muttered, then used her arm to brace herself as she tried to stand. Keilan hurriedly moved to assist her, helping her rise. She leaned on his shoulder, her hair brushing his face.

  “Ng,” she cried, and he felt a shiver of pain go through her.

  “Your Highness?”

  “My ankle,” she explained, her fingers tightening on his arm. “It hurts, but I don’t think it’s broken.”

  “Can you walk?”

  She let go of him and took a few tottering steps, wincing every time her left foot came down. “Yes. But I’m going to requisition the use of your shoulder again.”

  “Of course,” he said, ignoring his own soreness as he went to her again. She looped an arm around his neck and, after he hesitated a moment, grabbed his hand and put it on her waist so he could better support her weight.

  “Let us forget propriety for a moment,” she said. He hoped she was too close to see the blush burning his cheeks. Would anyone ever believe that a beautiful queen had once clung to him? He couldn’t believe it, and it was happening right now.

  “Why did the tremors stop, Your Highness?” Keilan asked, trying to distract himself from the warm presence pressed against him. She smelled surprisingly good given the terrible ordeal she had been through over the last few weeks. Or perhaps that was just in contrast to how he smelled.

  “I have my suspicions,” she replied. “We must find Jan.”

  “Do you think he’s still alive?”

  “I am almost certain he is.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the chamber where they had encountered the golden-eyed Min-Ceruthan. “That way.”

  Together they hobbled down the length of the tunnel. Many of the black panes that had sheathed the walls had fallen and shattered, revealing the white flesh of the Worm beneath. The way seemed to have narrowed, as if the tunnel had constricted as the Ancient shifted. Keilan eyed the walls nervously, remembering his fears that the awakening beast would crush what had been carved from its body.

  The heart chamber had also suffered during the tremors. Two of the great pillars had come crashing down, spilling the dried husks of the centipede men onto the floor, and on one side of the chamber a bulge of flesh like a tumescent growth now spilled into the room. Through the membrane stretched across the ceiling Keilan could see the great heart hanging in the emptiness, and the floor trembled with its reverberations. Whatever had stopped the Worm from moving, it was not its death.

  It took Keilan a moment to find Jan, as he was nearly lost in the depths of the huge throne. He sat upon the same pillar the other Min-Ceruthan had once occupied, his back straight and his eyes closed.

  “Jan!” he cried, but the bard did not stir. Was he asleep? Keilan suddenly realized that the filaments or vines that had wrapped around the ancient Min-Ceruthan now lashed Jan to the throne. Had they entered his body as well?

  “Jan!” thundered the queen, so loud that Keilan thought she might have magically amplified her voice.

  His face twitched.

  “Jan duth Verala!” she boomed again, making Keilan’s ears ring, and the bard’s one eye slowly opened. It was tinged gold now, as the Min-Ceruthan’s had been.

  “Your Highness,” he said, his voice hollow.

  “What is this, Jan?” the queen yelled up at him.

  Jan swallowed; he looked drugged, or trapped halfway between the dreaming and the waking world. Slowly, he raised his arm, examining the tendrils encircling his wrist.

  “I couldn’t see any other way,” he murmured.

  “You took the sorcerer’s place,” the queen said matter-of-factly.

  His golden eye flicked to them again. “Yes. The Worm was writhing and you had both fallen. I was hurt, but I managed to return to this room.” He looked around slowly, as if seeing the chamber for the first time. “How long have I been here?”

  “Not long,” the queen called back.

  Jan’s placid expression did not change. “I see. It feels like forever has passed, and also no time at all. I cannot describe it. I am so vast, yet so small . . .” His voice trailed away, as if his attention was being drawn elsewhere.

  “What can we do? How can we save you?” the queen cried.

  Jan returned to himself, shaking his head slowly. “I’ve lured the Worm back into its slumber, but it will wake if I leave. I cannot go.”

  “There must be a way,” the queen said, the frustration clear in her voice.

  “Perhaps if one of you took my place?” Jan said, and it took Keilan a moment to realize he was jesting. After the silence had stretched for a moment, he continued. “Do not mourn me. This will be my atonement for what happened long ago. And it is not so terrible. I will close my eyes and share the dreams of a god.”

  The queen growled something under her breath, then spoke again, her words growing more impassioned. “I will find a way to free you, Jan. There must be another way to soothe this beast. I promise you, I will return.”

  Jan’s golden eye closed, and for a moment Keilan thought he had slipped back into the dreams of the Ancient. Then it opened again, except this time it gleamed with a new resolve.

  “I thank you, Your Highness. But if you truly wish to grant me a boon, there is something else I would ask.”

  The souls roiled within her as she paced the tunnels of the Worm. Alyanna felt swollen, gorged; it was the same as a thousand years ago, except that this time the torrent of emotions and memories that had washed over her were utterly alien. She had worried for a brief moment that the lives of wraiths would not be able to sustain her, but as they settled inside her, a hot flush of warmth making her skin tingle and her blood surge, she knew that those fears were unfounded.

  She was again immortal.

  The tremors that had followed her destruction of the soul jewel had eventually abated; for a short while there she had been sure the Worm would not return to its slumber. The thought of being trapped inside the awoken beast had been terrifying, though in retrospect – unless the tunnels collapsed – this might in truth be one of the safest places she could shelter. Thank the dead gods that eventually either Cein or Jan had realized one of them would have to remain in the inner sanctum to ensure the Worm remained asleep, since whatever ancient Talent that had been keeping the Worm asleep must have perished when she had absorbed the souls.

  Alyanna threw back her head and laughed, startling a sleeping pod of bat-like creatures clinging to the tunnel’s ceiling. Their wings fluttered like falling leaves in the humid air, and then they were gone. What a remarkable turn of events. She had refilled the well of immortality within her, and forced one of her rivals to exile themselves forever from the world. The traitorous Chosen were defeated, and the power of Dymoria and the Crimson Queen was broken. The symbol sticks had fallen perfectly for her yet again.

  Now if she could only find her way out of the maze. She was sure she’d retraced her steps perfectly, but she had never seen these tunnels before. The walls were darker here, and there was no vegetation or fungi feeding on the mottled flesh. She must have taken a wrong turn, and she considered doubling back, but then discarded the idea. The two Talents who
had not stayed to placate the Worm were somewhere behind her. Cein and Keilan, she guessed. Jan had always been the sort for grand, tragic sacrifices.

  She didn’t want to risk a sorcerous battle when the Worm was so unsettled, so she pushed forward. Perhaps another way to exit the tunnels would emerge, or the tunnel she followed would loop back to where they’d first entered the Ancient.

  When she first heard the sobbing, she thought her mind was playing tricks. But the sound continued to swell as she followed the curve of the tunnel, and then she rounded a bend and the source was revealed.

  A young woman was on her knees, bent forward as if in pain, her fingers tangled in her honey-colored hair. She was rocking back and forth, clearly lost in the trauma this place inflicted on those who were not Talents.

  “Seril?” Alyanna asked, and the magister raised her pretty, tear-streaked face to stare at her in abject misery.

  “Alyanna . . .” Seril gasped, and then let out a low moan of pain. Her mind must be shredded if she’d managed to come this far – it was surprising that the girl was even conscious.

  “What are you doing here?” Alyanna asked, coming closer and crouching beside the magister.

  “I had to come. I had to . . .” Seril resumed her rocking, and Alyanna wondered if there was enough of her left to save. She’d found the magister intriguing, and it was true that she had gotten used to having companions. At the very least, Seril might be able to guide her back to the entrance.

  She put her hand on the magister’s shoulder. If there was going to be any hope of salvaging her sanity, they had to go now. “We should leave.”

  Seril drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Her large dark eyes focused on Alyanna, and her confusion seemed to lift.

  “Yes . . . we should leave . . . mistress. Together.”

  Something hard and sharp slid into Alyanna’s back. She gasped, glancing down as a curving black barb emerged glistening from her belly. Beneath her fingers Seril’s robes twisted, rippling, and then suddenly she was touching hard, gnarled flesh studded with thorns. The magister’s face melted away to reveal a skeletal horse-head, blistered bones showing where the skin had fallen away. The genthyaki wheezed, its breath gurgling in its lungs.

  Alyanna shuddered as the creature’s barbed tail withdrew from her abdomen. Her left hand drifted down to the wound, feeling hot pulses as the lives she’d recently consumed slipped from her to patter upon the tunnel floor. Her other hand slowly moved from the genthyaki’s shoulder to its blackened cheek. Its flesh flaked away beneath her fingers, but the creature only rubbed its head harder against her open palm, nuzzling her as it whined.

  Alyanna swallowed back the blood that was creeping up her throat. The genthyaki was staring at her with its empty black eyes . . . begging her. Alyanna grasped her sorcery, channeling burning power down her arm and out through the hand touching her old slave. Shining cracks webbed the genthyaki’s skull, and then its head collapsed, motes of light spewing from its eye sockets. The creature sagged in death, sliding to the ground, its flesh bubbling and hissing.

  Alyanna swooned. Her hand was soaked from holding back the tide of blood trying to escape. She gritted her teeth, battered by waves of pain. The dark walls of the tunnel seemed to shift and writhe.

  She couldn’t die here. This was not her time – she had ten thousand lives burning inside her.

  “Demian,” she moaned. Come for me again. Save me.

  She reached out to the shadows, imploring the shape that watched from the gathering darkness.

  Blackness had been poured into the wound in the Worm’s side since last she’d stood here.

  Strange as that was, elation still surged in Cho Lin at the sight of the entrance, which was so welcome after the endless mottled gray and white walls of the tunnels. She had started to worry that she would never find her way out of this labyrinth.

  Was this actually the same tear in the Worm that she and Keilan and Alyanna had once passed through? She wasn’t sure, to be honest. It looked similar, down to the barbs of black metal keeping the flaps of skin pinned open, but as she rushed forward she wondered where the roiling, glowing mists had gone. Then she skidded to a halt, gasping as she clutched at the ragged edges of the wound.

  On the other side was emptiness.

  She smelled clean mountain air, and took several gulping breaths. It was so incredibly refreshing after the fetid stench of the tunnels that she nearly laughed with joy. Stars were scattered above her, gleaming cold and sharp, and in the distance brooded the shadows of the Bones. Below her, the exterior of the Worm curved away into darkness. How high up was she? The thrashing that had nearly shaken her to pieces earlier must have been the Ancient breaching the Burrow, she realized. Cho Lin dispatched an earnest thanks to the Four Winds for this great luck; she had been dreading having to brave the stone city by herself.

  To celebrate she pulled out her wine skin. She’d been saving the last swallow of the healing water until she knew she had found her way out of the Worm. With a toast to Heaven above she finished the skin and dropped it over the edge of the wound. She counted six heartbeats before she heard the faint sound of it striking rock.

  Not for the first time, she was left in awe at the size of this beast.

  A thought occurred to her, and she searched the blackness below for the twinkle of fires. As she suspected, there was nothing. The Dymorians must have already departed; Cho Lin wasn’t sure how long she’d slept while recovering from the wounds inflicted on her by the Betrayer, but she suspected it had been several days at least, given how thirsty she’d been when she’d finally awoken. She had wanted to guzzle the little bit of the healing water that she’d forced herself to save, but she’d managed to resist the temptation. Her hand drifted to where the demon’s claws had sliced her open; the scabbed wound on her belly was still slightly sore, but she wouldn’t be surprised if even that pain was gone when next she woke.

  Cho Lin dragged her gaze from the seamless darkness below to the star-spattered one above. She found the constellation of the Monk, lurching drunkenly across the sky, and followed the direction his staff was thrusting. That would be south, the way back to the Empire of Swords and Flowers. The thought of seeing the jagged green hills and gentle rivers of her home sent a pang of bittersweet longing through her. She swallowed that feeling and shifted slightly, staring to the southeast.

  That was where she must go. To Menekar, the ancient enemy of Shan. Jan had told her he had seen the rosewood chest of the Betrayers in the pleasure garden of the Menekarian emperor. That was where their spirits must have fled after she’d stabbed the one that called itself the Shadow King. The legends were very clear: the sword of her family only forced the spirits of the Betrayers back into the chest. She’d won a great victory, as great as any since her ancestor Cho Xin had first bound the demons, but she could not rest now. Her fingers brushed the handle of the black knife, still slightly slick from spending so long at the bottom of the dark pool. She had a weapon that could finally end the Betrayers, so she had to finish the hunt. When that was done, then she could return to Shan.

  Suffused with fresh resolve, Cho Lin swung herself over the edge of the wound and began to descend the outside of the Worm.

  The ax-head hissed as Senacus dragged it through the withered leaves blanketing the barren orchard. It was a wicked thing, a great hunk of curving black iron that he suspected had been forged with the intention of splitting skulls rather than wood. He had watched Marialle struggle with it from the doorway of the farm when he’d first mustered the strength to leave his pallet, every swing difficult as she cut logs for the night’s fire. The first thing he had done when he could walk again – or hobble, at least – was to take over this duty from her. She had tried to dissuade him, telling him that he was still too weak, but he had insisted.

  As he stumped through the orchard, he was mindful of the twisting roots hidden beneath the f
allen leaves. He had not yet regained full control over his left leg, and once already he had gone sprawling when his foot had come down awkwardly. In truth, he wasn’t sure if it would ever be as it was before. The healing power of the Pure was legendary, but the claws of the shapechanger had severed tendons that, if he was a normal man, would have crippled him for life.

  He arrived at the tree Marialle had told him about, its ancient trunk blackened from a lightning strike. Hefting the ax onto his shoulder, he stepped forward, considering the best angle to take down this grizzled old man of the forest. A pair of emerald-green birds watched him from on high, their heads tilted to the side as if trying to figure out his purpose here.

  “Apologies,” he said to them, laying the edge of the ax against the scarred bark. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find a new home.”

  “Talking to the birds, paladin?” a voice called out from behind him, faintly mocking.

  Senacus whirled around, the ashwood handle slipping from his hands. Nel sat in a nearby branch, her back pressed to the trunk, watching him with an impish smile. One of her legs was drawn up to her chest, and the other dangled down, higher than a man could reach. He realized it was the same position she had been in the first time they’d met, and he couldn’t hold back a grin.

  “Nel!” he cried, dragging his leg behind him as he hurried closer to where she perched. “Thank the Radiant Father. How is Keilan? Did you succeed?”

  “The demons are gone,” she called down. “Keilan is safe in Herath. The future we saw in the Oracle’s temple has been averted.”

  The knot that Senacus had been carrying around in his chest for months suddenly loosened. “Thank the Radiant Father,” he breathed.

  Nel twisted so that she sat on the edge of the branch, both legs now hanging down. She leaned forward, her hair falling around her face. “I’m not sure he had much to do with it.”