Under the Crimson Sun (the abyssal plague)

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  The creature’s ramblings were interrupted by the door to the cell opening. A soldier was standing in the doorway. “Bring him.”

  The soldier was talking to the mind-mages, apparently, since Rol’s newly oversized legs proceeded to get up and walk toward the door, even as the creature was screaming.

  Rol just laughed. “What are you complaining about? Isn’t this the part where they might probe too deeply?”

  Perhaps. They will rue the day they attempted to control me, for I am chaos and cannot be controlled.

  To Rol’s surprise, the psionists took them away upstairs and out of the dungeon area.

  Where are they taking us?

  “How the frip should I know?”

  They put Rol into a carriage that was attached to a pair of crodlus. They trudged their way slowly through the streets of Urik. Rol didn’t know the area well enough to figure out where they were going until they arrived at a very familiar mine.

  “We’re coming back here?” Rol said, but of course only the creature heard, and it didn’t respond.

  He was brought to a cell-or, rather, cubicle-very much like the one he was in when Calbit and Jago brought him there. On the way, they passed several other cubicles, many of which had familiar faces in them.

  For a long time, he sat, which wasn’t qualitatively different from sitting in the castle dungeon. He wondered if he’d be asked to fight again.

  He hoped not. Rol had never shied away from a fight in his life, but knowing what the creature could do, he feared for what would happen to whatever poor bastard got into the ring with him.

  At least it would probably be over quickly …

  Drahar was stunned when he went down to the dungeon to find Mandred’s cell empty.

  There were no psionists, no guards, nothing. Just an empty room.

  He stormed back upstairs and summoned Cace. “What happened to Mandred?”

  Calm as ever, Cace replied: “The king agreed to send him back to the arena. The new owners plan to contribute their future profits toward expanding the Imperial Guard, which they agreed to in exchange for having Mandred be the main attraction again.”

  “Is he-” Drahar cut himself off. It wasn’t wise to even think about questioning the King of the World’s sanity.

  Normally, the first couple of words wouldn’t even escape his lips like that, but he was well and truly frustrated.

  No such person as “Tharizdun” existed anywhere in any archive that Drahar had been able to track down. He’d gone to his tutors at the King’s Academy, many of whom were mages of many centuries’ standing, and who were in touch with wizards from all across Athas. Few people in the world kept any kind of history-surviving the present generally took precedence over preserving the past-but it did survive to a degree in the minds of the oldest residents of Athas. They didn’t recall everything, of course, but surely they would remember something powerful enough to turn Mandred into the creature he had become.

  None of them had the slightest idea who Tharizdun might be, nor did they recognize the creature.

  And the king had taken the creature away.

  A panic seized him. “Please tell me the psionists went with him.”

  “Of course,” Cace said.

  “Don’t say ‘of course’ as if it were a normal thing,” Drahar snapped, then immediately regretted it. “My apologies, Cace, it’s been a trying day. Cancel my remaining appointments.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “At the arena, of course. The whole point of bringing Mandred here was to use him to supplement the Guard, without having to pay to train more soldiers.” He let out a long breath. “Still, if that’s what magnificence wants, that is what he will get. But I will continue to do as I was instructed, so I’m going to the Pit to continue my work.”

  Gan was going insane sitting around.

  Feena had told him to stay in the back office where the money was kept. A messenger from the castle had brought the “investment capital”-three thousand gold, with the promise of another two thousand once the treasurer determined that the first thousand had indeed been spent on upkeep.

  That determination would never take place, of course. Thirty silver would go to the fighters, and there were some other expenses involved-like all that ale the fighters drank at Dedie’s-but mostly the Serthlara Emporium would wind up with a near-three-thousand-gold profit, and Gan would have his freedom once again.

  Fehrd would still be dead though.

  And then there was Rol.

  With the three thousand in place, it was just a matter of distracting the soldiers and the mind-mages in such a way that they could get Rol out of there.

  Gan’s job was to stay in the back room for the dual purpose of guarding the money and staying out of sight. He’d been a prominent fighter there, albeit only for a couple of days, and someone might recognize him. The eye patch, after all, was distinctive.

  But after sitting in the office for the better part of a day, he was going quite mad. His knees ached, his left eye socket itched, and he had to pee.

  So he got up and walked around for a bit, locking up the door to the office to keep the money safe.

  As soon as he turned a corner, he bumped into a man in fine linens who looked maddeningly familiar.

  Then he recalled when last he’d seen him: in a palanquin outside the tavern near the oasis. It was Chamberlain Drahar. He was being escorted by two soldiers.

  “Excuse me,” Gan said quickly, turning around to go back to the office. He promised never to leave it ever again.

  “Stop,” the chamberlain bellowed.

  Not wanting to do so, Gan ignored the order and kept going.

  “Stop that man.”

  Unlike Gan, the soldier did as Drahar instructed, and he ran after Gan. Quickly picking up speed, Gan started to run, hoping that the staircase he thought was around the corner was still there, as once he got downstairs, he could easily lose the soldier in the catacombs.

  However, the staircase wasn’t there-it was the dead end that led to the office he’d just locked.

  Turning around, he saw the soldier facing him while holding a large bone staff. “I don’t like it when folks make me run.”

  The soldier swung downward with his staff, which Gan was able to block by crossing his wrists-one of the first tricks Fehrd had taught him during his one and only lesson in use of the staff as a weapon.

  He then grabbed the staff and yanked it downward, forcing the soldier to lose his grip. With the staff firmly in hand, Gan struck the soldier in the jaw, sending him onto his back. Gan finished him off by slamming one end of the staff into his nose.

  The soldier lay dead at his feet, the bones of the nose having been jammed up into his brain. Gan then ran back the way he came, hoping that he could run away before the second soldier caught up.

  Like far too many of Gan’s hopes of late, it was a forlorn one. The soldier slammed his right arm into Gan’s throat as he turned the corner, sending him crashing to the floor in the same manner as the first soldier had done a few seconds earlier.

  However, the second soldier didn’t finish Gan off, instead yanking the staff out of his hands and hauling Gan to his feet, pulling his arms behind his back.

  Roughly bringing Gan to Drahar, the soldier said, “ ’Ere ’e is, sir.”

  Drahar stared at him. “You were a fighter in this arena. I saw you. Yet now you walk around free. Something about that is wrong. Something about all of this is wrong.” He turned to the soldier. “Take me to Mandred’s cell, and bring him with us.”

  “Yessir.”

  Gan put up a struggle out of habit, but he knew it was no good. The soldier had him gripped tightly.

  He tried not to think too hard about how he had screwed up yet again.

  They went downstairs to the catacombs, eventually winding up in front of the cell where they’d put Rol. Three mind-mages were standing outside the door, concentrating for all they were worth. A soldier-that one a sergeant-was
standing next to them.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on here,” Drahar said to the sergeant, “but until I do know what’s going on, I want Mandred back in the palace where I know we can control him.”

  The sergeant looked confused. “My lord?”

  “I will take responsibility with the king, Sergeant. I believe that there is a trick being pulled on us.”

  For a moment, Gan considered denying it, then decided, for once in his life, to not speak. Talking would just make things worse.

  As the sergeant moved toward the door to unlock it, the mind-mages each stepped back, their faces still twisted with concentration, eyes focused forward on the door, none of them actually looking where they were walking.

  With a creak, the door flew open, the sergeant telling the monster that Rol had turned into not to move (as if he could).

  Then one of the mind-mages slipped on a bit of green pus on the stone floor that hadn’t been cleaned up.

  A second and a half later, all hell broke loose.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  At last!

  The dreadnaught was free.

  Joy echoed throughout the mind that once belonged to Rol Mandred, as the Voidharrow chortled with glee at the loosening of the mental bonds that had been used to shackle the dreadnaught in place.

  It was the first of many soldiers of Tharizdun that would stalk across the land bringing the god’s will to life. As the Voidharrow’s first act of freedom, the dreadnaught reached out to grab the soldier on top of his head and then twist. With a meaty squelch, flesh tore and blood spurted, and the snap of the man’s spine as it broke in twain echoed in the corridor.

  The dreadnaught exited the cell in two lengthy strides, face-to-face with the psionists, as well as the king’s chamberlain, Drahar; another soldier; and Gan Storvis, the one-eyed human who had been friends with Rol Mandred.

  The Voidharrow took great glee in the look of dismay on the one-eyed human’s face at the sight of what his friend had become.

  A dismay that increased noticeably when the dreadnaught grabbed two of the psionists around the waist, picked them up, and slammed them headfirst into the third one’s torso. Flesh and bone and muscle and blood commingled in a twisted, pulpy mass from the impact of the three bodies against one another.

  The soldier turned and ran away, and Drahar looked as if he wanted to do the same, but instead he seemed to be preparing to cast a spell.

  Gan Storvis stepped forward. “Rol, it’s me. Please, you’ve got to-”

  With a mighty howl, the dreadnaught opened all three lips and screamed, making it clear to the one-eyed human that he had no say in what the dreadnaught had to do.

  Even as the dreadnaught screamed, Drahar cast a spell. The scream modulated from one of anger to one of agony as spikes of pain shot through the dreadnaught’s head.

  Drahar was attempting to regain control. The Voidharrow could not allow that, so it resisted.

  Gan continued to plead his pathetic cause. “C’mon, Rol, you can do it. Fight this.”

  But Rol was no longer a factor. The Voidharrow had taken full possession of this body and transformed it into something better.

  The dreadnaught backhanded Gan across the face with its left hand, sending Rol’s friend through one of the doors to the cubicles that held the fighters.

  To his credit, Drahar only hesitated for a moment before casting another spell.

  One that brought the dreadnaught back to the Astral Plane where the Voidharrow and Drahar had had their last conversation. The multicolored plane was designed differently than before. The ground was earth, not metal, and it was cerulean. The walls were a sickly green, while the ceiling was striped.

  But as before, there were three figures on the plane. One was the Voidharrow, one was Drahar-but the other was Rol Mandred.

  But no, he was merely a shadow, a remnant of the original consciousness that belonged to the body. Mandred was curled up in a corner of the plane against one of the green walls, not moving, not even breathing.

  Even that shadow would be gone before too long.

  Drahar faced the Voidharrow. Unlike the previous time, Drahar came in on the floor.

  You wish to control me, minion?

  “I wish to work with you, dreadnaught,” Drahar said. “We should not be at odds. Together, we can-”

  Do nothing. The Voidharrow does not collaborate, I subsume. And then I destroy. Your assistance is neither required nor necessary, minion.

  And then the dreadnaught struck Drahar. The walls grew darker, becoming the color of cacti.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  Komir looked up at his sister’s words. He was standing in the arena, looking up at the wooden seats in front of the obsidian walls. With no people in the seats, the black walls were intimidating as hell. He felt as if he was staring right into the Abyss.

  Karalith had come in through the entryway to the holding area. Remnants of a rusted metal gate hung from the top of the entryway like stalactites, all that remained of the gate after Zabaj had kicked his way through it, freeing the enslaved fighters.

  “What’s the matter?” Komir asked.

  “Gan isn’t in the office. And one of the fighters said he saw Drahar walking around with a soldier.”

  “Crap.”

  “Yeah, crap. We’ve got our ‘investment’ from Hamanu, we just needed Feena to distract the psionists so we can get Rol and get out of town. That’s gonna be a lot harder with the chamberlain here.”

  With a sigh, Komir said, “Yeah. C’mon, let’s see what Drahar’s doing here-maybe we can use it to our advantage.”

  “I don’t know, Komir.” Karalith sounded hesitant, something Komir had never experienced in his sister before.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve already taken a lot of risks here. I mean, we’ve gamed the King of the World.”

  Komir glared at her. “How else were we supposed to get Rol out? If we didn’t game the king, we’d have had to try to figure out a way to break him out of the dungeons in Destiny’s Kingdom-something we’re utterly ill-equipped to do. Gaming the king is a bit more within our means. Besides, what happened to all that nonsense about not caring who the victim is, just running the game the same no matter what?”

  Karalith stared at him. “I was trying to reassure Gan. But he’s right, this is a little crazy, and if we try to game Drahar again, we’ll be pushing our luck all the way over the edge. We need to cut and run.”

  “Fine, then,” Komir said, “let’s do that.”

  “Good.” She sounded relieved. “We’ll get the coins out of the office, get Feena, Gan, and Zabaj, and get the frip out of here.”

  “What about Rol?”

  Karalith threw up her hands, causing her bracelets to rattle up and down her forearms. “What about Rol? Have you seen what he’s been turned into? I’m not sure he wouldn’t be better off with the psionists.”

  “Uhm, okay,” Komir said slowly, “but you get to explain that one to Gan and Feena.”

  “I will. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just go.”

  Komir wasn’t at all confident that there would be nothing to worry about-but she was also right that they needed to finish this and get the hell out of Urik. They’d rescued Gan, at least, and they were about to make off with almost three thousand gold. It was a helluva big score, one that would have Komir dancing in the streets normally, especially given who they took the gold from.

  But Gan wasn’t going to like them leaving Rol.

  However, he saw the same thing Karalith saw: whatever that creature was, it could no longer truly be considered to be Rol Mandred.

  Komir wondered if that meant that Gan was going to want to stay with the emporium. Komir certainly didn’t mind-he’d always enjoyed Gan’s company, even if he did talk a little too much-and Feena would naturally be all for it.

  The others, though, might take some convincing.

  As he followed Karalith down into the catacombs, he reminded h
imself to worry about one thing at a time. They had to get out of there alive, first, a notion complicated immensely by the presence of the chamberlain.

  Zabaj was walking down one of the corridors when they got down there, and Karalith walked up to him.

  “Can you retrieve the coins from the office and bring them to the carriage?”

  The mul raised both eyebrows. “We’re leaving?”

  Karalith nodded.

  “About time.”

  Komir snorted. “Yeah.”

  “Just hold back enough silver so we can pay the fighters,” Karalith said. “Oh, and when you get to the stable, have Mother and Father get the carriage ready to bug out. We’re going to have to get out of Urik pretty much the instant we all get into the carriage, and since they’re back there guarding the merchandise anyway, we might as well have them make the getaway as smooth as possible.”

  Zabaj turned to carry out that instruction. Komir allowed himself a small smile. Nobody got their crodlus moving faster than Mother.

  As soon as he turned the corner, the malformed body of what had once been Rol Mandred came crashing through the stone wall, pulverizing it as if it were made of sand.

  Komir looked at his sister. “There’s just no way that that’s a good thing.”

  An eldritch glow that Komir recognized as the residue of powerful magic covered Rol, followed by Drahar floating through, surrounded by a similar glow.

  Then he saw that the chamberlain’s nose was gushing blood onto his upper lip. That was less impressive-he knew from Feena that such only happened to practitioners of the Way who were overstepping their abilities.

  Rol gestured and seemed to throw the glow off him, slamming it instead into Drahar, who deflected it aside, causing it to shatter another wall, sending rock flying. Komir raised his arm to protect his bald head from the debris.

  Beyond that wall were the cubicles that held the fighters. Peeking out from his arms, Komir saw that at least one of them was dead, one was buried under rubble and might have been dead too, and several others were injured.

  “What the frip is that?”