The King of the Vile

by David Dalglish

“The Apprentices’ Tower,” said the man in red. “Now lay still. I haven’t finished putting on today’s ointments.”

  Tarlak tried to concentrate, but it felt like a fog had settled over his mind. One thing at a time, he told himself. Focus on one thing at a time. He started with the restraints. Two cords of leather, one around his neck, the other his forehead. Together they kept his head pinned to the bed. More buckles locked down his elbows and wrists, limiting his range of movements. Worst were his fingers, all ten inside individual loops of iron screwed to a metal inset in the bed, preventing them from even twitching. Last were a few more simple cords around his knees and ankles, thoroughly imprisoning him.

  Casting a spell was out, Tarlak decided. Dread swelled in his chest, but he fought it down. Think, he told himself. He was in the apprentices’ tower, which meant the Council of Mages had spared him after their treacherous assault on King Antonil and his weary army. Remembrance of that ambush sparked a fire in his chest, and he strained once more against the buckles and cords.

  “Why am I here?” he asked.

  “Because the Lord of the Council decided you would live,” said his caretaker. “For now.”

  The man held up his bucket and dipped his hand inside. When he pulled it out it was caked with a thick white cream. Its similarity to soured milk did not help Tarlak’s queasy stomach. Without any attempt at tenderness, the apprentice rubbed it on Tarlak’s right leg. A cool sensation spread upon contact, dulling the pain. Seeing him apply the medicine made Tarlak aware of his nakedness, with only a simple cloth to cover his loins. Not that Tarlak was particularly shy, but it allowed him to see the extent of his burns. What he saw was disturbing enough that he looked away and focused on the ceiling instead.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Why do you care?’

  “If I’m to be tied down half-naked in a room with another man, I’d prefer to know his name.”

  The man grabbed another clump of the white goo, frowned at him.

  “Cecil.”

  “Just Cecil?”

  “Cecil Towerborn, if you must know.”

  Tarlak grunted. Well, that was interesting, if he could call such a factoid interesting amid horrible pain in his arms, legs, and face. The moniker ‘Towerborn’ was given to those dumped at the steps of the Apprentices’ Tower by mothers and fathers too poor, or too terrible, to raise their own children. Those tested and shown to contain significant magical potential were kept. Those found lacking, well, those types of stories were Tarlak’s favorites to tell when the night was young and he had an audience he wanted to mentally scar.

  Speaking of scars…

  “Well, Cecil,” Tarlak said, forcing himself to talk. Each moment he was awake he found the fog lifting, and in its place came raging, fiery pain. “Would you care to tell me how badly you scoundrels burned me?”

  Cecil hesitated, then resumed spreading the cream. His robes were red, signifying him as an apprentice, but he looked to be in his thirties. Faint lines surrounded pale blue eyes, and the boyish cut of his blond hair seemed almost comical. Tarlak wondered what had kept him stalled for so long, unable to transition over to the Masters’ Tower. That he’d survived at all as a Towerborn meant he had some measure of prowess.

  “Not as terrible as it should have been,” Cecil said. “The dead king protected you from much of it, and your meager protection spell prevented the burns from going as deep as they would have otherwise.”

  “Yes, I get it, I should have died,” Tarlak said, groaning despite himself. “Tell me things I don’t know.”

  Cecil set down the bucket and wiped his hand with a towel.

  “Very well. Your legs sustained some burns, but should heal fine, especially with our care. Your arms, though, will bear scars for the rest of your life, however long that is. As for your face, that is where it is most erratic, due to a failing in your defenses, no doubt. The burns are in small blotches, and also likely to scar.”

  Tarlak let out a sigh. That explained the constant itch in his arms and fingers. No doubt that itch was subdued pain he’d feel in due time. Not that they didn’t already hurt. They did. He just knew they were capable of hurting worse.

  A knock came from the door, and Cecil turned to go.

  “Wait,” Tarlak said. “I have one more question.”

  Cecil turned, clearly impatient.

  “What?” he asked.

  Tarlak swallowed, braced himself.

  “Did the fire burn off all my hair?”

  Cecil blinked, and it took him a second to collect himself.

  “Yes,” he said. “You’re as bald as a baby’s ass.”

  “Bastards,” Tarlak said, letting out a sigh as he relaxed back into the bed. “Cruel, heartless bastards.”

  Cecil opened the door, bowed to whoever had knocked, and stepped out. With not much else to look at, Tarlak stared at the ceiling. A cursory glance at the paintings showed them replications of forests, rivers, and mountains. Free things, he realized. Things to remind him of how isolated and alone he was, chained in that tiny little room. Or maybe it was to trick him into thinking he was freer than he actually was? Too bad his mind didn’t work like that. Or maybe subliminal messages couldn’t work on someone half-burned to death and strapped down to a bed.

  Tarlak heard the door close, footsteps on the hard stone, and then his new visitor stepped into his peripheral vision. Tarlak started, instinctively trying to form a protection spell despite his locked down fingers. The visitor was a tall man, his robe a deep black that reflected red when the light from the windows hit it just right. His angular face was clean shaven. Long straight hair fell down around his neck, and the softest of movements caused red, orange, and yellow ripples to cascade outward, like a fire burned deep within every dark strand. Unlike the fire of his hair, his eyebrows were bushy and bright gold. There was only one person who would dare dress in such a manner, and use magic to showcase his reputation in his chosen specialization: Roand the Flame, Lord of the Council.

  Roand stood over him, hands at the edge of the bed. His irises, a gradient of color going from red in the center to yellow at the far edges, narrowed as he stared down.

  “Your name,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Tarlak Eschaton,” Tarlak said, smiling his widest smile. “At your service.”

  Roand didn’t bat an eye.

  “Do you have proof you are who you say you are?”

  “That depends. Did my robes survive?”

  “Parts of them did.”

  “Good,” Tarlak said, letting out a chuckle. “They were yellow, weren’t they? Would anyone else in the whole damn world wear those same robes? Of course not. I’m Tarlak Eschaton, hero of the free world; you’re Roand the Flame, the psychopathic murderer of thousands of soldiers, and right now we’ll just have to trust one another to be who we say we are. Well, not that you’ve said anything, but it’s pretty obvious. I can’t imagine anyone crazy enough to dress like you, either.”

  “Such a fiery spirit,” Roand said, reaching out and grabbing Tarlak’s arm. His fingers scraped away healing cream, taking blackened flesh with it.

  “I’d have chosen a different term,” Tarlak said, closing his eyes and fighting the pain. “People might fear you were making a pun.”

  Roand scraped along Tarlak’s arm a second time, his well-manicured nails digging. Tarlak could hear the tearing of his skin, and it made him want to vomit.

  “Still your tongue,” the master wizard said. “Humor is how you handle difficult situations, but you let it wander into insult and childishness. In my presence you will behave yourself in a manner more befitting a wizard of your skill.”

  Joking was actually his way of ignoring the rapidly increasing pain, but Tarlak didn’t feel like arguing the point.

  “And if I don’t?” he asked.

  “Then I will make the rest of your body look like your arms, and I promise you, I will not let you die afterward. You’ll lie here and suffer for
an age. You know who I am, and where you are. Time itself can be manipulated in this tower, and in those moments, as the fire peels away your flesh, you’ll feel seconds pass like years.”

  Tarlak opened his eyes, winked. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Roand took the lone chair from the corner, set it beside the bed, and sat down. He leaned closer to Tarlak, his hands rubbing together.

  “I want you to be fully aware of your situation,” Roand said. “I believe we, as human beings, always benefit the more information we have. With understanding comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes a better life. In your case, a longer life. The reason you were not executed on the battlefield is simple, Tarlak. And no, it is not because of your claim on a spot of the Council by defeating your former master, Madral.”

  Tarlak kept his face impassive as best he could.

  “You know about that, eh?” he asked. “I always wondered.”

  “Of course we do,” Roand said. “As we know of much of your exploits. You’ve never actively worked against the Council, and your killing of our assassins in your younger days impressed us more than annoyed us. Your reputation, while a bit foolish, is still one of high regard. These things enhanced my decision, but they were not the deciding factor. No, the reason you are still alive is a simple one: your blood.”

  Tarlak raised an eyebrow, wondering if he even had an eyebrow left to raise.

  “My…blood?”

  “For a man of jokes, you think so literally,” Roand said. “Your bloodline, if you must force me to be precise. The Eschaton were once known as the Escheton, and it was Turock Escheton who placed the first stone of these towers and wrote the laws we still abide by today. Simply put, you are descended from the finest, most brilliant mind to ever grace these walls. To have you die so pitifully before our very doorstep would have been an insult to his name.”

  Tarlak tried to wrap his head around this new development. He’d heard the name, of course, but his interest in family history had never been very high, and he’d not connected the two. Part of him wondered if he’d been better off with his great-great-great-grandfather being a random fisherman instead of an ancient wizard. Then he might be dead instead of in massive amounts of hurt.

  “Fascinating,” Tarlak said. “So does that mean you’ll heal me up and send me on my way?”

  The fire in Roand’s eyes pulsed. Tarlak had a feeling it was the closest the man ever came to laughing.

  “Not quite,” he said. “You have consistently practiced the art of magic while simultaneously spurning requests to join our ranks. The Council will convene to determine your fate, Tarlak Eschaton. If we deem your insults against us too severe, we will have you executed.”

  Tarlak let out a cough, and despite the pain, he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity. They were keeping him alive…so they could kill him?

  “I thought you didn’t want to insult my dear ancestor’s memory?” he asked.

  Roand smiled at him.

  “In everything we do, we’ll be following the rules given to us by Turock,” he said. “In what better way could we honor his memory than that?”

  Tarlak tried to shrug, found he couldn’t. “By letting me live? That sounds like a good one.”

  Roand stood, slowly shaking his head.

  “I assure you, in all that we do, none of it is arbitrary,” he said. “We will judge your worth to the community of wizards, and before them, your life will be weighed. Your charm and skill will mean nothing.”

  “What about having saved the world?” Tarlak said as the master wizard headed for the door. His head had begun to spin, and the pain in his limbs stung with renewed vigor. “Surely that counts for something!”

  Roand’s look was strangely one of disappointment.

  “You think you saved the world?” he asked. “Consider that another mark against you.”

  The wizard left, the door shut, and at its heavy echo, Tarlak closed his eyes and screamed until the pain in his arms sent him back into unconsciousness.

  2

  “Do you remember when I told you things couldn’t get much worse?” Deathmask asked Veliana as the two huddled in the dingy basement of a vacant home.

  “Yeah,” Veliana said, eyes fixed on the door. They’d stacked a few planks against it, plus scattered broken stones on the floor in desperate hope of making their attackers stumble. A meager defense against the fury of an angel, but it was something.

  “I’ve decided I was wrong.”

  “No shit.”

  Deathmask pulled out a handful of ash from a pouch pocket and tossed it into the air. A whisper of magic and it froze, hovering like a cloud obscuring his masked face. Deathmask wasn’t entirely sure if the angels could know fear or not, but it made him feel marginally better. He was the dark specter, the man in the shadows manipulating the events of the city. He wouldn’t be undone by a glorified turkey wielding a sword.

  “They shouldn’t be able to find us here,” Veliana said, twirling a dagger in her left hand. They were alone in the dark, able to see only because of spells he’d cast upon them, hiding behind an overturned table, its rotting wood their only protection against whoever might attack. And they would be attacked. Deathmask was certain of that. With him carrying the supposed guilt of sending Avlimar crashing to the ground, there would be no respite.

  “They found us before,” he said. “As they did the hideout before that. It’s like they’re getting help.”

  “The whole bloody city is out looking for us,” Veliana said. “Of course they’re getting help.”

  “I meant competent help.”

  “True, that is a rarer luxury.”

  A creak from the other side of the door silenced them. Deathmask clenched a fist, steeling his mind for combat. He would not die here, not like some cornered rat. Not for a crime he never committed. If he were to die in such a way, at least it should be for a crime he did commit.

  The door shook once, then shattered inward. Two soldiers with heavy mauls backed away from the exposed entrance as daylight streamed inside. More soldiers poured through the broken entrance, their shields raised before them, their naked blades reflecting the daylight. As their plated boots kicked aside the rocks, Veliana spurred into action, a soft violet light shining off her daggers as she charged. Deathmask paused a moment to enjoy the sight of her spinning and weaving, her daggers lashing out for vulnerable spots in the soldiers’ armor.

  A special girl, he thought as fire burst across his palms. She’d ruled the Ash Guild before his arrival, and if the gods were kind, they’d let her rule it long after he died. Standing behind the table, he outstretched his hands and let loose a burst of his power. Twin lances of fire shot from his palms, melting through the chestplates of the two soldiers they struck. The fire swirled within the confines of their armor, burning flesh as the men screamed. Veliana kicked one to the ground, leapt over his body, and spun before the stunned soldier behind him. Her dagger cut a line across his throat, spilling blood to the floor.

  Deathmask covered her retreat with bolts of shadow that slammed into the men like boulders. Even from a distance, he could hear their bones break from the force. Veliana summersaulted over a leg sweep, fell flat to the ground, and then rolled toward the overturned table.

  “That’s enough,” Deathmask said, his wrists connecting as he gathered his power. White light sparked like electricity before his palms, then vanished as a ball of darkness replaced it. It grew in size, sucking in howling wind. Deathmask let it loose. It rolled through the air with a sound of thunder, the men it touched screaming as their skin turned to ash, as their life force was pulled into the rotating sphere of darkness and light. When the sphere reached the door, it detonated, flinging bodies against walls hard enough to cave in armor.

  Deathmask let out the breath he’d been holding. Only ten men lay dead before him. He’d expected more.

  “Just a single patrol,” he said as Veliana stood and stretched her back. “Maybe they weren’t sure we were here
.”

  Rubble blasted inward, making way for an armored angel to duck into the basement. His wings curled about him to fit through the entrance, the daylight adding a golden hue to the white feathers. The angel held aloft a long blade that must have weighed more than Veliana.

  “Deathmask of the Ash Guild,” the angel said. “You have this one chance to surrender for trial before I am forced to kill you.”

  “And you have this one chance to run away before I pluck your feathers and send you back to the castle well-cooked,” Deathmask countered. “Actually, change that. I’m going to do that no matter what you try.”

  The angel tensed, clearly not amused.

  “What about me?” Veliana asked. “Can I go free?”

  When the angel opened his mouth to answer, she leapt at him, both daggers thrusting. The angel’s speed was incredible as he twisted his enormous blade in the way of her attack. But it’d only been a feint, for she fell short, rolled, and then back-flipped away as his sword slammed the stone. Cracks ran in all directions.

  The distraction was all Deathmask needed to cast his spell, and with a bellow he unleashed his fury. Dozens of colorless spiders rose from the shadows at his feet, some scurrying along the ground, others leaping to the ceiling. They swarmed past Veliana and into the angel, whose magical blade swept side to side, failing to scatter them all. The spiders leapt upon him, sinking in their fangs. With each bite their form changed to smoke, pouring into the angel’s body through the bloody openings they created. The angel dropped his sword, tore at his skin, and screamed. The veins in his body became snaking, branching black lines, rippling beneath his flesh. His scream lost power, and with a clatter of armor, he fell dead to the ground.

  Frowning, Veliana walked over to the body and tapped it with her foot.

  “That’s a new one,” she said.

  “I don’t like to use it,” Deathmask said, clutching the table to steady himself. “One slip of concentration, and those spiders go wild, biting at anything nearby.”

  Veliana lifted her lone good eyebrow at him. “I’d prefer you not use those spells when I’m in the way of the target,” she said.