The King of the Vile

by David Dalglish

  “Why? What do you see?”

  Dieredon shook his head and grabbed his bow as if needing its comfort.

  “The wolf-men,” he said. “And their king.”

  13

  “So how goes your studies?” Roand asked as he stepped through the door.

  “Wonderfully,” Tarlak replied. He sat at his desk in the room that doubled as both his residence and study. On one side was his bed, mattress stuffed with down so soft it hurt his back upon waking. Near it was a dresser with what few clothes he had, mostly black robes. Tarlak hated the color, for it reminded him too much of Karak’s priests, but it was hardly the highest entry on his list of daily things driving him insane. There was also his entrapment in the tower and Cecil’s constant presence. The worst, though, was the burning, itchy pendant sticking to the skin around his neck.

  The vast majority of Tarlak’s room was dedicated to the study and practice of magic. Three shelves lined the walls, each filled with notes, tomes on random, obscure topics such as astral projection and polymorphism, and various alchemical ingredients and spell components. Roand had given him complete freedom to choose studies, so long as he shared his results with the rest of the tower.

  Tarlak pointed at Cecil, who sat in a chair opposite him.

  “Tell me, does that hair look natural to you?”

  Roand crossed his arms and looked over Tarlak’s assigned apprentice and servant. Cecil sat hunched in the chair, face and neck flushed from anger and embarrassment. On his face grew a red beard that hung a foot below his neck.

  “Natural as in to him, or as in real hair?” Roand asked. “Because it clearly does not match Cecil’s blond hair.”

  “Real hair,” Tarlak said.

  “Of course it looks like real hair,” Cecil muttered, scratching at it. “It itches like mad, too.”

  Tarlak slapped at his apprentice’s hand.

  “Don’t scratch. Wait, go ahead and scratch. Does me no good if it falls right off the moment someone gives it a good tug.”

  “I take it this endeavor is of a selfish nature?” Roand stated.

  “That’s right,” Tarlak said, patting his own burned face. “Need to replace what you and your ilk took from me. Two weeks now, and not a whisker. Clearly magical interference will be required to look like my dashing self again.”

  He waved his fingers through motions he’d learned from one of his books. Cecil’s beard thickened the tiniest bit, the hairs losing some of their curl.

  “An illusion spell would be easier,” Roand said.

  “I don’t want illusion spells,” Tarlak said, frowning as he examined his work. “I want the real thing. I want to feel the wind blowing through my hair. I want to tug at my beard as I think deep thoughts, such as ‘how does one escape an inescapable collar of disintegration?’ Speaking of beard, Cecil, yours is clearly not red enough.” He snapped his fingers. “Hrm, too much red now, and it’s still too long. Each tweak’s just making it worse. We need to start all over. Go back to your room and give yourself a good shave. I’ll wait.”

  Cecil glared as he rose from his stool. The combination of his mop-top blond hair and reddish beard made him look ridiculous, and Tarlak grinned ear to ear as his apprentice left the room. Cecil’s constant presence was annoying, true, but it did allow occasional moments of entertainment.

  “So,” Tarlak said, swiveling on his stool to face the lord of the tower. “I’ve been giving some thought to this pendant of yours. Would a transitional state of matter do the trick?”

  Roand frowned, the fire in his hair rippling.

  “The moment you left a physical state, the spell would vaporize the substance you did become.”

  Tarlak clapped his hands as if disappointed. After he’d been inducted into the Council, Roand had brought him to his room and attached the pendant he currently wore about his neck. It was a chain of thick gold, with the front containing seven rubies of varying sizes. The rubies stuck to him like honey, and no matter what the time of day, or the temperature of the room, they remained uncomfortably warm. He tried shifting it up and down his neck as much as possible to keep the discomfort minimal, and every time he revealed thick red blotches on his skin. The purpose of the pendant was incredibly simple: should Roand ever desire it, for any reason, he could activate the magic of the pendant, turning Tarlak into dust.

  “What if I teleport?” Tarlak asked.

  “The pendant would travel with you,” Roand said.

  “Polymorphed myself into a mudskipper?”

  “The pendant would resize itself to match your new size.”

  Tarlak tapped his lips.

  “Waves of dispel magic?”

  “Automatic activation prior to any detrimental effects.”

  Before Tarlak could ask again, Roand sighed, interrupting him.

  “That pendant is the finest product of my lifetime of work,” he said. “Four men have worn it, and all four have died attempting to remove it after varying lengths of time. No spell, no trick, no method possible will remove that pendant from your body or protect you from its disintegration. But let us presume otherwise. If you did discover a method to safely remove the pendant, what makes you think I would tell you?”

  Tarlak grinned.

  “What makes you think if I discovered a method that actually worked, I’d ask you?”

  “You are amusing, Tarlak,” Roand said, chuckling. “I am glad you did not die during Antonil’s defeat.”

  “Same here,” Tarlak muttered as Cecil returned, his face cleanly shaven. “Ah, welcome back, baby-face. Are you ready to grow a beard?”

  “No,” Cecil said, kicking over the stool he’d been sitting on. “I will not endure another beard, or change of my nose, or turning my hair into that bloody awful shade of red.”

  Tarlak wagged a finger at him.

  “You’re my servant, mister Towerborn, which means you’ll aid in my experiments in any non-lethal way I see fit.”

  “No,” Cecil said, a feverish look in his eye. “I’m not your servant, not anymore. Tarlak Eschaton, I hereby challenge you for your seat on the Council. Do you accept?”

  Tarlak raised an eyebrow as he peered over Cecil’s shoulder to the bemused-looking Roand.

  “Do I have a choice?” he asked.

  Roand’s subdued laughter was answer enough.

  Tarlak and Cecil stood on opposite ends of the bridge connecting the two towers, Tarlak before the Masters’ door, Cecil the Apprentices’. Wizards and apprentices watched from windows of both towers. Their judge, Roand, stood to the side of the bridge on a floating disc of flame that swirled beneath his feet but did not singe a single thread of his orange shoes. It felt like a spectator sport, including cheers from the onlookers as Roand announced their names.

  “Cecil Towerborn, you have claimed a seat on the Council,” Roand said, his voice booming with melodramatics. “Tarlak Eschaton, it is your seat he has claimed. You must defend it with your life, or surrender your magic forever.”

  Tarlak beckoned over the Lord of the Council.

  “Just for curiosity’s sake,” he asked, “how is it you will enforce such a punishment should I decide to surrender and vacate the premises instead of fighting that loon over there?”

  “Dead men cast no spells,” Roand said.

  “Fair enough,” Tarlak said. “Then I’m keeping my seat. Sorry, Cecil. Better luck next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” Cecil shouted from the other side. “Your corpse will float upon the Rigon before this day is through!”

  “Sure it will,” Tarlak muttered as Roand floated back to the center of the bridge on his burning disc. “Overeager little brat.”

  Roand resumed his little speech, with Tarlak convinced it was more for the onlookers than him and Cecil.

  “The rules for the duel are few, and handed down to us by Turock Escheton in the early days of the founding. These rules will be enforced by myself, and by others of the Council if necessary. Whoever leaves this
bridge, be it of your own accord or at the hands of your opponent, forfeits the duel. Though the bridge is protected with many ancient runes; anyone attempting to destroy the bridge immediately forfeits the duel. Once the duel has begun, it shall continue until a winner is established, halting only by my direct intervention. You may use any magic at your disposal, so long as you do not violate either of the first three rules. Is this understood?”

  “Understood,” the two said in unison.

  Roand raised his right arm and glanced back and forth between them. “May this duel be one of honor, skill, and courage.” His arm dropped. “You may begin.”

  Cecil immediately took the offensive, just as Tarlak thought he would. Twin lances of ice shot from the apprentice’s hands, arcing over the bridge only to collide with the magical shield Tarlak summoned to protect himself. As the ice shattered, the shield rippled and distorted his sight of Cecil on the other side. The apprentice laughed.

  “I’ve watched you, you know,” he said, several more lances streaking in. Tarlak grunted as he poured more power into the shield. The ice struck, then broke, the shards scattered across the red and black brick before plunging into the Rigon River far below.

  “Have you now?” Tarlak asked. “I should have guessed you were into that.”

  Just to annoy the petulant apprentice, Tarlak flicked a ball of fire no larger than a beetle toward Cecil’s head.

  “Joke all you want,” Cecil said as he ducked beneath the attack, the fire striking the tower and fizzling into white smoke. “I watched you perform your experiments. I’ve seen how you struggle.” Fire swelled around his hands, bright and golden. “You’re weak. You’re soft. You’re pathetic.”

  He punctuated each sentence with a ball of flame. Tarlak dropped to one knee, his fingers dancing. Ice swelled before him, rising up to form a wall. The fire struck its smooth surface, filling it with cracks but failing to penetrate.

  “Oh stop,” Tarlak shouted over his ice wall. “You’re making me blush.”

  “Enough!” Cecil screamed. The apprentice slammed his hands together, and a wave of forced shattered the ice wall and sent Tarlak rolling. He hit the door with a thud and let out a gasp. It seemed he’d struck a nerve.

  “I am tired of never being taken seriously!” Cecil said as lightning crackled around his clenched fists. “I am tired of being everyone’s joke!”

  Lightning crashed against Tarlak’s revived shield. He gritted his teeth as the lightning slammed in again and again, vanishing mere feet away from his body against the invisible protection.

  “No jokes then,” Tarlak said when Cecil finally stopped. The apprentice doubled over, gasping for air. He’d overextended himself, and Tarlak had no doubt a pounding headache would soon follow. Cecil had potential, but no control, no subtlety. The only problem was, he wasn’t exactly wrong when he mentioned how weak Tarlak felt...

  “No jokes, just wisdom,” Tarlak continued. “Surrender now. This isn’t worth your life. I’ve fought prophets and gods, Cecil. You don’t compare.”

  Instead of calming him down, Cecil was enraged further. Dozens of red arrows shot from his palms, each one shimmering with heat. Tarlak slammed his hands together, summoning a powerful gust of wind perpendicular to the bridge. It shoved the arrows off course, and then with a thought, Tarlak adjusted the wind so it blew against Cecil as well. He hoped the apprentice would go toppling over the edge, ending the duel before anyone was seriously hurt.

  He wasn’t so lucky. Cecil planted his feet and pushed a hand toward the wind. Arcane words of power poured off his tongue, countering the spell. The wind died, having mussed his hair.

  “I’ve spent years learning from the masters,” Cecil said, steadily approaching with his hands out at either side. “Years reading texts, memorizing spells, practicing the movements and incantations. But you...you never stepped foot inside these walls. You don’t deserve to claim a seat on the Council.”

  He pushed his wrists together, and a massive stream of fire rolled forth like from the mouth of a dragon. Tarlak summoned another shield and the fire wrapped around him, unable to penetrate, but the shield wasn’t nearly as strong as Tarlak preferred, and sweat trickled down his neck. It seemed Cecil had a thing for fire. Having Roand as a mentor for so long probably had something to do with that.

  “Texts?” Tarlak said, ignoring his growing headache. “Practice? I’ve fought real battles while you stuck your nose in a book, Cecil. Forgive me for being unimpressed.”

  Pride pushed him to ignore caution and counter Cecil’s spray of fire with one of his own. His shield dropped, replaced by a deluge of flame. The spray was brighter, wider, and it pushed back Cecil’s as if it weren’t even there. Cecil panicked, dropping the fire to summon a shield. Tarlak watched the fire swarm about the apprentice’s body. If he pushed harder, he could break through, reducing the man to ashes, but he didn’t. Cecil was in over his head. If Tarlak could convince him of that, there’d be no reason for anyone to die.

  Tarlak killed the spell. Cecil fell to one knee, gasping for air.

  “You’re right,” Tarlak said softly. The two were only several feet apart, each having approached the other while unleashing their spray of fire. “I’ve not recovered all my strength, but I’ve recovered enough. I once matched spells with Celestia’s daughter of balance, a woman who could level a mountain with her mind. Do you really think you could do the same, Cecil?”

  “I don’t care what you’ve done,” Cecil said, voice growing louder and louder. “I don’t care!”

  He slammed an open palm to the bridge, and blue mist rolled off in waves, forming writhing tentacles that ended with dozens of sharp spikes.

  That’s a new one, thought Tarlak as he backed away. Tentacles lashed at him, and he ducked one, then sidestepped another. He dodged a third too late, and the blue tentacle ripped through his robe, leaving a shallow wound across the ribs. Pushing his wrists together, words of magic raced off Tarlak’s tongue. An invisible shockwave knocked Cecil to his rear. The tentacles shimmered, the power holding them together broke. The mist wafted into the air and faded.

  Tarlak held his wounded side and checked the hand to see blood coating his fingers and palm.

  “That’s just rude,” he said, turning his attention back to Cecil. The apprentice had risen to his feet, wavering unsteadily. A smile was on his face.

  “I drew blood,” he said. “Did Celestia’s daughter ever accomplish that?”

  Tarlak chuckled, thinking of the dangerous, unpredictable Tessanna.

  “She didn’t draw blood,” he said. “She used it.”

  He flung his hand toward Cecil, flicking the blood off his fingers. Taking a trick from Deathmask, Tarlak snapped his fingers just before the drops splashed across Cecil’s robes. The blood exploded into flame, tearing holes in fabric and blackening skin. Cecil dropped to the bridge and rolled perilously close to the edge before stopping. A low moan escaped his mouth. As he pushed to his feet, there was a feverish look to his eyes.

  “A neat trick,” he said “Mind if I try?”

  Tarlak realized too late what Cecil was planning. The apprentice pointed one hand toward Tarlak, magic rolling off it, while the other twisted into a few quick shapes. Then Cecil snapped his fingers and blood on Tarlak’s side exploded, the impact knocking him over. Tarlak caught himself before the edge of the bridge, and he screamed at the horrible pain wracking his body. Where he’d been cut was now a blackened mess.

  Gods damn it, thought Tarlak. Haven’t I been burned enough?

  Tarlak’s strength was already waning, and after such a hit, he struggled to focus through the pain. He knew Cecil was approaching and he had to react. Rolling onto his back, he began to cast a spell. Cecil’s boot pushed down on his throat, silencing it. The apprentice leered down at him.

  “Is that all you have?” he asked, fire burning about his hands, the beginnings of another spell on his lips.

  Tarlak’s fingers danced as he focused his mind elsewhere. Cec
il laughed, nearly ecstatic with joy. He pulled his boot off Tarlak’s neck to kick the wounded side, and it took all of Tarlak’s concentration to keep his fingers moving. The heel then pressed back down on his throat, denying him breath.

  “Go ahead,” Cecil said. The fire on his hands became daggers, and he held them ready to throw. “Try. Try to cast a spell.”

  Tarlak tried to answer, but the boot prevented him. Cecil acquiesced, lessening the pressure so a few words could escape.

  “I already did, you asshole,” Tarlak said.

  From far beneath the bridge, a chunk of earth flew from the riverbank. Before Cecil could realize what Tarlak meant, the boulder slammed into him, lifting him into the air and flinging him over the side of the bridge. Tarlak lunged after him, hanging half-over the bridge as he waved a hand. Ice spread from the side of the bridge, forming a swirling tendril that caught Cecil where he flew. The ice wrapped about Cecil’s body, trapping him.

  As cheers roared from both towers, Tarlak slowly rose to his feet. His head pounded, and he struggled to breathe.

  “I think I won,” he said as Roand floated closer on his fiery disc.

  “Not yet,” Roand said, voice low, just for the two of them. “These duels are to the death, Eschaton. It’s the only way to keep the apprentices from wasting the time of masters.”

  Tarlak did his best to keep his face passive, not wanting anyone else watching to know the purpose of their discussion.

  “He doesn’t need to die,” Tarlak insisted.

  “No,” Roand said. “But if I’m to believe you’ve cast aside your foolish beliefs in Ashhur, he does.”

  Tarlak glanced at the trapped Cecil. The apprentice looked like he’d been knocked unconscious by the hit from the boulder, his head drooped and his eyes closed. Just a foolish man, Tarlak knew, warped by his time in the towers.

  “And if I refuse?” Tarlak asked.

  Roand shrugged.

  “Then I’ll activate the pendant around your neck.”

  Tarlak shook his head, hardly pleased with that potential outcome. An idea struck him, and he did his best to keep his expression passive.