The King of the Vile

by David Dalglish

  “Those who believe we are the only judges to whom we must answer, and refuse to hand Judarius over for trial, rise to your feet so your vote may be counted.”

  Azariah’s fist shot into the air. All throughout the auditorium, angels stood up, hundreds upon hundreds of them. The rustle of clothes and feathers were war drums to Harruq’s ears. Two thirds of the angels stood with fists raised, an easy majority. Azariah bowed to the assembly, then turned to where Judarius sat on a front row.

  “I have heard Judarius’s words, and I sense no lie in them. I declare Judarius guilty of no crime. Let this matter be forgotten.”

  Applause followed. Harruq rushed to Azariah’s side, unable to contain himself.

  “The people will not accept this,” he said. “The riots, the looting...”

  “Will be addressed,” Azariah said. “Humanity may have abandoned us, half-orc, but we have not abandoned them. Hold faith in us. It shall be rewarded in time. Ashhur’s voice is silent, so we must cry all the louder in his place.”

  The angel patted him on the shoulder, then moved to join Judarius, who had a crowd growing about him. Congratulating him, Harruq realized. The sight of it was sickening. Aurelia waited at the exit of the auditorium, and he made his way to her.

  “Get us out of here,” he said once he reached Aurelia’s side.

  “They don’t understand,” she said softly. “They’ve only made it worse.”

  Harruq glared over his shoulder to the assembly of angels. “They understand all right. I just don’t think they care anymore.”

  A swirling blue portal ripped open before Aurelia. She kissed his hand and pulled him through, away from the city of angels to the city of man.

  That night, the riots resumed, far worse than ever before.

  18

  Roand’s room was the highest in the Masters’ Tower, and climbing up the many steps left Tarlak winded. He doubled over before the door, gasping for air. Had his injuries taken so much out of him that a few stairs could defeat him?

  Yes. Yes, they had.

  “One day,” he muttered as he knocked on thick oak door. “One day soon, you’ll...”

  “I’ll what?”

  Tarlak froze. The voice hadn’t come from the door, but from behind. Slowly turning around, he found Roand standing two steps below him with his arms crossed. Tarlak swallowed as his mind reached for a lie.

  “You’ll be impressed with how much my studies have progressed,” he said smiling lamely.

  The master of the tower chuckled.

  “I have had many people plot my doom in hopes of achieving power, fame, or revenge. I welcome you to try, Tarlak Eschaton. Killing you would sadden me, but your attempt on my life would certainly be an amusing one. I daresay it would be worth it.”

  “It’s good to know all sins can be forgiven so long as I’m entertaining,” Tarlak said as he stepped aside to let Roand pass. The wizard rapped the door once with his knuckles, and it opened. Tarlak followed him inside.

  He’d expected something spacious and pretentious, perhaps carrying a vague fire theme, and he wasn’t disappointed. The room was sparsely furnished, only a bed, a balcony closed off by glass doors, and a few chairs sitting in front of a fireplace. Seven wisps of fire burned in a circle just below the ceiling, like the flames of a candle only they hovered above nothing and released no smoke. The carpet was a radiating pattern of red, orange, and yellow, and the colors shimmered with each step Tarlak took. The furniture was painted black, and where it touched the carpet, tiny hints of flame flickered in and out. Tarlak shook his head, beginning to believe Roand’s fascination with fire far surpassed scholarly focus and into the realm of deep-rooted fetishes. Oddly enough, the only thing not filled with fire was the actual fireplace, but a quick snap of Roand’s fingers fixed that.

  “So what is it you come to my room for?” Roand asked as he moved to one of the many shelves lining the walls between vast paintings of sunrises and sunsets. A bewildering array of liquor bottles filled the shelf, enough to leave Tarlak jealous. They had alcohol in the tower? Why had no one informed him of this?

  “For starters, I came for a drink,” he said.

  Roand smiled at him over his shoulder. “A request I can easily fulfill.”

  Moments later, Tarlak reclined in one of the coal-black chairs before the fireplace. The cushions sank around him, surprisingly comfortable. He held a slender cup of onyx half-full of red wine in his left hand.

  “What if I turned myself into an elemental being of fire?”

  Roand stood beside the balcony door, swirling a cup of wine in his hand as he watched the sun set.

  “I had someone try that,” he said. “It was fascinating. Fire elementals are not native to our plane. Their bodies are held together with a liquid substance very much akin to flame, and it is constantly burning, but they are not just flame, as one might presume. And that liquid is very capable of disintegrating if the magic is strong enough. A wonderful day that was, witnessing a being of living fire burn to death.”

  “So that’s a no?”

  The master wizard laughed.

  “That is, indeed, a no.”

  Tarlak grunted. He’d actually thought that one might give the fire wizard pause, but clearly not.

  “Interesting, but how about this one?” he said, taking another sip of wine. “I guarantee you no one thought of this, not even yourself. What if I killed myself, then had a necromancer resurrect my body after removing the pendant?”

  “The pendant activates upon your death. He will have nothing to work with.”

  “All right. Then how about he raises me as a ghost so I can haunt your ass from here to eternity?”

  Roand grabbed the bottle from a little circular table beside him and refilled his cup.

  “You are welcome to try,” he said. “A few of my fellow wizards, Drasst in particular, specialize in necromancy, and they would love the chance to test a few of their more unique spells on a troublesome ghost haunting the towers.”

  “So even in death you won’t let me win?” Tarlak lifted his glass. “A toast to the man who ruins the fun in all things, even dying.”

  Roand started the laugh, but abruptly stopped. His gaze locked on something outside the glass doors, and after a moment, a grin spread ear to ear across his face.

  “You are wrong,” he said. “I am not averse to fun, something our new friend is about to discover in a most unpleasant way.”

  Tarlak scratched at his scarred face, wishing he’d perfected his polymorph attempts so he could have an actual beard to stroke. New friend? Who might that be? Another renegade wizard? Traders, come to the towers hoping to make a fortune? Or perhaps Harruq had sent a scout to investigate the disappearance of their army?

  No matter how many guesses he might have given himself, Tarlak never would have gotten it right. Two angels landed on the balcony, an unconscious prisoner carried between them. Roand set aside his glass and flung open the doors, allowing in a sudden burst of cold air.

  “Greetings, master of the tower,” said one of the angels. “We come bearing a gift from Azariah.”

  They tossed their prisoner into the room, where he rolled across the carpet before coming to a stop on his back. Tarlak choked down his surprise. Lying there unconscious, scarred face exposed, was Deathmask. Roand stared at the man, eyes wide, and the grin on his face was horrifying.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Most excellent. Tell your high priest that this is an acceptable gift, one I am most grateful for.”

  The two angels bowed in unison, then spread their wings and flew away. Roand shut the doors to his balcony, still eyeing Deathmask’s body.

  “Angels?” Tarlak asked, not sure how to correctly broach the subject and not particularly caring. “You’re working with angels? Why in Karak’s hairy codpiece would the lord of the council be working with the angels?”

  “These are desperate times,” Roand said as he knelt beside Deathmask. “Sometimes desperate measures must be t
aken in the name of preserving mankind’s freedom.”

  The wizard slowly rubbed his finger across Deathmask’s lips, covering the unconscious man’s entire mouth with a waxy substance. Within moments, the substance hardened. Tarlak guessed it’d take a knife and a lot of time to pry open Deathmask’s lips. An effective method to prevent spellcasting, something he swore to remember himself should the need ever arise.

  “You’ve had associations with this man in the past, have you not?” Roand asked.

  “You could say that.”

  The wizard nodded.

  “Excellent. Stay where you are, Tarlak. I want you here when he wakes.”

  A quick spell, and invisible hands grabbed Deathmask’s body, hoisting him off the ground. Instead of moving to the door, as Tarlak expected, Roand walked to the wall opposite the fireplace. With another wave of his hand, the wall rotated as if on hinges. The bookcase vanished, and replacing it was a black wall littered with chains, manacles, and hooks. Tarlak winced. The stone, it wasn’t black, not naturally. It was literally charred that color.

  Suddenly, Roand’s fascination with fire made a lot more horrible, terrible sense.

  The hovering Deathmask pressed against the wall, arms sliding between two manacles, which promptly shut of their own accord. Roand looped chains about his waist and bound Deathmask’s ankles as well. Next he positioned a large hook beneath Deathmask’s jaw. It dug into the skin, drawing thin drops of blood as it held the unconscious man’s head. Last was the delicate process of imprisoning Deathmask’s fingers. Beside the manacles were two gnarled tangles, like a briar bush of metal. Roand pulled chains from the tangle, looping them about multiple fingers. Into bleeding fingertips he inserted sharp hooks, like those used by fishermen.

  When Deathmask was firmly attached to the wall, Roand lovingly ran a hand down the side of the scarred man’s face.

  “Time to wake,” he whispered.

  Blue sparks arced from his touch, digging into skin. Deathmask flung himself forward, stretching the chains to their limits as his eyes shot wide open. His scream was muffled by the waxen gag, his nostrils flared as he breathed in and out. The hook in his jaw swung with him, firmly lodged in place.

  Roand stood before Deathmask, their faces so close they nearly touched. There was no fear in his stance, no worry in his smile. Just pleasure.

  “Welcome back, banished one,” he said.

  Deathmask attempted to respond, his words an unintelligible grunt due to the wax sealing his mouth shut. Roand tsk’ed at him.

  “Not yet,” he said. “It’s time for you to listen. You are in my tower, my room to be precise. The position of the hooks in your body has been carefully chosen. They will bleed you, and prevent any casting of spells, but you will not die, not from them, so do not bother to try. I will sear shut any wounds you cause to yourself, and trust me when I say the reopening of them from another attempt will hurt far worse than the initial tearing. I have seen it enough times to know.”

  Deathmask settled down, glaring at Roand with mismatched eyes that steadily grew in awareness. Roand crossed his arms and took a step back.

  “There. You seem more yourself. I’m unsealing your mouth, so I expect you to behave.”

  He brushed Deathmask’s lips again, and the wax bubbled as it dripped down his chin. Deathmask hacked and spat bloody saliva onto the floor.

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  Roand shook his head.

  “Such crudeness. You weren’t this way when you lived here.”

  Deathmask grinned like a caged animal.

  “It’s amazing what life outside these tower walls can be like,” he said. “You should try it sometime. You’d learn just how little of the world revolves around your two little spires of stone.”

  “That the outside world is chaotic compared to the order of our towers is not something to gloat about,” Roand said. “Nor is it something I’d wish to embrace.”

  The wizard spun and addressed Tarlak. “What name do you know him by?”

  “Deathmask,” Tarlak answered. “I’ve always known him as Deathmask.”

  “Deathmask?” Roand said, turning about with a frown. “A bit too theatrical, don’t you think?”

  “You stole my name,” Deathmask said. “So I took a new one.”

  “I stole your name hoping to teach you humility. Instead, it seems to have inspired even greater hubris. You were never one to learn from your betters, were you, Deathmask?”

  Deathmask laughed at the attempted insult.

  “You don’t get it,” he said. “Whoever I was, no one beyond a few old, worthless men inside this tower grieved his passing. No one outside these walls ever knew I existed. This name you mock, the name you forced me to take, is known from every corner of Dezrel. Even the rumors of your power you so carefully leak are nothing compared to my own underworld legend. Banishing me was the best moment in my life, so thank you, Roand. Thank you oh so very much.”

  This was clearly not the way Roand had expected the conversation to go, and he looked deeply displeased.

  “A vain, prideful man,” the wizard said. “It is good to finally have you back so you may suffer for all the crimes you’ve committed against us.”

  “My crimes?” Deathmask asked. “What crimes have I committed against you, other than practicing magic despite my exile? I see a yellow wizard over there who did the same. I suffer, yet you let Tarlak live in your halls? Forgiveness for him, but not for me? Why is that, Roand? Is it because you’re a gods-damned hypocrite?”

  “Tarlak is currently atoning for his transgressions, all performed when he was not yet part of our council. You, though...you spat in my face by disobeying a direct order to stay out of Veldaren’s affairs. You always thought you were the smartest and most clever of us. You weren’t. And then out of some childish need, or a vain sense of pride, you had to go and insult us by enacting those same plans we shot down.”

  “That’s shit,” Deathmask said. “All of it, complete shit. You’d have strung me from this wall years ago if not for how many would have protested. You were a coward then, and you’re a coward now.”

  Roand resealed the wax across Deathmask’s lips, shutting him up. He then gently touched the disgraced wizard’s burn scars.

  “I merely took your name. That I didn’t take your life was my parting gift to one who showed such promise. But instead of traveling to some remote corner of Dezrel to die in obscurity, you rebelled. You sought power, and practiced magic without our sanction. We even heard rumors of you teaching others our secrets. No matter how simple the spells, how base the cantrips you taught your guild members, you know that is something we do not allow.”

  Roand beckoned Tarlak to join him. Tarlak stood, his stomach suddenly cramping.

  “I’ve witnessed you fight before,” the lord of the council said. “You’ve a penchant for fire, though you don’t seem willing to specialize in it. Perhaps you should reconsider. Flame is more than heat. It is the perfect method of destruction. It purifies. All matter, all substance, broken down to ash and dust while giving forth light and warmth. If carefully wielded, it can shape stone, twist steel, even remake entire kingdoms if left unchecked.” He gestured to Deathmask’s scarred face. “What you see is a crude, skill-less application. I would show you true art.”

  Tarlak didn’t know where this was going, but he knew with absolute certainty he wasn’t going to like it. He consoled himself with the knowledge that Deathmask was going to like it even less. It’s all about perspective, he told himself. Perspective, and patience.

  “Summoning elemental fire is child’s play,” Roand said. “But if you focus it on an incredibly narrow spot, igniting what you touch with a flash, you can burn flesh faster than the mind can recognize the pain.”

  The wizard placed a single finger on Deathmask’s left cheek. Words of magic slipped off his tongue, rapid and short. Tarlak saw a brief flash of red, heard a pop, and then smoke rose in a thin gray trail. Deathmask flinched, clearl
y expecting pain, but when he opened his eyes he seemed unhurt. Roand pulled back his finger, revealing a single mark on the scars, burned so deeply it matched the blackened skin of a piece of meat left over a fire for too long.

  “No pain,” Roand said, smiling with smug satisfaction. “That is, until you want them to feel it.”

  As if brushing away a tear, he wiped his thumb across the black mark. The burned skin peeled away, revealing pale pink skin beneath that reddened from a sudden onset of blood. Deathmask screamed into his wax lips, his entire body tensing as he rocked back and forth against the chains. Tarlak shuddered.

  “Do you see?” Roand said. “Perfectly smooth in its searing, fully controlled in its placement. A proper application of the art. Now you try.”

  Tarlak clenched his jaw tightly as Roand stood aside. Standing before Deathmask, Tarlak wished he could apologize, but he knew doing so would risk Roand’s displeasure. Gently, Tarlak put a forefinger on the other cheek.

  “The incantation is the same as a fire burst?” Tarlak asked.

  “Perfectly similar. Use your thoughts to shape its flow. Pour out the power, and then cease it completely, as fast as your mind will allow. A flash, Tarlak. You are creating a flash of fire, so intense nothing may endure.”

  Tarlak swallowed down his nerves, his shame, and began the words. He felt the power building in his hand, power that he could unleash in a great torrent to impress a dragon, but he narrowed it down, imagining it coming out from the tip of his finger. The moment he felt the release, he ceased his words and cut off the spell. Smoke rose, and Tarlak felt uncomfortable heat on his fingertip. When he pulled back, a black mark similar to Roand’s was burned into Deathmask’s cheek. Tears ran down the captive man’s face as he shuddered in his chains.

  “Good,” Roand said. “Very good. Not quite as focused as it needs to be, as you can tell by Deathmask’s pain. To release magic, and then cease it in such rapid secession, is a skill one can only learn with practice.”