The King of the Vile

by David Dalglish

  Bram’s army was completely scattered, soldiers fleeing in all directions from the fury of the goddess. The ground shook beneath them, yawning wide, snapping limbs and tearing open the flesh of those who fell. The gathered clouds struck with lightning, again and again, the thunder like the beat of a celestial drum.

  “Tess,” Qurrah said, struggling to remain on his feet as he watched. “Tess!”

  He was losing her. Her eyes were throbbing beacons of white, her hair a wild nest of snakes that billowed in the storm. What could he say to her? Would she even hear?

  “You are wild animals fought over by gods that refuse to see they deserve better. I am tired of playing the intercessor. Must I act the butcher instead to bring peace to my realm?”

  Fire exploded from the growing cracks in the ground. Lightning lifted bodies into the air and incinerated them before raining down ashes. Shadows grew claws and spilled blood. Despite the wind, despite the thunder, the terrified sounds of the dying still reached Qurrah’s hill. The destruction showed no preference now; the armies of both Ker and Mordan were assaulted by Celestia’s power.

  “Tess, please,” Qurrah whispered, slumping to his knees as he witnessed such a fearsome display. “Come back to me. Don’t leave me here alone.”

  The dark angel in the sky turned, and her glowing eyes fell upon him. The rumble of the storm hesitated, and Tessanna curled her arms and legs inward like a frightened child.

  “No!” she shouted. Her voice echoed over the valley, loud as thunder. “No more killing, no more death. No more slaughter! Leave...us...be!”

  It seemed the world held its breath. When the voice of the goddess spoke, it echoed across the valley from no discernable source.

  So be it.

  The ground ceased its shaking, fire seeped back into earthen cracks to intermix with the living shadow. Clouds scattered, streams of sunlight piercing through with growing intensity. Tessanna floated above the carnage, her starlight dress fading away as her black wings took her to the hill. Gently she landed, her wings dissolving like morning mist. Qurrah flung his arms around her. It seemed her legs held no strength, and she crumpled to the grass.

  “She’s hurting,” Tessanna said, tears streaming down her face. “Mommy, she’s leaving us, all of us. Her back is to our world, Qurrah.” She clutched her forehead with her fingers. “I’m alone in here, all alone, no more voices, no more reflections. A dead mirror, a dead mirror...”

  “Shh,” he said, holding her close. “Not alone. I’m here. We’re here. Let her turn her back on our world. That means it will be ours now, and not the gods’.”

  “We won’t rule a world,” she said, shivering against him. “We’ll rule an empty shell.”

  “What of Ashhur?” asked freckle-faced Elrath, the shortest of the three paladins, and Qurrah started. He’d forgotten the youngers were there. “Has he turned his back on us as well?”

  Tessanna sniffled as she pulled away from Qurrah.

  “His eyes are open, but do not rejoice. Your god’s gaze is no longer one of love, but of fury. His anger comes, and the goddess will not hold him back. We will all suffer come nightfall.”

  Qurrah took her by the hands and helped her back to her feet.

  “One problem at a time,” he said. “We need to flee while Bram’s still reeling from his losses. I have no heart to fight more soldiers and dark paladins.”

  “Neither do I,” Tessanna said, laughing despite her exhaustion. “And telling Mommy that made her so very, very angry.”

  A half-orc, his half-insane lover, and three inexperienced paladins of Ashhur raced away from the burned and broken valley, the corpse-strewn reminder of the goddess’s rage. Qurrah urged them on, wishing to cover as much distance as possible before nightfall, before whatever fury Tessanna foretold came about with the setting of the sun.

  22

  The hour was late. Roand stood in the center of the bridge connecting the two towers, arms crossed against the biting wind. Tarlak had insisted he meet him there after the sun had begun to set and the various members of the towers were settling down to sleep. The whole process felt thoroughly unnecessary, but the unusual wizard had proven himself to be surprisingly adept at spellcasting. Maybe, just maybe, he’d found a way out of his imprisonment pendant.

  A gust of wind filled Roand with shivers, and he cast a simple spell to warm his robes. Adept spellcaster or not, if Tarlak didn’t show soon...

  Tarlak stepped out of the Masters’ Tower. To Roand’s distaste, he carried a set of robes colored a vibrant yellow.

  “I hope you’ve brought those to toss off the side of the bridge,” Roand said.

  Tarlak grinned wide as he made his way to the center. “Actually, I consider these robes part of a wager.”

  “A wager?”

  “Yes, a wager.” Tarlak stopped just before him, and he set the robes down on the checkered red and black brick. “I’m about to show you how to escape this inescapable pendant you’ve stuck around my neck. In return, I expect to be allowed to wear my yellow robes. Surely that’s a simple enough reward, given how I’m pointing out a flaw in your greatest creation without an audience.”

  Roand rubbed his smoothly shaven chin. Nearly every mage had some sort of eccentricity to be dealt with. Anora feared the sight of running water. Adjara needed the company of young boys every few months, not to mention Viggo’s crimleaf addiction. Compared to that, what did an ugly yellow robe matter?

  “If you succeed, and you show discretion when it comes to revealing the nature of your escape, then I will allow you to wear your yellow robes,” Roand said. “And if you fail, well...” He shrugged. “If you fail, I will leave them here as a reminder to everyone not to doubt my abilities.”

  “Deal!”

  Tarlak stepped away from the robes made a show of stretching his arms and back. Roand retreated a step or two as well, wanting to be a safe distance away. Tarlak was obviously nervous, which was strange. Roand couldn’t help but wonder why he’d bother with the attempt at all. After a few years of loyalty, Roand wouldn’t need such a show for him to remove the pendant. Tarlak’s work on Deathmask alone had nearly convinced him of the man’s dedication to the craft. In time, Tarlak’s mastery of fire could rival his own.

  “I’ve thought about this a bit,” Tarlak said as he hopped up and down on the bridge. “Lots really, perhaps the most attention I’ve ever given any sort of problem. Take it as a compliment. So, how does one remove a pendant that is absolutely, completely, thoroughly unremovable?”

  “Pray tell,” Roand said, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm from his voice.

  Tarlak’s grin returned.

  “That’s the trick. You ready to see?”

  Roand nodded. Tarlak gave a clap, then let out a deep breath.

  “All right,” he said. “Remember, no interrupting. This is a delicate process, and if you interrupt me, then I will never tell you how I can remove it...well, at least, not until I’ve told everyone else how I removed it.”

  “Spare me the petty threats, Tarlak. You have my word, so stop wasting my time. I’d like to be in my bed, where it’s warm.”

  “Right.” Tarlak waggled his fingers. “Let’s do this.”

  The odd wizard started his spell. Roand listened to the words, curious. Tarlak’s hands weaved through the somatic components of a spell, and combined with the verbal, Roand realized that whatever spell he cast, it dealt in some way with the manipulation of ice. The wizard sighed. Ice? Tarlak’s solution involved ice? The heat the pendant could create rivaled that of the sun. No ice, no matter how cold, would withstand.

  He almost told Tarlak this, to spare his life, but the wizard had absolutely insisted there be no interruptions, so Roand held his tongue and watched. Tarlak’s spell ended, and strangely enough, Roand saw no ice anywhere.

  “There’s part one,” he said. “I guess I should have mentioned this had two parts. You ready for part two?”

  “I wait with bated breath,” Roand grumbled.<
br />
  Tarlak winked.

  “Trust me. You’ll like this one.”

  He started up a second spell, and its makeup was far more intriguing. Roand recognized a few of the ancient words, enough to know that it held at least some connection with translocational magic. Still, Roand had enacted dozens of safeguards against portals, teleportation, and the like. What did Tarlak think he might do that Roand had not thought of? The spell slipped off Tarlak’s lips, faster and faster, as his hands shimmered a dark purple.

  Then all at once, the spell ended.

  “Perfect,” Tarlak said.

  He grabbed the pendant around his neck and pulled it free. The gem within it flared to life, and before Roand could turn away to protect his eyes, the magic activated. A blinding flash of light, a roar of heat, and Tarlak’s body blackened to ash. Even his bones broke apart from the intense heat. It took only a second, and then the dust that had once been Tarlak Eschaton drifted away on the wind.

  “Hrmph,” Roand said, lowering his arms. “How disappointing. You were fun, Tarlak.”

  Roand stepped over the robes, leaving them there as promised, and returned to the masters’ tower.

  When Tarlak opened his eyes, he vomited uncontrollably. The motion nearly sent him plummeting from his ice cocoon and into the Rigon River flowing quietly beneath him.

  Damn that’s cold, he thought. His entire body shivered, and the ice touching his bare fingers was painful. Still better than falling to his death, of course. Tarlak glanced about, assessing the situation. He hung from the bottom of the bridge connecting the two wizard towers, the ice dangling from a thread like a hornet’s nest. Climbing up from the heart of the ice cocoon didn’t seem possible, which meant a bit of magic would be required. Given his current predicament, that posed multiple interesting problems.

  “Here goes nothing,” Tarlak said. He pulled his hands free of the ice, shaking them a few times for warmth. He put his fingers through the quick motions to summon more ice. To his relief, it sprayed from his palm without fail, building a makeshift bridge from the exit of his cocoon to the bridge above. He put in a few ridges, like steps, to aid in the climb.

  “Glad to know I’ve still got it,” he said. Slowly he crawled along the ice, lifting himself up at every step, doing his best to touch the ice with his robes instead of his bare hands. When he reached the top, he rolled off the ice and onto his back. And then he laughed. He laughed, and laughed, until tears ran down the sides of his face.

  “I beat you,” he whispered, pretending that pompous ass Roand was looking down at him. “I beat you, I beat you, I gods-damn beat you!”

  So much for inescapable amulets. Once he finished laughing, he rolled onto his stomach. He was pleased to see his yellow robes where he’d left them. Roand was a man of his word. Stripping off his old wet robes, he put on the new ones. He almost felt like his old self, and with a grunt he rose to his feet. The robes were nice and warm, for which he was grateful.

  “One down,” he said, thinking of Deathmask strapped to a wall in Roand’s multi-purpose bedroom and torture chamber. “One to go.”

  Tarlak had quickly learned during his stay at the towers how arrogant everyone was. The apprentices thought themselves better than their masters, and the masters better than the entire world. That arrogance dripped from the walls itself, including their protection wards. The front doors down below were carefully guarded and protected, but the two doors up top, connected to the bridge? No one could scale the perfectly smooth sides of either tower. No one without magic, anyway, and if someone had magic, why would they need to break into the towers in the first place? They could use the front doors, for what user of magic would not be a member of the towers? Surely not someone posing any real threat.

  There were no locks, no bars, no guards. Tarlak walked over to the door of the masters’ tower, pushed it open, and strolled right on in.

  Tarlak had to pass through the Grand Council room before he reached Roand’s room at the top of the tower. He climbed fifteen steps and entered the circular hall. It felt like a lifetime ago he’d stood before those arrogant pricks, awaiting their judgment. As if those nine members could lay claim to the entire spectrum of magic. Practicing spellcasting without their consent was the crime they’d wanted to execute him for. Such arrogant cocks. Such assholes.

  “Calm down,” Tarlak muttered. “You’re almost free of the place, so let’s keep a clear head until then, eh?”

  It was harder than he expected. Fearing an occasional mind-reading or slip of the tongue, he’d guarded even his thoughts while performing his experiments. But now, for better or worse, there was no more hiding. Either he’d escape, or die freeing Deathmask. There’d be no more of the farce.

  Tarlak crossed the hall to a set of stairs deceptively hidden behind one of the walls. He climbed the steps to Roand’s door and hesitated. This was it. Had Roand gone directly to bed? And if so, had he already fallen asleep? Of course, there was also the worry about alarms and traps. The Lord of the Council was the highest position one could attain. Roand might be arrogant, but he wasn’t stupid. All it’d take was a quiet dagger in the night, and suddenly there’d be a new Lord of the Council.

  Tarlak stroked his chin, but his red goatee wasn’t there. His mood went foul, and deciding it could all go to the Abyss, he cast a wave of anti-magic to dispel any wards and alarms. When none seemed to activate, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  The room was red and fiery as ever. Roand’s bed was empty, and it looked undisturbed. Wherever he was, Tarlak hoped he stayed there for a good long while. Deathmask hung from the wall, still firmly shackled and chained. His head hung low, dark hair covering much of his face. Either asleep or unconscious, by Tarlak’s guess. Hopefully the former and not the latter. He wouldn’t mind slapping the unpredictable rogue awake, but dragging his unconscious body out the tower was a different matter.

  First, Tarlak scoured the wizard’s desk, pulling open drawers. When he found what he was looking for, he slid it into his pocket and turned his attention to Deathmask.

  “No time for sleeping,” Tarlak said as he hurried across the room. “Wakey-wakey.”

  He gently removed the hook lodged beneath Deathmask’s chin, figuring that was the best place to start. The motion caused Deathmask to stir, and he muttered something unintelligible.

  “Easy now,” Tarlak said as he turned his attention to the mess of hooks and slender chains that kept Deathmask’s fingers from moving. “I’d hate to hurt you worse than you already are.”

  “Not...possible,” Deathmask said. He lifted his head and peered at Tarlak with bloodshot eyes. His face bore the scars Tarlak himself had put on him, but several new ones formed lines across the man’s forehead. “Who in the bloody Abyss are you?”

  “That’s hardly how you should address your potential rescuer,” Tarlak said as he pulled a pulled a fish hook from Deathmask’s forefinger. “And check the robes. Who else would I be?”

  “A disguise,” Deathmask said. “But why?”

  “Not quite a disguise. I’ll explain later, once we’re very, very far away from this horrible asylum for the mentally deranged.”

  After a minute, he had Deathmask’s left hand free, and he moved on to the right. The man’s fingers were swollen, puffy bruises growing from where the hooks had been embedded in the soft flesh of his fingertips. Thankfully no bones appeared broken. Roand probably considered such basic tactics as beneath him.

  Once both his hands were free, Tarlak turned his attention to the chains, which were easy enough to slide around Deathmask’s body until he was free. He got a good look at the many more burns that covered his chest and legs in the process. Apparently Roand had gotten bored with only assaulting the face. Scars were visible through burned gaps in his clothes, and a few looked incredibly recent.

  Tarlak removed the last of the chains. “At least he left your genitals alone.”

  “What?” Deathmask asked, still sounding delirious.


  “Don’t mind me,” Tarlak said. “Just talking to myself to keep the nerves calm.”

  The only thing left were the manacles. Magic had closed them, so Tarlak had a feeling magic would be required to open them as well. He cracked his knuckles and waggled his fingers. He’d feared everything would feel foreign and weird, and in the back of his mind it did, but so far his motor skills seemed to function perfectly. Given the intricate movements required for spellcasting, this was an incredible relief.

  Tarlak touched the manacle holding Deathmask’s left arm and murmured a basic unlocking spell. The metal sprang open the moment he finished.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll have you out of here in...”

  The door opened behind him, and Tarlak’s shoulders dropped as he sighed and turned about.

  Roand stood in his doorway, a comical look of bafflement on his face. He held a silver plate with a wedge of cheese and a few thin slices of bread. A midnight torture snack? Such a mundane act made the wizard seem all the more demented.

  “Cecil?” asked Roand, cocking his head to one side.

  “Not quite,” Tarlak said. “I told you I’d escape, didn’t I?”

  Roand calmly entered his room and he set his plate on a small table. His surprise was quickly replaced by amusement.

  “You transferred your consciousness to a new body, letting your old one be destroyed,” he said. “I must admit, I never anticipated such a strategy. You are to be commended.”

  “By ‘commended’, you mean ‘allowed to go free without repercussions’, right?”

  Roand shook his head.

  “Disrespectful humor to counter fear while in my presence,” the Lord of the Council said. “What did I tell you I felt about that?”

  Tarlak cracked his knuckles.

  “That I should instead act like a proper wizard,” he said. “So to follow your example, that’d mean burning your body in a hundred places. Let’s start with that, shall we?”