by Demi Harper
However, once my initial terror subsided and I’d convinced myself that the dead creatures really were just that—dead—I slowly ventured deeper into the vault.
That faint purple light was mesmerizing. I felt myself drawn to it like a grotto-moth to a roachlight, stepping unconcernedly over the outstretched limbs of the sprawled monsters as though their mere presence hadn’t made me almost soil my breeches just a few moments before. The finger bones of an ancient hand crunched beneath my heel and crumbled into dust. I barely noticed. My eyes were fixed on what lay beyond.
At the very back of the vault was an altar of pure crystal. Crouched atop it was an enormous onyx spider, lit from below by that eerie purple luminescence. The arachnid’s bulbous body had been carved in incredible detail: a thousand tiny spikes, thin as obsidian glass, jutted from its abdomen, creating the illusion of hairy bristles. These spikes also adorned the spider’s sharp-jointed limbs, making the legs look more like deadly weapons than mere appendages.
The spider was frozen in a threatening position, rearing up on its two back pairs of legs. Its two front pairs, as well as its pedipalps—those extra half-legs in front of its mouth—were curled almost protectively in front of its body; it looked as though they’d been grasping something, but the ends of each appendage were rough and blunted, as though they’d been melted away by something corrosive. I swallowed hard and finally let my gaze travel down to the floor.
At the foot of the crystal altar lay a gem. Scuffs in the dirt and dust told the tale of its short journey; after dropping free of the spider’s grip, the gem had hit the ground and rolled, coming to rest a couple of feet away from the altar.
It fit perfectly in my palm, and closing my fingers around its cold hardness felt as natural as breathing.
Fifty-Three
Disciple
Zerin
The next few minutes were a blur. One moment I was noticing the runes engraved in the floor—they looked to have encircled the altar, though the gem had corroded the runes beneath it. The next moment, without moving, I was yanked into the presence of something depthless, ageless—godlike—of which I remembered little afterwards except a sense of tremendous physical pressure, as if I’d been transported to the rocky bed of an ocean trench.
I think terror made me pass out for a few seconds, though I’d never actually admitted that part; Khazla would have rolled her eyes, and Draykon would simply have laughed in that genial way of his.
But when they dragged me out of that vault, they too sensed something otherworldly emanating from the gem clutched in my hand. By that time the other acolytes had gotten bored of their bullying and wandered off, but the three of us huddled there, me whispering to them of what I’d seen, what I’d felt, while the vault sealed itself behind me once more with an echoing thud.
The gem—a Core, I found out later—hadn’t spoken to me directly at first. Even still, I could sense the desires of the being trapped inside, and found myself increasingly eager to fulfill them. The Core—the beautiful Core—was weak, and my own personal devotion could only carry it so far. It needed to grow in power to achieve its full potential—and to help me achieve mine, I sensed—and for that, it needed followers.
The longer I served Melakor, the stronger his voice in my mind became, and the more my own capacity and desire to lead others flourished. Gone was the meek, angry night elf youth; in his place was an adult in control of his own destiny. Naturally, Khazla and Draykon had been the first acolytes I’d recruited. More followed; our secret cult flourished like magmashrooms in a volcano, and Melakor and I along with it.
We called ourselves the Zhintar, which meant ‘Hand of Righteousness’ in the ancient Vrakon tongue. At least, I was pretty sure it did. I was never particularly good at either languages or history, no matter how many fancy tutors my family hired in those early years. Still, the name sounded appropriate, and Melakor had raised no objections. His power had spread, fueled by the sacrifices his growing number of disciples provided.
And now, we were finally outside the manse of the Temple of Arachnia’s high priest, preparing to initiate the final stage of Melakor’s plan. By the end of this night, he and I would become one. He would inhabit living flesh once more, and I would share in his godliness. The Zhintar would no longer be a shady cult, but Uldrazir’s new religion, open to all.
I felt a surge of pride as I recalled my part in it all.
I brought us to this point. And soon we’ll all be rewarded.
“We’re doing the right thing. I’m sure,” I told Khazla, who had remained hovering uncertainly beside the door, while my mind wandered the tunnels of memory. When her frown didn’t abate, I added, “Do you trust me?”
“No,” she answered. “I don’t even like you.” But her lips twitched in what was almost a smile, just for a moment. Then her face grew hard again. “But I dislike Rylviari even more.”
“Exactly. Whatever happens to him, he deserves far worse.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” she said. “It’s us. What if something goes wrong? And why does Melakor even need Rylviari, anyway?”
I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, much as Draykon had done to me. She shrugged it off with a scowl. I put it back again, gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, then withdrew my hand before she could break my fingers. “Everything is going to plan,” I told her. “If there are any witnesses, we’ll silence them. And I don’t know why Melakor needs the high priest’s blood, but I for one would much rather see it on the outside of his body than in his veins. Can we agree on that at least?”
She narrowed her eyes, and finally gave a short nod. I gestured to the empty doorway. “Shall we?”
Khazla gave a mocking bow. “After you, master.”
The high priest took to being abducted about as well as an octopus might take to being set on fire. After several minutes of him continuing to scream muffled profanities through the gag we’d stuffed into his surprisingly foul mouth, Draykon finally snapped, and thumped him on the head with the silver pommel of his dagger.
“What did you do that for?” I asked through gritted teeth, checking if Rylviari was still alive. Melakor had been very specific about that part.
Draykon just grinned. “He’s lucky I didn’t use the pointy end.” He twirled his bloody dagger and stared down at the unconscious priest.
I felt another twinge of unease. The sheer loathing that burned in my friend’s eyes was unnerving, and though I was trying to forget, I couldn’t help but think about the fate of the priestess.
By the time Khazla and I had reached the bedchamber, Draykon was pulling the priestess from Rylviari’s bed by a handful of her silky white hair. The priestess—Nessa, she was called; Sister Nessa—had raised purple-blue eyes to my face, fearful and pleading. Time seemed to slow as Draykon stepped behind her and tugged her head back, then dragged his curved blade across her throat. When she slumped to the floor, a dark crimson stain began to soak into her pure white hair.
I tried to push the image from my mind. A faint echo of Melakor’s voice assured me that such collateral damage was unavoidable; that Nessa was a martyr, a victim of the Temple of Arachnia just like Khazla and Draykon and myself, and that by bringing down Rylviari we’d stop the spider cult from harming anyone ever again.
But doubts were beginning to seep in like poison.
Am I really doing the right thing?
Beside me, the troubled look on Khazla’s face suggested she was wondering the same.
She was still frowning when we reached the flesh pits on the outskirts of the city—though I couldn’t really blame her for that, since just thinking of the place was enough to make a scalegrin scowl. For Khazla, revisiting the macabre holes that had dominated her childhood and added extra fervor to the other acolytes’ bullying must have felt like her own personal hell.
Speaking of hell, the pits were a maze of treacherous gorges and sinkholes, crevasses and stalagmites, made even more dangerous by the unstable footing: a mass of flesh, bone
, feces and offal, ingested over time by the pit-wyrms and processed into a dusty powder that they excreted in crumbling patties, which were in turn eventually consumed by tiny bacteria-like scavengers and not-so-tiny trash-shades.
As a society, the night elves prided ourselves on this advanced method of sanitation—after all, what better way to rid oneself of organic waste, bodily or otherwise?—but I’d always found it pretty disgusting. The wrinkled noses of a few of the disciples around me told me I wasn’t the only one. I’d long suspected that the real reason the noble classes in particular were so fond of the flesh pits was because of their suitability for conveniently disposing of unwanted corpses.
Down below, one or two dust-rats were picking their way through a nearby ravine, but they paid us no need, focusing instead on the pit-wyrms they were overseeing. The Psy—the ability to communicate with and control the scaly reptiles—was considered a sign of low birth, given that the creatures’ only use was in the disposal of waste. Consequently, those revealed to possess the Psy, no matter their birth caste, were immediately relegated to the outskirts and appointed as dust-rats.
Poor Khazla, already born to Uldrazir’s lowest social station, had shown no aptitude for the Psy whatsoever, hence her abandonment to the temple. Likewise, Draykon had failed even the most rudimentary magical training, which, as the son of a minor, but ambitious archmagus, was an unforgivable crime. All three of us had found each other, and had stuck together through years of being spat on by those who were born to the temple rather than abandoned to it.
As I stared down into the pit, I fancied I could see the remains of those very acolytes; the ones who’d locked me in the vault that fateful day; the ones we’d since sacrificed, one by one, to help Melakor grow stronger. There could be no power without bloodshed, after all.
Of course the corpses of my tormentors were long gone by now, naught but dust in the pits and perhaps fragments of bone in the guts of the pit-wyrms. A fitting end for those who’d made my life so miserable for so long. And after tonight’s ritual, I’d never have to endure such torment again, and nor would anyone else.
Steeling myself with that thought, I gave the signal for my disciples to dump the bodies they’d carried from the manse. A handful of limp figures dressed only in pale sleeping shifts went plummeting down into the crevice, each landing with a soft thump and a puff of bone-dust. I glimpsed crimson-stained white hair fluttering during one corpse’s descent, and turned my back on the pit, swallowing down a lump in my throat.
The moment we entered the twisting tunnels of the Netherdark, I felt better. My qualms faded, and the nagging guilt grew fainter by the moment until it winked out, altogether, like a phosphorescent shrimp swallowed by an anglerfish’s toothy maw. In its place came conviction, optimism, and the absolute certainty that I—that we—deserved more. Melakor’s influence had spread far indeed; his ability to inspire his followers had once been limited to just a few feet around his Core. Now, it almost encompassed the pits.
And soon, Uldrazir itself, I promised silently.
Despite my renewed confidence, we crept cautiously through the Netherdark. Just because Melakor controlled the monsters that prowled its tunnels did not mean we were safe from harm. Though most of the deep creatures would be deterred by our roachlight lanterns, there were still Ferals to contend with: elves who’d been cast out from Uldrazir for the gravest of crimes—murder, heresy, looking at the Archduke the wrong way—and consigned to the Netherdark without even a single torch to protect them from subterranean horrors. Miraculously, many of these outcasts managed to survive their exile, at least for a while, eking out a living among the labyrinthine cave systems and slowly losing themselves to madness until they were themselves considered native predators, victims of the cannibalistic Netherdark.
Thankfully, our journey was Feral-free and uneventful. We passed only the usual creatures—white-eyed abyssal orcs; chitinous, blade-armed scythe-horrors; even a towering void hulk—as well as a handful of the new ones that had started appearing a month or so ago. These were strange and bizarre hybrids of existing creatures, including ones I’d never seen before and had no desire to ever encounter. Thanks to Melakor’s influence, every single one of the monsters stood back placidly as my disciples and I passed.
Our disciples, Melakor admonished, making me flinch a little. Though I’d become accustomed to hearing his voice in my head, familiarity made it no less intrusive.
Of course, I replied immediately. I tried to convey a sense of contrition. It wouldn’t do for Melakor to change his mind about my suitability as his host and choose another disciple.
Hurry, he commanded. I grow impatient.
I was impatient too. I’d been waiting months for this night, and now it was finally upon me. Us, I hastily amended. We are on our way. Master, I added.
Melakor’s satisfaction oozed through the invisible connection we shared. Soon, my chosen one, he promised.
I smiled.
Soon.
Fifty-Four
A Knife in the Netherdark
Zerin
Since only surface-seekers and madmen (which were essentially the same thing) voluntarily ventured beyond Uldrazir’s boundary patrols, the Zhintar base remained known only to us. Furthermore, the denizens of the Netherdark served as Melakor’s guardians while his disciples were away in the city, and the Core had assured me that I, too, would gain dominion over these monsters once the Merging was complete.
That Melakor was willing to Merge at all was an extraordinary thing, or so he’d told me. He’d explained that it was rarely done; that most Cores were reluctant to assimilate, to relinquish their grasp on whatever power they’d spent decades or sometimes even centuries attaining; but Melakor himself had learned more than he’d lost, and was ready to share his knowledge with someone worthy of it: me. Alone, the Core didn’t have the means to gain the followers he needed to grow; and without him, I lacked the resources (or ‘mechanics,’ as Melakor put it) to fully control and expand the environment we’d created. Our Merging was to be a process of symbiosis, of mutual benefit, and together we would be unstoppable.
Our base was humble. A simple cavern, carved out over millennia by the shifting currents of a colossal underground river—the same one that crawled along the bed of Convicts’ Gorge, in fact. The sound of that very river echoed softly but constantly up from the bottom of a fathoms-deep crevasse that split the cave in two and prevented access from the deep tunnels on the far side. This natural defense helped make the dank smell and miserably dripping ceiling a little more tolerable.
The altar sat in the shadows at the back of the cavern. It was a simple outcrop of rock, naturally flat on top, and conveniently sized to fit an adult male night elf should he desire to lie atop it. I gulped down a jolt of excitement as I realized the moment was almost upon me.
The time has come, my chosen one, Melakor spoke, the facets of his purple Core winking in the shifting roachlight. Join me.
With uncharacteristic reverence, Draykon lifted Melakor’s gem from the altar and gestured at me to lie down upon the slab of rock. When I had done so, he placed the Core gently atop my chest. Though the gem was physically inert, I could almost feel it pulsing with something like a psychic heartbeat.
Relax. I forced myself to breathe deeply, pushing out my doubts and excitement and tension and focusing instead on slowing my own heartbeat to match that coming from the Core.
My disciples—our disciples, I corrected hastily—gathered around the altar, and I gazed up at each one with satisfaction. Their cowls still hid their faces, but I knew every single one of them, by story if not by name. Some were from families like mine; lowly fifth or sixth sons and daughters of noble houses, overlooked and underestimated and keen to secure their own place in the new order to come. Most of the others were from low-born families; Draykon had helped recruit a lot of them. He was a truly great second-in-command, and seemed committed to Melakor with a fervor I’d never seen in him before. It was as thoug
h being part of the Zhintar filled a hole inside him, replacing something he’d never even known was missing. I understood; I felt the same way.
Only Khazla had retained the doubts she’d had from the outset. Even now, her troubled eyes gleamed green, reflecting the lantern she gripped in a white-knuckled hand. She stared fiercely into my eyes, as though challenging me to call this whole thing off, though it was safe to say we’d passed the point of no return when we’d stormed Rylviari’s manse and killed the acolytes who’d served as his personal servants. And Nessa.
As though Khazla’s doubt were contagious, dread rose from the pit of my stomach. While Melakor ordered the priest’s death, panic trickled through my veins, cold as the water fathoms below.
With a sudden clarity that broke through the weight of Melakor’s presence, I wondered what in the stone hells we were doing. To actually murder the high priest of the spider goddess—of the religion that dominated our entire race and had founded its greatest city—suddenly seemed unthinkable. I couldn’t help but imagine Arachnia herself crawling up from the crevasse to punish us for our hubris.
Draykon had no such qualms. Mouth set in a grim line, he forced Rylviari to his knees. The curved blade of a dagger flashed once more in the dim blue-green light. But as blood spattered the high priest’s white-gray hair and beard, all I could see was Nessa, her eyes—those kind indigo eyes—widening as Draykon’s knife opened the soft dusky skin of her throat.
As Rylviari collapsed, blood gushing, I could hear—feel—the soothing tones of Melakor’s voice, like oil atop frothing water, assuring me that this was right, that the high priest was beneath concern, that all others like him should kneel before us and beg for the attention of our knife blade. Rylviari was the servant of Melakor’s enemy—our enemy, he insisted—and so deserved his fate.
