by James Derry
The outrider seemed eager to take on the sorceress, even confident that he might win.
Jamal, on the other hand, had never fought a witch in his life, and his life was all the longer because of that. At the same time, he felt obligated to draw his sword as well.
Pawn growled, “I’d heard that the Urrists were led by a witch priestess. I see those rumors are true.”
“You can put your blades away,” the priestess said. Her floating veil was made of hexagonal scales of gold with pieces of malachite and lapis lazuli pressed into the metal. The green and blue stones formed patterns that reminded Jamal of stylized eyes. In fact, the twenty-or-so gilded floating pieces made it look like she had many eyes, like a dragonfly. Only her mouth was fully visible under the screen of floating metal. Her lips were painted a ghastly black.
“Your weapons will do no good against me,” she said. “Also, I have no intention of harming such an important guest.”
“Do not consider me your guest, foul enchantress,” Pawn said.
“I was not referring to you. But I will not harm—”
In a brutal, lightning-fast motion, the outrider hurled a dagger at the witch’s chest.
The priestess flicked her fingers, and the air before her shimmered in ripples of light.
Pawn’s blade hit the half-invisible barrier and twirled in midair. It came flying back at Jamal pointed-end first. Jamal parried the flying dagger with his sword, deflecting it into the wall of the tunnel where it buried itself up to the hilt in soft clay.
“Do not try that again,” the priestess said. “Listen to me. I am here to accept you. You are here to be accepted.”
Jamal took a few steps back. “I’m here to leave.”
“Urr-Ogshoth accepts you.” The priestess raised her arms, and a rumble rose up from the pit behind her.
“Let’s run!” Jamal grabbed Sygne’s arm. For the first time since the witch’s appearance, he saw that Sygne’s eyes were locked on the mysterious woman’s face. Although there was no way to see behind the screen of floating gold.
“You’re not going anywhere,” the priestess said. She thrust her arm forward, and a cone of green light extended rapidly from her hand. Just as quickly, Pawn flung out some sort of powder from his satchel. The green energy struck the cloud of airborne powder and evaporated in a sudden flash and a sizzle.
The outrider pulled another handful of powder from his satchel, but instead of throwing it, he turned to run with Jamal and Sygne. “Let’s go!” he said. “I don’t have much salt left.”
“Salt? “Jamal had never heard of the seasoning being used against witchcraft, but perhaps the Albatherran knew more about such things. In the end, he didn’t have to worry about testing Pawn’s theories. Even as they fled away, the witch rose into the air, floated backwards, and flew back through the top of the circular shaft.
The entire tunnel was shaking now—an earthquake rising up from the bottom of the pit. They reached the pile of unconscious Urrist bodies. Pawn held salt in one hand and his sword in the other, so Jamal sheathed his own blade and stooped to pick up Sisprii.
“Hurry!” Sygne cried.
Jamal hefted Sisprii and settled her on his shoulder as quickly as he could. He glanced behind him, following Sygne’s stare. The circular opening at the end of the tunnel was suddenly half blocked by the bulk of something huge. It was the hillock of melted flesh crawling up the side of the shaft and coming for them. It moved with terrifying speed, considering its size. Within two seconds it had completely blocked the light, like a fast moving eclipse. Its portentous shadow filled the tunnel, and close behind in the gloom, the massive Un-God itself, undulating forward like a hungry caterpillar in its burrow.
They bolted. Pawn was in the lead, but hanging back to stay close to Sygne. She called, “Go for the ladder! The ladder!”
Sygne and Pawn broke through into the light of the cultists’ first excavation area. Sygne disappeared beyond the threshold of the tunnel. Presumably she was climbing the ladder. Pawn tossed aside his sword and then he heaved himself behind the cart loaded with dirt. “Hurry!” he groaned.
The ceiling of the tunnel shook above him. Jamal thought that he could feel the breath of Urr-Ogshoth on the back of his neck. Pawn had the heavy cart rolling, building momentum as it passed through the mouth of the tunnel. Jamal just skirted past it as Pawn gave one last grunting roar and shoved it forward.
The wagon had barely entered the tunnel before erupting back out again, flying through the chamber and exploding into a mess of shattered wood against the far wall.
“Damn!” Pawn shouted as he barely dodged the flying cart. The thing must have weighed at least six-hundred pounds.
Jamal was already at the ladder. He climbed as quickly as he could with Sisprii draped over his shoulders. The scrape of metal as Pawn retrieved his sword. The outrider bounded to the ladder, and soon his hands were clutching at the rungs next to Jamal’s heels.
The Un-God burst into the circular excavation, brushing away mining equipment and religious furnishings like they were small clots of dust.
Pawn demanded, “Climb faster!”
“I’m going as fast as I can! I’m carrying extra weight.”
“It’s just one body!” With that, the outrider thrust himself upward on the ladder until his scruffy head emerged in between Jamal’s legs.
“Hey!”
Pawn continued climbing heedlessly, pressing himself up against Jamal’s haunches. Jamal couldn’t climb to keep up with the outrider’s progress, instead he held on tight. He was riding like a toddler on the Albatherran’s shoulders. Pawn propelled him upward—him and Sisprii—and he didn’t seem to lose any momentum as he took on that extra weight.
Who was this man?
Sygne had just cleared the top of the shaft; apparently there were no cultists waiting for them at the landing. Her face was ashen as she stared down at them—at the creature following at their heels. The ladder shook, and Pawn somehow found the strength to move even faster.
Jamal was having trouble enough keeping his balance, staying perched on Pawn’s shoulders while Sisprii was perched on his. But he couldn’t resist twisting himself until he could see the creature crawling up after him.
For the first time, he got a good look at Urr-Ogshoth. Jamal didn’t know how he had mistaken it for a smooth channel of water; the surface of the Un-God was warted and veined with pieces of human anatomy. Its head was a round hillock, lumpy and flowing like wet clay. A clump of human hearts hung to one side, like a cluster of coconuts. In another area, a mass of intestines roiled to the surface, writhing like a mating ball of vipers. Spines emerged, slicing across the Un-God’s hide like serrated teeth.
“Move! Move!” Sygne shouted.
As fast as Pawn was climbing, the Un-God could climb faster. All of its different organs swirled together frantically, like creatures in a feeding frenzy just under the surface of a frothing swamp. Brains and pulsing knots of muscle. Literally hearts and minds.
Pawn surged to the top of the ladder, not once breaking stride as his progress shifted from vertical to horizontal. He only stopped to shrug Jamal off of his shoulders when they reached the threshold of the tower’s back portal. Sygne helped to catch Sisprii’s body before she hit the floor. Jamal was supporting most of the woman’s weight, but Sygne still staggered. Her eyes were drawn to the pit. Pawn still had that maniacal adventurer’s grin stretched across his face. The Un-God had emerged from the hole. Jamal saw then what had Pawn so excited and Sygne so horrified.
One of the most unnatural aspects of Urr-Ogshoth was that it seemed to have no real features of its own. No mouth, no eyes. Not even mandibles or antennae, which you might have expected since it seemed so similar to a caterpillar. But as the Un-God reared and lunged toward them, Jamal saw that it wasn’t as faceless as it seemed. In fact, there were half a dozen human faces swirling across that mound of surging flesh. Eyes wide, mouths chanting in a chorus.
They spoke in raspy voices, but also melodically synced.
“We love you,” they said. “Urr loves you.”
“Urr accepts you.”
“We accept you.”
“Oh. No you don’t,” Jamal said.
Jamal didn’t remember grabbing up Sisprii. He didn’t remember breaking down the tower’s front door. Or glancing to see if Sygne was nearby as he escaped the infernal structure. Had she been swept up in the Un-God’s human tide? He didn’t remember the faces of cultists as he sprinted past them. Vaguely, he remembered Pawn waving him toward the Albatherrans’ siege line. The next time he was flooded with conscious thought—and also, perhaps not surprisingly, an upswell of shame at his sudden bout of panic—he was in the Albatherrans’ camp, peeling their kidnapped cultist off of his shoulders and wheezing desperately for breath.
5 – A Cold Draught
Jamal was struggling to recompose himself—to recover after his massive sprint. Sygne could see that he didn’t notice when the Albatherran spearmen extricated Sisprii and led her away. He didn’t notice the awed looks on the spearmen’s faces, or the way they saluted as Pawn strode past them.
“Your majesty.”
“Your divinity.”
Jamal didn’t hear these words, over his wheezing.
Pawn commanded, “Take these two to my forward headquarters! Offer them wine and fine cheeses!”
The Demigod King and Sisprii both disappeared among the sea of brass helmets.
“Where are you taking her?” Sygne called.
The soldiers did not answer. They escorted Sygne and Jamal to a sumptuous, six-compartment tent at the back edge of the encampment.
A huge oak table was stationed in the center of the tent’s main gathering area. An ornate map of the Garden Reach was stretched out across the lacquered wood. The tent’s heavily armored retinue (Sygne realized that they were all women) smoothly removed Jamal’s sword. Sygne held her pocketbook tightly to her chest; she shook her head emphatically as the women attempted to pry it away. Finally they gestured to a pallet of luxurious cushions in a corner of the room. The pillows were decorated with sprigs of lavender and glossy laurel boughs. Jamal seemed to melt into the cushions with a luxurious sigh. Sygne joined him reluctantly.
Jamal finally seemed himself again. “Good grief! That was some adventure!”
“Yes.”
“We barely escaped, by the skin of that creature’s teeth.”
“Okay. Yes. Jamal I have to tell you—”
Two new retainers swept in and offered cups filled with wine. Jamal sniffed curiously. “Do you have any lemonade, by chance? Sweetened?”
One woman squinted at him from under the peaked visor of her helm. “We have white wine—from the Hinterlands.”
“White wine?” Jamal was intrigued. “Is it… sweeter than red?”
“Oh… This is,” the retainer said. “It is quite a delicacy. Chilled with ice brought down from the Standing Sea.” She held up two fingers. “We’ll bring two cups. Nothing is too good for the guests of our liege.”
When the first retainer left. The second stood stiffly in the corner, her gaze locked assiduously at a point on the ceiling.
Jamal leaned across the cushions and whispered, “Pawn has a damn fancy tent. I’ve never seen an outrider with so many attendants.”
“Pawn is more than an outrider,” Sygne said.
“Hmm?” Jamal brushed a laurel leaf across his cheek. He obviously wasn’t listening.
“I don’t think we should stay here.”
“These are Albatherrans,” Jamal protested. “Your people.”
“We should go find Sisprii. What are they doing with her?”
“We just risked our lives for her!” Jamal said. “Isn’t that enough for now? Can’t we stay here and rest on these laurels?”
“Jamal. Pawn is not an outrider.” Sygne clutched her friend’s arm, making certain that she had his total attention. “Pawn is the Demigod King.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Sorry?”
“I’ve known Pawn since I was fifteen. He… Sometimes he likes to use secret identities. He can be very capricious…” Sygne glanced to the second retainer—making sure that she was at attention and not actually paying attention.
“How could you, Sygne? Do you know what kind of danger you put us in?”
“He wouldn’t threaten us,” Sygne said. Then she stumbled over herself to clarify. “I mean… not overtly. Not meaning to…”
Jamal glared at her. Obviously, he didn’t follow what Sygne was saying. He was too busy being upset about something else.
“He’s an alpha-protagonist, Sygne.” Jamal smacked himself on the forehead. “I should’ve realized this. The way he was so strong. So fast when he rescued us… We should both be dead right now!”
“You’re not making any sense,” Sygne said.
With that, Pawn entered the tent, the first retainer following behind him. She carried a large amphora that glittered with chilled condensation.
Jamal accused, “You’re a king!” Both retainers bowed up at the aggression in Jamal’s voice.
Pawn nodded magnanimously. He grinned at Sygne, enjoying her exasperation.
“I’m so mad at you…” Jamal shook his head. He seemed to remember the tall, armored women in the room. Pawn’s sword hung at his hip. Jamal added. “At Sygne… Not at you… Your Majesty.” Sygne could see Jamal’s mouth move awkwardly, trying on the word in the presence of the rough-hewn king.
Pawn chuckled. “Why would you be mad at my former tutor? I thought the two of you were fast friends.”
“We are, Your Majesty.” Sygne realized that she also felt awkward saying the words. She had known Pawn back when he was just ‘Pawn,’ with no obvious path of succession to the throne.
“It’s just,” Jamal explained, “that you are an alpha-protagonist and it’s against my religion to follow an alpha-protagonist on an adventure.”
King Pawn arched his unibrow at Jamal. “There’s only one religion I know that uses words like ‘protagonist.’ You’re a Gjuiran, aren’t you?” Pawn asked in a voice that was hearty with jocular disgust. “And here I was, just beginning to respect you.”
Sygne started, “Jamal, I don’t—”
“Do you remember Ohbo?” he asked her. “Do you remember when we were in danger—he was in even more danger?”
Sygne was confused for an instant; then she put herself into Jamal’s spiritual perspective. According to the Gjuiran faith, the gods watched mortals as a form of entertainment and every mortal had a role to play in that entertainment. Sygne said, “You thought that Ohbo would play the role of ‘narrative fodder,’ and the gods would choose to have him fall first to any threat we faced.”
“Yes, to establish the stakes,” Jamal finished. He gestured deferentially to Pawn, who stood grinning with his knuckles on his hips. “Pawn… uh, King Pawn? His Majesty…”
Magnanimously, Pawn offered, “You can call me the Demigod King.”
“Yes.” Jamal cleared his throat. “The Demigod King is an alpha-protagonist. Compared to him, we are the expendable ones. As insignificant as Ohbo. Think about it: his exploits are known the world over. He rules a kingdom. His mother is a deity! His… Wait. Is your name truly ‘Pawn?’”
“Yes,” the Demigod King said. “My father gave me that name, to teach me humility. Right before he abandoned me in the Mizzuline wilderness.”
Jamal completed what he knew of the legend. “Your father was Ithjzur, King of Albatherra. He seduced a Mizzuline goddess…Lupa?”
“Yes,” Pawn answered. “The goddess of the silence that lingers between wolves hunting together.”
Sygne shook her head. She wasn’t sure how much she believed in this story of Pawn’s divine pedigree, but she knew one thing for sure: The Mizzuls had segmented their deities into very specific realms of worship.
Pawn said, “My dear father hoped that Lupa would birth him an entire litter of fierce god-princes to help him rule Albatherra indefinitely. You might guess that he was quite disappointed. He stole me away while I was still in swaddling clothes. He left me with the name ‘Pawn,’ scrawled on a collar cinched to my neck. Then he abandoned me in the wilderness, to prove my infantile fortitude.”
It was a horrible story. Ithlzur must have been a truly awful man for the people of Albatherra to believe any bit of it. Perhaps just as awful: Pawn’s grin stretched wider, betraying a coldblooded pride as he recounted the hardships of his youth. Sygne hadn’t really thought about it, but Pawn’s sense of right-and-wrong must have been seriously warped by such a brutal upbringing.
But Jamal was obviously impressed. “You see? With an origin like that, there’s no way the gods would let us live over him! He’s just too damn heroic; his glory is overwhelming. Forget the Firstspawn relics, our story doesn’t even come close to matching his glory.”
“That’s nonsense!” Sygne’s eyes darted to Pawn. She realized she definitely did not want the Demigod King to know about their relics. She didn’t trust him. Maybe she had at one time, but that had been before Pawn’s ‘war on ignorance and intolerance’—before she had seen the impaled corpses along the western road.
Pawn rubbed his stubbled chin. “Maybe not. I’ve never heard a Gjuiran explain his beliefs quite so eloquently. Mostly the Gjuirans I meet seem like kiss-ass cowards.”
For a moment, Jamal’s mouth wrestled with itself, struggling with the urge to respond to Pawn’s aside. Instead he asked, “Tell me, Your Majesty, have you truly never noticed that other adventurers—not as notable as you—tend to die at a high rate when they’re in your presence.”
“You’re referring to redshirts?” Pawn asked.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Those are soldiers in the Albatherran Expeditionary Force. Brave warriors and scouts, all. They’re named for the crimson tunics they wear.” Pawn glanced to the two female retainers, who both wore green fabric under their breastplates. “The redshirts follow me on expeditions.”
