by Mike Truk
“I do.”
“Fuck. Just as we were starting to get the situation here under control.” I raked my hands through my hair, moving to stare at my reflection in the window. “How are we supposed to prepare for a massive invasion?”
“Since we’ve made no progress in learning what she is, perhaps you could attempt to parlay,” said Cerys. “Regardless, she’s coming.”
“Yeah, but we still need to find out what the fuck a hereshen even is. What if Aurora has become some kind of demon, or succubus, and is now immune to my powers?”
“Then we’d be in trouble.”
“We would be in trouble.” Cerys tugged at the hem of her tunic. “And I’m going to speak with the guards, find a way to improve our defenses. If Xandi is correct and the Family is preparing a high-level hit, we might have to leave Thorne Manor again.”
“Yeah.” I tried to feel alarmed about the impending assassination, but something about the prospect of tens, if not hundreds of thousands, of religious fanatics marching on Port Gloom was preoccupying me. “That’s probably wise. Our best bet is to find them first and kill them before they can attack.”
“I agree. Though with Eddwick leading them, it will be hard to take them by surprise.”
“Eddwick,” I said, rubbing at my chin. “We have to find a way to get the demons out of them. It’s not him opposing me, but the demon in his soul.”
“You’re sure?”
“We grew up together.” I thought of the countless years watching each other’s backs. “I know he abandoned me in the sewers, but that was in the face of certain death. I’m sure he regrets it. If we can get the demon out, we’ll be able to save him. I know it.”
“Perhaps Tamara can help you with that,” said Cerys briskly. “She does have the resources of the White Sun at her disposal, after all. When she arrives, ask her.”
“I will,” I said, mind whirling, trying to figure out what to tackle first. “Definitely.”
“Good. Now. That’s all the news I had to relay.”
“Thank the gods.” I grinned weakly at her. “I don’t think I could take much more.”
“My point being, it’s time for you to eat me out,” she said, stepping forward to press her finger into my chest. “I want to feel your tongue all the way inside me.”
I straightened, pushing her back with my chest, and leaned down to kiss her. “As you command, my lady. As you command.”
Taking her hand, I led Cerys out of my office in search of the closest bedroom.
* * *
A gentle touch stirred me from dreams of dark alleyways and demonic shapes. I sat up, alarmed, and saw Tamara perched on the edge of the divan, her pale robes ash gray in the dawn light coming through the window.
“You were having a nightmare,” she said softly. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have woken you.”
“No, I’m glad you did.” I rubbed my eyes, sat up, saw that Cerys was gone. “I overslept.”
“I seriously doubt that. Sometimes I think you don’t sleep at all anymore.”
“Some. Here and there. It’s dawn already? The Hanged God wept. I meant to get through a bunch of pressing items Pogo needed to be taken care of before today’s council meeting.” I went to rise, but Tamara placed a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Kellik. You need to pace yourself. You can’t continue at this rate.”
I gave her an uneasy smile, mostly bravado. “Says who? I’m a king troll, don’t you know. I’ve a city to run.”
“Are you running the city, or the other way round? It’s been a month since Aurelius died, and you’ve lurched from one emergency to the next.”
“There’ve been a lot of emergencies.”
“And there always will be. But you need to be strong and collected if you’re going to handle them all. You look exhausted.”
I ran a shaky hand through my hair. “Yeah, well, there’s a lot on my mind. Word on the street Olandipolis has fallen?”
Tamara sighed, pulled off her white cap, and ran her fingers through her brown hair. “Yes.”
“See what I mean? What am I supposed to do, nap while the hereshen marches on Port Gloom?”
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t work. Just that you need to pace yourself. There will always be too much for you to attend. Either get better at delegating or slow down and take care of yourself before you start making critical mistakes.”
I wanted to argue with her, to point out that if I was to run this city, then I had to call the shots. But the sight of my crowded desk, the piles of folders that arose across the floor, the awareness of just how much lay before me, silenced my retort.
“I’ve already started delegating.” I leaned back against the wall. “Pogo’s taking on a bunch of the bureaucracy. Creating a new treasury. Reforming the taxation system.” I waved a hand vaguely. “And a bunch of other stuff.”
“Good. Because you need to spend your energy and attention on the matters only you can handle. The rest? Delegate to people you either trust or can command to trust.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “So you’re alright with my commanding people to behave suddenly?”
She smiled guiltily. “Not forever. But there is a hereshen about to attack us.”
“Along with a death squad of demon-possessed Aunts and Uncles coming for my head,” I sighed. “And all kinds of complexities with the women in this house.”
“Oh?” Tamara curled up on the divan and laid her head down on my lap. “Tell me about it.”
So I did, idly running my fingers through her hair as I caught her up to speed. And it felt good, to just talk, to be heard, to share my anxieties and concerns with her and not feel judged.
“So what do we do about Aurora? Any ideas on how to deal with her?”
“Well, I’m no general, but I imagine first we determine how much time we have.”
“To march an army from Olandipolis to here? It’s a week to ten days for a rider. So two weeks? Maybe three?”
“Then I’d use that time to repair the walls and gates.”
“Luckily, Captain Drussander is already preparing a report, and we happen to have several million in gold available.”
Tamara sighed and sat up, looking despondent. “All this makes me wish Yashara were here more than ever.”
“Me too. But that makes me think: how many mercenaries can we hire with a million or so gold?”
“I’d guess the real question is how many can you get here within the month?”
“One way to find out. But ultimately we’re not going to defeat this hereshen with an army. At best we can buy ourselves a week or two while they besiege the city. We need to kill her.”
“Agreed.” Tamara frowned. “But I haven’t found any mention of a ‘hereshen’ in the archives of the White Sun.”
“Nor has Pogo,” I said. “It’s as if the Dream Eaters made up that term.”
“Maybe it’s their own name for whatever she is. Something we’d have to go to Paruko to understand.”
“No time for that.”
“No.” Tamara bit her lower lip. “Which means we’ll have to adapt as we go.”
“What of the followers of the White Sun? I know we don’t have as many as Olandipolis, but how much trouble are they going to cause us when she gets here?”
“I can’t be sure. I’ll work on that aspect, however. Work with Revelator Mercult to crack down on any heresies, distribute lectures and sermons preaching the purity of the faith and casting the hereshen in a dark light.”
“Good. Last thing we need is thirty thousand White Sun faithful attacking us from within the city.”
“Seventy thousand, I’d wager,” said Tamara.
My face fell. “Seventy?”
Tamara nodded slowly. “Most everyone worships the White Sun in some capacity. I’d say there are only ten or twenty thousand true believers though, the kind who attend service every week and make donations.”
“That’s still an order of magnitude larger than our entire c
ity militia. Shit.” I scrubbed at my face. “We’re going to have to shut the city gates. We can’t risk Aurora getting her White Sun infection within the walls. That and I’m going to have to start an aggressive recruitment and training plan on top of everything else. Try to get our militia up to ten thousand at the least.”
Tamara reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “You can do it.”
“I thought you told me to pace myself?”
She laughed bitterly. “Perhaps that was bad advice.”
“Actually, speaking of advice, I was wondering if you could look into something for me.”
Tamara curled a strand of curling brown hair behind her ear. “Anything.”
“Demonic possession. Is there a way to remove demons from the Aunts and Uncles?”
“There has to be.” She considered. “Though I don’t know it. Someone else might, however. I’ll ask around. Consult with the archivists, see what they can unearth.”
“Excellent. Make it a priority, please. I’ve been so intent on just killing them that I completely failed to look into this possibility.”
“Of course. Now. Have you had breakfast?”
“Breakfast? What is this thing you speak of?”
Tamara laughed and stood. “First, you need to bathe. You smell of alcohol and days’ old sweat. Which, if we’re not on the road, is indefensible. I’ll order the kitchen to serve something up.”
I eyed the piles of paperwork. “Fine.”
“Good.” Tamara moved to the study door. “I’ll get to work on the demon question. You focus on taking care of yourself.”
“Fine,” I chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do. Though honestly, I’m doing well.”
She blew me a kiss and stepped into the hallway. I sank back in bed and stared up at the ceiling.
Did I feel fine? I stared out into the middle distance. I was strung out. Energized, but… hollow. As if all the nights’ sleep I’d skipped were starting to add up invisibly in the background.
I held out my hand, noticed the faintest of tremors. Closed it into a tight fist. Maybe Tamara was right. Maybe I’d have to start pacing myself.
Some day soon.
But not yet.
Chapter 10
Panic suffused the streets of Port Gloom. Riding a black destrier down one of the avenues in the Palace District, I saw the fear on every face. Cab drivers hunched over their charcoal braziers, whispering worriedly to each other. Guard patrols marched with stiff rigidity, jaws clenched. Courtiers stood in knots upon the corners, gesticulating and arguing loudly with each other. Carriages dashed by at dangerous speeds, and everyone seemed possessed of a hopeless, directionless urgency.
They all wanted to run, but knew not in which direction to flee.
For the White Lioness of Olandipolis was marching upon Port Gloom.
Expression sour, I turned my mount south toward the black iron Hangman’s Bridge, the narrow web across which convicts were carted to Execution Hill. Few pedestrians or citizens chose to use it due to its ill-omened reputation, but I increasingly found it a quick short cut to the Merchant’s District.
There the fear was more palpable. The small pocket markets were badly attended, the merchants themselves calling out their wares in tight voices, the costermongers’ calls grating upon the ears. Crowds were gathered at every message board and post, where the rare literate local read out the latest news. Taverns were filled with arguing men who mirrored the nobility on the north side of the river in their passion and anger.
The White Lioness.
Riding in the vanguard of ten thousand White Sun fanatics. No, twenty thousand, most of which wore peerless silver steel plate armor. She had a white dragon at her command - no, she rode the dragon into battle. Everyone not of the faith would be hung, or even those who believed but failed to kneel to her would be executed. She was arriving in three weeks. No, two months. No, in ten days.
The city would burn.
The city didn’t have a chance.
It was time to flee while they still could.
The avenues leading to the Field Gate to the east and the Main Gate in the south were packed with people leaving town. Carts were loaded with household goods, the elderly, pets, and children. Some men carried great packs athwart their shoulders, while others led laden donkeys. Children cried in the heat, cart drivers shouted curses at those stalled just ahead, and everywhere people inched forward, one step at a time, eyes glazed and fixed on some invisible point just past the horizon that led to an idea more than an actual destination: safety.
To Carneheim in the north. To Ellosaint directly south, skirting Olandipolis just to the southeast with dangerous proximity.
I didn’t want to even guess at the bedlam at the docks.
Frowning, I turned my mount west and rode around the south of Market Square into the Temple District. The great gleaming dome of the White Sun basilica seemed to shine with exquisite beauty today, and the streets and square before it were thronged with the faithful and desperate. Bells were tolling from every steeple, and each corner boasted its soap box preacher, most of them haranguing the attendant crowds in apocalyptic terms.
Great.
Jaw set, I turned north on Bridge Avenue, and rode north, against traffic, into the ruined landscape that the Noose had become. The demolishing project had been halted with the news of the imminent invasion, the crews reassigned to patching up the walls and working on the ancient gates, restoration projects which were only slowing down the exodus further. A good half of the Noose had been torn down, however, so that massive hills of ancient brick and worn stone arose like some dread landscape out of a nightmare, a war zone, a hint, perhaps, of what the rest of Port Gloom might come to look like if the White Lioness managed to enter the city.
I’d ordered the patrols that kept the people from moving back into their old homes to move to return to their precincts and there help manage the chaos. Thus nobody challenged me as I urged my destrier into a rubble-strewn alley, making my way through the network of crooked streets toward my goal: a solitary and undisturbed temple.
It was eerie, riding through the silent old neighborhood. The ladies in their brothels weren’t cajoling visitors to come inside and visit, the taverns were dead, nobody was returning home from the shifts at the factories, no vendors manned their coffee stalls, no costermongers wandered to and fro selling dubious meat pies. Gone were the thousand beggars, the lurking toughs, the quick-eyed gentlefingers.
An entire world, layer upon layer, scraped clean of humanity with nothing left but its hollow shell.
Almost a hollow shell. For, turning a sharp corner, I saw the tall cathedral of rusted metal and blade-like buttresses.
The home of the Hanged God. No fence, no wall, no barricade of any kind encircled the temple; anybody could march up to its huge double doors and pound the rusted iron knocker down on the ancient boards.
I dismounted at the base of the steps, looped my mount’s reins about a hitching post, and climbed the three pitted stone steps to the portico, taking a deep breath. It had been almost three months since I’d stood here last. It felt like a lifetime ago, another world entirely.
Taking a deep breath, I rang the heavy iron knocker three times.
Like last time, it took nearly a minute for the door to be cracked open, the ancient hinges screeching hideously as the door swung inward. A hunched, hooded figure peered out at me, his pale, wart-covered hand visible where it gripped the edge of the door.
“Welcome to the Temple of the Hanged God,” he whispered. “Do you wish to enter and be one with his majesty?”
“Not today, thank you. Though it’s great to see you again. You look well! Have you been exercising?”
The hooded figure stared balefully at me. I could feel the annoyance even without being able to make out his face.
“No? Never mind. I’d like a word with your sepulchros, if possible. Baleric, too, if he’s kicking around.”
“The sepulchros is busy.” And he
went to close the door.
I stuck my foot in the way. “I’m an old friend of Sepulchros Mavernus. I’m sure he’d be displeased if you failed to announce me.”
“Remove your foot or I’ll rot it off your leg,” growled the hooded man.
“Fine, fine. I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me no choice. Take me to your sepulchros.”
The intensity of my command grabbed the hunched figure as if by the nape of the neck and made his shiver. Then, with extreme reluctance, he pulled the door open. “Follow me,” he snarled.
I did so. The interior was awe-inspiring and terrifying all at once. The building was completely hollow; a huge, cavernous chamber that reached high into the darkness, its walls scored by irregular-shaped windows; clumps of candles bunched here and there, some on pedestals, others on iron spikes, some filling the base of windows, others simply shoved against the walls. In their soft light, I saw endless papers affixed to the walls, each held in place by a blood-red seal, some so ancient they were little more than cracked and yellowed scraps, others new, their ink dark and fresh. No pictures, but endless tallies.
Prepared from my last visit, I carefully averted my eyes from the huge, blackly luminous figure that hung high up on the wall. The icon of the Hanged God himself. Preferring to avoid madness, sickness, and death, I kept my gaze steadfastly away.
Through the huge chamber we walked, our footsteps echoing, our breath pluming in the air before us. Broken and cracked altars were set against the walls, their sides inscribed with endlessly different signs and symbols.
The air within the temple was close. It was hard to breathe. My chest felt tight, and it was with conscious effort that I forced a longer exhalation as I stepped through the archway into a broad hallway, and then down to a large black door that I knew led to the sepulchros’ office.
Dragging his feet every step of the way, the hooded figure led me to the door and pushed it open after giving a perfunctory knock.
I entered, trying to look as calm and collected as the true leader of Port Gloom should appear, and saw Baleric standing in the light of a dozen candles, arms crossed as he turned to me. Behind the massive desk sat Mavernus, a cadaverous-looking man, cheeks gaunt, skin gray, eyes sunken. An iron miter sat upon his angular skull, and he appeared more dead than alive as he stared listlessly at me.