Emperor of Shadows

by Mike Truk

  But at this hour the foot traffic was sparse; the ocean of clerks, accountants, lawyers, and judges had long left their dour offices for more hospitable climes so only the city guard patrolled the steep streets that climbed to the gory apex.

  We descended from our sundry wagons and carriages, gathering in a small group behind Baleric, who, through sheer dignity and composure, held everyone’s attention.

  I didn’t mind. This was to be his show, after all, right up to the point where he brought us in contact with the Laughing Scourge.

  We followed him, my crew and his, winding our way up the narrow cobblestone streets, our breath pluming before us in the cold, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the prosaic nature of it all. The commonplace offices and small courtyards, the signs promising immediate legal assistance with matters great and small, the colonnaded grander buildings - all of it, the legal heart of Port Gloom, built atop an unfathomable evil so ancient it had been forgotten by the city.

  Did our footsteps echo below in forgotten catacombs? It was too easy to imagine so.

  Baleric led us without hesitation to the entrance of the goal. It was a crude, massive building, constructed of huge blocks of black stone; its windows were little more than arrow slits, its roof flat and patrolled by guards.

  Baleric walked up to the huge front doors as if he owned the place, and there was greeted by the stammering of the guards on duty. He ignored them, stared instead at the doors until they were opened, and then, still without saying a word, marched on in.

  “Baleric’s got a reputation on him,” whispered Netherys to me. “That or he frequents this place more often than he lets on.”

  We marched into gloomy hallways, our footsteps echoing about us, the doorways barred from the outside to keep their occupants in.

  An official of some manner came racing up to greet us, adjusting his cloak and glasses and bowing almost before he come to a stop.

  “Exalted Exemplar, you, ah, I didn’t know you were coming, not, of course, that you had any need to inform me, but if I had known, I’d have, ah -”

  Baleric stalked right past him.

  The official gulped a deep breath, hand on his stomach, and marched to keep up. “Have you come to collect one of the prisoners? Has the, ah, Hanged God, as it were, demanded one of the inmates?”

  “No,” said Baleric.

  “Oh, that is, well, it is what it is, I suppose. Ah - in which case, how can I be of service, oh exalted one?”

  “We do not need assistance,” said Baleric, still not so much as glancing sidelong at the puffing man. “Good night, warden.”

  “Ah, I see.” The man stepped back, allowing our group to walk past him, and I thought I saw a flicker of relief on his features.

  Interesting. I’d no idea the Hanged God had the run of the city jails; something to look into later, if we all survived.

  Baleric led us with assurance to an iron door, which he unlocked with a large key withdrawn from his belt. The bolt clanged back with a loud report, and the hinges squealed like pigs being slowly put to death.

  Baleric paused, frowning down at the dark stairwell as if it personally offended him, then extended his hand backward without looking.

  Into which the red-headed thief that was a part of his crew placed a lit lantern.

  Holding it aloft, Baleric descended, still not rushing, down and around, followed by the rest of us - his pallid sister, the red-headed young man, the massive city troll with its head encased in iron, and the muscled warrior woman who moved like a panther in human form. Seraphina formed a sort of bridge between our two groups, looking uncertain and nervous, and then I and mine came next: Netherys, Eddwick, and Cerys. Pony brought up the rear, whistling tunelessly to himself, hammer propped on his shoulder.

  The atonal, whispery sound brought me no end of comfort as I followed Baleric’s crew down, down and around, down and down some more.

  We bored into the earth, and I lost track of the revolutions we followed, till at last, the stairs gave out onto a small hallway that ended in one of the most impressive doors I’d ever seen.

  Made completely of some bronze, the door was as broad as it was tall, and inscribed deeply into its gleaming surface was a circle marked with all manner of glyphs. The power sunken into the portal was obvious; the air tasted of ozone and shimmered as if superheated, though it was so cold it made my teeth chatter.

  Baleric stepped up to the portal and planted his hand in its very center, his palm fitting into a small star. He bowed his head, and nobody spoke. Then, slowly, concentric bands of metal began to revolve in opposite directions, giving off a gravelly sound as they moved. They brought new order to the glyphs, aligning them till at last the final band clicked into place and a tension fled the room.

  Baleric let out a deeply held breath, a gasp of effort, and pushed.

  The door swung inwards on silent hinges.

  “That would have been a challenge,” noted Netherys, leaning in close.

  “No kidding,” I whispered back.

  We trekked in after the Exemplar, and entered a hallway that exuded a depthless age. The walls were made of crumbling brick, and sheets of ancient spiderwebbing hung here and there, so old that they disintegrated to the touch and unleashed a cloud of dust upon the unfortunate passerby.

  But more wondrously still, torches were lit here - crude collections of sticks stuck in iron holders. They burned with a deep and filthy crimson light, smoke turning the ceiling black in great wavering spots above them.

  Magic, no doubt. Unless a housekeeper had been appraised of our approach and sprinted ahead to light them all?

  Unlikely.

  We followed Baleric in silence. Pressure was building; the air felt thin in my lungs, the taste moldy and dry. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched, but resisted the urge to cast glances over my shoulder.

  Probably just Aschengraur checking in on us.

  The hallway opened into a circular room. A second door was set in the far wall, but our access to it was denied by a vast golem of bone and leather; as Baleric stepped into the room, it jerked to life, rivers of dust pouring off its frame, head rising as flecks of crimson burned into life within its eye sockets.

  “Greetings, Harrowed One,” said Baleric, raising a palm. “We wish to pass beyond.”

  The golem held a massive blade in each hand; huge cleavers without tips, their edges notched but gleaming with pale green fire. It studied Baleric, then bowed its head and moved aside.

  “I’m starting to really appreciate Baleric’s presence,” said Netherys, leaning in again.

  Staring up at the monstrous golem, I had little to add. That would have been a terrible battle.

  Baleric led us through the doorway in the back, then down a second flight of steps. Round and round we went, down and down. The air was gelid and viscous so it felt as if we waded down through an oily, frozen slurry. Our breaths echoed loudly in the stairwell with the clump of boot on stone, and light shed by our lanterns seemed to shrink back as if the darkness were devouring it.

  Finally, we stepped out into a third chamber, the largest yet. Its walls were carved with columns between which depictions of skeletons danced; the floor was cobbled with gleaming yellowed cobblestones which I realized too late were the tops of skulls. The far wall was dominated by a double door made of lead, its surface radiating bleak energies, and over its lintel was carved something that seared my eyes when I dared glance upon it.

  “Avert your eyes,” said Baleric, “and look not over the door. An icon of the Hanged God himself watches over this portal. I shall ask it to avert its gaze while you pass beneath it.”

  “Nope, no reservations now,” said Netherys. “Definitely, completely glad we came with him.”

  Baleric moved forward, trudging as if through hip-deep snow, and finally raised both hands in a gesture of supplication. The weight in the room intensified, and I heard Baleric grunt. Then, by slow degrees, the oppressive air lifted, and with a
sharp click, the doors parted, pushing inward to reveal a dense blackness that our lanterns failed utterly to illuminate.

  “Pass,” rasped Baleric, his voice echoing with strain.

  We did so, faces averted from the icon, hurrying past him through the portal into the darkness beyond.

  Baleric brought up the rear, and the doors slammed closed behind him, plunging us into darkness. The lanterns now did little more than illuminate within a few feet of their bearers, so we stood like lost souls in the night, faces gleaming, surrounded by an ocean of liquid fear.

  “The door will not open without me,” said Baleric. “If I die, you will be doomed to wander here till the lich claims your souls.”

  “Nice,” I said. “Good to know. And, ah, how do we…?”

  “This is now wholly Aschengraur’s realm,” said Baleric, his smile a humorous as a stab wound to the gut. “We shall discover how best to address him as we go. But since you wished to question him, Kellik, why don’t you take the lead?”

  “Glad to,” I said, forcing myself to inject bravado into my voice. Taking a lantern, I held it aloft, and began to carefully creep forward. The ground was contoured strangely, probably with bones and skulls. No sense of walls, just open space around us. A dusty, swarming void.

  On I crept, calling on my years of navigating dark chambers, placing my feet with caution and holding the lantern back behind me so as to not ruin my night vision. For what good it did; I might as well have been blindfolded for all I could make out.

  At last, I reached what looked like a fence; drawing closer, I saw that it was made of bone, a collection of femurs and smaller bones rising to form a curving wall that came waist-high. I moved up to its edge and peered over - nothing. Just a vast sense of space, the feel of great volumes of stale air roiling, as if I peered blindly into a cathedral.

  The others gathered about me, all of us hemmed in by the railing. Should we turn back, I wondered? Climb over the low wall?

  A touch on my arm. “Let me,” whispered Netherys. “I’m accustomed to addressing creatures of ultimate darkness.”

  Which, I realized, was probably true.

  “Dread Aschengraur,” she called out, “attend us with your august presence. We have come as pilgrims into the night, to seek your wisdom, to learn from your experience, and await your presence, humbled, awed, and as dust beneath your feet.”

  I heard Baleric growl in displeasure from the back of the group. He probably didn’t like being described in such a manner by a dark elf. Oh, well.

  Netherys’s cry sank into the void and was swallowed by it. There wasn’t even a hint of an echo.

  But the sense of pressure that lay over all of us grew heavier, more poignant; I felt the air quicken, as if currents were coming to life, and the temperature began to drop even farther.

  “It comes,” whispered Baleric’s sister. “The Hanged God have mercy on our souls.”

  At first, I thought I was imagining it, but two pinpricks of white appeared in the distance. They drew closer, moving quickly, and then came to a halt before us, hovering in the void, twin glittering stars of inhuman intelligence.

  I sense her.

  The voice was that of the mausoleum, of a tomb’s door grinding shut.

  I felt Netherys’s uncertainty. I heard her hesitation, then she spoke, voice pitched to carry but humbler than I’d ever heard. “Lord Aschengraur, known as the Unliving, the Despoiler, the Emperor of Skulls and Defier of the Hanged God, attend our humble pleas. We have but one question for you, and cast ourselves upon your mercy.”

  I sense her, came the voice again, a withered moan, trailing off into nothingness. But she is not here. Where is she?

  I raised my lantern, trying to bring the being into the light, but the motes remained just beyond. Netherys hesitated again, clearly unsure as to how to proceed.

  My mind spun, and then it came to me: Iris. She’d told me how the lich had contested her, how, on the night we’d attacked Imogen’s Web in concert, she’d directed her forces of undeath to assault these catacombs. How they’d engaged in a battle she’d compared to a toddler’s argument, fighting over toys.

  Aschengraur had invited her to join him. And she’d been so tempted…

  “She is dead,” I called out, addressing the twin points of light. I lowered the lantern, no longer sure I wanted to see what manner of creature floated before us. “She’s dead, but not in the Ashen Gardens. She’s become… distributed, amongst the spirits of the city.”

  Akin but not alike.

  By the Hanged God’s filthy urethra, it hurt to hear those words bloom within my head.

  And then the twin motes of white light began to pull away. The pressure about us to recede.

  “It’s leaving,” whispered Cerys. “Hurry, Kellik. It’s leaving!”

  “What is a hereshen?” I cried out. “One comes to assault Port Gloom? What is it? How can it be defeated?”

  The motes of light were losing their brightness, falling away with ever more speed.

  Her greatest creation. Her damnation. The gift that shall set me free. The voice was now little more than a whisper, the sigh of a being returning to sleep. The living unliving, the tear in the veil, my…

  And then the lights snuffed out.

  I called out more questions but received no response.

  “It’s gone,” said Baleric, shouldering his way to the fore. “For a moment you held its attention, but now it’s returned to its slumber.”

  His voice was shaking.

  “Standing there in the darkness, the railing keeping us from whatever great void lay beyond, I couldn’t help but shiver. “It said… you heard it, right?”

  “Yes,” said Baleric grimly. “And that is why my church will aid you now against this hereshen. Whatever she is, she cannot be allowed to set Aschengraur free.”

  “The living unliving,” whispered Seraphina. “What does that mean?”

  “And Iris’s greatest gift? She created it?” asked Cerys.

  “Her greatest gift,” said Baleric’s sister, voice a grave whisper. “A gift that shall destroy the world.”

  Chapter 13

  We returned to the manor in dour spirits. Baleric and Seraphina split off to head south to their temple; the rest of us rode into Thorne Manor in silence.

  I tried to find a quip that could cut through the somber silence, but nothing came. It was hard to come up with a good joke knowing one was personally responsible for the creation of something an arch-lich like Aschengraur the Despoiler is excited about.

  Cerys was withdrawn and pale; her fingers trembled until she clutched them together. I could feel her guilt rolling off her in waves with the thought that she’d been part and parcel of the process that had created Aurora, despite her misgivings. Despite my promises.

  It led me to want to make more promises. More vows. But to what end? I knew she’d listen politely but not care. What was needed now was concrete solutions; without Iris at hand, without a definite solution to the White Lioness’ unnatural state of unaliveness, there were none.

  “I’m going to commune with Mother Magrathaar,” said Netherys quietly as we rolled to a stop before the front doors. “See if she can extend me any insight into Aurora. If she’s actually a servant of hers in any capacity.”

  “She can tell you that?” I asked.

  “She might. Mother Magrathaar is nothing if not cagey.” Netherys hesitated. “And we’ve not been on the best speaking terms since I went all high elf. But it’s high time I checked back in. Abased myself to her dark might, flagellated myself into a state of mindless submission, and see if she will speak with me. If you have an hour or two, Kellik, I could use your help.”

  “My help?”

  “I must do penance for my… lack of devotion. It would be easier if you did the whipping and ministered the torments.”

  “I, ah…” I cleared my throat. “I have to check on Yashara.”

  Netherys gave me a tight, knowing smile. “Of course y
ou do.” So saying, she opened the coach door and slipped out into the night.

  “I’m… I’m going to go for a walk,” said Cerys, moving to exit as well. “I need to think. Clear my head.”

  “Don’t go too far,” I said. “Stay safe.”

  She paused to send a sardonic glance back my way. “You should worry about whoever tries to bother me.”

  “Fair point.”

  This left me last to emerge, descending to the cobblestones and moving up to the front door alone. Guards pulled open the front doors. I turned to wave to Pony as his cart rolled by, heading around the back to the stables. Pony raised a somber hand and was gone.

  Glum and anticipating bad news from Tamara, I climbed to the second floor and made my way to the guest room in which Yashara was convalescing. All was silent. The hallway was gloomy, one in every three lanterns having gone out.

  That gave me pause. Thorne Manor now boasted a full complement of fanatically devoted staff. Had a Gloom Knight made their way in? Was a second ambush in the works?

  I drew my blade and crept forward, listening intently.

  There was nothing but eerie silence.

  Down the hall to Yashara’s door, I paused and listened.

  More silence, thick and velvety.

  Carefully, I cracked the door open.

  Darkness within, no sign of Tamara’s candleflame.

  I slipped inside, feet silent on the rugs, back to the wall. Was that… I could hear breathing. Slow and steady. Yashara, asleep?

  Something, some primal instinct, told me no.

  There was a flutter, blinking, and twin golden eyes appeared in the darkness - vertical pupils, at about seven feet off the ground, toward the back wall.

  Yashara.

  “She’s not dead,” said the half-orc. “Though I’ve ceased her meddling with me.”

  Tamara. “What did you do to her?”

  “Hit her on the back of the head. Don’t worry. She’s strong. Stronger than ever. If I don’t kill her, she’ll be back on her feet soon.”

  I licked my dry lower lip. “And why would you kill her?”