Destroyer of Worlds

by Larry Correia

  She was in a lot of pain, but there was no time for that. She had to act while the pattern was still stark in her memory. “There’s a pack with some demon parts in my quarters. Get it. Now!”

  To his credit, Keta did not waste time arguing. He sprang to his feet and ran up the stairs.

  Others tried to help Thera. They got her standing, but she was so dizzy it took everything she had to stay upright. Her head was pounding. The place where the bolt had struck her felt like it was on fire. They must have thought the sickness had come upon her as the faithful began to wail and cry to their gods.

  Pushing the helping hands away, Thera stumbled over to the nearest bed. A little boy was staring at her with bloodshot eyes, afraid, not for himself, but for the lady who his parents had sworn had been sent by the gods to save them. She knelt—more like fell—next to him. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine,” she assured him, but the words were really for her, as she struggled to remember the exact nature of the vision.

  Keta returned, running as fast as he could. “I’ve got it!” He opened the pack for her.

  Thera reached inside and grabbed a fragment of demon bone. She was no wizard. She’d barely been able to feel the magic before, and that was before most of the feeling had been burned from her fingers. But desperate, she took hold of that scrap, and called upon the rudimentary skills learned within the House of Assassins. Then she called upon the gods she hated—please let this work—as she laid her other hand against the cheek of the dying boy.

  Chapter 28

  Late that night Inquisition Witch Hunter, fifteen-year senior, Javed snuck up the mountainside to the spot where he had left his supply of demon bone cached. Avoiding the tired, coughing sentries was child’s play, especially since he was the one who had assigned them their stations. It was one of the many duties Keta had delegated to him over the last few months, so Javed made sure only the dumbest of the casteless patrolled this particular slope.

  His clothing and beard stunk of smoke and sweat. He had spent his day ingratiating himself to delusional fanatics, and his evening stacking twigs with the most dangerous man in the world. That at least, had been rather educational…Enough so that he felt it was for the best to send a report to the Grand Inquisitor.

  Javed was not a licensed wizard, but witch hunters were given a special dispensation to learn a few magical patterns which could aid in their duties. The Order of Inquisition had taught him the tiger form for when he needed to move great distances quickly or track someone across the wilderness, the ability to step outside of regular space for when he needed to enter places unseen, and the pattern for sending information from one piece of demon bone to another for times like this. Because Javed was a very intelligent and ambitious individual, he had picked up a few more. Unofficially and off the books, usually learned from criminals and unlicensed wizards, but his superiors did not need to know about those. It was rumored Grand Inquisitor Omand had done much the same sort of thing during his time in the field, and it was said that he might have known as many as ten patterns, which was an astounding number, especially for someone who had not devoted his whole life to deciphering the magical arts. Omand had a whole Order to run and a coup to plan!

  Javed ran uphill with a surefooted swiftness that did not match his current humble appearance. It had been nerve-wracking to test his mask before Ashok Vadal, but thankfully any fear that might have slipped through had probably been seen as that of a normal religious fanatic, anxious about meeting his idol for the first time. Javed was a professional liar. He knew his acting had been flawless. Protectors might be terrors in battle, but they were as simplistic as the masses when it came to the subtle arts of manipulation.

  It was difficult to pick out the landmarks in the dark. It would have been impossible without a lantern if Canda hadn’t been bright and the sky cloudless. But when Javed found a particular misshapen pine tree, that told him it was time to go down the ridge a bit, where he found the pair of boulders that he’d buried his cache beneath. He would have loved to hide this closer to the room he claimed as a dwelling, but that was risky with so many fanatics around, especially their curious children who made a game out of exploring the ruins. A minute of digging freed the cloth-wrapped bundle filled with small demon bones, vials of liquids, and bags of mysterious powders. Each of those had a purpose, none of which he wanted to explain to a snooping fanatic.

  He picked out a demon knuckle. The next digit of that particular finger would be waiting at the communications station of the Inquisitor’s Dome, hung on the wall next to dozens of others. Each of those representing some witch hunter on a secret mission…Though Javed was certain no others were nearly as important as his. This pattern could be used to send information from any bone to any other, but it took far less effort and energy when they came from the same demon, and even less when the bones had been adjacent. It took a moment to prepare his mind for the pattern, and then another to prepare his report. Brevity was important. The longer the message the more valuable demon would be used up.

  “Ashok Vadal and the prophet have arrived at the hideout with approximately eight hundred additional rebels. I can confirm that Ashok no longer bears Angruvadal. The prophet is attempting to treat the plague. Everyone believes she will save them, but I’ve seen no powers from her yet. I believe she is insane and hoping for a miracle. Despite this Ashok remains devoted to his obligation. Neither of them seem inclined to make war against the Law at this time. As expected, the sickness has taken the fight out of the rebels. Please advise how to proceed.”

  Once the message was imprinted on the bone, Javed focused until he could feel the magic burning like a red-hot ember in his clenched fist, and then sent the words off on the wind. Once done, he settled down to wait for a response. He doubted it would take very long.

  It had been a while since his last report. Demon was too valuable to waste on frivolous things, and the Cove was too isolated for any traditional methods of Inquisition communication. If there was no response tonight, he would continue obeying his last set of instructions until directed otherwise.

  The forest was quiet, and manual labor really was tiring, so Javed took a nap and tried to dream about all of these fanatics being put to the sword by his masked brothers. It wasn’t that Javed particularly hated these people, for hate was a strong word. They simply existed as obstacles in his continual rise through the ranks. He was not in this for the Law. Javed cared about as much for the Law as he did the dictates of Keta’s false gods. The Law merely gave him an excuse to do something he enjoyed. He had befriended Keta because that was his job, and when the time came he would stab him in the back with an equivalent amount of emotion.

  Ironically, Javed himself was a criminal, for he was complicit in the Grand Inquisitor’s scheme to overthrow the judges, which was far worse than anything these rebels hoped to do. Yet Javed had eagerly pledged himself to Omand’s dark councils. With great risk came great opportunity, and once Omand—or some handpicked puppet—ruled in the Capitol, Javed would have status beyond imagining.

  Not that he really cared about such things but trying to attain the impossible kept him motivated.

  The sting in his palm brought him back to reality. The bone was buzzing with a furious energy, indicating it had received a message. From the vibrations, sound rather than images. Javed looked around, and then listened intently to make sure he was not being spied upon, before he activated the last bit of magic in the bone and set the words free.

  Surprisingly, the voice belonged to Grand Inquisitor Omand himself, not one of his many underlings. It was the middle of the night. Did the man ever sleep?

  “It is time to end the plague. Make sure all credit goes to the false prophet. You have done well. I wanted the rebels to stay put, and not squander so many assets needlessly. It is hard to rebel when you are too sick to walk. Now that Ashok is present to lead them, they can become a proper threat again. Even without the sword we should be able to wring some use from his name. The Gre
at Extermination is only beginning. The casteless will need someone to rally around. Become vital to him, Javed, as you have to the Keeper of Names. I will provide an incentive for Ashok to fight. Akershan will drown in blood before the summer is over.”

  Message complete, the bone crumbled to dust. Javed blew it away, and then wiped the residue on his pants. He stretched, yawned, and went to remove the bag of metallic poison he’d left stewing like a tea bag in the pipe that provided most of the Cove’s water supply for the last few months. Inquisition alchemists had been using this particular mixture for centuries. A large dose killed quickly, and since the symptoms were usually mistaken for a rare northern disease, the Inquisition remained blameless. A little of the stuff would kill slowly, to keep a population weak and manageable, but once they were no longer being dosed the effects would subside within a few weeks. Most of the afflicted would recover, though many would continue to have health problems for the rest of their lives. That was fine. At least he’d kept them here so Omand could use them effectively, instead of sallying forth to get themselves killed fighting against the extermination order.

  Hours later, with poisons gathered and reburied, Javed returned to his temporary home. Though it wasn’t even sunrise he was surprised to find everyone not only awake, but truly joyous for the first time in months. It was a celebration. They were dancing and singing, laughing and praising their gods.

  A woman ran past Javed. He’d not seen anyone willingly expend that much energy in a while. “What’s happening?”

  “Master Javed, where have you been?”

  “I had to repair a fence on one of the terraces so the cows wouldn’t get out. Please, sister, what’s going on?”

  “You missed the miracle!”

  Javed wanted to toss the jabbering woman over the side of the cliff. “What miracle?”

  “The prophet has healed the sick.”

  That was impossible. It would take weeks for the toxins to leave their systems and weeks more for them to even begin to recover their strength. “Who was healed?”

  “Every last one!”

  Chapter 29

  It was a good feeling to finally see his years of effort bearing fruit. There were rumors of war as old tensions flared between Harban and Makao. A desperate Vadal was probably going to invade one of its neighbors in the north soon. In the south, the rebellion had actually captured cities. Whole cities! They had not held them for long but the very idea of even briefly losing territory to criminals was unimaginable to the Law-abiding citizens of the Capitol.

  The extermination trials had stalled temporarily because of the rebellion’s astounding success in those troubled regions, but the important thing had already been accomplished, with thousands of terrified non-people fleeing across the borders. Word was spreading to every house, and casteless quarters across all of Lok were panicking. Even the lowest of the low, with seemingly nothing to live for, still desired life. There had been costly riots and violent reprisals. The Chamber of Argument had grown increasingly acrimonious as Artya had continued fighting to restart the trials. The judges from the western houses were too proud to admit to just how much their agricultural production depended on casteless labor, but shortages were already causing economic upheavals and that problem would only get worse. If all went well tonight he would have the votes to start a new, expanded phase of the Great Extermination very soon.

  Few could see it yet, but the Law was teetering on the edge of a very dangerous precipice.

  Grand Inquisitor Omand was having a wonderful time.

  And best of all, Ashok Vadal lived. Though his expression had been hidden behind his mask at the time, Javed’s message had brought a smile to Omand’s face. He had been worried that he had wrung all the usefulness from the Black Heart’s reputation that he could. The Inquisition was still secretly paying the surviving members of the House of Assassins to commit atrocities in Ashok’s name, but they lacked the impact of the real thing. Nobody could unnerve the first caste quite the same way as Ashok Vadal.

  Though he had a multitude of spies Omand would often go out and about the city by himself to get a feel for how the people really felt. Firsthand observation was always more valuable than secondhand reports. Though he was one of the most powerful men in the world, all he had to do was leave his mask behind, change into appropriate clothing with the badge of some other office, and nobody ever noticed him. The Grand Inquisitor was infamous, but very few people knew what he actually looked like, and even for those, Omand was an expert at changing his appearance, accent, and mannerisms. His time as a witch hunter enabled him to blend into any environment until he was just another piece of scenery. These jaunts also enabled him to get away from the dome, and the eyes of his subordinates, so that he could indulge his other proclivities in private.

  Omand delighted in hurting people in various ways. It was one of the few things that gave him actual joy. Luckily inflicting pain upon others was a valuable skill for an Inquisitor to have, so he had risen quickly through the ranks, until he had discovered the great game, and the endless competition that was politics. Those two things were what Omand lived for. Politics and pain. Everything else was mundane and gray.

  It was during one of his secret nightly outings that he had first noticed a change in the mood of the city, which was already drearier than normal since the destruction of Shabdkosh and the debut of Artya’s play about the Black Heart’s rebellion. It was in a secret brothel, which catered to those of high status—but illegal tastes—that Omand had realized that the Capitol was truly afraid. Normally a dull, listless, vapid people, addicted to their aristocratic comforts, the first caste was unused to real fear. It was an unfamiliar feeling to the truly powerful.

  Wars and rebellions were nothing new to these people, but those things were always distant, and happened to other, lesser people. Decisions were made and their inferiors would live or die. However, a bitter former Protector with a magical super weapon, at the head of an army of bloodthirsty non-people, daring to threaten them? Now that was absolute madness, and Shabdkosh had brought that madness far too close to home. Ashok’s name was now heard in every government building, spoken of in hushed tones at dinners, and it even intruded into the politest of conversations at parties. It was remarkable how much his grim celebrity had captured the imagination of the Capitol.

  There was graffiti in the alleys now, always some variation of Ashok as a nearly demonic figure, spilling first-caste blood. Most of it drawn by workers or warriors who chafed at being assigned to a city filled with their demanding betters, but some of it was painted by the youth of the first caste, who took perverse pleasure in the discomfort of their parents. For the first time in most of their lives, the highest caste had discovered a threat that might actually be able to reach out and touch them. This had unnerved the simpler creatures among them.

  There was another piece of graffiti visible now, just outside his carriage window. Omand caught just the briefest glimpse of it upon the back corner of the Order of Agriculture and Irrigation building. It was a terrible image, very crudely done, but they had given Ashok fangs, making his face almost a caricature of the Law, and his black sword was cleaving the head off a figure who was probably supposed to be the Chief Judge.

  Such a petty display of lawlessness, in the very home of the Law? Remarkable.

  “Taraba, make a note,” Omand told his assistant. “Find a few of our Inquisitors who are good painters. Or better, who will admit to defacing public buildings in their youth, so that it may look more natural, and have them create more of these fearsome Black-Heart images around the Capitol.”

  “I shall do so.” The two of them were riding in the Grand Inquisitor’s carriage on their way to important business. “But just to clarify, you want our men to deface government buildings?”

  “It’s for a good cause. But make sure they are subtle.” It went without saying that such a discovery would be embarrassing for the Order, so he would have to disavow their obligation, de
clare them imposters, and have them executed like common street trash. “It would not do for them to get caught.”

  “Of course, sir.” Taraba did not actually write any of that down. The young man had a most impressive memory, and obviously would never document his Order conspiring to violate the very Law they were obligated to uphold. “If I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion?”

  “I would love to hear it, Taraba.”

  “In addition we should have our artists put up some images of Lord Protector Devedas pursuing the fiend Ashok. Make Devedas look heroic, a beacon of hope if you will. If you intend to install him as your puppet king to replace the judges, it makes sense to get the people thinking of him in a fittingly appropriate manner. If we make them evocative enough, the images should catch on and then the hooligans will do our work for us.”

  “Hmmm…” Omand pondered on that. “The dichotomy of the dark being chased away by the light, the frightening man with the black heart versus the handsome man with the silver armor, straightforward good against evil makes for compelling imagery. I like it. Very good, Taraba. See to it.”

  “I shall, sir. Thank you.”

  It was an excellent idea. Taraba was a loyal man, also a clever one, but not too clever that he might become disloyal. Unlike Omand, or even someone like Devedas, Taraba had a perfectly acceptable amount of ambition. Omand figured that once everything settled down, the new government had been installed, and Omand had taken up some advisory position to the new king, Taraba would make a good Grand Inquisitor. He was still too young and inexperienced for the obligation, but Omand intended to keep running everything himself anyway, so it wouldn’t really matter.

  They had reached their destination. The carriage came to a stop and the door was opened by an Inquisitor who had been waiting for them. Several more Inquisitors were positioned on the mansion’s stairs, wearing steel armor, their helms modeled to look like the leering face of the Law. The mansion’s doors had already been smashed in with hammers.