by Garon Whited
With my heartbeat nonexistent and my breathing completely stopped, I waited for the last few shivers and shudders and tremblors to quit.
Okay, time for breakfast.
Dantos was already on top of the breakfast situation. Not knowing how hungry I might be, he had a couple of pitchers of fresh blood—dazhu—sent up to the royal chambers. Those were nice, but terribly inadequate. I didn’t need blood too badly. I needed to feast on someone’s very being.
The blood did help, though. It took some of the edge off so I could find Dantos and explain how I needed someone to suffer a horrible fatality.
“I have just the thing, my lord.”
“You do?”
“This way, my lord.”
As we descended to the dungeons, I asked some questions.
“Do I want to know what they’re convicted of?”
“Rape and murder of children.”
“Ah. That’s would be a ‘no,’ then.” It was true I didn’t want to know what they were in for. It did ease somewhat the thing I use as a conscience, though, since I knew what they were about to be in for.
Guards snapped to attention, saluted with one fist over their hearts, and opened doors for us.
“Dantos?”
“My lord.”
“Wait out here.”
“My lord?”
“You don’t want to see this.”
“I would be honored to observe or assist, my lord.”
“I’m sure you would, but perhaps it is more accurate to say I don’t want you to see this.”
“As you will, my lord.”
I swung the pivot-door shut and lowered the ladder down the hole. I felt the effects of a blocking spell, isolating the pit from the regular flow of magic. I shut down my various spells before climbing down. Three men were manacled to the wall.
“Who are you?” asked the healthiest-looking one. He was probably the most recent addition.
“Don’t you recognize me?”
“I can’t see you.”
“I am the bearer of glad tidings. Your captivity is at an end.”
“Oh, good.”
“The greater good, I hope.”
And then it was all over but the biting and the slicing and the ripping and the feeding.
Just in case you ever wondered, yes, it is possible for a vampire to burp. It only happens when we gulp blood and swallow air, though. For my particular species, it’s not a problem. The blood absorbs, so a belch causes no mess, only an enhanced bloody odor in the air. Other vampires, other problems.
I climbed back up the ladder and met Dantos in the outer chamber of the dungeons.
“Finished so soon?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Shall I have the remains displayed?”
“If you think it appropriate, sure. I plan to be in Carrillon shortly. That is where Sto— Stom— where the priest is being kept, right?”
“Stomald. And yes, my lord.”
“Thank you again, Dantos. I’ll see you soon.”
He bowed.
“I look forward to it, my lord.”
“Before you go…”
“Yes?”
“Where did I put my armor?”
Bronze ran like the wind, if the wind is a hurricane, on fire, and ringing four steeples’ worth of bells. She left the sound on for her hooves and the lights on for her fire. I tilted the world—metaphorically speaking—and activated a windshield spell. I don’t know if there’s a manual for bridge guards or just a legend passed down from one shift to another, but they don’t ask us for tolls, they don’t cry “Halt! Who goes there?” or any of that silliness. They open the gates and get out of the way.
An unconditional right-of-way isn’t worth the rest of my reputation, but it is a nice perk. I wish I could get traffic to do that in worlds with cars!
We were in Carrillon before midnight. This new orichalcum body of hers has adapted extremely well. Is it because of Diogenes, the material itself, or something about Bronze? It could also be the high-magic environment… Oh, the experiments I have no time for! Maybe in another decade…
Our progress slowed as we approached Carrillon. Partly, we knew there was a city gate coming up and they would be less willing to open. We took the ring roads around the cities between, but this was our destination.
Our main reason for slowing was the encampment. A thousand or so men were parked between us and the city in tents, lean-tos, and whatever knock-together shacks they could manage. Even more troops were encamped on the other side of the Dormer river, but I think someone specifically ordered troops to camp on this side. My guess is they were meant to act as a blocking force in the event of a surprise attack from the east.
They all woke up and lined the road when the bells of Bronze rang near.
It was a little unnerving. I mean, there are a thousand men standing along the road and sometimes shoving back to keep from being pushed into it. A few are soldiers—sergeants or the equivalent—but most are civilians with weapons. None of them wore helmets. All of them stared.
Boss?
Yo.
The Demon King has come.
Seriously?
They’re not sure if you’re here to argue with the Queen or assure her success, though.
Damn it all! I can’t even go out in public without people wondering what it means!
It’s the price you pay for being famous. And powerful. And scarce.
Scarce?
Well, if they saw you every day, they wouldn’t be so amazed when they finally do see you, would they?
Huh. I guess. I’m starting to think I should have traveled by gate.
Bronze would have been sad, Firebrand pointed out. Bronze agreed. I sighed and tried to look kingly. My cloak did its unnatural, slow-motion, rippling-in-the-breeze thing behind me.
No one tried to stop us on our way. The bridge-gate over the river dropped the drawbridge and opened up before we even reached it. They lined our way through the gate with professional soldiers, all standing at attention, saluting. We had a similar reception at both inner walls of the city. And, of course, with all that warning, half the Palace turned out to watch, salute, kneel, or otherwise make me uncomfortable.
Bronze took it in stride. When the duly designated stableboy came to take her away, Bronze nosed the kid in the chest, blew hot air down his collar, and nudged him toward the stables. She walked beside him, keeping her head down so he could keep one hand on her cheek and pretend to lead her.
I had to deal with the crowd. Fortunately, I have a reputation as the Demon King. They expect me to be terse, curt, even rude. I marched up the steps, snapped an order at the person on door-duty, and was immediately guided to the tower where they kept Stomald. I was immeasurably pleased it worked.
Stomald had retired for the evening, but the Shields doing door-duty were only too willing to wake him. I waited in what would have to be called a living room while he dressed. They had him in a much nicer tower-suite. I wondered if he was still a prisoner. Or was it protective custody? Or was he free to come and go?
Stomald came out of his bedroom in a hurry, still straightening his tunic.
“Your Majesty,” he greeted me, and went to one knee.
“Greetings, Stomald, priest of the true Lord of Light. Rise and be seated. I trust you are well?”
“Very well, Your Majesty,” he agreed, moving quickly to occupy a chair. “I have neither complaint nor criticism.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“Majesty?”
“Would you offer complaint or criticism if you had it?” I pressed. “I’m the Demon King and I’m less than six feet from you. Most people don’t feel comfortable complaining at me by messenger, much less in person.”
“I understand their feelings. How may I be of service to Your Majesty?”
He still didn’t answer you, Firebrand pointed out.
A fact which has not escaped my notice. It’s not so important.
&n
bsp; “Right to business?” I asked. “Very well. I want to know more about the false god you repudiated, the services and forms of his worship, all that stuff. I need to know what I’m dealing with, both from a divine perspective and from a mortal one.”
“You stand with one foot in heaven and the other in hell,” he observed, nodding. Technically, the words were elisae (eh-LEE-say), meaning a state of holy union with the gods, and baratrus, meaning a state of emptiness, a sort of absolute oblivion of utter darkness. I could sort of see it. Lord of Shadow, one foot in light, one foot in darkness. Not a bad evaluation of my altar ego, maybe, but I wasn’t going to explain the differences when I didn’t understand them too well, myself.
“Exactly,” I lied. “Mortal men live in a world where absolutes of light and dark cannot exist, so we make do with the shadows of the world. Now, tell me what you know from your experiences as a false priest. Or, rather, a priest in the service of the impostor Lord of Light.”
And he did. We started with the training of a priest, the schooling and the rites of dedication, followed by the varying grades of priests as they rose in the hierarchy of the Church. Their duties were varied and based on their rank. Those hoping to be priests performed the menial services in the Church. Higher ranks had less unpleasant duties. Study of the holy texts and prayer, however, were mandatory at any rank, usually occupying at least an hour a day, as well as time lying prostrate and chanting before some icon or altar.
Worship, for the common folk, was at a ceremony offered twice daily, six times on holy days. At least, it used to be. Now it was a full-time operation. People came in, participated in the ceremony, and departed while a fresh crowd filled the seats. The rituals went on from dawn to dusk, stopping only when the last light of day departed.
“At the close of day, if the latest sacrifice within the Crucible of the Sun has not expired, this person is given a swift death upon the altar.”
“Tell me more about this Crucible of the Sun.”
“I have seen only one, Your Majesty. It is long and narrow, constructed of steel and thick glass, closed at one end. It is half again the height of a man and large enough for most to stand within. The base of it is surrounded by mirrors of silver, polished nightly by the faithful, arrayed around it like an unfolding flower. A pair of priests attend it throughout the day, adjusting the mirrors so their reflected light bathes the Crucible at all times.”
“And the sacrificial victim roasts alive?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Got it. How do they get him in or out?”
“The tube is mounted in a girdle of metal and can be tilted so the upper, open end is lowered, allowing anything within to be poured out and disposed of. Placing a new sacrifice within the Crucible is seldom troublesome. They are wrapped in linen, almost swaddled in it, and are given to breathe the vapors of the blue lily beforehand, which calms them as they go to their doom.”
“So the priests slide the swaddled victim into the tube, it tilts up again, and they adjust mirrors until the guy inside dies from the heat.”
“Indeed.”
“How do they know he’s dead?” I asked. “I mean, couldn’t he just pass out?”
“The wailing of the soul as it departs is quite obvious, Your Majesty.”
“It’s a literal wailing? You can hear it screaming as it leaves the body?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Well, magical universe, religious ritual, formal sacrifice… I suppose it might.
“Okay. Now, walk me through this worship process.”
“Your Majesty?”
“I’ve never been to a ceremony. I walk up to the doors and want to participate. What do I do? What happens? Lead me through how it goes, one step at a time.”
Stomald was puzzled, but did his best. The doors close, the incense is fanned, there are calls by the priests and responses from the crowd, there’s a ritual chant while all the praising and glory and whatnot goes on—
“Back up,” I interrupted. “What sort of chant?”
“It is a chant in nine parts,” he clarified, “to call down the blessing of the false god.”
“It takes nine priests to do it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know all the parts?”
“I do. Every priest must take part and must learn to perform the blessing. The faithful can be most demanding, and it is wearying to perform the rituals continuously. We—that is, they are always training more priests for this purpose.”
“Write them down.”
“Your Majesty?”
“I have a sneaking suspicion and I don’t want you to repeat the chants aloud. Write.”
Stomald wrote. I watched over his shoulder and reviewed the papers as he completed each one. Long before he finished, I was sure my suspicion was right. This wasn’t a prayer—that is, it wasn’t a formalized method of calling on the power of the entity being worshiped. It was a spell, albeit one of a strange sort. The Church of Light did things like this before, using their belief and ritual to focus magical power into prayer-like spells. This was more of the same.
What disturbed me most, however, was the specific nature of the spell. It didn’t simply lay a field of happiness on the crowd via a general psychic projection. Oh, no. It was a much more invasive, targeted spell. It reached into the brain and stimulated it in specific regions. The ritual gestures, when plotted out on paper, defined the shape of a brain and targeted the spell. After stepping out to have a private talk with Diogenes, he thought it was aimed at the lateral hypothalamus, medial forebrain bundle, and the ventral tegmental area.
“And what does that mean?” I asked, using English.
“They are all involved in the reward response in the mammalian brain.”
“So, the pleasure centers.”
“In essence, yes.”
“Thanks.” I folded the Diogephone away, went back in, ignored Stomald’s questioning looks, and returned to the study of the spell.
The spell gave these centers a heavy jolt to excite them and left behind a low-intensity aftereffect to keep the structures stimulated. Without observing the process, there was no way to tell how long the aftereffects would last, but the power requirements would be minimal. With nine priests doing the spellcasting, the initial jolt of joy might be well beyond anything generated by sex, drugs, or rock-and-roll. It would be far more powerful than any regular sensation. No doubt it was easily misinterpreted as truly divine ecstasy. It couldn’t be maintained at that level, but the duration of the milder, ongoing effect could be hours, perhaps as long as days, even on a crowd of hundreds.
It was the perfect addiction. No needles, no special paraphernalia, not even a chemistry set. No fields of poppies, no harvesting, no packaging, no distribution. Just run them into the church, do the chant, and run them out, happier than babies with candy, to make room for the next bunch of junkies desperate for a fix.
I hesitate to say it was devilish, but it sort of was. Diabolical, certainly.
Stomald didn’t need to know the nature of the ritual. He knew what it did—it was the ritual prayer of the bliss of light—but he wasn’t a wizard. He didn’t understand how it worked or why, only that it brought overwhelming joy to all who experienced it.
“So, this happens to all the guards, the soldiers, the knights—all the fighting men?” I asked, hoping he would disagree.
“It is a regular part of the ceremony of worship,” he corrected, “performed for and by all those who come.”
“Everybody?”
“Everybody.”
“And how would you describe their devotion to this false god?”
“Absolute.”
I didn’t like the way he snapped the answer right back at me, wham, without so much as an instant of hesitation.
“Take a second,” I encouraged. “Think about how you’ve seen them behave. Consider carefully—”
“All of them,” he interrupted. “All those who stand in the false light and partake
of the unholy bliss of this creature are made into servile, helpless fools, even as I once was. They will walk through water, fire, and blood to judged worthy to feel this false light glow once again inside them. I know, Your Majesty, for once I would have done the same.”
I sighed. Industrial-strength drug-addled fanatics aren’t what I signed up for.
“And everyone, everywhere, in all the cities of these kingdoms…?” I prompted.
“Not all, certainly. Most. H’zhad’Eyn will have many who have not yet partaken and succumbed. There may be some in Ynar and Praeteyn who have never felt its touch, but they must disguise themselves by playing the fanatic while never once passing the doors of the temples. Every man on the street I might meet, I would assume is a devotee from his teeth to his toes.”
“I can see you believe what you’re saying—”
“I have seen it. I have felt it. I have lived and breathed it, served it as eagerly and desperately as any.”
“—but I’m going to need to see something like this for myself.”
“Your Majesty, I urge you to stay away. To stand in the false light is to be lost to it. It seduces. It lures. It offers the peace and contentment of the willing slave, not the rights and duties of men.”
“I don’t want to experience it. I only want to see the effects of it on others. I don’t need to go into a temple for that.”
“Oh. Forgive me. I know too well the power you face, and I fear it. In my fear, I forgot…” he trailed off.
“Forgot what you were talking to?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I mean—no, I forgot who, not what…” he finished, flustered.
“Don’t sweat it. You have no idea how hard I work at getting people to tell me what they think instead of what they think I want to hear. I think I like you, Stomald.”
He blinked at me for several seconds, clearly unable to process. I could sort of understand his dilemma. Is it a good thing or a bad thing when the demonic demigod monster takes note of you on a personal level?
“Thank… you…?”