He shouldn’t have looked over his shoulder but he did; Medusi everywhere, filling the library, piling on top of each other high up into the balconies, tentacles everywhere, and every single one intent on draining him. He turned and…
…dived into the porthole and down the pipe. There was only one way out of this room. Sword and arms first, he got his head and shoulders and most of his torso in before he felt the Medusi swarm crash against his legs like a wave against the shore. He scrabbled forward, potholing like he’d done once so many centuries ago, trying to get his legs inside the pipe. He kicked and beat at them, feeling tentacles wrapping around his feet and ankles, and pulling him back into the chamber. If one of those Medusi stuck a thralling tentacle into one of his leg’s that was it. The pain and searing symbiotic connection would disable him and they’d be able to haul him back to his death.
He cursed Meeroth with what he thought was his last breath.
Ahead was just darkness; he couldn’t see the end of the pipe, but the Medusi had come from somewhere. The book and the sword suddenly dropped with a thud and a clang. His fingers felt the pipe’s edge at the other end and he yanked himself forward with all his dwindling strength. He scrapped and cut his elbows and shoulders, on the bare stone, tumbling headfirst into the adjoining room; his legs rolled over the top of him dragging a Medusi with them. He didn’t have time to look around by the scant light of one injured Medusi, he simply dealt with it, stomping it into the ground with a slimy pop. He found a few wooden boards on the ground and quickly propped them up against the open hole; it wouldn’t hold them for long but it would do for a moment.
Naus took in the room. There was light enough; the embers of one dead Medusi and he’d pulled a few fireflies through with him. He was in a cage, glass on three sides, in a room that resembled Harling’s office back in Theris palace. Large tanks and canisters sat on work benches and tables, one wall was covered in shelves of assorted weaponry and tools, most of it esoteric and its purpose impossible to determine. You probably had to be a Medusi biologist, which was one profession Naus had never claimed in all his long years.
The glass was sturdy, but cracked on his third hit with the butt of the sword handle. A stiff kick and he was out.
Free, well at least for the moment. Meeroth and the other Clerics and Cephean in the palace thought he was in the library being thralled or touched or ripped apart. He might have a small window to escape, maybe ten minutes before they opened the doors, realised he wasn’t dead, and started searching the temple.
On second thought, how on Arceth were they going to clear the library of Medusi? Did they have peep-holes in the walls, so they could watch the show? He either had hours, or he had no time at all.
Naus picked up the book and realised he still had one more thing to do before he left the temple. He couldn’t just sneak out.
He had found some of the answers to his questions, and this book held yet more. But how was he meant to communicate that information to Totelun? One of the things he regretted most about leaving so abruptly was never setting a rendezvous point or time. They could have met up again, he could have waited for Totelun in some city in a swanky bar with cold ale on tap. He’d have happily waited for a month with that arrangement.
As it was, he had no idea where the boy was now. When he’d left, Totelun had been adamant that he would find a way up Mount Cartracia, back to the Floating Islands. Was he still on the mountain, was that where Naus should head? Or was he already on the Islands? Before now, Totelun had no way up, and Naus had the same problem – those Islands moved and even if Totelun was successful, there was little likelihood Naus could use the same route.
He hadn’t agreed with Totelun’s belief in the ravings of his would-be-assassin cellmate, but if he wasn’t in either of those places, then Naus had nothing to go on.
Ahead of him, one transparent tank still held a perfect specimen of a Cephea Medusi; much smaller than the wild ones he’d just escaped and with only a few tentacles, it was almost defenceless.
Cassandra was with Totelun, and Cassandra was a Cephean. She was still able to listen in to the rest of the hivemind, but because of her deafness they couldn’t hear her surroundings in turn. So, if Naus found a Cephean, whatever he said out loud could be heard by Cassandra and told to Totelun.
As long as Totelun and Cassandra had found some way to communicate. She couldn’t really speak anymore either. Naus decided it was the best course of action he had, and the rest he’d have to leave to whatever was watching over them, be it Overlords, Celestials, or something else. He believed in Totelun’s destiny and the magic of the Medusi, but after a thousand years he’d never found evidence of a higher power.
The Temple of the Medousa would normally be crawling with Cephean, but now there were only a few, and he’d just killed four.
He needed Crescen – whatever Crescen hears, Cassandra hears.
He opened the door to the laboratory and peeked outside; the corridor was clear and deserted. Naus snuck out and set off in the direction he thought would take him to the Cephean nests, where Noctiluca would have corralled all her young spies. Down into the depths. He could hear voices in the distance echoing down the stone halls; the temple was waking, becoming aware of the intruder in their midst.
As he walked, he realised something else.
Whatever Crescen hears, Noctiluca hears.
*
The Cephean creche was deep, deeper even than Naus had envisaged. But it wasn’t difficult to find; every wall, every tunnel seemed to guide him there, a choreographed descent into the very bowels of the Goddess’ lair.
Every few halls he would need to avoid another Cleric or acolyte making their way through the tunnels. The temple was on high alert. They are looking for me, he knew. Someone – Meeroth, he guessed – had discovered he had left the library already. He’d heard whispers of sorcery from a pair who’d been combing the halls with an untrained eye. Naus had been right there in the corridor with them, concealed in the shadows.
He wasn’t sure he was actually underground, but he wouldn’t have been surprised. The stone had turned cold and damp to the touch.
The throne room, when he found it, seemed obvious. A huge auditorium-like space with two rows of tall carved stone pillars that reached up to its high ceiling. They led the way down the centre to the throne where he could sense the Goddess had sat in all her glory. The chamber could have held a thousand Clerics squashed inside, and they would have been glad of the heat from the burning torches. It was cold down here.
He found what he was looking for behind the throne; a secondary curved chamber, the walls carved in reliefs and stories. The floor fell away a little in a shallow depression filled with cushions, pillows and soft blankets.
Noctiluca’s nest.
This was where she communed with her Cephean, her children, this was where she could just be herself, be their mother. Not for the first time, Naus wished he had looked on her face just once, so he could picture the woman he opposed.
And he was here, her enemy, defiling her most holy place.
He could almost feel her presence here, like a kind of residual warping of reality. Her magic lingered here, she had been here so long.
In the centre of the cushioned recess, he found Crescen. The boy was alone, curled in the bedclothes, though he was still mostly clothed in his black costume, and facing away.
‘Who’s there?’ he said without moving. ‘Leave this place, now.’
‘Crescen,’ said Naus, softly. ‘I need your help.’
Crescen’s head whipped round. He scrambled to his knees.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said. ‘You can’t be here. This is the most sacred space in the whole temple. This is not for the sight of outsiders.’
‘I need your help, Crescen.’ He tried again, to reach through the boy’s sudden aversion. ‘All I need you to do is listen.’
Crescen swallowed, but when he didn’t respond, Naus had the creepy sensation that
he was communing with someone, somewhere else. He had an idea who. He only had a few moments.
‘The Medousa is telling me to stop you. She wants me to kill you.’
‘After I saved your life?’ he asked. ‘Please. All you need to do is listen. Don’t kill me, just for a moment.’ When Crescen didn’t attack, Naus addressed Totelun. He hoped Cassandra was listening. ‘The Overlords are dead, truly dead. They died a thousand years ago, although not as I thought. But their magic lingers on. In others. That is what we face. That is why the prophecy stills thinks they live. Because others like Abrax, like Noctiluca, have taken their power for their own.’ He wished he had already read the book he still held, to divulge any further insights it held, but it would have to wait until another time. ‘Listen Totelun, I don’t know if I will ever see you again. But know that I believe in you. I know you will do the right thing. I love you, like the son I lost.’ Finally, he added, ‘Abrax can be killed, just like the other Overlords or wielders of their magic before him, he can be undone. It is possible and you can do it. You just have to believe in yourself.’
‘Back away from him,’ came a shout from behind.
Naus spun to find Sharow, the sneering acolyte who had accompanied Meeroth in Medaquen. He held a blade and in a stance that showed he knew how to use it. ‘You have desecrated our sacred temple. Meeroth should never have offered you our hospitality.’ He didn’t wait, he just launched.
Naus jerked to his feet – he’d hardly realised he’d dropped to his knees while talking. He met Sharow’s blade on his own with a clang of metal and a screech as the blades slid across each other. Once, twice more, the acolyte was clearly a superior swordsman to even his trained colleagues.
Ducking under the next angry slash, Naus cut in separating flesh on Sharow’s thigh, throwing blood on the cushions.
‘One cut at a time, if I have to,’ he said.
‘I will bless this chamber anew with your life’s blood,’ Sharow spat. He gritted his teeth, rounded on Naus with renewed vigour. It was all he could do to block and parry each overhand chop. But where to begin with, he’d shown skill, he was quickly turning to impatience and arrogance. Naus took advantage, catching the blade and twisting, cutting Sharow’s wrist and hand and disarming him. He had no time for mercy, slicing into the acolyte’s neck as he cowered over his injury. He dropped dead.
Crescen spoke into the silence, shaking furiously. ‘The Medousa is angry. She says I have failed her in allowing you to use me like this.’ Blood streamed from his nose, stark red on his cold grey skin. The blue of his eyes was overpowering.
Naus approached carefully. Sharow had been alone, but others would find him soon. He had only moments.
‘You already failed her, that’s why you’re here.’
‘I have failed her a second time.’
‘What more can she do to you?’ Naus knew her power couldn’t stretch this far. He’d already be dead if it could. Just her voice.
‘She has ordered me to kill myself.’
‘Don’t do it, leave with me. Resist her.’
Crescen seemed to focus on him, his eyes losing the cloudy quality they had taken on.
‘You cannot resist the Goddess.’
‘Yes, you can, didn’t you hear me? We can kill the Overlords! She’s just a pale memory of them with stolen magic. Come with me, Crescen. Fight back.’
Crescen shook his head slowly.
‘She wants me to prove my love for her.’
‘You call this lo-’ Naus only just noticed the knife in Crescen’s hand in time, catching the boy’s wrist in his hand as he attacked. Crescen wrenched it back, but the next strike went into his own neck. Naus wasn’t quick enough to stop it.
He caught Crescen as the boy collapsed, the knife falling between them. Naus had a horrible vision of other young men dying because of him, his own son, the touched boy in Dinsk. He seemed to be cursed to survive, to always be the one who held the dying in his arms. He hoped it was never Totelun he held. It was worth never finding the boy again just to stop it happening.
Crescen’s eyes were still open, rolling for a moment before settling on Naus. ‘You killed me,’ he slurred. Tears streamed down his face, blood pumped out of his neck and came up over his lips with his words. ‘I could have waited here for my Goddess, but you made this happen.’
Naus stared back at him, imagining the dark creature that had so blackened his mind. He saw the Goddess staring back at him through those eyes. He knew that wasn’t how it worked, but that was how it felt.
‘She,’ Crescen struggled to speak again. ‘She commands you…come and meet her…in Theris.’
And he was gone.
Chapter Thirty Three
Anthrom
Anthrom regarded his reflection in a silver-backed mirror, but he didn’t recognise the boy staring back at him. The young Prince Elect of an all but extinct dynasty was gone, and in his place, stood an impostor.
A thralled boy.
He could hardly move, anxious that every time he did, the Medusi swayed with him. If he didn’t move, he could pretend it was just behind him, instead of connected. He couldn’t focus on his face, all he could see was the monster.
It was more bulbous than a Common Medusi, or their larger Wild counterparts; its body distended in places around the cap making it seem ugly and deformed. It was lit from within with the customary blue bio-luminescent light, but it’s transparent flesh gave off a pinkish tinge around the edge. Not all its tentacles seemed right; some were thicker and skirted, its thralling tentacle vibrant blue and so painfully, hideously obvious. It was just so, there. He couldn’t look away.
Anthrom was both disgusted and fascinated by it. It was beginning to be a pattern with him.
Harling had said it had been specially bred to bring forth latent talents from its thrall. When he had been able to draw himself away from the mirror, he’d tried looking it up in his Bestiary, but there was no Medusi species like it. It was nameless.
Ugly and anonymous.
Its body pulsed rhythmically, slower than his heart, but constant all the same. Pulsing with life. My stolen life, he thought.
It is draining me, and what is it giving in return?
Almost against his will, he reached back yet again as he had so many times in the last few days. His hand touched the tube at the base of his neck. There was no blood, no pus – Harling might have been right about their healing properties – but his flesh had hardened and scabbed around the entry point. In time, he knew, it would be almost seamless, as if they were one creature, he and the Medusi.
He shook himself, sickened by hearing the Order doctrine in his own voice.
One thing he hadn’t thought of before was clothing. He stood now bare chested and skinny, but when he had first tried to dress himself the tube got in the way, prevented him wearing his favourite doublets and waistcoats. He’d immediately had the palace seamstresses cut a section from the neck of each garment he owned, many augmented with a button or clasp above if they were high necked, or a decorative opening in gold embroidery. As the Prince Elect, and Noctiluca’s favourite, he had once again embraced the trappings of power. He had servants dress him in his new clothes, other thralls to wait on him, serve his meals and wine. He’d taken a fancy to alcohol since the thralling – was it the influence of the Medusi or his own choice?
The tube was rubbery to the touch, but gave under his fingers, like jelly with a harder membrane. It didn’t numb his fingertips. He guessed he had become immune to the stings, something he’d never realised would be a side-effect.
But what is the main effect?
It had been days now and he wasn’t sure he’d felt anything. He was beginning to doubt it had worked. Was Harling full of shit, like he’d always suspected? He’d said it would take something inside him, a skill or a trait he already had and enhance it. The magic of the Goddess and the Overlords before her – a small portion of it now ran through his veins. But what did it do?
All it
’s enhancing so far is my own self-doubt, he thought.
And enhanced self-doubt just made him doubt it was doing anything at all. Or that it would enhance his worst traits. What skills did he even have?
He tried to recover himself. Stop looking at the Medusi, focus on yourself. He forced his eyes away from the reflection of the creature and looked into his own. He was looking better than he had in weeks, probably the best he had since his plans for Aurelia’s downfall began to fray. He had regained his colour, lost the grey pallor he’d taken on living in the walls for days. Maybe it was finally attaining the power and status he had always craved? Somehow, he resented how it had been achieved.
He examined his face; he had no spots, no blemishes of any kind. His skin was flawless. And it had colour, not the grey of Cassandra or the Medousa. Even his chin looked different, more chiselled, manlier? Was he seeing the first changes of becoming a man? It looks like father’s chin, he thought. Just for a moment he wondered if he had inherited something from his father, but then his mind soured it for him.
It’s not my chin, that’s why it looks wrong.
And even as he thought the words, the façade dropped away.
His skin was paling, it was greying towards the shade of Noctiluca’s. His chin sunk back to become his own again. Scar tissue reappeared across his chest, creeping over his shoulder and collarbone, where the Xantusi had ripped his flesh away. He hadn’t noticed it was missing. He could see his real reflection again.
Am I hallucinating? No, is this the Medusi’s power?
Harling hadn’t known how it would manifest, or what it would be.
Embrace of the Medusi (The Overlords Trilogy Book 2) Page 45