William Wilde and the Sons of Deceit

by Davis Ashura

  In strode Axel, proud as the sun but currently wearing a frown on his heavy-set features.

  Despite his brother’s obvious irritation, Adam smiled to himself. In some ways Axel resembled a troll. He contained his amusement as he bowed low to the Servitor. “Something troubles you?”

  Axel thumped the steel-shod heel of Shet’s Spear—he no longer traveled anywhere without the weapon—against the Hall’s dark, marble flooring. The sound rang out, and he spoke above its lingering echoes. “I want us ready to assault Arylyn by late summer.”

  Adam hid a grimace, not daring to let his antipathy show. Not this again. “Why so soon? The recovered drones are progressing, but—”

  Axel cut him off with a chopping motion of his hand. “Those who were healed of their stripping, their training . . . How goes it?”

  Adam forced an uncaring smile, something at odds with his true feelings toward the drones. He’d come to pity them, but it was a weakness no one could ever learn. “They are focused,” he answered. “They know what will happen if they fail a second time.”

  Axel nodded. “Another stripping. And should they fail beyond that, a short journey from the Judging Line.” He took on an introspective countenance, possibly even regretful. “I wish we didn’t have to do this to our people.”

  Adam’s mouth nearly dropped in shock, and by the barest margin, he managed to bite back his surprise.

  Axel noticed, and he smiled knowingly. “I know I shouldn’t say it, but I pity the drones.”

  Adam struggled to contain fresh amazement, and Axel laughed. “I know you feel the same way. They are our people, and though their purpose is to support us in our undertakings, we can still sympathize with their plight.”

  Adam knew he had to choose his next words carefully. Agreeing too readily could be seen as an implicit criticism of the path the Servitor had chosen. Disagreeing could be seen in the same light. He chose to pretend ignorance, which in this case wasn’t entirely feigned. “I may have some level of empathy toward the drones, but I would appreciate a further explanation of what you mean.”

  Axel dipped his head as if in regal assent. “The drones are my people.”

  They are Shet’s people, Adam wanted to say.

  “And their care has been placed in my hands,” Axel continued. “I would not see their lives wasted.”

  Which is what the coming assault on Arylyn would be: a waste of lives and resources.

  Rather than voice such treasonous thoughts, Adam mimed a grave expression of agreement. “I understand,” he began, “and to that end, instead of invading Arylyn with the full might of our people, I’ve finalized plans to land a small breaching party along the island’s northern shore and map it out first.” And perhaps learn a way to end this mad venture.

  “A good idea,” Axel mused as he stroked his chin, “if our mahavans are not discovered.”

  “They won’t be,” Adam said. “The magi will be too busy lazing away their hours to search for our people.”

  Adam knew the magi were slothful through Serena, his once-bishan and the daughter of his heart, although it had been Axel who had fathered her. She had once told him of Arylyn through a lucid dream, something only close family members or those who loved one another could share. It had been months since she’d replied to him though, and he knew why: his actions in Australia when he’d killed Jake Ridley. The thrust had been clean, straight through the young raha’asra’s chest.

  “And then?” Axel pressed. “We can’t assault the island with only one hundred and fifty mahavans. From what Serena apparently inferred to you about their population, they’ll still vastly outnumber us. We need more mahavans.”

  “And we’ll have them,” Adam said, “but first we need intelligence.”

  Axel hesitated still, and Adam frowned in confusion. “What is it?”

  “Jeek Voshkov and Arcus Elder, the unformed Primes, have heard Shet’s call,” Axel said, the words coming slowly and reluctantly. “They were told to attack those with lorasra who are not allied to Lord Shet.”

  Adam realized the true reason for Axel’s unhappiness. “The necrosed,” he breathed.

  Axel nodded. “If the unformed have been called, we can guess that the necrosed have as well, along with their Overward, Sapient Dormant.” He spat out the name.

  “But didn’t Sapient bend knee to the Servitor’s Chair?”

  “He did,” Axel said, although his words didn’t sound convincing. He made his way to the clear windows overlooking the balcony and stared outside. “Or did he bend knee so he could learn Sinskrill’s location? I’ve often wondered.”

  Necrosed. Adam shivered, and in that moment he didn’t care about hiding his weakness. In the face of those abominations, especially Sapient Dormant, there was no such thing as strength. “You’ve changed the key to the anchor line?”

  Axel chuckled without humor. “More times than I can count,” he said. “But as the magi have twice taught us, there are other paths to Sinskrill.” He faced Adam. “Recall any mahavan in the Far Beyond. We need to maintain ourselves and defeat the magi before Shet’s woven come against us. We need to earn our lord’s approval.” His words spoken, Axel swept toward the Hall’s exit. “See it done,” he shouted as he departed.

  Adam watched his brother’s retreating back and worried. He wondered if he should reach out to Serena again and dream to her what was to come. Fighting the magi when the necrosed might menace them was the height of lunacy. But would she listen? He doubted it. Not after what he’d done to Jake. Besides, she was a magus now. She’d fought against the mahavans before, and he was sure, she’d do so again. But does that make her wrong?

  The morning sun shone in William’s eyes, forcing him to squint as he and Julius ascended the final steps of Cliff Air. Thankfully, they soon reached the top and found themselves upon a rounded promontory consisting of a grassy sward bordered by pale yellow flagstones. Centered upon the knuckle of stone arose Arylyn’s library, William’s destination. The building resembled a church: high walls made of blocky stones and a peaked roof interrupted by evenly spaced, stained-glass windows. A nearby finger of River Namaste plunged downward, raising a mist that washed across the flagstones and grass.

  Julius broke into a grin. “Mind the rocks,” he said. “Don’t slip on them like you did the last time I brought you here.”

  William remembered, and he flushed in embarrassment. Lien had witnessed the fall and mercilessly needled him about it for weeks afterward. He took Julius’ advice to heart and carefully made his way across the slick pavement to where the pathway ended at a pair of tall, dark-brown double-doors.

  Julius pulled one open, and once inside, William paused to get his bearings.

  Had the library been the church it resembled, he would have stood within the narthex. Round chandeliers the size of wagon wheels and wall-mounted lanterns containing lights resembling warm, incandescent bulbs provided illumination. Several patrons sat at large, rectangular tables placed in what would have been the nave, and rows of shelving, all of them holding a plethora of books, scrolls, and documents, marched away from the rounded center. A few patrons briefly glanced at him and Julius before returning to their reading.

  William closed his eyes and inhaled the musty odor. He smiled as they pressed deeper into the heart of the library. As always, no matter how many times he’d been here, the beauty of the place took his breath away. High above soared a vaulted ceiling with wooden beams the color of chocolate. The supports resembled the ribs of a ship, and breaking the long line of the keel were stained-glass windows telling stories through imagery. They contained scenes from the world’s past: idyllic vistas with mythical creatures such as graceful unicorns, whimsical faeries, protective dragons, and peaceful dwarves. Included was one of the Lord of the Sword and the Lady of Fire. They held calm countenances as they knelt facing one another with their foreheads pressed together.

  William loved the smell of old books, and Arylyn’s library—its ancient tomes and
millennia-old scrolls—had a comforting scent that bridged the ages. Every time he came here, a calm filled him, a joyful serenity made from the various scribblings, the turning of pages, and the whispered conversations of shared information. The peace, one held by libraries the world over, washed across William and soothed the aching anger inside of him.

  Julius grinned. “You look like you’re catching the aroma of a fine steak or the world’s most delicious dessert.”

  William could only smile back.

  “Let’s go.” Julius guided him through the shelving, and his eyes searched along the lines of books.

  William followed in his wake as they bypassed sections on the practical uses of magic, presumed structures of anchor lines, and the forging of ancient weapons. He had already read many of the books in this section, or at least thumbed through them. So far, he hadn’t found them useful, except for the ones about weaponry. Those had inspired some vague notions about cannons. The beastly anger always stirred whenever he thought about weapons and fighting.

  Right now, though, he was more interested in the book Ms. Sioned had mentioned. Julius hadn’t remembered the title, but he said he remembered where it might be shelved. William paced a few feet behind the other man, and they continued down a long shelf.

  Julius frowned. “This is the wrong section.” He cut down an aisle, and they entered a different area of the library. Julius’ frown soon cleared. “This is it. You need to know more about the underlying theories of magic. Powerful asrasins like you usually have to know the basics more than the rest of us.”

  “You’re sure it’s here?” William asked.

  Julius nodded. “Positive.” A moment later, he stopped and pulled a tall book off the shelf. Treatises on Travel—A Translation. “See. Here it is.”

  Blue leather bound the yellowed pages and William gently took the book from Julius. He traced the gold lettering on the cover and binding and inhaled the musty smell of the old pages.

  “Good hunting,” Julius said.

  William looked up from the book. “Thanks.”

  “No worries,” Julius said before departing.

  William resumed his inspection of the book, and a sense of impending glory, a ringing of horns echoed in his mind. This is it. I’ll finally learn how to stop Shet.

  His burgeoning excitement crashed to utter disappointment a second later when he cracked open the book. It was written in some kind of old version of English, like something from Shakespeare. Damn it.

  He sighed and took the book to an unoccupied table, where he dropped into a seat and began reading.

  Hear ye, O diviner of Truthe, to this mine question posed. Though misfortune be laid in full iniquity afore ye who are Awakened, our path doth yet remain to be trod. The Word ye seeketh, though it may be shackled and laid low, doth never slumber, but desireth to be known. Be like unto a leaf afore the wind, and the leaves these pages turn, that ye may learn what Truthe there be herein. Thus say I, Flye on and Read!

  William mentally groaned but forced himself to do as the author instructed. He also planned to take the book to Ms. Sioned or Mr. Zeus. Maybe they could read the middle English in which it was written—or whatever it was—and translate it for him. Until then, he’d have to do his best to decipher the text on his own.

  Hours of eye-burning effort later, with irritation and impatience rearing their twin heads, he finally came across a clue of what he might need. Roughly stated, the author posed a question. What if two travelers entered an anchor line from opposite ends? Could they meet one another in the middle? William thought it strange that something like that hadn’t already occurred, and according to the author, it did happen, but rarely. And in those few recorded episodes, the travelers had not seen one another, except in one instance. On that occasion, an asrasin had stood athwart the anchor line and forced the other traveler to halt.

  William stared at the passage, trying to figure out what it might mean. Minutes passed as he considered the question. The large grandfather clock near the library’s entrance ticked off the seconds as William pondered, but in the end, he made no headway.

  Disgusted, he flipped the book closed and stared at the title: Treatises on Travel—A Translation.

  He frowned. Wait. William wanted to smack himself in the forehead. The book was a translation, which meant he needed the original.

  He stared around the library and wondered where it might be, or if the original existed anymore. Plus, it surely wouldn’t be written in English, so how would he possibly read it?

  Frustration boiled at the impossible task he’d set for himself, and the beast within roared to life. William saw nothing but red for a moment, could conceive of only rage. A vision filled his mind, a quietly chuckling creature, an albino monstrosity, sadistic and cruel, with centuries of blood on his mangled claws. The hideous thing had a name. William knew it. Sapient Dormant.

  “So you are the one who ended Kohl Obsidian,” Sapient said in a cultured, elegant voice, utterly at odds with his form and visage. “You have his blood within you.”

  William swallowed, terrified. He clawed at his hair, trying desperately to break whatever connection he and Sapient might have.

  The Overward of the necrosed frowned. “You have something else. Kohl changed you.” Sapient snarled. “The fool touched your Spirit.” His wasted features filled with rage, and William’s head throbbed. “You will not live to master his gift.”

  The connection broke.

  Sapient Dormant kept still, not caring that his back was to his fellow necrosed. They waited behind him, and all of them faced the ruins built by an unknown people in what was now called Mexico. Night had fallen but the dim light didn’t impede Sapient’s sight. He gazed about, thinking of the boy he’d discovered several days ago, the one Kohl had touched and somehow given the strength of his blood and Spirit. Sapient growled in outrage. In so doing the fool had granted the asrasin the Wildness, an ancient weapon and one of the few things that could kill a necrosed.

  He cursed Kohl anew, wishing him alive so he could flay him. His brother necrosed rustled as they sensed his anger. Several of them backed away.

  Sapient calmed himself. The boy was of no significance. When Shet returned, no asrasin, not even one wielding the Wildness, would pose a threat. The matter settled in his mind, Sapient returned his attention to the reason for his presence in this abandoned place.

  The jungle grew all about the area and had overgrown what had once been a temple. Silence, however, filled the air, and no animals dared raise their ruckus here. Even the trees seemed to hush their leaves and branches, keeping them quiet and bending their limbs away from the structure. Whatever warning the other foliage and animals sensed emanating from the building went unheeded by ugly vines with small white flowers. They covered the structure in a cloud of green, camouflaging the building and covering it in a perfume of corruption. The temple endured underneath it all, invisible and inviolate.

  Sapient had no fear of the vines or the temple, though. He found the cemetery-like air charming. Hidden inside all the foliage was the first temple to Shet. Clarity Pain was its name, and this was Sapient’s birthplace. It was the place where the Lord had resided when he’d created the necrosed. It had taken him a hundred years and the torture of a hundred holders to forge the first of the necrosed.

  Sapient smiled as he recalled the past. Shokan’s greatest warriors, the holders, converted into pitiless, undead assassins. How delicious.

  He frowned when one of his brothers shuffled forward, stumbling. How far have we fallen. The necrosed had once possessed the grace and speed of their holder predecessors, but now they shambled about, unkempt and clumsy. They existed as nothing more than walking stains upon creation. At least the terror they were meant to inspire remained. The necrosed had been created as black reflections of the dwarves, large rather than small, instilling fear rather than peace, and bringing death instead of prosperity.

  The dwarves and their peace. Sapient silently snarled. />
  The dwarven gift for serenity had extended even to the dragons, causing the great beasts to slumber peacefully in deep caverns. The dragons, black-hearted monsters whose only purpose had been the acquisition of gold and gems, should have been Shet’s natural allies. But not in the presence of dwarves. Then they had slept, leaving the world untroubled by their fearful presence.

  Sapient brought his anger to a crashing halt, stilling it as he’d been taught. Work was required. Within the temple, deep in its bowels, lay a sword guarded by Grave Invidious, the progenitor of their kind. History stated that Sapient had been the first of the necrosed, but it was untrue. It had been Grave, the first-born of those hundred tortured holders, and the greatest necrosed of all. To him had been granted this lonely saha’asra of death and mutilation, and to him had been granted the greatest of Shet’s prizes: Undefiled Locus, a diamond blade of ancient forging that the Wildness lit to life. This was the weapon by which the Lord had conquered empires, built the anchor lines of this world and Seminal, and destroyed all who dared oppose him.

  Except Shokan, who had somehow turned the blade against the Lord and banished him to Seminal. Well did Sapient remember Shokan. The two of them had once been close as brothers. Those fraternal feelings had died upon Sapient’s rebirth, and especially when he betrayed Shokan and caused the death of the Lady of Fire.

  A rank smell drifted to Sapient, ending his recollections, and a fresh growl rose in his throat. Death. Corruption. Evil. None of the acrid aromas should have bothered him, but something worrisome underlay the stench.

  The necrosed behind him, even Manifold Fulsom, the largest and most dangerous of them, shifted in uneasiness.

  Sapient didn’t give his brother necrosed a chance to offer any questions. He led them into the temple, into air as still as a body in a grave. They passed through dark, cobwebbed halls and rooms he’d last seen seven thousand years ago, shortly after his birth. He’d been young and powerful then, fresh-bodied and fresh-blooded rather than decayed and weak as the millennia slowly robbed his strength.