Empire of the Worm

by Conner, Jack

  Alyssa, holding Hariban, joined him and together they stared out over the city. Hariban cried, and Davril took his son in his arms and sang softly, lowly. Gradually Hariban quieted.

  Alyssa pressed herself against Davril and asked, “What shall we do?”

  The ground quaked, and dust drifted down from the ceiling.

  Gently Davril handed Hariban back to her and went to a closet where he retrieved the ceremonial dagger with which he’d slain his father and damned his empire.

  “I’m going down to the Altar.”

  She nodded, and to her credit she did not cry. “I’m ready,” she said.

  He smiled and cupped her cheek. “No,” he said. “It is my death they want, not yours.”

  She burst into sobs, and he stroked her back and whispered reassurances in her ear. Dusk gathered outside. His gaze strayed to the blood-stained dagger (his father’s blood had never come off), and he knew what must be done. Though he was not out of his teens, he felt like an old man. His hair was streaked with gray, and he walked stooped and with a limp.

  He kissed first her forehead, then Hariban’s. “Farewell.”

  The long trek through the darkness seemed even longer than before. Longer, and lonelier. Each step was an eternity, but down Davril went, descending through the thirty-three levels of the Palace and the seventeen levels of the catacombs. No one accompanied him this time, nor did he wish them to. He hadn’t even had to instruct anyone to remain in their rooms, as there were so few in the Palace it didn’t matter. It was almost as though the place was deserted.

  At last he reached the lowest level and approached the Golden Door. The snarling face of the demon seemed to leer down at him. Grimly, he sliced open his palm with the dagger, wincing at the pain even as he flung his drops of blood at the door.

  “By this blood I command you!” he shouted. “Open!”

  The blood spattered on the twisted lips of the demon. The blood spattered, and trickled, sliding down, over the lips and chin.

  But the Door did not open.

  Chapter 5

  Leering, snarling, the demon’s face remained fixed. Not even an eye twitched.

  “By this blood I command you!” Davril said again, and flung more blood at the Door.

  Still it did not open.

  Desperately, Davril slashed at his wrists and flung more, then still more. He cut himself a dozen times, thinking enough of the precious fluid would do the trick, but the damnable door remained closed.

  “No!” he said. “You must open! Please!”

  Despite himself, tears sprang to his eyes. If he could not do this thing, this one thing, his empire was damned. Weeping, bleeding, he sank to his knees and beat his bloody hands against the Door.

  “Open!” he cried. “Open, please!” He beat at it, and its low metallic thuds seemed to mock him. His own blood trickled down from the golden lips to greet his pounding fists.

  “What must I do?” he said. “Tell me and I will do it! Tell me. Is it Alyssa you want? Oh, don’t make me. But I will if I must.” He hesitated as an awful thought reared. “Is it . . . no, it can’t be . . . not Hariban! No, I won’t do it! He’s my son! He’s the future of the realm! And you will need him, won’t you? To carry on the tradition . . .” He sobbed, but at last he said, “Just open. I will do what must be done. Whatever it is.”

  The demon’s jaws remained closed.

  For a long time, Davril knelt there, weeping and pounding at the door, a pitiful shape in the darkness, crippled and racked with guilt, stooped and weary of life, and then a sound came from behind him.

  He turned, glaring into the darkness.

  “What?” he shouted hoarsely. “Who goes there? Show yourself!”

  A shape materialized before him, a figure of darkness with a pale, lamp-like face.

  “Father!”

  The apparition floated closer, draped in shadow. “Son,” he said. He opened his arms, almost as though to embrace Davril, and Davril shuddered. The thing did not close on him. It drew close, then stopped.

  Through tears, Davril stared at his father. “What’s going on, Father? Why won’t Subn-ongath admit me? He’s destroying the empire! Surely there’s something that can be done. I’ll do it, whatever it is.”

  Something glittered in the dark pools of his father’s eyes. “Good,” he said.

  “Why won’t he let me in?”

  “Alas, He and the others of his Circle are no longer here.”

  “What?” Hysteria rose in him. “How can he have done this and just vanished? It makes no sense! And the Lerumite—it said I could make a difference—”

  “You could have. Yesterday. You are one day too late.”

  “But I don’t . . .”

  “They’ve withdrawn from this world.”

  “Why?” Davril clenched and unclenched his bloody hands. “Tell me why!”

  “Steady, my son. We both want to save Qazradan. But you must know something.” The shade paused, and when he continued his voice was full of sadness. “When they visited Their wrath upon you, upon the realm—the earthquakes, lava, plagues, beasts—They exerted much of Their power. It weakened Them.”

  “So He—They—can no longer curse Qazradan?”

  “Just because They can no longer curse it doesn’t make it safe.”

  “I don’t understand. They’re weakened permanently?”

  “In time They would’ve grown strong again, but the Enemy won’t give Them that time.”

  “The Enemy?”

  “Don’t play games, Davril.”

  “The Worm.”

  “Just so.”

  Davril flinched. “But He’s dead! Ancient Sagrahab is fallen, and Nagradin sunk beneath the sea.”

  “Yes, but He lives still.”

  Davril lifted his eyes. “There was something you and Elimhas both said—that the Patron and his brethren kept the Worm at bay.”

  “So they do.”

  “But how?”

  “Had you given Alyssa to the Patron, you’d have been baptized into our ranks. Secrets would have been revealed to you.”

  “Tell me now.”

  His father paused.

  “Tell me. I’m Qazradan’s only hope.”

  Lord Baerad Husan IV gathered his thoughts, then said, “Long ago the Worm, a being from a place beyond our ken, came to this world, and He was the god of the Great Ones. A god of gods. They were His servants, His high priests. His

  Holy Circle. But They ultimately rebelled against Him, broke away from His power. His Circle, led by Subn-ongath, betrayed Him and cast Him down into the sea, where they locked him away. He raged for eons until, denied his sacrifices, his mass worship, the rites that kept him powerful in our world, he faded. He slept. And the Great Ones we Husans serve waxed strong. But recently one of His faithful servants, Hiera, the Lady of Asragot, woke from her slumber and led her people into the sea.” “The emptying of Asragot . . .”

  “Indeed. Hiera led her flock into the sea, down to sunken Nagradin—down to Him. Her power protected them. They freed Him from His slumber, how I don’t know, though I can guess. What matters is that now my Masters, your Masters, the Great Ones, they fear Him. And because of your betrayal, because of the wrath They visited upon you, because of the actions you took against their lord, our Patron, They’re weak. Too weak to hold Him off. And so They’ve withdrawn from this world.”

  “It can’t be,” Davril said. He pounded a bloody fist against the Door. “If that’s true, there’s no hope. Even without Their curse, we’re besieged by overwhelming numbers.”

  “Those that besiege you are the least of your worries. Even now He comes from the sea.”

  Davril blinked. This was new. “What can I do?”

  His father’s voice came in a furious rasp. “You can die.”

  “I am prepared.”

  The dead man’s eyes flashed with anger. “You can die, and take the Empire with you. You fool! You’ve damned them all! The Enemy will return and sweep the
world under His shadow, and the only Ones who could have stopped Him are fled because of you!”

  Howling, the shade flew at Davril. Davril slashed with the dagger, even as he flung himself aside. Breathless, he spun about. His father was no more.

  Davril panted raggedly. He knew his father was still here, still watching, waiting. Hopefully he hadn’t meant to kill Davril, merely scare him. But into doing what? What could Davril do? If what his father said was true, the Empire was truly doomed.

  For a long time, Davril lay there, but at last he forced himself to his feet and took the long march (longer with his broken leg), back up the catacombs steps and into the Palace proper. Alyssa was surprised to see him, and she wept for joy, but Davril could not smile.

  It came one morning when he was sparring with one of his few remaining retainers, trying to keep up his strength and vitality, as well as to retrain his body to fight with only one fully functional leg. For what end, he could not imagine, but he couldn’t allow himself to wallow in despair. During a break, Alyssa brought him tea, and he drank the fluid down gratefully. Sweating, his skin burning with the exertion, he made himself a promise that he would fight the inevitable with every ounce of his being. I won’t submit to gods, he thought. Especially not these gods.

  “How’s Hariban?” he asked.

  “More lively every day,” Alyssa said.

  He smiled, and she returned it. But there was a sadness in her eyes, and her lips quivered.

  “What —?” he started.

  His legs gave out and he collapsed to the floor. Floundering, he gasped, trying to push himself to his feet.

  “Alyssa,” he choked.

  She didn’t help him. Nor did his retainers. They stood around him, staring wretchedly. His vision dimmed, blurred, and went dark. When he awoke, he heard Alyssa weeping. Somewhere a bird chirped. The sound hurt his ears. He stirred, murmured something.

  “He’s awake.” It was General Hastus’s voice. “The sedative didn’t last long.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alyssa said, her voice tremulous. “I couldn’t put much, I just couldn’t. What if I’d gotten it wrong?”

  Davril tried to push himself to his feet, but found that his hands were bound before him. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s time,” General Hastus said.

  “Be gentle, Father,” Alyssa said.

  The General’s voice was cold. “I will do what must be done.”

  Gingerly, Davril sat up. Blinked. The light seemed very bright. Above him, staring down at him, General Hastus said, “Good afternoon.”

  Davril blinked again. “Tell me what goes on, General. What’s the meaning of this?”

  “The meaning, my lord, is to save your wretched empire.”

  “And you do this by drugging and binding me?” Davril cast an accusing glance at Alyssa, and it was more than she could take. Crying, she fled the room.

  The General glared down at him, but Hastus’s voice was sad, not angry: “The people riot in the streets! They demand your blood! If they’re not appeased, they’ll revolt, and the city will descend into utter anarchy before it’s even sacked.” He sighed. “Blood they want, and blood I will give them. I don’t like it either, Davril. You’re my son-in-law. My family. Know that I served you loyally, and your father before you. Two years ago this would’ve been unthinkable. Even now I hate myself for what must be done. But it’s the only way. Now—will you come like a man, or must I drag you forth like vermin?”

  Davril wanted to resist, to die fighting, but Hariban needed him. Qazradan needed him. He was the only one who knew what horrors had been unleashed on the world, thus he might be the only person capable of stopping them if such a thing were possible. He allowed General Hastus, his second father, to lead him deep into the mountain, where the Palace dungeons were located, though they were used infrequently these days, most criminals ending up in the prisons outside of town or near the Arena. But in the old days, before the Husan Dynasty, during times of paranoid tyrants, the dungeons had housed many supposed traitors and conspirators. Davril imagined he could hear the echoes of their screams as soldiers shoved him into a dark cell with iron bars crusted black with age.

  “Wait,” he said. “Where’s Alyssa? Hariban?”

  The General’s eyes were haunted as he slammed the door in Davril’s face. “Hariban is already dead.”

  It was as if something struck Davril in the chest. He crumpled to the floor, wheezing for breath that would not come.

  “I dashed out his brains myself,” the General continued, his voice hoarse, “while Alyssa was readying the poison. I could ask no one else to do it.”

  Mind reeling, Davril stared at the old man he’d known all his life, uncomprehending. When he could speak, he heard himself say, “But . . . why? “He was your grandson.”

  “Your line must end,” General Hastus said. “Too long has your family sat in their high towers staring down at the people, keeping their dark secrets, engaging in their black rites. The people tolerated it for long enough because the Empire prospered so, and they knew you and your kin were responsible. But the price must be paid. The people are paying it now even as the empire collapses around them. You will see. I will drag you out there, and you will see.” His eyes blazed for a moment before he seized control of himself, took a deep breath, and repeated, “Your line must end.”

  “Alyssa. Where is Alyssa?”

  “I’ll tell the people she resisted and was slain trying to save her baby. In truth I’ll take her home, to the River, and there she will stay the rest of her days, locked up in her rooms.”

  “I cannot believe she would be party to Hariban’s murder.”

  Hastus averted his gaze. “She didn’t know.”

  “And Sareth? Is she, too, part of this tainted line you must end?”

  The General winced. “The princess . . . the men, they demanded her . . . I needed them, so I consented . . . to my shame, I consented . . . but I did not take part, I swear it. And after the new government is installed, and the invaders thrown back, I will remember the ones that did it. Mark me.”

  “You monster! You filth!” Davril’s strength returned. He shoved his hands through the bars, clutching toward the General.

  Hastus merely stepped back, out of reach.

  “You have a right to your rage, Emperor,” Hastus said. “For my part, I regret what needs be done. What has been done. But once your line ends, the curse will be lifted.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I may be the only one who can set this affair to rights.”

  “So says the man who will shortly meet his end. Even now my men are combing the streets, spreading the word for people to gather at the Tower of Behara, where we will lead you and Sareth. There before the whole city we’ll cut off your heads and throw them to the people.”

  “Then what? Will it be you that seizes the throne?”

  “There’s none better suited to it, regrettably. I will establish martial law, disband the Senate, bring order to Sedremere, then lead the army out and crush the invaders. With your family’s curse lifted, it will be done. Now—I have no more time to waste on dead men. There is much to be done.”

  He stalked away, a half dozen soldiers staying behind to guard Davril. Davril tried to bribe them, coerce them with reason, and at last visited threats on them, but they remained unmoved. One actually spat at him.

  Sareth was dragged in and thrown into his cell some time later. Half conscious, bloody, her dress in ruins, stinking of sex, she moaned but did not rise. Old bones and chains littered the edges of the room.

  Davril knelt beside her and put her head in his lap. “There,” he said, sweeping her hair away from her face. One of her eyes was red and beginning to swell, but from the other he saw a clear sliver of blue, much like his own. Her cracked lips tried to smile, but they trembled too badly.

  “Hush,” he said. “It’s all right. You don’t need to say anything. Let me do the talking. I’m so sorry, Sari. So,
so sorry. I should have expected this, should have made sure you were away.”

  Her bloody lips parted, and she moaned a single word: “Hariban.”

  A knot seized in his throat. Wordlessly, he nodded, aware of tears spilling over his cheeks. Silently he stroked her hair.

  “I heard Alyssa’s screaming while they were at me,” she said. “She found the baby . . .”

  For a long time, he just sat there in the darkness, comforting her, saying that everything would be all right, that this was all a misunderstanding, she would see, help would arrive and things would go back to the way they were before the dark times. She smiled and nodded and pretended to believe him.

  Suddenly, a soldier screamed. Then another. Long, pain-filled wails rent the air.

  Sareth sat up with a start.

  Davril moved toward the bars—recoiled.

  Tall, dark figures floated toward him. Only their faces caught the light of torches set in the walls—pale, ghostly faces, their mouths rimmed with fresh blood. Their bodies, emanating shadow, seemed bloated and full. They were his brothers, all four of them. And his father, taking up the center, eyes round and hungry.

  The dead emperor’s bloody mouth opened, and a rasping voice issued: “Son. Daughter. It is time for you to join us.”

  Sareth huddled close to Davril. “Father?”

  “Join you?” Davril said.

  “The Dark One comes,” his father said. “The Enemy.” In a fear-filled voice, he added, “Uulos. The Worm, god of all darkness. He will make of the world a horror. He will summon those that served him long ago, that now slumber beneath the earth. Only we can stop him, we slaves of the Great Ones. The Masters.”

  Something bright appeared in his grasp, and he pressed the ceremonial dagger once more into Davril’s hands.

  “Take this. It is a thing of some power. It was the avenue of many souls, the boulevard by which they passed into the Lord Subn-ongath. Blessed by Him, it will be a bane to the Worm. Feed it blood to bolster it.”