Empire of the Worm

by Conner, Jack

  Boot-falls echoed down the halls.

  “Quickly! There is no time. They come for you, Davril, come to drag you forth and butcher you, and Sareth as well. Become one of us. Accept the embrace of the night. Only fire and steel will harm you. Come!”

  The cell door slid open with a clang. Sareth cried out.

  Lord Baerad Husan IV stepped toward Davril, who felt the coldness he radiated, saw the blood tangled in his beard, and smelled the stench of death on him.

  Davril realized it. “It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked, stumbling back. “It was you—all of you—you who’ve been stealing people from the Palace. Feeding off them.”

  His father came on, slowly, full and bloated from his gorging, the very specter of death. “We are dead men, Davril. We have no life of our own, so we must steal it from others. The Great Subn-ongath gave us this gift, but now it is time for us to extend it to you and Sareth.”

  “No,” Sareth said.

  “You will not touch her!” Davril said.

  His father came on, and Davril danced back, pressing his shoulders against the cold, slimy stone wall.

  Baerad Husan IV advanced, arms outstretched, face pale, eyes intense.

  The shouts of General Hastus and his men erupted. Davril’s brothers shrieked in rage. Men screamed. The clash of steel echoed down the halls.

  Baerad lunged at Davril. Davril slipped away, but his lame leg betrayed him, and he fell, striking the cold floor.

  Baerad flew at him. Davril rolled.

  “There is no time for this!” his father hissed. “Join us!”

  “Never!”

  He slashed his dagger at the blood-soaked fiend, but this time the dagger passed right through it. Cold talons wrapped around his neck. His father’s face loomed palely before him.

  “Take my blood,” Baerad said.

  The shrieks of Davril’s brothers turned to wails of fear. “Fire, Father!” they shouted. “They have fire!”

  Davril felt something cold come over his mind.

  “Join us or die,” his father said. “You have no other option.”

  For a moment, Davril wavered. He knew his father told the truth, that if he refused General Hastus would kill him, and Sareth too, just as he had already slain Hariban. But if he accepted his father’s gift, he would be damned, his soul fouled for all eternity. And Sareth’s, too. Besides, and perhaps more to the point, he could see little good being undead would do; his father and brothers had occupied this state for many months and it had utterly failed to help them achieve their ends.

  “No,” he said. “I won’t do it.”

  Blood gushed up from between his father’s lips. The dead emperor vomited it toward Davril’s mouth, but Davril snapped his jaws shut. Twisted his head away. He knew that if he tasted that vile stuff, he would become like his father.

  He slashed his dagger at the fiend’s hands. His father could make himself incorporeal when he wanted, but he could make himself corporeal, as well. And if Davril could feel those cold, lifeless talons about his throat, that meant his blade could bite them.

  His father howled and drew away.

  The shouts of the General and his men grew louder.

  “Flee, Father!” Milast cried. “We must flee!”

  Baerad bit out a curse, then joined his sons, who waited outside. To Davril, he said, “You have made your choice. Now suffer the consequences.”

  He melted into the shadows down the hall, and his sons followed.

  “They’re gone,” Sareth breathed. Her eyes were wide and she was panting.

  “Did I do right?” Davril asked. “Should I have—?”

  She shook her head, unable to answer out loud.

  General Hastus and his men arrived at the cell door, breathless and fearful; they’d just been fighting ghosts. The General stared at Davril with worry, and respect.

  “It’s time,” he said. “Time for your family’s curse to be broken.”

  Chapter 6

  The day was humid, and flies and mosquitoes buzzed all about.

  Davril wanted to swat at them, but his hands were tied before him so that he could use his cane—they’d taken his golden one and given him only this pitiful stick as a replacement—and if he let go he would fall. All around, the people of Sedremere screamed at him, cursing him and his family. Some threw rotten vegetables or offal. Some threw stones. Davril felt a sting on his cheek, and hot blood poured over his face. A soldier grunted, a citizen cried out, and no one threw stones for a space.

  Sareth walked before him, hands tied behind her back. She was mostly naked now, the soldiers having torn off her garments to embarrass to incite the crowd into a further frenzy. A sergeant constantly walked up and down the procession, and when he passed the royal pair he would raise his whip over his head and bring it down with a sharp crack. The crowd howled, seeing these mighty ones brought low, and Davril ground his teeth each time the whip parted the flesh of his back, spilling blood down his back. He tried not to scream. I won’t give them the pleasure!

  How could his people do this to him, to Sareth, to Hariban? He thought his own family had been evil, but now he wondered if the corruption of the emperors had tainted the empire as a whole. But no. The people were simply desperate and confused. They had convinced themselves that a curse lay on the royal family and that the royals were responsible for all their troubles, and they hated Davril and Sareth because of it. They didn’t know the truth. How could they? Davril himself had not known the full extent of it till yesterday.

  He hung his head and endured the dung and stones and whips, hobbling along on the stick the General had given him. From time to time a soldier would knock it out from under him and he would topple to the ground, where he would be kicked and beaten until he rose back up. The people laughed.

  From time to time Davril passed a particularly wondrous monument and would try to focus on it rather than his present circumstances, or he would near a marketplace and sniff the mix of spices. No meat, though. The city had been under siege for so long the people were eating rats and leather. Rumor had spread that some had begun eating the dead. Perhaps I’ll be someone’s dinner.

  He passed the inner wall that encircled the area where the nobles lived, then through the Arch of the Heavenly Stars down the broad, tree-lined Boulevard of the Arts. Here he beheld the great University of Gahenid, founded in the days of Kamos the Builder, and walked over the Canal of the Three Hearts, where gondolas would ply the waters in happier times. They passed the Amber Ziggurat, then the Golden Ziggurat, and passed under the Arch of Splendor and through the Flying Gardens of Ibrum. The smells of a thousand flowers washed Davril’s senses, and he tried to lose himself in their glory.

  Ahead loomed the great Tower of Behara, that splendid structure that was actually taller than the Palace, though not as high, for it did not rise from a mountain but stood on a low hill. Round and massive, the tiered, pillared levels of the Tower rose up and up, a splendid, hulking monument to the greatness of Behara, God of the Sky, Wisdom and Light. Its golden bricks gleamed invitingly.

  Long had this been one of Davril’s favorite places in all Sedremere—all Qazradan. The Tower’s thousand vaulted chambers were home to discussion and intelligent discourse, a place where people could go and simply talk, exchange ideas of high philosophy or rude jests. Different rooms enjoyed different themes. On the lowest floor were the steaming Baths, which Davril had loved most of all. Many times over the years he and his brothers had gone there, in disguise, where they’d reveled in the freedom and anonymity. Davril had loved the girls, the lofty discussions, and the marvelous views from the high reaches of the Tower. At the very top sat the Temple to Behara, a simple affair with a high ceiling covered in murals and a few rooms where the priests lived. And always there was the Lady of the Tower, she who had been selected by the priests to wait for Behara’s return. She had been one of the three representatives of the Flame who had crowned Davril. The Beharans would sacrifice goats and lambs to him seve
ral times a year when there was a great celebration by the people, and there was much singing and dancing. It was a fabulous, fabled place, one of the wonders of the world, and now it would be the place of Davril’s and Sareth’s demise.

  Several times Davril’s hands strayed to the dagger stuck in his waistband, pressed against the flat of his back, but always he controlled himself. The General’s men, having searched him once, had not thought to search him again after his confinement. Still, he could think of no way to use the weapon for his and Sareth’s benefit.

  Finally the procession passed through the Gates of the Sky and entered the grounds surrounding the Tower. Just as the General had promised, thousands of people had gathered to see Davril’s execution, and more thronged the walls, some even sitting on each others’ shoulders. It was a gathering of tens of thousands, and Davril understood why General Hastus had chosen this spot. It was a beloved place, a place of renewal and life, and so Davril’s death would be seen as a boon—and of course it could be viewed by many people.

  The Tower reared over them, broad and high, gleaming of burnished gold from the fired bricks that formed it, each brick stamped with the mark of the Emperor who had been alive during its construction. It had taken the reigns of four to complete it, and it had been abandoned several times.

  The General led them through the roaring, angry crowd, up the broad, two-hundred-foot-long-wide steps that led up to the first landing, where he stopped, the soldiers forming a ring around their captives. The crowd roared louder below.

  General Hastus forced Sareth to her knees, and the crowd responded enthusiastically. He then tore Davril’s walking stick away, tied his hands behind his back, and forced him to his knees as well. The crowd roared like maddened lions.

  Davril’s fingers scrabbled at the dagger hidden beneath the shreds of his tunic, pinned in his waistband, but it was awkward with his hands tied. He worked at the hempen bonds, loosening them, even tried to rub them against the blade, but it was hidden in his pants, only the handle sticking out. He couldn’t brace it. And what if I could?

  At his side, Sareth wept. He longed to comfort her, but he could think of nothing to say.

  The sun rose hot and angry. It poured down heat and warmth, drenching Davril in sweat, and every golden headpiece and armband of the soldiers and the crowd flashed painfully in his eyes. The bricks beneath his legs warmed him, then burned him. The roar of the crowd washed him, and Davril swayed.

  Focus, he told himself. Don’t pass out now. There may be a way —

  The General grabbed Sareth up by the hair. “The princess first!” he shouted, and the crowd called out for her death.

  Sareth’s tears had dried. Beautiful, all but naked, her slim, girlish body covered in blood and sweat and tears, she stood defiantly before them, clear blue eyes narrowed.

  “Kill me if you will!” she shouted, though Davril doubted few heard her over the general babble. “You have already taken everything from me, it does not matter. I will embrace oblivion. It is enough for me that I won’t have to look into your faces anymore, you filth. To think I dreamed of serving you! Of being your princess, bettering your lot in life! I renounce it. I renounce you.” She coughed up some spittle from the back of her throat and spat at them. Their eyes bulged. Several threw stones, and she weathered the barrage as best she could. Never did Davril love her more.

  A stone block was shoved into place before her, and the General forced her to her knees and mashed her face down onto to the block.

  Davril worked furiously at his ropes. They were beginning to give.

  Two soldiers gripped Sareth’s shoulders and pinned her. She thrashed and spat at them.

  “Dogs!” she snarled. “Pigs!”

  Someone handed Hastus an axe. It was huge, sparkling in the light of the noontime sun, and the crowd fell silent, respectful of death if nothing else.

  Davril worked his ropes with vigor, so fast his wrists bled. While he did, he remembered a time when he and Sareth had both been little and had stuffed a dead rat in Father’s date-and-almond pie. When Father had taken a bite, he’d blanched. Davril, only six, could not help laughing. That had doomed him, for his father had known right away he was responsible. Just as Davril had been taking his whipping, though, Sareth had stepped in and confessed that it had been her idea. Father had gone easier on Davril for that, but he had gone hard on her.

  Davril sawed his dagger against the ropes faster. Almost there . . . almost . . .

  The General took a heavy step forward. Raised his axe. Sareth quit cursing and struggling. The shadow of the axe fell over her.

  Almost there . . . just a little more . . .

  The General grimaced as he stared down at her. Genuine sadness touched his eyes. He did not like this. Hated this, Davril saw. And he hated the people for making him do this. Yet it was his duty and he would see it done. Hariban! Davril thought. Your own grandson! How could you?

  The General sucked in a breath, raised his axe just a bit more, gathering his strength, and then —

  Davril tore the ropes free. He bounded forward, a cry on his lips. At the same time, he reached round and grabbed the dagger.

  The General saw him. Fear crossed his face. Only a few feet separated them.

  The crowd screamed. Soldiers surged forward. They were too far away.

  Sareth laughed.

  Davril coiled his arm to slash his blade across the General’s throat, through that thick, curly beard —

  His leg twisted out from under him. He crashed to the cobblestones, cracked his skull, and felt the warmth of blood on his face.

  “No,” he gasped. He struggled, rose—saw Sareth, the General standing over her, mouth pressed grimly —

  The General’s axe flashed down. There came a meaty thunk. Blood spurted, stinging Davril’s eyes. The crowd roared their approval.

  Then Davril was there, cradling his sister in his arms. Her head had rolled down the stairs, and the crowd was pushing forward, trying to grasp at it, fighting each other over it. Davril closed his eyes, tried to pretend she was still whole. He felt warm wetness on his face, but he ignored it. She was still hot beneath his fingers.

  “No,” he wept. “No.” He rocked her in his arms.

  His dagger lay forgotten on the ground. When he opened his eyes, it glinted, and he reached for it. None stopped him. He poised it over his breast, preparing to plunge it home.

  The General drew back. “So goes the Emperor,” he said. Soldiers rushed to intervene, but he stopped them. “Let him finish it.”

  Just as Davril prepared to plunge his blade home, the sound of trumpeting horns filled the air: ARRUUU-ARRRUUU-ARUUUM!

  “For Urak’s sake!” Hastus said. “Now?”

  ARRUUUU!

  The horns peeled across the city, silencing the gathering of thousands. Davril almost didn’t hear it, so engulfed was he in despair. But dimly he heard the horns, the cursing of the General, and he lowered his dagger just a bit.

  Suddenly, he laughed. Covered in his sister’s blood, he threw back his head and laughed. “You were too slow!” he shouted. “You should have killed me hours ago! No, that’s not right, is it? The barbarians saw the people gathered here, realized we were distracted, and launched an attack. Your own lust for power’s damned you!”

  The General glowered but wasted no more time on him. Hastus had larger fish to fry. He barked orders to his men, mounted a horse and rode off at the head of a column, riding toward the Northern Wall, toward the Gate of Winter, where one of the besieging armies must be assaulting the city.

  The people scattered, many rushing to the walls to reinforce the troops. Davril watched them go, laughing, tears running down his face, still rocking Sareth’s headless carcass in his arms. In a matter of minutes the square around the Tower had become empty—almost. A few stayed behind: soldiers, swords bared and gleaming. The General must have ordered them to end Davril, audience or not. They glanced from the distant wall to the pitiful figure of Davril up above
, a headless Sareth in his arms, and anger lit their eyes.

  Slowly they mounted the stairs.

  “Husan,” they muttered. “Cursed Husan . . .”

  They converged on him.

  “End it,” he told them. “I’m ready.” He held his sister tightly, not willing to let her go. Already, she was beginning to cool. Just a moment, he thought. In just a moment I will join you.

  The soldiers neared him, clutching their bright swords, and he saw their haggard, frenzied states. They were not the same men he’d led before the Great Journey. The dark times had changed them, made them hard, savage. He tried to hate them for it, but could not. This was all his fault, and he was ready to pay for it. He only wished Sareth and Hariban had been spared. Alyssa, how could you?

  “Come,” he said. He raised his head, baring his neck for their blades.

  They moved in —

  Movement up above. Pouring down from the Baths came a dozen priests of Behara. Dressed in muted blue, carrying crossbows, they swept down the long stairs. Several loosed bolts at the soldiers, and the bolts clattered off the stones at their feet. Davril felt one whoosh by his face.

  The General’s men lowered their weapons and looked up in alarm.

  “Run!” one said.

  They ran.

  “No!” Davril shouted after them, as spots danced in his vision. “You cravens! Come back and finish it!” He leveled his furious gaze at the approaching priests. “Fools! What have you done? They were going to give me peace! Peace!”

  The world faded. Sareth slipped from his fingers, and he fell back and away, vanishing into nothingness.

  Chapter 7

  He woke on a narrow bed. Sunlight streamed in through a long, oval window. Pain blossomed in his head, and he rubbed it, moaning. Slowly, he sat up. He was in a small, simple room of white clay bricks. A pair of priests sat next to him, their eyes closed in meditation, their legs crossed on the floor.

  He was in the Temple, he realized. The Temple of Behara. Atop the Tower.

  “What . . .?” His mind reeled drunkenly, then began to crystallize. Sareth. Hariban. Something stabbed him in the chest, and for a moment he could not draw breath. Tears formed behind his eyes. Using all his will, he held them in. If he began crying now, he might never stop.