by Conner, Jack
“I suppose.”
Davril swore. Everything seemed to be slipping away from him. “I can’t believe Hastus is an ally of the fish-priests,” he said miserably.
“At first I couldn’t either, but it makes sense.”
“Yeah? How?”
“What do you actually know about the River Families, Davril?”
The question took Davril by surprise. “Well,” he started, “I know their power comes from the River.”
“Keep going.”
Davril wasn’t in the mood to recite history, but at the moment he could think of nothing better to occupy himself with. “Before the Niardans came, the families along the Lerum sent their boats down the channel to the sea to fish—the coast was too rocky to build docks along back then. Over time they worked out how to do it, but by then the River Families were already quite wealthy, and it was them who built and owned most of the new docks.”
“I’m not asking about how they make their money, Davril. Where does their real power come from?”
Davril shifted uncomfortably. “I only know what legend and rumor say.”’
“What do they say?”
“Back when Sedremere was still ruled by the Avestines, the River Families were visited by the Myr.” These were the mysterious beings that dwelled in the ocean, and who worshipped their own otherworldly god. The people of Sedremere knew little of them. “It was the custom of the Myr to swim up the River from the sea and, on certain nights, enjoy a, ah, liaison with members of the River Families.” He glanced at Elimhas to see if the priest would stop him, but Elimhas motioned for him to continue. “On these nights, an unnatural fog would rise from the River, and darkness would fall on the city. One member each from the River Families would wait at the docks of the River until one of the Myr would rise from the water, and the Myr would take the waiting Family member into a private cabin built for the purpose and—well.”
“And afterward?”
“The Myr would slip away into the River and vanish. If the Myr had been female, they might be with child, but no human knew. However, if the Myr had been a male, and the Family member female, and that female was gotten with child, then the woman would carry the child to term. She was looked on with respect and shown every luxury unto the end of her days.”
“And the baby?”
“The priests of Lerum would come for it. Take it with them inside the walls of their compound. They would raise the child as one of their own. That’s how all of them were raised. The child would become a Lerumite. The mother would never see it again, or if she did she would not know it.”
Elimhas nodded. “So you should understand. The Lerumites and the River Families have always enjoyed close ties. In fact, the prosperity of the Families’ fishing enterprises was often attributed to the Lerumites.”
“Yes, but now I know that the god of the Lerumites is Uulos. The General must know that, too. How can he serve them? And what do they want with the Jewel of the Sun? It’s a weapon against Uulos.”
“There’s no way to find out, I’m afraid,” Elimhas said. “Not now.”
Davril stared after the barge working its way along the river for a moment, then lowered the spyglass.
“No,” he said. “There is a way.”
The twisted purple spires of the Temple of Lerum stabbed into the thunderous night, and lightning blasted all about them. The storm had followed the Altar here. Davril was close enough to see the detailing on the sinuous purple walls that undulated like a snake’s back around the temple. Wispy fog rose from the brackish water that surrounded the island the Temple and its grounds perched on.
For a long time Davril crouched, shivering and wet, in the lee of a warehouse front. He was at the courtyard that abutted the bridge spanning the marshy, reed-filled gap to the Lerumite compound. The marsh served as more than a buffer, he realized: it was a military clearing to establish a defensible position.
Hopefully the Lerumites were not keeping a close lookout. He was counting on the fact that many would be with their Lord at the moment. They would be at the Black Altar, worshipping Uulos, or carrying out his will. If Davril was right, precious few Lerumites would have remained to man the walls. But he was far from certain, and so he waited. When lightning struck, he counted the number of figures upon the wall, noted their positions and movements. He supposed he would have to brave the waters. Rumors spoke of strange creatures in the swamp around the Temple, but he saw no other way. He could not simply walk up the bridge and knock on the door.
Counting the Lerumite guards took him some time, as the sentries moved around quite a bit, and sometimes they were so still he didn’t even notice them, but in the end he had a rough count. There were at least two hundred on the walls, more than he’d bargained for. In fact, he wasn’t even sure how many fish-priests there were. No one was. No one even knew how long they lived, or if they remained in the Temple all their lives or perhaps at some point rejoined their fathers in the depths of the sea.
One thing was certain, and that was that Davril would not be able to scale the walls as he’d hoped. He’d stolen some rope for the purpose off an abandoned cart, but he had no need for it now.
Rain flung down, drenching him. It could be the death of him, he knew. Already he felt an aching his chest that could be the onset of illness. Thunder throbbed in the heavens, reverberating off the spires and domes of Sedremere.
When he listened closely enough, Davril thought he heard the warbling chants and songs of the Lerumites. At first he assumed it came only from the Temple. Soon, though, he realized that some of it came from behind him.
And it was moving.
He crawled into a storm drain, with water swirling all about, shoving him, crashing against him, filling his ears with its babble and his mouth with the filth it had gathered from the streets. He huddled there, shivering and gasping for air, and waited.
Momentarily a procession of perhaps a hundred fish-priests marched around the corner. The streets were clear, at least here. If any citizens nearby saw the Lerumites, they kept well away from them; the fish-priests were respected and feared throughout the city. Their cult was ancient, and alien, and many disappearances throughout history had been attributed to them. Now they marched two by two up the city streets. No, Davril saw, that wasn’t quite right. They carried poles on their shoulders, and from these poles hung bound captives, many of them dressed in robes or other religious attire. Some were gagged, some weren’t. These latter screamed and thrashed, swaying to and fro on their poles like panicked swine. The fish-priests didn’t seem to care. They continued to hum and gargle their horrid chants, until at last they drew abreast Davril.
This was his only chance. If he failed now, all was lost.
He waited for the procession to pass by, then slid from his gutter. He drew his dagger, slashed it across his forearm—his father had said it fed on blood—and advanced on the lone Lerumite that took up the rear. This one was taller than the others and possibly occupied some higher rank. It carried no pole, but a staff instead—a staff with a hideous emblem at the top, something like a star with writhing tentacles for arms instead of rays of light. The sign of the Worm.
Davril did not hesitate. He gripped his now-pulsing dagger with grim resolve as he stalked the Lerumite. Rain plastered him, thunder cracked, but all he could feel was the hot blood burning through him, and all he could hear was the smashing of his heart.
Closer and closer he came. The fish-priests at the head of the procession were passing into the clearing around the Temple. Davril didn’t have much time.
Holding his breath, he moved closer, dragging his left foot at his side, almost having to hop forward. The tall shape of the staff-wielding Lerumite was so close that he could smell it, all seaweed and salt.
Davril coiled his arm, poised his dagger to strike —
The Lerumite spun.
It brought its staff down, nearly cleaving in Davril’s head. He just barely dodged aside. Thunder cracked.
Gasping, Davril stared up into the dark, unblinking eyes of the creature. It did not pause but brought its staff sideways, meaning to lay bare Davril’s skull.
He ducked under its swing, lunged forward.
A claw slashed out, raking his right arm.
He plunged his dagger into the fish-priest’s belly. It threw back its head, started to let out a warble of pain or warning —
Davril yanked his dagger free and slit the Lerumite’s throat. Dark, pungent blood sprayed him. It was not warm like a man’s blood, but cold. Ice cold, even colder than a reptile’s. These things aren’t natural.
The fish-priest reeled back, dropping its staff from its webbed fingers. So far, their duel had been conducted in relative silence. Yet if the staff clattered to the cobblestones, the others would hear.
Davril grabbed it with one hand. With his other, he caught the weight of the Lerumite, set it down gently, then removed its robes. With barely a thought, he donned its clothes and took up its hideous staff. He shoved his dagger into the rear of his waistband. Then, kicking the Lerumite corpse into a gutter, he took up the staff-wielder’s place in the rear of the procession.
His heart beat so hard he figured the other Lerumites would hear it, but they just marched steadily forward. At last they crossed the clearing before the bridge and over the bridge itself. The hairs on the back of Davril’s neck stood up painfully, and at any moment he expected a cry of alarm or to feel a spear sticking through him. He eyed the brackish, reed-filled waters to either side of the bridge warily. As yet, he saw no monsters, but he wasn’t sure if he was imagining the slight ripples and splashes and gurgles.
The high, surreally-sculpted gates were already open, and several smaller groups of Lerumites came and went from it. This was a busy night for the creatures of Uulos, and the Lerumite compound was a virtual beehive of activity, as Davril soon saw. The procession marched through the gateway without stopping. He tried to adopt the same shuffling walk of the Lerumites, attempting to ignore the pain that flashed up from his leg. With every step the ache intensified, and he didn’t know how long he could keep this up without his body betraying him.
As the procession passed through the grounds, strange statues of fish-things loomed among sinister hedge-mazes, and there were many stone buildings here and there. Davril saw creatures hunched on their steps, some with tentacles sprouting from their anatomy, some with ridges on their heads, and some with even stranger, less human features.
At last the procession mounted the wide, low steps that led into the Temple. No mortal man had ever willingly stepped foot inside that place that Davril knew. He would be the first. He clomped up the steps, grimacing as his bad leg flared and throbbed.
The great doors of the Temple opened without any of the visible Lerumites touching it, and at last Davril entered the Temple —
His knees trembled, and he nearly swooned. As it was, he almost dropped his hideous staff. For, before him, at the far end of that great, high chamber, rose a huge sculpture two hundred feet high, a wall of twisted, writhing limbs and open, gnashing mouths. It was black and horrible, and it seemed to emanate a coldness, and a darkness, that warped the air and sent shivers down Davril’s spine.
The captives screamed. They struggled maniacally, hurting themselves in their zeal to escape. Once again the Lerumites ignored them. They simply marched forward, through a row of high, purple, monolithic pillars that supported the steeply-angled roof. The far third of the room was raised, and black steps led up to a rounded dais upon which a black stone lay. It was not the Black Altar, not Uulos’s window or doorway into this world, if that’s what it was, but one of the likely countless lesser altars to the Worm. Behind this altar crouched a high podium, and at this podium stood the tall, regally poised fish-priest Davril had seen leading the party at the Temple of the Sun.
Davril’s eyes went immediately from him to the intricately-engraved crate that set on the altar before the High Priest. The Jewel.
Davril’s heart sank. There was no way to retrieve it. His mission was futile. There were too many fish-priests, and even if there weren’t he knew he could not lift that crate by himself. He’d hoped it would be locked in some storage room where he could find it, build a litter for it, and drag it forth, into the swamp if need be, but away. But no. The Lerumites had it on the altar for some purpose he couldn’t divine. And there were hundreds of them.
Where was the Black Altar? It must be in the Temple, not upon the grounds. It was the holiest of holies to the Lerumites. But he saw no other door or niche in the rear of the room. There must be a door somewhere . . .
He was so absorbed in analyzing the situation that he almost stumbled when the Lerumite procession broke ranks. Those that bore captives stepped forward and dragged their burdens to the rear wall, to that horrid bas-relief that stretched to the ceiling and from side wall to side wall, securing the sacrifices to the numerous protrusions of the sculpture. Those that bore no captive knelt in one of the many rows of already-assembled Lerumites that faced the altar and the podium—and the nightmarish sculpture that hovered over all. There were no pews, Davril saw, only long purplish cushion-mats for the Lerumites’ knees.
Sweating, he found a place for himself in one of the rows. All around him were the enemy. If even one of them glanced at him for any length of time, his disguise would be penetrated, his life and perhaps even soul forfeit. The Lerumites on his chosen row shuffled about and made space for him. Their black eyes were fixed ahead, entranced by the sight of the crate that bore the Jewel, and enraptured by the sight of so many struggling sacrifices.
Davril knelt awkwardly, wincing at the twinge from his leg. How long could he remain in that position?
He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and forced himself to focus on the surroundings, on the fantastic and nightmarish bas-reliefs that lined the walls, on the demonic faces of the creatures that stared down from the murals on the ceiling. The Lerumites had had thousands of years to decorate their temple, and most every square inch of it was covered in some terrible piece of art. The overall effect was not just oppressive but claustrophobic.
Davril tried not to look at the victims struggling on the far wall. Tried to seal his heart against them. It was too late for them, and there was nothing he could do to help.
The High Priest had been warbling and gurgling, preaching his mad dogma, and Davril had for the most part been ignoring him. Then, with a shock, he realized the High Priest was not speaking some alien language, but some bastardization of Avestinic. The Avestines were considered strange and odd, and they hated the Niardans bitterly. Davril had studied them and their language, as had all the princes of Qazradan, in case negotiating with them in their Quarter became necessary, which it did from time to time. Their population comprised a tenth of the city, after all, if not the realm. The Lerumites had been around since the first people had inhabited these parts. They were half-breeds originally begat by those people, so it made sense that they would speak the language of the Avestines, though the Lerumites’ version had become degraded, or perhaps simply modified to suit their unique vocalities, over time.
Davril strained his ears, trying to decipher the High Priest’s words. Maybe he could hear something that would help him.
After a time he made out:
“. . . so long we have waited . . . verily, we Chosen People of . . . glory be to our forefathers the Myr, who grew in the shadow of Nagradin Below, they who heard the Call of He Who Will Deliver Us . . . and lo, the time has come, the Worm into His Lair . . . and He shall be the Ruler of Qazradan, and Qazradan shall put forth His Hosts and devour the world . . . His old servants will rise from the deeps of the earth . . . blood shall rain . . . fire shall engulf the . . . Man shall fall into . . .” As he grew more impassioned, the High Priest’s words became harder for Davril to decipher. “ . . . and the Worm shall wax strong enough to devour the ilisan . . . consume the might of the . . . the sky will darken . . . our Lord shall triumph . . . Sagrah
ab will rise once more!“
Davril wiped sweat from his face. The Worm meant to swallow the Jewel? For what possible purpose? Davril had assumed the Jewel might hurt Uulos, even kill Him. In any event, Davril had heard enough. He rose and, as unobtrusively as he could, began to depart the Temple, but as he did he saw something that stopped him.
General Hastus led two of his sons through a high corridor, and in their midst the sons carried Alyssa.
Chapter 9
The first thing Davril noticed was that she fought them, violently. She hadn’t come here willingly, and in fact was dressed only in a silken shift, as if she had been ripped from bed without warning. Her two brothers—My brothers-in-law! Davril thought disbelievingly—Selnon and Briat, held her tightly, even cruelly, dragging her behind their father, who navigated the hall as if he’d been here before. Maybe I’m not the first human to come here willingly, Davril thought. The Lerumites parted almost casually about Hastus and his brood as they carried about their own business. Had the fish-priests been expecting them?
Heart beating fast, Davril knew only one thing in that moment, and that’s that he didn’t want to be caught. Quickly, he ducked behind a pillar as Hastus, his sons, and a struggling Alyssa passed by him. He caught just a trace of her perfume lingering on the air. When they were safely away, he realized he could leave now. The door was open.
Leave her to her fate, he thought. She may not have killed Hariban and Sareth herself, but it comes out to the same thing. She deserves what she gets. I only regret that I couldn’t be the one to give it to her.
Selnon and Briat hauled Alyssa around a corner and out of sight.
Good riddance.
Davril stared at the spot where they had vanished for a moment, shook himself, and faced the door leading out of the temple. It was less than fifty feet away.
Then, hating himself, he turned back around and marched toward the side hall Hastus and his family had taken, suddenly fearful that they would have moved out of sight. They nearly had. They slipped through a doorway halfway down the hall. Heart thumping, leg aching, Davril followed, all the while thinking, What am I doing? She deserves whatever they’re taking her to!