by Conner, Jack
As the sacrifices went on, the Black Altar throbbed with power, and it seemed that each of the Sedremerans felt it in their blood, a steady, rhythmic beating, as of some monstrous heart quickening, growing stronger . . . nearer. Gorged on blood and death, the Altar throbbed, swelled in power, and dark clouds boiled in from the east and south and obliterated the sun, throwing greater darkness across Sraltar Square. A chill rain washed down, and the people shivered.
Davril was surprised that the Avestines’ tunnels ran all the way into the Gold Quarter, almost right up to the grounds of the House of Light itself. Eagerly he led his company through the halls and then up through the gutters of the region. Like rats, he thought. A host of rats. But it was not plague they carried. They bore the Jewel of the Sun.
They arrived at the Temple just in time. The Lerumites—now that they need wait no longer, now that their Master was returning—had sacked the Asqrites’ compound and were even then burning both priests and their sacred books in a great bonfire in the courtyard before the Light-House. Priests of the Order of the Golden Plumage screamed and wailed as their bellies were slit and their still-thrashing bodies tossed upon the blaze to be roasted upon their holiest words. Already a score or more had died, their remains blackening and twisting, fat oozing from their insides to feed the flames. The bonfire cast blazing sparks high overhead, warring with the rain that filtered down.
“Let us at them,” Davril said.
Without a second thought, he led the charge.
The fish-priests turned their powers on the men, but their powers were weakened in the presence of the Jewel. Davril’s men skewered them with their Light-blessed weapons, cut them into fishy chunks and tossed them on the fire. The smell of roasting fish competed with the stench of roasting Asqrite.
The men set about freeing the surviving priests and priestesses, who mewled thankfully, some having been tortured.
Davril found Father Trisdan standing over a pile of books the Lerumites had been tossing on the pyre. He was holding one and leafing through it, staring at the pages with awe.
“Well?” Davril asked him.
Trisdan looked up, and for once his vulture-like face was filled with child-like joy. “The Lost Books of Tiat-sumat! It’s as we’d hoped.”
Father Elimhas stalked up and tore the book from Trisdan’s hands. “Don’t you touch them!”
“They belong to the followers of Tiat-sumat—as does the Jewel. They were stolen by your people.”
“Liberated!”
Trisdan snorted, then eagerly at Davril. “With these books, my work with the Jewel will progress rapidly.”
“Good.” Davril glanced up at the dark House of Light that loomed above him, silhouetted against the storm-swept sky. “Now we have work to do.”
For to the east, darkness was growing.
In Sraltar Square, more and more sacrifices marched down the aisle, heads bowed, treading in the congealing blood of those who had gone before. At the base of the pyramid the blood gutter ran into another gutter that circled the whole structure so that a veritable moat of blood surrounded the pyramid. After two thousand men had died on the Black Altar, the moat rose high enough to channel into the tributaries, and then rivers of blood ran through the great courtyard, a slow-moving, tacky river whose constant flow kept it from congealing. From time to time the watchers, some of them, those who had truly converted to the worship of Uulos, would crouch down and drink from the rivers, or even dip naked in them where they formed pools and rut like wild beasts.
Still the prisoners came, marched over the rivers of blood, over the stone bridges that spanned that fetid moat, past the bodies that toppled down the stairs, up those grim, blood-stained, gore-strewn stairs, finally to reach the top, where the fish-priests sang, and the air shimmered with power, and the Black Altar throbbed, and the taste of seaweed and sulfur gathered in the air. There General Hastus stood in all his finery, surrounded by his inhuman allies, confident that he had chosen the right side.
There the sacrifices were led, kicking and cursing until the power of the place overcame them, and they ceased struggling, growing strangely submissive. Finally they were led to the blood-drenched Altar, past the mounds of bodies covered in flies and smelling of offal, to be laid down on that slab, face upward, to stare at the roiling black clouds. Then, one by one, the High Priest reared over them, sacrificial blade glistening, wet with blood, and plunged it into the victim’s belly. The blade cut upward, sawing back and forth, up into the victim’s ribs, and he could smell his own offal as his intestines were split, hear the sound of his bones being ground and broken, snapping. Then the High Priest’s slick, fishy hand thrust down into the sacrifice’s chest, groping, at last closing over the still-thumping heart and ripping it free. Then the carving would begin.
The crowd would cheer as the head was lifted up, blood still dripping from it, and tossed down the stairs. Some of the heads were heaped in twin mounds beside the stairs that led up the pyramid, some tossed to the crowd, where the cheeks and eyes and tongue were eaten. Others were broken open and the brains devoured by the Lerumites. Meanwhile the bodies were butchered, either at the pyramid’s top or sides. Whole teams of butchers cut the bodies apart, cleansed them of offal, heaped the intestines in reeking carts that when full would haul the waste away, while the cuts from the bodies were distributed among the throng, and the whole place stank of blood . . .
The day waned, and darkness gathered in the skies as though called to dinner, and red flashes appeared in the clouds. Thunder shook the Square. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, had died upon the Altar, and its emanations strengthened until its throbs pounded louder than the thunder, and the people cried out in fear.
“He comes!” they shouted. “The Great One comes!”
Some tore at their hair, in anguish or ecstasy or both. Some took out knives and slew themselves, or their children, or turned on each other. Some ran from the Square, screaming; dark shapes rose from the alleys, shapes that had been spawned by the Lerumites in their deep caverns, and gorged themselves on those that fled. Others fell to their knees in joy and worship.
The black clouds roiled, and at last some of the revelers discerned that they were swirling about come central point—a great, black whirlpool in the sky. More saw it, and they stared up at the great black mouth opening in the night, yawning into abysmal gulfs. There, far away but growing, a Thing moved, a great and powerful thing whose very presence would shake the world, a thing who had gorged and grown strong on blood and souls, and now It climbed from its ancient prison and clawed its way through the gulfs, through the doorways that were now open, clawed and slithered and shoved its way to the shining beacon and anchor that was the Altar . . .
People screamed, and even the most stalwart fell to their knees or bellies and writhed about, tearing at their hair. Even the Lerumites ceased their warbling and turned their fishy faces upward, all gathering about in a circle, trembling and sinking to their knees. The General, face pale and drawn, sank to his knees, too, and tried to hide his shuddering.
Thunder boomed, and people screamed, and from some distant gulf the Thing roared, and at the sound any man or woman still standing or kneeling fell to the ground, even the General.
Some vast, shapeless Thing shoved Its way from the black mouth in the sky, and began to take solid shape over the Altar. The Lerumites, their allies and slaves drew back, kneeling and bowing and writhing, as a great, shapeless form materialized. The air shimmered, and strange colors ran through it, and smells, and reality seemed to bend. The Thing grew more solid, it was almost there . . .
Suddenly a burning light lanced out of the darkness from the west. A great red light appeared in the faraway House of Light and speared directly into the Thing, which roared in pain and fear. The sound slew some in the gathering instantly. They simply exploded from within. It drove others mad, and they turned on each other.
The Thing writhed, and the burning lance grew stronger, and the fish-priests gna
shed their teeth and gasped out prayers to strengthen their god. To the south, the Tower stood, a stout black column against the stars, the red light lancing out from its uppermost chamber, as in days of old when enemy fleets had attacked from the sea . . .
Somehow General Hastus forced himself to his feet. Acting quickly, he gathered his lieutenants and set off to collect the host of soldiers that waited nearby. An attack by the rebels had been expected, even desired, and so the men and their horses had been kept in a certain square where the Lerumites blocked the reverberations of the Old One’s coming. So it was that these men were ready and able to mount and ride.
Still trembling with all he had seen, still feeling and hearing the shrieks of the Worm, General Hastus led his men west, to destroy the rebellious Davril Husan once and for all.
“Yes!” Davril cried, stepping to the railing of the terrace. Beside him the terrace ended, and the beam of reddish light blasted out from the system of mirrors and lenses that ended in a sort of large telescope jutting from the Temple wall. The light shot from it in a narrow beam, lancing through the night into the heart of Sraltar Square several miles away. Once this light had been used to destroy enemy ships descending on Sedremere; now it would destroy a greater threat.
Davril stared at the massive assembly of humanity and nonhumanity gathered in the Square, at the great darkness there, heard the screams and roars of the Thing as It struggled at the end of the beam of light like a fish on a hook, and Davril shuddered.
He could feel the rage, the power, of the Worm. It boiled off the shapeless, formless mass just then materializing atop the pyramid. The ground shook with Uulos’s anger, the air hummed with it, and reality seemed to twist and boil. At any moment, Davril half-expected the very fabric of the world to simply peel away, for the World to fold back and burn under the strain of Uulos’s wrath.
Davril’s friends and allies gathered about him on the terrace, muttering in awe at the sight. Just to stand on the terrace was to feel the heat of the light pouring from the lens, and Davril and his party stepped back, away from it.
“Look at that,” the Lady whispered, her eyes entranced by the sight.
“Amazing,” said Elimhas.
“But it won’t be enough to kill him,” said Trisdan.
Davril looked over his shoulder to see the massive, blackened egg, flaming and smoking, sitting amidst the contraption that harnessed its light.
Uulos fought it, rallying Himself. Several amorphous, almost formless limbs stretched out from the main bulk and snatched up a dozen slaves in a one great sweep. The men screamed, but they had no chance. Uulos drew them into His shadowy bulk, a bulk that could not be seen and did not appear to be completely solid, and their screaming ceased. His might swelled.
The light speared him, and He screamed. The earth shook, and several of the Lerumites erupted in gore. The gathered Sedremerans were in chaos, some locked in orgy, some in murder, some in both. The whole gathering was a roiling, thrusting, growling mass.
Uulos scooped up another round of prisoners and stuffed them into His unseen maw or maws. The red light lanced Him, and He shuddered, trembled . . . grew stronger.
Suddenly the beam of light blackened, starting at Uulos and spreading like rot up the lance of illumination toward the House of Light.
“No . . .” Davril said, but there was no time to do anything about it. Almost instantly the blackness shot past him and into the inner workings of the Light-House. There came a crash, and the beam of light broke off.
Davril whirled to see the mirrors breaking, one by one, the impact of the blast shattering them in turn. Hundreds of shards of broken glass winked off the floor, each veined with black.
“Damn,” Davril said. For a moment he’d allowed himself to feel hope.
“It’s no use,” Elimhas muttered. “Until the egg is quickened . . .”
Father Trisdan clutched the Lost Books to his chest. “Soon,” he said.
“My lord!” a soldier called out. “Look!”
Davril hobbled over to where the man pointed down toward a line of riders approaching the Asqrit compound.
“The General,” Davril said, heart sinking. In the distance, the amorphous mass that was Uulos grew strong once more. Freed from the lance of light, It turned darker, more solid, and Davril could feel the Thing stretch Its mind in his direction . . .
“We must leave,” he said. “We may not have defeated Uulos, but we got what we came for.”
The priests saw to moving the Jewel to the litter it had been borne on and securing it there with blessed chains. Then, holding his dagger in one hand, Davril limped to the stairs and down. As a precaution, he had ordered several boats drawn up to the docks near the base of the House of Light, and now he made his way toward them. Waves crashed and broke along the rocky shore, tossing spray high into the air as Davril led the way to the jetty. Along the outer wall of the Asqrit compound, on the far side of the House of Light, his soldiers held the General’s forces off. Davril knew they could not last for long, and he lamented their sacrifice.
Just as he reached the boats and cast off, the sounds of battle faded. I’m sorry, my friends, he thought. You died to save the Jewel. Almost immediately, commotion sounded in the Tower above, and fire-lights flickered in the highest rooms. Another fiery light shifted from window to window, going downward.
“They’re burning the Light-House,” Elimhas breathed. To Davril’s surprise, tears stood out in his eyes. “They’ve broken through and are burning the Light-House.”
The great building was of stone, but its inner supports were wooden, and fire soon licked up from its insides, smoke pouring from its windows to obscure the stars. In moments the ancient Tower was one great, flaming mass stabbing high into the black night, smoke curling off it in billowing waves.
“It’s gone,” Elimhas said. “I did not think . . . I guess they have no reason to keep it any longer, do they? The city is His.”
With the burning Temple in the background, a tall, broad-shouldered, silver-haired figure marched over the rocks and out onto the peer. Davril rose from the center of the craft, and though it rocked below him he stood firm. Fists at his sides, he glared at the figure, and the figure returned the look steadily.
“You’ve lost,” General Hastus called across the choppy water. “You came close, my son, but you have lost!”
Davril wanted to hurl some rejoinder, some invective, but in his heart he knew his father-in-law was correct. Uulos had won. The time of the Light was over. The time of the Worm had begun. And so he said nothing as the night thickened, and the figure of General Hastus faded into the darkness where it belonged.
And, to the east, in Sraltar Square, the darkness atop the pyramid solidified, and the Shape inside stirred. Grew strong. The sacrifices continued, one after another, to slake the appetite of the Worm.
Uulos had returned.
BOOK THREE:
REIGN
Chapter 17
The boats took Davril and his party into a grotto filled with mist and resounding to the echo of the slurp and slap of water. The grotto emptied into a dark, narrow, winding channel that fed the sewers, and from there it was not difficult to find the Avestines’ tunnels. The sewers, Davril thought glumly, looking around at the slime-covered walls. Home at last.
Trying to contain his bitterness, he brought his little gathering into the Avestine tunnels, thence into the baths, and together they washed away their stench.
Wesrai approached, looking tentative. “How did it go, my lord?”
“I’ll tell all soon enough,” Davril said. “I only want to say it once. Is there news?”
Wesrai grimaced. “Only that some altars were found, hidden in secret passages.”
“Altars? Let me guess. To Uulos.”
Wesrai passed a shaky hand across his face. “There were several . . . sacrifices.”
Davril nodded wearily, then dismissed Wesrai. When he and his men were done with their baths, he summoned a gathering
of his highest-ranking soldiers and various rebels, many of whom were Avestine. Looking about him at their tight faces, as braziers blazed and made the chamber walls turn the color of blood, he wondered how many of these people he could trust. Just how many spies had the Lerumites placed among his flock? One? A hundred? A thousand? There was no way to know.
“Men,” he said, “and women.” Alyssa was there, looking pale and worried like everyone else. No official announcement had gone out, but they had heard the rumors. They could probably feel the truth shimmering greasily on the air. The taint of Uulos was strong. Davril could taste it on his tongue.
“We recovered the Lost Books,” he said, “but the Light-House was burned, and Uulos has returned.” He stared at them for a long time as they absorbed this, their faces pale, and he found himself uncertain how to proceed. Flee, he almost said. Take your families and flee the city. Get as far as you can, as fast as you can. You won’t get far, but you will last longer than if you stay here.